Warnings: Sherlock/John. Slash, slash, slash. If guy-on-guy is not your cup of tea, then for heaven's sake, go ahead and avert your eyes now.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: Explicit references to previous abusive relationship, non-con, sexual assault. Bloody body at a crime scene.

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Chapter 3

My beloved has gone down to his garden,

to the beds of spices,

to browse in the gardens and to gather lilies.

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine;

he browses among the lilies.

– Song of Solomon

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Morning light streams in across my face, and again I have that momentary confusion of not being in my own bed. I'm on my side, and curled around a warm body pressed against mine. Unruly black curls tickle my nose. Mmmmm…Sherlock.

I prop up on my elbow, look down at his sleeping face, and revel in seeing him give in to the demands of his body. He doesn't sleep enough, doesn't eat nearly enough, neglects himself shamefully. So seeing his body relaxed in sleep, getting the rest that it truly needs, has always pleased me. Now that he is my…what? boyfriend? lover? partner?...the sight of him curled against me, unguarded and trusting, sends a surge of joy through me.

I can't resist raising one finger to delicately trace the contours of his face, those extraordinary cheekbones, the exquisite cupid's bow of his upper lip. In the bright light of the sunbeam falling across his face, I notice a light scattering of tiny freckles across his cheeks, realising that I never knew he had any unevenness to his skin tone. From even a meter away, any freckles are usually invisible. I lightly touch the little mole above his left eyebrow, and then the larger one on the right side of his neck, fighting the urge to taste that one. There's something unbearably erotic to me about these marks on his alabaster skin, this proof of his ordinary humanity. I softly trace the curve of his full lower lip, and let my thumb stroke a small scar at its border.

He punched me in the mouth, and his signet ring split my lip. This scar on my bottom lip is from that blow.

He forced me down, and…it…wasn't pleasant. I had expected…everyone says sex is so wonderful, but it wasn't. It was painful. I was afraid. Afterward, he was scornful, and when I tried to be affectionate, he mocked me. Finally he told me that I was "his bitch" now, and he walked out.

Seb said, "Are you kidding? I've got that little bitch well-trained. He'll do anything I want him to do. Anything. Use your imagination, gentlemen. If you can imagine it, I can make him do it."

He beat me until I was almost unconscious. Finally he said, "Clean yourself up. I'll be back tonight with my friends, and you will service them as you are told."

Sebastian Wilkes.

All of my ease and lassitude evaporates in an instant. My fingers tighten involuntarily around Sherlock's chin and lower jaw. His clear grey eyes fly open, startled awake.

"John?"

Army training has stood me in good stead many times with Sherlock. There are many times where one has to put aside emotions until one can examine them later. I've become quite good at squashing feelings and reactions down. I apply that skill now, and ruthlessly suppress the rage that has surged through me like an electric current. I force my hand to relax, cup Sherlock's cheek and smile at him.

"Good morning, love."

His eyes narrow, and he regards me warily. "John, you're angry. Why?" He sits up, studying me closely. "What's wrong?"

So maybe I'm not as good at disguising my feelings as I thought. To be fair, I'm trying to hide them from the World's Most Observant Man TM. Damn it.

"I was just thinking about our conversation yesterday, and wishing that life had been a bit kinder to you, Sherlock. Nothing more sinister than that."

It's the truth, if not the whole truth, since I don't mention that I'm imagining various ways to make Sebastian Wilkes sorry to be breathing air on the same planet as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sits back against the headboard, watches me thoughtfully. I need a distraction.

"Tea?" My go-to solution for every problem. "Or maybe we could go out for breakfast?"

"I ate yesterday, John. A lot, actually, between the scones and the curry you ordered last night. I don't need to eat breakfast."

My stomach chooses that moment to loudly announce its vote in favor of the topic of breakfast. Sherlock laughs. "But apparently, you do need to eat. How about Croque-Monsieur? It's just down the street, and you love their sandwiches."

"Will you split one with me?"

"I'll think about it."

That's probably the most amenable he's ever been to my suggesting breakfast out. And I do love a Croque-Monsieur sandwich.

oOoOo

Shortly after we return from breakfast (Sherlock eats about a third of my ham and Gruyere cheese sandwich, which is almost miraculous, really), Lestrade calls Sherlock to ask if he can come down to Scotland Yard to look over a couple of cold case files with him. I beg off, saying that I have a few errands to run. After a quick shower, Sherlock whisks out of the door in a dramatic swirl of coattails, and I'm alone.

For approximately 20 seconds. Suddenly Sherlock rushes back into the kitchen, where I'm washing up our teacups from this morning. As I turn to ask why he has come back, I find myself crowded against the sink by six feet of sexy detective. Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around me, crushes his lips down on mine, his long thigh nudging between my legs to press closer to me. I'm overwhelmed, drowning in the rush of his ardent embrace. His tongue twines with my own, and his hands rove across my back, curving down to cup my arse and grind me against him. When he breaks away, we're both gasping.

"I forgot to kiss you goodbye." He winks, then sweeps back out the door again, leaving me breathless in the kitchen.

