He leaned his head to the side, deepening the kiss and heard the pipe fall to the floor. Sherlock pushed and John and him fell in a tumble to the bed. Hands groped John everywhere, making it impossible to get a feel on Sherlock's body for longer than a second or two. Right before he was going to voice an objection to not being able to touch him, he felt soft, long fingers go up his night shirt. He gasped at the feeling, his muscles spasming.

Sherlock paused, pulling back from the kiss and stopping his hands. He looked at John, gauging what the hell just happened.

"Don't stop," John moaned, pulling the man back down and grabbing a handful of dark curls he'd been dying to touch for so long. The kiss was better this time, deep and not as forceful but still full of jealousy and passion.

Just as his hands starting roaming upward under his shirt, a phone buzzed. Sherlock jumped, looking at his phone and obviously thinking if it was worth it to ignore the call. John looked at the time, it was way too late to be getting regular calls.

"Get it, it's obviously important." He murmured and Sherlock nodded, rolling and grabbing the phone.

"It's Lestrade," he commented before answering the phone and stepping away from John. John straightened his clothes and sat up. If Lestrade was calling past midnight, it was important. Taking Sherlock's sudden facial expression, it was more than important.

Once he hung up, Sherlock looked to John and John shifted his hips, feeling his hard-on much more now that Sherlock's eyes were on him, gravitating downward and then smirking.

"There was a pile-up of bodies. Six in total. All shot in the head. No gun or weapon otherwise found. They each had a different picture of me folded into their hands. Apparently Lestrade is sure it's Moriarty just because of this."

"A different picture for each?"

"Yes. Is that the only thing you got out of that?"

"It's just weird." Sherlock nodded in agreement and started pulling on clothes. John stood and went for the door. Sherlock gently touched his arm and he turned to face him. "Don't let Moriarty know what just happened between us. Even if you have to kiss him again."

"Okay."

"He can't know about it because he may use it against us. Just like he used our friendship last time. Don't give him fuel. I'll wait by the door for you." John nodded and left Sherlock ,feeling nervous. How could he keep something like this from Moriarty, a man who could tell what he had for dinner last night when he barely remembered breakfast this morning simply by how old a stain on a cuff link was, or something as such?

Thankfully, Moriarty seemed bored, lying in John's bed facing the opposite wall and not reacting to the knock or opening of the door.

"There's been more murders. They're positive it was you." John said, grabbing some clothes.

"Oh?"

"Each had a different picture in their hands of Sherlock." Moriarty turned over, glaring at John.

"Do I look like I"m a crazed fan-girl?"

"No, not fan-girl. Crazed, yes."

The answer seemed to humor Moriarty for he snapped a few chuckles before turning around and going silent once more.

John left the man and met Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. As they closed the door to their flat, Sherlock pushed him against the wall, a crooked smile on his face. He kissed him quick, passionate, and suddenly. John was left breathless as Sherlock took the stairs downward.

Following quickly behind, John tried his hardest to calm his racing heart and aching nerves. He was so beyond mad at whomever was killing these people. Not because they were being murderers, which is bad he knew, but because they'd interrupted the most important "conversation" him and Sherlock had been having their whole relationship.

At the crime scene, John forced the humming of his body to relax and wait, be patient. There was no way he could pull Sherlock off a case especially for something as trivial as sex. The man was more interested in staring at six dead women, all shot in the left side of the head. John frowned, looking carefully at them from afar, hoping to see something they all had in common physically.

The only thing he could find was the hair. Each seemed to have dyed their hair, various stages of growing back. A few had fake nails from what he could tell. Some wore high heels. Some had fake tans.

"They're fake." John said aloud and Anderson turned to him, arching an eyebrow.

"No, they're real bodies, John. Go poke one." He snarled and John glared sideways at him.

"I know that, you twat. I'm saying they have something fake about them. Each of them." Sherlock paused and looked up at John, a hardness in his eyes he only got when he was thinking hard. "Dyed hair on them all. Fake nails, heels for fake height. She has a fake tan. There's no way you get that dark here." Sherlock eyed the women and stood.

