And here's finally chapter 3!
I'm really nervous, I hope you'll like it D:

Please let me know what you think about it :3

John ran upstairs into his room, locked the door behind him and leaned against it.
He took a deep breath.
Then his knees gave away and he slid to the floor.
His head dropped to his knees.
He could still feel the blush burning on his cheeks.

What the fuck had just happened?!

When John had left the café, he had made the decision that he had to do something about his feelings for Sherlock.
He had accepted that he just couldn't ignore them anymore.

The problem was to figure out what he would do.
Sherlock's attitude to feelings in general - and love especially - certainly wasn't helpful.
To Sherlock, love was a useless sentiment. Useful as a motive, to solve a case or to manipulate people, but never as a real emotion.
Sherlock didn't let his heart rule and though John knew that Sherlock did care about other people (at least certain ones), it was obvious that he would never openly show this side of him or talk about it.

John had thought about just talking to Sherlock, but chances were too high that his feelings would ruin their friendship – and there was no way John would risk that.

John still hadn't decided what he wanted to do when he had arrived at Baker Street.
The only thing he knew was that he mustn't show Sherlock what was going on inside him.
He had known that this would be difficult, but had hoped that he would be lucky and Sherlock was distracted by his work or an experiment or something like that (He didn't really care at that moment. We would gladly have accepted an explosion in the kitchen just so Sherlock wouldn't notice the argument between head and heart raging inside of John).

John had tried to act as if his date had broken up with him because of Sherlock's texts (it wouldn't be the first time) and if Sherlock had asked, he would have answered that he wanted to take a break from dating because of the many failures lately.

But he'd been lucky.
Sherlock had been to busy moping on the couch to notice anything out of order.

Much too relieved about Sherlock's distraction, he had let down his guard and made tea as usual.
That was when everything had gone down hill.

He hadn't noticed Sherlock standing right behind him. He hadn't even heard him moving from the sofa.
And he certainly hadn't expected to have him standing in such close proximity behind him.

And then of course he had spilled the tea, slipped and ...
Sherlock had caught him and prevented him from falling onto the hard kitchen floor.

He had pulled John into a kind of hug and for a moment John had been completely shocked (and he still was kind of shocked now).
To be pressed so close to Sherlock ... he had felt a blush creep onto his cheeks and his heart had been beating so fast and hard in his chest as if it had wanted to escape his ribcage to get to the man pressed close to him.

He buried his face deeper in his hands.
What if Sherlock had noticed? What if Sherlock made the correct assumption that it wasn't the adrenaline but the proximity to Sherlock that had John's body reacting like that? What if Sherlock had looked into his eyes and seen his (undoubtedly) dilated pupils?

John sighed and let his head fall back against the door, his legs giving out completely and now lying flat on the floor.
It was hopeless.

Sherlock was the most observant man he knew and therefore it was obvious that Sherlock would notice.
If he hadn't yet, he would soon.

Then he would ask John about it and John would have to tell Sherlock everything. The detective was far too observent to lie to - or even just keep parts of it to himself.
If John was lucky, they would go on as usual after that.
If he wasn't, Sherlock would tell him to move out because he wouldn't want to deal with the emotional mess between them.

So what could John possibly do?

That had been so close.
Just a little more and he would have forgotten himself and kissed Sherlock – fuck the consequences.

He couldn't let that happen again.
He couldn't risk their friendship.

But what if ... Just what if that situation just now hadn't only been him?
If he wasn't the only one who had felt the tension between them?

John couldn't remember a moment when Sherlock had reacted like he had just now and never before had they stopped dead in their tracks and simply looked into each other's eyes.

No, John, stop it.
You're imagining things, because that's how you want it to be. Wishful thinking.
Sherlock reacted instinctively. Nothing more.

He rubbed his temple where he could feel a headache building.
He really needed a plan or he would go insane.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
It was just so like him to fall for the most difficult person he knew. To fall for the self-claimed sociopath.

But he would handle it.
And he would solve this problem so that it wouldn't ruin their friendship. Even if he wasn't the world's only consulting detective, he was still Doctor John Watson. He had been a captain in the army. He had saved lives.

