Hello again! It is I, raffinit, come to explain to you some things. For one, we are terribly sorry for taking forever to update, and every favorite and alert and review we received gave us crippling amounts of guilt and sadness, because we were unable to update regularly. Secondly, it is REALLY hard to write a story with two people from two different fandoms because we have different perspectives and opinions.

...also because we are lazy bitches and we procrastinate a LOT.

Also we have our finals in like, seven days, which explains the sudden bout of inspiration. As you can tell, we only work well under pressure. (Although that does not mean you get to pressure us because the guilt is already debilitating) Feel free to review though!

And so henceforth, Mindlocked Chapter 3.

PS: geelato says hi. She's wrapped in a blanket and calls herself a peacock.

They were in the lockup at the police station. And John was still in his bathrobe.

He'd realized his mistake the moment they were escorted out of the hotel. He'd looked down at his bathrobe, then at the other hotel patrons who were staring at the bizarre sight of two men being arrested, one of whom was wearing a bathrobe. He had felt the heat of embarrassment crawl its way up the back of his neck and to his cheeks. He'd stared at nothing but the ground the entire journey from the hotel to the police station, where actual police officers had stopped what they were doing to look at them. Sherlock was not helping, with his proud head held high, regarding everyone loftily, literally challenging everyone to look.

Then they were shoved roughly into lockup where they were left alone. As much as Sherlock had been aggravating the BAU team to get arrested, probably due to some mad plan of his, the dark-haired man really did not do well with having nothing to do. He started pacing the cell almost as soon as they were alone. The sharp tapping his shoes made on the cold floor only made John feel more miserable.

Bathrobe, he thought morosely, sat on the bench in the lockup.

Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and swirled to look at John. "You're still in your bathrobe," he stated matter-of-factly.

John glared at Sherlock - reminding himself firmly that, no, Sherlock cannot read minds - and replied, "The FBI didn't exactly give me time to change before arresting me."

"Why did you punch Agent Morgan?"

That flummoxed John. He wasn't quite sure why now, but at that time, he had thought it was a good idea. Well, no, he hadn't thought it was a good idea, but it was an idea and it was the only one he had at that time, so…. "What was I going to do with you arrested?"

The taller man looked like he was about to answer the question at length when they were interrupted by the cell door being unlocked. Both men turned to see who was coming in. It was Dr. Reid and in his hands, was a change of clothes. John rejoiced inwardly.

Reid offered the men an awkward, tight smile as he proffered John the items. "I, uh, thought you might be more comfortable in these," he said uncertainly, obviously trying to conclude, in his brain, how to be nice to a man that punched Morgan in the face.

John answered with a grateful smile of his own. "Thanks," he said, taking his clothes off Reid, who turned his back to give John some privacy to change. John glared balefully at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows but also turned his back. The ex-army doctor quickly discarded the bathrobe and changed into the clothes Reid gave him. He was even more relieved when he realized that the clothes were his own; Reid must have grabbed it before they left.

"Alright, I'm done," he announced.

Turning back, Reid regarded the pair again, this time with an even closer scrutiny as he took in the tall, pale man and his stockier companion. "You probably shouldn't have punched Morgan," he told John. "We would've brought you in too; it's standard procedure."

Of course, now that he had punched Morgan in the face, they were probably going to write him up anyway.

"Ah, sorry about that," John apologized sincerely.

Reid seemed to shrug, although the move was rather translucent; he was rather miffed at John punching Morgan after all. "I guess you did what was necessary." He glanced at Sherlock before his eyes seemed to brighten in an almost schoolboy glee as he turned back to John. "I read your blog about the cases you solved. It's actually all very fascinating how you do it." To Sherlock, he asked, "Did you really guess the Woman's measurements, or was it somewhere else? I can never accurately tell a woman's chest size."

"Not that I frequently stare at a woman's chest," he added swiftly, flushing a dim pink when the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a wry smirk.

John didn't even bother to talk about how it was his blog that Reid had read; it was Sherlock's time to shine. Of course, no one knew that better than Sherlock himself. A slow smile spread across his face, "It's simple, of course. Body measurements can be accurately deduced through relative measure. Also, I spend a lot of time scrutinizing body measurements; very useful in cases, as was proven with…the Woman."

John paid close attention to Sherlock as he said that. Mycroft was convinced that the topic of Irene Adler was still a trigger for Sherlock and had insisted John keep an eye on things, so to speak. The fair-haired man, unlike the elder Holmes brother, wasn't so sure about Sherlock's emotional vulnerability. Would the most logical, scientific and rational man he's ever known be so easily swayed by emotions? After all, from what Mycroft told him, Sherlock had methodically revealed Irene Adler's feelings for him and then cruelly rebuffed those feelings by keying in the password to her phone and walking away. That wasn't the action of a man ensnared by…feelings, was it?

But watch Sherlock he did anyway, just to be safe.

Meanwhile, Reid wasn't sure how to process Sherlock's answer to his question. "So…you're a professional peeping Tom?"

