A/N: Reference to drugs in this chapter.

"John," Sherlock started.

"Shut up, Sherlock," the doctor replied.

He untied Sherlock and walked quickly to his own bedroom, taking the robe belt with him and not looking back.

The hell were you thinking, Watson?

John threw the belt - though it didn't go very far - and fell onto his bed. He buried his face into the closest pillow.

Why did I do that? Why the fuck did I ENJOY that?

John let out a self-loathing grown into the pillow.

He had it coming, though. He just kept pushing. Taunting. Teasing. What was I supposed to do? Let him tie me down and do that to me? I don't think so. No one gets control over John H. Watson! But, oh.. The sounds that Sherlock made- unph. Unph? Really? Oh, dear lord, I'm getting turned on. Why? Because Sherlock looked amazing with no shirt and whip marks on his back while letting out small moans and whimpers- Oh, God.

There was a knock on the door. It was Sherlock.

"John? Are you wallowing?"

"Go away, Sherlock!" John yelled into the pillow.

"Look, if you're worried that you hurt me in some way, forget about it. I'm fine."

"Not worried about it!"

"Good."

"Now, go away!"

"Fine."

John heard footsteps fading off and a door closing. Sherlock had gone to his room.

Good.

John let out a muffled sigh and his phone buzzed from his bedside table.

You've got to be kidding.

Are you alright, John? SH

Fine. JW

Are you sure? SH

I'm fine, Sherlock. Go to sleep. It's late. JW

I don't think I can sleep after that. SH

Great. JW

John, it's really alright. If you're worried about it. SH

I'm. Fine. JW

If you say so. Not like I'd be able to tell otherwise or anything. SH

Oh, don't act like a child about it. JW

I'm not the one being childish. You're the one who's run away twice in one night. SH

Piss off, Sherlock. JW

Figured it'd only be a matter of time before you joined the rest of the world with that one. SH

It's late. We both need some sleep. JW

I couldn't possibly sleep after that enticing incident. SH

Oh, God. Did it traumatize you? JW

No, John. Quite the opposite. SH

I'm sorry? JW

Well, now that that is over, I seem to have an erection which is being rather annoyingly persistent. SH

WHAT. What do you mean you have an erection? Why would you tell me that?

I don't even know how to reply to that. JW

You just did. SH

I suppose so. So, go take care of it or something. JW

Did I just tell Sherlock Holmes to go fuck himself?

Tedious. Practically pointless. If I disappear into my mind palace for a while, it should go away. SH

Then, do it. JW

Fine. Goodnight, John. SH

Goodnight, Sherlock. Get some sleep afterward. JW

John connected his mobile to the charger and slumped back against his bed.

I bet I could guess what Sherlock is doing..

And with that last thought, John fell asleep and had dreams of exactly what he believed Sherlock would be doing. Or, at least what he hoped Sherlock would be doing.

[BANG]

John grumbled. It couldn't have been more than 30 minutes later. But, like magic, 6 hours had blown by. And now, there's a ruckus coming from the kitchen. John groaned again.

Can't be bothered.

John covered his head with his forearm. Couldn't Sherlock wait until John was up and going before beginning his symphony of destruction? With a huff of irritation, John got out of bed, threw on his robe and stopped at his door.

Is the robe a good idea after last night? It might remind him- Oh, fuck it.

John opened his door and made his way to the kitchen to see what kind of catastrophe awaited him. Broken tubes, vials and slides littered the floor around the table. A very distressed consulting detective was perched on his chair, hands on head and he seemed to be twitching.

"Sherlock?" John called, wondering if he'd even hear him.

"John!" In an instant, Sherlock's hands had dropped, his head snapped up, eyes open wide.

John wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock would be so excited about. It couldn't have been about the previous night. The only other thing they had..

Oh, Lord.

"Sherlock, how many?" John asked, raising one eyebrow.

The man-child swiftly began to collect his expression and try to make it as seemingly normal as possible.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your question."

"How many, Sherlock?" John was quickly growing impatient.

The taller man sighed and unbuttoned his shirt's sleeve. He began rolling it up to reveal 4 patches on his arm.

"Four? What could possibly require 4 patches?!"