He could do this. And he wouldn't lose Sherlock, no matter what.
He would rather be celibate than give up his best friend.

At that moment he heard a call from downstairs.
"John? JOHN! We have a case!"
He could hear Sherlock running around and getting dressed.

Heavily, John got up from the floor and rearranged his clothes, getting his mind together.
He took a deep breath before opening the door and then quickly went downstairs to get his jacket.

In the hall he met Sherlock.
It was really unbelievable how fast that man could be when he was into it.

When Sherlock noticed John, he turned around without a word and left the house to hail a cab.
John followed, smiling softly.

This was their life.
Sherlock rushed ahead and John followed.
Sherlock was brilliant and all-brain, never caring about other people, and John was there to be his moral compass.

This was how their life was and John loved every second of it.
The Danger. The Comradeship. The Domesticity.
He would never risk that because of his feelings.

Outside Sherlock was already climbing into the taxi and John hurried to follow.

"So, what's the case about?"
"A woman, dead. Cut open very nicely. Police couldn't find any hints." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Imbeciles. I hope they haven't destroyed all the evidence."

John smiled.
This was the Sherlock he knew.
The complete opposite of the one from the kitchen...
Oh stop thinking about it, John. Not now, anyway.

The cab moved quickly through the heavy traffic and John busied himself looking out of the window.
It was getting dark already and soon the street lighting would be turned on.

It only took a few minutes to get to the crime-scene.

John could already see Lestrade behind the yellow tape, talking with Anderson and Donovan.
He sighed internally. He could feel the chemistry already.

Next to him, Sherlock had already opened the door and left the taxi, leaving John to pay.

When he finally got out of the vehicle, he was surprised to find Sherlock still standing in front of it, seemingly waiting.
He glanced at Sherlock who, without any indication that he had noticed John, started moving in his usual elegant-arrogant stride towards the detective inspector.

Lestrade looked up when he heard them approaching.
"Ah, Sherlock. You're here. Anderson has already searched the body for evidence, but we couldn't find anything, except the fact that she's cut open in a very strange way.
Come, have a look."

John could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes about to say something impolite and gave him a light bump into the arm.

Sherlock looked down to him and they had a quick silent conversation.
'Sherlock, don't. You don't want them to be upset before you even saw the victim.'
A pout. 'Alright. But I'm sure this idiot did not see the wood for the trees.'

The victim was a small woman, about thirty, with long brown hair.
She was nude and her whole body was littered with cuts which seemed rather random to John.
There were even whole pieces of skin missing.
John had to hide his disgust at the sight. Who would do something like that?

He watched Sherlock moving around the corpse, taking closer looks at this and that detail that would have escaped John completely.
He couldn't help the warm feeling in his belly.
This was his Sherlock. The man he loved.

John knew that it really wasn't the right place to be drooling over his crush, but he couldn't help it.
Every time he saw Sherlock working it was like falling for him all over again.
You could see the brilliance in his every move.

Sherlock got up, looked at the corpse and hunched over it again.
"John, please have a closer look at these cuts."

John had to violently cut off his chain of thoughts.
Bad enough he was thinking about this at a crime-scene, he needn't be caught doing it.

John crouched down beside Sherlock, careful not to touch him in any way.
He really didn't know what Sherlock wanted to hear.
But he looked at the cuts and the missing skin anyway.
If Sherlock wanted to know his opinion, he would at least try to help him.

"Well ... the cuts seem rather random and senseless at first ... but ..." He had a closer look. "But when you look at the way the skin was cut, it is rather neatly done, maybe by someone used to cutting flesh."
John felt Sherlock's gleaming eyes on him and a sudden rush of pride flowed over him. He wanted more of that.
"And ... when you look from a bit farther away ..." He stood up.
"And add the missing pieces of skin ... The cuts add up to a pattern."
John grinned and a rosy touch appeared on his cheeks. He knew he was right.

Then, at once, his smile faded and the entire colour left his face.
The cuts didn't just add up to a pattern.
Those were letters.
Real letters, cut into the woman's skin.

S H