Sherlock gave Reid a look that suggested he thought he was talking to a child. "Of course not. I work with corpses often for a myriad of reasons-"

John coughed not too subtly, "Experiments, you mean."

The consulting detective shot him a reproving glare before continuing, "The corpses provide me with a variety of body measurements to catalogue."

Ah, that made a lot more sense to Reid. Although it didn't necessarily make Sherlock any less creepy to Reid. That just meant that Sherlock now profiled as a high functioning sociopath with a preference to necrophilia, perhaps. Very swiftly, their UnSub's profile ran through his head, and the young federal agent couldn't accurately place necrophilia as part of the profile. The sexual acts were all performed ante-mortem.

Still though – thus far, Sherlock Holmes profiled as scary.

"Do you work for a college of some sort?" Reid inquired. "It's rather difficult to gain access to cadavers in the name of experimentation. Most of our cadavers are donated to medical students and science."

"St. Bart's Hospital in London allows me access to their morgue and laboratories. I utilize them," Sherlock said simply.

"And they just let you? Why?" Reid asked.

"They got tired of kicking me out eventually," Sherlock said, like he was merely commenting on the weather. "And Mycroft – my brother – did help explain to the dean of the hospital that my work was of absolute necessity."

John rolled his eyes. He'd asked Mycroft about that once. The elder Holmes had explained that he'd thought Sherlock would at least have a contained 'playground' to conduct his experiments at the hospital. "This is a safe hobby for him, John. Surely you understand that?" Mycroft had said condescendingly. That was a reason why John disliked talking to Mycroft. He always managed to sound so smug, even more than Sherlock. That, and also the fact that Mycroft had a tendency to kidnap people just to talk to them.

He needed to have a talk with the Holmes brothers' mother one day; ask her where her two sons got all their little oddities.

Just then, Agent Morgan walked into the lock-up too. He glared at John, who was suddenly painfully aware that he had punched the man. Agent Morgan spoke directly to Reid, probably trying to exclude the other two men out of the discussion, "Hotch wants them in the interrogation room." He cast a dark glower in Sherlock's direction.

Reid nodded, "Okay."

Sherlock and John shared a look; it was obvious even to John that the older man wanted nothing more than to write them up for assault and interfering with a federal case and pass Sherlock off as the UnSub, but unfortunately he couldn't. For one, there was a real serial killer out there somewhere, and second of all; Morgan wasn't as vindictive.

At least, John hoped he wasn't. He couldn't really tell with these FBI-types. They were all so righteous and mysterious. It all seemed rather uppity to John, and he's English.

Reid and Morgan escorted the two of them to the interrogation room. When it came to assisting the captive men into their seats, Morgan had taken a none too gentle approach, and shoved John rather roughly into the cold metal chair. Reid had taken the gentler choice; nervously pulling out the chair and gesturing towards it to allow Sherlock to lower himself into his seat.

"Nice, uh, interrogation room you have here," John fished awkwardly for something nice to say, as he adjusted himself to a more comfortable position on the chair.

Being arrested and being interrogated in a foreign country should have him more intimidated, but he'd been through some pretty tough spots during his time in the army and then later on, with Sherlock. Besides, he thought sarcastically, he was really on the right track with befriending these apparently tough-as-nails FBI agents.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightened up in his chair and said, impatience lacing his every word, "So, let's get this over with. The fun part hasn't even begun yet."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you're gonna wish I was the one doing the interrogating by the time Hotch is done with you." He cast a cold smirk in Sherlock's direction. "Calling him out in front of the press? It doesn't matter who you are on the other side of the ocean, buddy. Here on our soil, we do things our way. Don't think he's gonna let the fact that you're challenging him at his job slip by him." He spun on his heels, and Reid followed obediently out of the room.

With just him and Sherlock in the small room, John suddenly realized that the wall opposite them was clearly a two-way mirror. Despite his circumstances (punched an FBI agent in the face, arrested in his bathrobe, locked in an interrogation room), he thought it was really funny that reality seemed to match all the American crime shows he sometimes watched with Mrs Hudson back home. Wait till he gets back and tell her that.

Ah, home. How he wished he was there right now, sat on his comfortable armchair, with a nice cup of piping hot tea. Maybe with a good show on telly. Maybe even with Sherlock doing his experiments in the kitchen.

He was snapped out of his wishful thinking when the door opened to reveal Agent Hotchner. Happy was not a word John would've used to describe the man. He was thinking more along the lines of 'terrifying', 'homicidal', 'frustrated', and perhaps even just a little bit 'constipated'. Although this amused him for but a brief moment, John was pulled back into the reality of their situation with the startling slap of the brown case file onto the steel table.

"I see you've found a pair of pants to put on," Hotch uttered coldly, pulling out a chair across of them and seating himself with a sort of fuming grace. His dark eyes glanced at Sherlock in a steely glare as he flipped the case file open and began reading.

"Sherlock Holmes, born December 2nd 1978, aged 34 -."