I can't wait for him to kiss me hello again.

oOoOo

I've spent the last several hours trying to distract myself, tidying up around the flat, getting a shower, doing a quick shop at Tesco. It's not working. My thoughts keep coming back to Sebastian Wilkes, and his sadistic treatment of Sherlock. Each time, my blood pressure soars, my fists clench, and I find myself clenching my jaw and hyperventilating. It's all I can do not to storm down to Shad Sanderson, barge into his office, and throw him through the window.

My mind fills with images of Wilkes smashing through the plate glass, momentarily obscuring the impressive view of the London skyline before plunging to the pavement below. I can almost see the condescending sneer wiped from his face forever.

Damn. How am I going to keep from murdering the man in cold blood? A lifetime is a long time to resist this impulse, this urge to revenge his cruelty to my Sherlock.

oOoOo

Case. Meet me at 1 East Arbour Street, Stepney. –SH

On my way. –JW

The cab driver scarcely lets me get the door closed before he guns the engine and races off, eager to get out of this decidedly dodgy neighborhood. I can hardly blame him – the address I had given him is an abandoned building, with most of the windows broken and graffiti everywhere. Wind whips litter across the street in ugly spirals. The squad cars, lights flashing, only add to the impression of squalor.

Turning up my collar against the strong wind, I hurry toward Sergeant Sally Donovan, who is chatting to a uniformed officer near the tapeline. She rolls her eyes when she sees me, but says nothing, merely lifting the tape to allow me to pass, nodding her head toward the open doorway.

Entering the building, I head for the boxes of protective gear, slipping into a crime scene suit before following the trail of clusters of uniformed officers toward the actual crime scene, an abandoned apartment in the back of the building.

Advancing into the apartment, I find Sherlock crouched over a prone figure sprawled on the floor before a shattered picture window. Greg Lestrade waits patiently nearby, watches Sherlock intently, ready to receive any clues that Sherlock might discover. With a quick nod to the Deputy Inspector, I step up beside Lestrade, and wait for Sherlock to notice my arrival. I've learned that interrupting Sherlock during his examination of a crime scene is a good way to get your head bitten off.

Sherlock, still wearing his coat and scarf (of course, he never puts on the crime scene suits), appears to be deeply engrossed in examining the neck of the victim. The heavyset, older man lies in a pool of blood, and more blood is splashed on the wall and window. I can see that the man's throat appears to have been stabbed or slashed. Sherlock is using his pocket magnifier, closely studying the wound. Finally he glances up.

"Ah, John! You're finally here."

Git. Makes me sound like I've been ages getting here, when in fact I jumped up and rushed right out the door when he texted me.

"Something I can do for you, Sherlock?"

"Yes." He's clearly missed any sarcasm in my tone. "Can you take a look at the victim's throat and right hand? I'd like to see if you can corroborate what I suspect happened to this man."

Obviously, our new relationship isn't going to bleed over into our professional association any more than our friendship did. He's still brusque, thoughtless, singularly focused…and I still think he's utterly fascinating like this. I always have. Watching his brilliant brain at work is always astonishing.

I kneel beside the body, careful of the blood and the shattered window glass covering the floor. Sherlock's eyes meet mine as he extends his pocket magnifier toward me. As I reach out to take it, he turns his hand so that his fingers brush my palm when I take the magnifier. Just that little brush sends a spark shooting through me, despite hovering over a corpse. I guess if you crouch over enough bodies, they become part of the scenery.

I look at the deep laceration in the poor man's neck, and then examine the similar cuts across his palm and the middle phalanx of all four fingers. I glance up at Sherlock.

"The knife must have been very sharp, and I'd say he grasped it in an attempt to defend himself, but…" I paused, frowning. "It looks like the entry wound angle would indicate him being stabbed from the side, or even the back. Also, defensive wounds are usually multiple lacerations, as the victim struggles with the assailant over the weapon. The cuts on his palm and fingers are single slices, rather than showing the trauma of that kind of struggle. The initial stab struck the carotid artery. He would have bled out incredibly quickly. Maybe he didn't have time to struggle?"

Sherlock makes a pleased humming sound in his throat that sends a shiver through me. (I really have become incredibly desensitized to violence – it's disturbing how much his little hum arouses me while crouching over a sodding body. Get it together, John.)

"You're nearly there, John. Nearly there!" He leaps to his feet, steps to the shattered window, as the chill wind whips those gorgeous curls into further disarray. "This window was broken quite recently – see how there is no dust on the edges of the remaining fragments?"

"The victim is the owner of this dismal property. It's obvious from his tool belt that he was here to do some manual work. From the state of the building, it was certainly not basic maintenance, so perhaps…yes! There!" He points to a box of nails and a sheet of plywood resting against the far wall. "He was here to cover the broken window, an attempt to keep out squatters or vandals."

Sherlock turns back to the window, touches a shard of remaining glass with one gloved finger. The piece of glass shivers, then crashes to shatter against the frame below, narrowly missing Sherlock.

"Christ, Sherlock, have a care! I don't fancy stitching you up again tonight."