"It does make sense. But the other women were okay. The woman off the balcony had nothing fake, unless you consider the make-up. If that's so, we'll have no women left." Anderson commented, scratching the side of his neck. Sherlock looked at the man.

"Her nails were fake. They'd been removed and had that fake glue on all of her nails suggesting she was killed before she could clean up. Or maybe removed afterwards. The lady killed with her had dyed hair."

"What?" Lestrade strode up, just catching the butt of the conversation.

"Brown eyebrows, black hair. She obviously didn't like the brown hair."

John sighed as the conversation went from light to full-blown argumentative as Anderson and Sherlock started naming out what was fake about the victims and Lestrade tried finding out why they were so caught up on the topic. Eventually John took him aside and told him, to which Lestrade responded by trying not to smack the two arguing men upside their heads.

"Okay so it's the first thing we have but, let's be honest, it could be just a coincidence given how many women have dyed hair, high heels, or fake nails. The killer might be attracted to it. Or killers. Let's not get all antsy about it."

After a short time, Sherlock asked John if he'd like to go home.

"There's really nothing left to see. It looks fairly black and white from here." There's was slight irritation in his voice. "If Moriarty hadn't come to us, I would be sure this was his doing."

John frowned as they got into a cab. He wasn't as sure about Moriarty's innocence as Sherlock seemed to be. Every new murder, or perhaps batch of murders seemed to point closer and closer to the crazy man who was now in his bedroom, lying in his bed. But, he reminded himself, he had Sherlock's bed so it was pretty much okay.

"I trust you about Moriarty. But who else could be doing this? Who else would be as crazy in his own special way? Is there any possibility that he's doing this by paying someone? He's done it before."

"I see the confusing in his eyes, John. If you must know, I can see how confused and, yes, a bit scared he is. There's nothing more frightening to him than to be convicted of a murder, or murders, he didn't commit. With each new murder, he's more confused. You can't fake the immediate reaction to hearing you're being framed for murder." Sherlock didn't even look at John, but kept his eyes outward, watching the buildings pass.

"Sherlock... I trust you. Completely." John murmured, watching as Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at John. As John had guessed, asking about Moriarty's innocence had hurt Sherlock. It hadn't been about Moriarty's innocence or evil tendencies, but about Sherlock's abilities and his honesty. John hadn't just called him a liar, but also, in Sherlock's term, an idiot. "I don't see things the way you do and it's hard for me to grasp that he isn't killing all these people just for the fun of it. I'm sorry.

"I've never known a man more capable of such greatness as you and I shouldn't doubt you at all. I promise I won't do it again." He gave Sherlock a small peck to his shoulder, smiling apologetically at him.

Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's hand, squeezing just the smallest bit. Once at their home, they walked into their flat, got their bedclothes back on and lied down in the dark together. Words weren't needed between the two of them as they lay in the dark. John lay with his head and arm across Sherlock's chest, feeling the warm flesh under his. The high passion they'd felt earlier was gone and now all they wanted, needed, was to lie together and, in John's case, sleep.

It was almost obvious that Sherlock wouldn't stay still too long, considering the large crime scene they'd just come from. John was surprised he was even lying still currently. For now, he was going to make the most of the warm, solid man and breath in his familiar scent. he'd lived with the man so long but had never realized exactly that his smell was everywhere.

"You smell so good," John mumbled, more than half asleep. Sherlock smiled wide, suddenly, and looked at the blond patch of hair he could see. He wrapped his arm tighter across the mans back, feeling the curve of his hip.

"I haven't been able to keep your smell out of my nose for years." Sherlock whispered, knowing John was deep enough to not hear him. He talked anyway. "I breath you every morning and night and I'm okay with that. I need it sometimes." He bit his own lip, feeling exposed and pained at what he was vocalizing, even though John made no move and possibly was fully asleep already.

He murmured into John's hair, about how much he appreciated his help and compassion and how much he hated his tea.

"You make the ghastliest tea. I'm going to have to teach you how to make it right." Sherlock stopped talking, realizing that if he babbled that John might wake up. So, against all John knew, Sherlock readied himself to stay all night, possibly sleep, and cuddled his blogger closer.