"Thirty three. It's not December yet," Sherlock corrected immediately. John saw Agent Hotchner's jaw clenching, like he was resisting the urge to punch Sherlock in the face. It wasn't really from any deduction skills of John's; everyone who met Sherlock inevitably wanted to punch him in the face, usually within the first five minutes.

Hotch continued, "Brother of Mycroft Holmes, a civil servant of the British government; a consulting detective." Here the man looked up at the pair before him, disdain practically dripping from his voice and the look on his face. A consulting detective was not unheard of, of course, but in their terms, they were more simply known as private investigators. Regardless of title, many of these 'consulting detectives' were usually profiled as thrill-seeking sociopaths.

"I'm not sure how they do things in your country, Mr. Holmes, but here we don't necessarily enjoy private investigators encroaching on federal cases." The steely glare still affixed on the man's face was daunting, as was the cold, calculative tone of his voice, but Sherlock seemed superciliously ignorant towards the man's obvious dislike for him.

It did not sit well with Hotch's temper, but the man was known for his impeccable control; the only obvious sign of his displeasure was the darkening of his brow and the tick in his jaw. His voice remained cool, level. "But since you've already seemed to insinuate yourself into our investigation, you might as well explain to us what you think we need to 'try again' at."

Sherlock's eyes glittered with anticipation, "Your deductions about the suspect, of course."

Hotch waited but a split second, expecting the man to continue explaining how his team had somehow missed out something key in their profile, but Sherlock merely sat back in his seat, looking rather pleased and expectant. Was he expecting Hotch to ask him to help them? Many UnSubs tempted them the same way; I know something you don't know, and you won't get anything out of me unless you cater to my ego.

Make me feel like you need me, and I just may help you.

As much as the Unit Chief of the BAU would like to simply throw Sherlock back into his cell and have him deported by the end of the day, something in the man's startling blue eyes told Hotch that whatever it was that he was missing, it was important.

So he swallowed the growl in his throat (and his pride), and asked. "What have we missed?"

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, eager to impart his observations, "Your team deduced that the suspect would seem harmless or friendly; in fact, based on the other evidence, your suspect would be the exact opposite - being reclusive and introverted. Most likely a loner with not much social interaction. And he abducted these women in broad daylight without anyone noticing. Someone who passes, unnoticed, wherever they go. Someone we trust, without any reason to. A plumber, or an electrician-"

"-Or a cab driver!" John exclaimed, the familiarity of Sherlock's last two sentences reminding him of the first case they worked on together.

The consulting detective glowered at John; he didn't like being interrupted, especially when he was proving a point.

Hotch was unimpressed. "We're not idiots, Mr. Holmes," he snapped, bristling at the smug undertone of the man's explanations. "We're trained profilers who come face-to-face with these kinds of monsters on a daily basis. Surely we would've already considered this thought of his profession early on into our investigation. We profiled him to have a job that allowed him to move seamlessly through the crowd; go unnoticed while driving a vehicle large enough to transport a body. You're doing nothing but stating the obvious at this point."

Sherlock was taken aback, to say the least. He was used to people asking him to piss off, or calling him an unfeeling monster, or even John's slack-jawed admiration. Regardless of what they have felt about him as a person, his deductions have never failed to impress, even if it wasn't always admitted. Except with Moriarty, but that was...different.

This, though... This was new. He'd never had his deductions completely ridiculed and...and sneered at. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wasn't sure what to say next.

Actually, come to think of it, this wasn't the first time. In fact, lately, he'd been caught at a loss for words far too many times for his liking. This had to stop.

Hotch stared hard at the man for a long moment; unblinking and unmoving as he watched the expressions on Sherlock's face morph from smug and condescending to stunned and confused, and most importantly, chastised.

He watched, intrigued, as Sherlock seemed to rush to compose himself; straightening in his seat and inhaling deeply through his nose as if to sniff at the federal agent. The impassive glance once again was on Sherlock's face - saving what dignity and pride he had left.

Hotch figured it was mostly pride.

Very calmly, he turned to John, who had previously been nothing more than a fly on the wall. After all; all he had done was punch Morgan in the face, and Hotch knew that was mostly to ensure that they were both arrested together. John didn't seem the type to intervene in a police investigation, although if John was the kind of man to have friends like Sherlock, Hotch couldn't be sure anymore.

"What do you have to say about this?" he questioned now, watching as John seemed to dart a nervous glance in Sherlock's way. "You seemed intent on being at your partner's side through all this."

"Not," John enunciated sharply, "my partner. We're flatmates. And colleagues. Sort of. I wasn't going to let him get arrested by himself." Then, despite himself, a small smile formed on his face, "I wanted to see what happened next."

Hotch raised an eyebrow at the statement, prepared to open his mouth and tell John that his intense curiosity was not normal, but was stalled when the interrogation room door opened, and in the light stood JJ.

She cast a grave look at her Unit Chief. Something was wrong.

"There's been another body."

Immediately Hotch was on his feet, ready to leave the pair and face the harsh reality of their UnSub striking again while they were busy on a wild goose chase, but Sherlock's smug baritone echoed through the room.

"You will need me, agents, and you know where to find me."