He whirls, grinning that maniacal grin that was so deeply disturbing when I first met him. "That's it! No more to see here, John. This isn't our area – it's not a murder at all."

Lestrade frowns. "Not a murder? How do you figure? We've got a victim with a stab wound in his throat!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at Lestrade. "Really, Lestrade, don't be so obtuse. It isn't a stab wound."

Now Lestrade and I are both staring at him in bewilderment. He sighs. "Fine. I'll explain it in tiny words, for your tiny brains."

"The victim examined the window before he started to nail up his plywood. As he leaned over, examining the frame, the wind shook a large shard of glass loose from the putty in the top of the frame, and it impaled him in the neck as it fell. He reached up and instinctively grasped the shard, pulling it out, then dropped it as he started to lose consciousness. It blended in with all of the other glass fragments on the floor, and was further camouflaged by the blood."

"This was a simple mishap, Lestrade, nothing more. Hardly worth my time."

"Brilliant!" It bursts out of me (as usual) before I'm even aware that I'm speaking. What isn't usual is Sherlock's response. He usually gives me a small, smug smile, pleased at the compliment. It's very much a "public face" sort of smile.

This time he steps forward, beaming at me, the just-for-John smile lighting up his face like someone has turned on a switch inside of him. I grin back at him, delighted to see that smile, to know that he has let down his guard for me, right in front of the people from Scotland Yard.

We're standing just a few inches apart, smiling into each other's eyes, and I think he might be on the verge of kissing me (kissing at a crime scene!), when Lestrade clears his throat awkwardly.

"Well, thanks for coming in and taking a look anyway, Sherlock, John. If this isn't a homicide, then I don't really need to stick around. I'm supposed to be off-duty. Care to join me for a pint?"

I look at Sherlock, expecting him to refuse, as he always does when the Yarders ask him to join in their camaraderie. To my surprise, he's still smiling, even if it has shifted to a public-face smile.

"That would be quite nice, Lestrade – if it's all right with you, John?"

Blimey! Courtesy! He doesn't usually give me a vote on what we do. I grin at him.

"That sounds lovely."

oOoOo

Thirty minutes later, the three of us are sipping pints in The Feathers, a popular pub with the officers of the Met. We're joined at our table by DIs Dimmock and Hopkins, both of whom have come to admire Sherlock immensely. Conversation is relaxed and friendly, and Sherlock is more laid-back than I've seen him in ages.

Then Donovan and Anderson walk in. After a moment's hesitation when they notice Sherlock, they collect their pints and join our table. Conversation is a bit awkward at first, but gradually, everyone seems to relax.

It's gotten incredibly warm in the pub, so I shrug out of my jacket and hang it over the back of my chair. After a moment, Sherlock follows suit and pulls off his greatcoat and then his scarf, draping them neatly over his own chair back. Turning back to the table, he realises that Sally Donovan is staring fixedly at him, then elbowing Anderson and whispering something in his ear. Sherlock frowns.

"Is there something that you'd care to share with the class, Miss Donovan?" he bites out, his good humor vanished in an instant.

"Is that a love bite on your neck, Freak?" Her expression looks more shocked than anything else, but Anderson, seated beside her, looks disgusted.

"How the hell did you manage to persuade anyone to let you get a leg over, Freak?" he cackles. "Soliciting a prostitute is illegal, you know."

A wave of rage washes over me. You would think that I'd have developed Sherlock's calm immunity against Anderson and Donovan's cruel taunting by now. Instead, each taunt makes me angrier, and now that they are taunting my boyfriend, my patience is even thinner.

Just as I'm about to snap out a sharp retort, Sherlock levels a cool look across the table. "Jealous, Anderson? And yes, it is a lovebite. It seems you're not the only one who can have a romance with a…coworker."

Well, I did tell him that I was ready to go public.

Anderson has somehow misinterpreted Sherlock's comment, though, and is looking at Sally, horrified. "You shagged the Freak?"

Sherlock chuckles as Sally splutters an indignant denial. "I'm sure Sergeant Donovan has her…charms, but women aren't really my area, Anderson. However, don't bother asking – I'm not on the market."

Now Anderson is indignant as well, and I can't help giggling. I turn to look at Sherlock, and he's smiling at me, looking pleased with himself about the exchange.

Behind the smile, though, lurks anxiety. I suddenly realise that Sherlock is afraid that I'm angry about his comment. All of the times that I've denied being his date or his boyfriend come rushing back to haunt me. He has told me that he cared for me from the beginning, and I wince as I suddenly wonder how all of those denials must have felt to him.

Well, it's easy enough to start making amends. I smile at him, and reach for his hand, lacing my fingers through his, and pointedly rest our entwined hands on the table. I shoot Anderson a playfully stern look, and say, "He's definitely not 'on the market'."

The rest of the table sits in stunned silence, as they process this new information. I'm not looking at them, though. I only have eyes for one person, the one whose radiant just-for-John smile has lit up his face, the one who squeezes my hand in his own, causing a lump to rise in my throat.

My boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.

oOoOo

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Disclaimers: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, Sherlock Holmes originally belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.

Thanks to my lovely beta, Skyfullofstars.