"This case, John! It makes no sense! There seems to be no motive for the initial killing other than sport! There's no love, no hate, no other pointless emotion that can lead a person to kill! THERE'S NOTHING USEFUL, JOHN!"

"Okay, calm down. Sherlock, how many serial killings happen out of love or hatred? Some people just want to kill. You know that. Why are you freaking out about it now?"

"Phone Lestrade. Tell him our suspects are everyone and I will need to question each of them."

"I will not. Don't be ridiculous."

"What else do we do, then? I've seemed to have forgotten that you're the detective here. So, tell me what we do."

"Jesus, Sherlock. You need to clear your head. Go to your mind palace or something. What will help you clear your head?"

"Drugs."

"Besides that. You know you won't get that."

"They make everything so clear, John. I could solve this in 4 hours."

"Well, then you're going to find a different way about it."

"But, John-"

"No, Sherlock. Find a way around it, because you're not going to get them."

"You know you'll leave the flat eventually. You can't watch over me at all hours of the day, every day."

"I will call your brother."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The detective sighed and conceded. He looked away for a moment before his eyes instantly returned to the doctor. Sherlock stood up, rolling his sleeve down and buttoning it. He began to pace around the kitchen.

"Pacing?" John asked as the taller man rounded the table. "That's your plan?"

"It's all we have for now," Sherlock said, passing by John and beginning another round.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock."

The detective quickly moved back to the good doctor and put his hands on either side of John's face, looking him in the eye and never breaking that contact.

"You don't understand, John. You can't understand. If I can't clear my head, then I can't solve this case. If I can't solve a case, who knows what will happen? There will definitely be more bullet holes in the wall and then Mrs. Hudson will never shut up about it. I need.. TO SOLVE THIS."

"ALRIGHT! Just calm the bloody hell down, alright? We'll solve it. Let's sit down and go over what we have and what we know, okay?"

"What we know? John, I know far more than you do. Going over all of it will take a long time and will inevitably confuse you."

"Thanks for that. Sit down."

Sherlock strides back to his chair and plops down. John takes the seat across from him and sits down carefully. He puts his hands together on the table and looks across at Sherlock, who seems to be even more on edge.

"Alright. What happened to the bodies?"

"Hung from the ceiling by chains. Cut multiple times from various blades belonging to various people. Resembled a ritual, but could have just been for sport. The blood was inconclusive, though I suspect that even Scotland Yard could come up with the identities of the bodies. Probably would have been their priority, obviously wasn't going to be mine- Oh.."

Sherlock's eyes widened and lit up with such joy that is normally only seen in children.

"John," he continued. "I've been a fool. Of course the identities would be important. The victims lead to the killers. They have a connection some how.. Every victim and every murderer."

"Sherlock, you knew these kinds of things before. How could you have forgotten them?"

"Probably did. Deleted it."

"What could possibly have been more important than that?"

"Now really isn't the time for that discussion, John. It's a complicated matter that you couldn't possibly understand and I'm about to be far too busy to sit and explain it."

"Oh, sure," John said, his expression was surging with sarcasm. "I'm just the one who calmed you down and got you to use your brain. But.." he shrugged.

"You're also the one who had me so distracted and fixated on something else. Though, in hind sight, it's really both of our faults. However, if you weren't so-" Sherlock waved his hand in an absent gesture towards John. "so.. like you, with your different reactions and expressions and sounds, I wouldn't have had to delete the important information to make room for theories. That one - I admit - is definitely my fault. I shouldn't keep theories, just facts. But, seeing as you just wouldn't budge, I had to rely on the theories. Last night helped a bit."

John stared blankly at Sherlock.

What the hell do I say to that?

Sherlock continued. "Although I couldn't really see your face at the time, but I could hear it in your breathing and in your movements. You enjoyed yourself."

"I don't want to talk about that," John muttered, glancing down at the table.

"Come now, John. It's only us, no need to feel ashamed."

"I'm not ashamed!" John said, raising his voice and snapping his eyes up to Sherlock.

"Your body betrays your speech," Sherlock said, sounding bored but amused.

"My body has a tendency to do that."

"Meaning?"

"Psychosomatic limp, hand shaking when nothing is really going on, things like that."

"The hunger that reveals itself in your eyes. The predatory stance and movements you take on when confronted about sex."

"I don't do that."

"Oh, you do."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make you."