This chapter was somehow really hard to write.
It just didn't flow D:

Don't be too hard on me, please ;_;

Suddenly Lestrade's team were all over them, trying to get a closer look at what had John Watson going pale so quickly.

They were staring at the body for minutes – and saw nothing.
Just like Sherlock had expected. They weren't John after all and the detective couldn't help but feel proud of his friend's abilities.

John seemed to recover from the shock quickly (he had been a soldier after all) and started showing the policemen what he saw.
Sherlock ignored them in favour of searching the ground.

Then he heard Anderson speaking up: "Well, that's as obvious as it can get, isn't it? Our favourite psychopath has struck again."

"Why would he kill a woman and then leave such clear evidence, Anderson?" Lestrade asked.

"Apparently he didn't think anybody would notice. It's his kind of game. He thinks we're too stupid and he gets off on getting away with it right under our noses. His bad luck he didn't count on his favourite pet to help us."

As if Sherlock could ever miscalculate something like that.
He knew John well enough to know what the man was capable of.
John was a brave man, a loyal man and smarter than all of the police force together.
And John certainly wasn't his pet.

"Sherlock would never kill an innocent human being." That was John.
Sherlock felt a slight flutter in his stomach.
John believed in him. John trusted him.

"You're too naive, John." When had Sally Donovan started to call John by his first name?
"I told you he gets off on this and someday he would murder someone out of boredom. As you can see, the time has come." Her voice was so ... soft. Was she trying to be nice? That was odd. Normally she didn't care about anyone. He would have to keep a closer eye on her.

"You're completely wrong. Just because the cuts read 'S H' that doesn't have to mean anything."

"But it could mean everything." Lestrade answered calmly. He turned towards Sherlock. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave the crime scene for now."

But before Sherlock could say something, John exploded: "Because of this?! Because Anderson told his unnecessary opinion?! Come on, Greg, you've known Sherlock for years! You should be able to tell he wouldn't do something like that!"
Surprised, Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He sounded very angry and his whole body was stiff as if he was holding himself back from punching somebody.
It wasn't like John to go up the wall that quickly.

"Calm down, John. You two would have to leave now anyway. I just got a text that there'll be another inspector coming shortly and it wouldn't do us any good if he found some strangers on a crime scene – especially if the initials of one of them are cut into the corpse."

Sherlock got up gracefully from the ground and went to the little group.
He had a short look on John who talk calming breaths and flexed his hands before looking directly in Lestrade's face.
"I'll need some time to have another look at the body."

"Alright. I'll text you when it's at the morgue."

Sherlock turned around and started walking towards the street.
"Come on, John. We're leaving."
He could hear John following him without as much as a short goodbye.

A few minutes later, they were sitting in a cab on their way back to Baker Street.
It was quiet between the two of them, but Sherlock's mind was racing.

Not with thoughts about the case, no, it was entirely too soon to do that, first he would need to finish examining the body.
No, Sherlock was trying to figure out why John had been so angry earlier.
It wasn't the first time that Anderson and Donovan had implied Sherlock was the murder, but never before had John been that irritated about it.

John was usually the kindness in person and would rather blame himself than anybody else.
What was it that had John snapping?
Sherlock couldn't seem to reach a solution.

At that moment, John decided to speak up.
"Why do they always have to bring that up? It's not like it's something new."

"Maybe they just can't give up hope to see me in prison?"

"Sherlock." John said with a small smile. "I know you're not a saint, but you know as well as I do that you would never be sent to prison - even if you had murdered someone. You're far too clever to get caught. And your brother is the bloody British government. That must be useful for something."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John's words. It was one of his rare, genuine smiles that were mostly reserved for John.
John, who believed in him against all the odds.
John, who trusted him with his life.
John, who was always there.
Always.

A giggle broke through his chain of thoughts.
He looked at John questioningly. In precisely 7 minutes and 34 seconds John had gone from angry over amused to girlish giggling. It was like he was pregnant and was having mood swings.
That thought had Sherlock grinning and biting his lower lip in order not to laugh out loud.

His eyes met John's and he instantly knew that John had had that exact same thought a few seconds before.
And suddenly they were both laughing.
The whole taxi was filled with their laughter and the cabbie gave them an irritated look, probably thinking they were both high (And maybe they were? High on the case? High on each other?), but he found he couldn't care less.

When they both were finally coming down, still giggling from time to time, they were leaning against each other, trying to catch their breath.
It felt comfortable and Sherlock found he wouldn't want to be any other place than right here with John.
John fitted so perfectly against his side as if they were made for it and Sherlock felt the strange urge to put his arm around him.

Thankfully, they arrived at Baker Street at this moment and Sherlock didn't have time to ponder about this strange impulse.

John, who was finally breathing normally again, left the car and this time it was Sherlock's turn to pay.
He still had a small smile on his lips when they entered 221B.

They had just made themselves comfortable with a nice cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson came into their flat.

"Sherlock, dear, I've got a letter for you. It was delivered this morning, but I've forgotten to give it to you. I hope it's nothing important?"
In her hands she had a small, pink letter.
Who would use such an ugly envelope?

Curious, Sherlock took the letter from Mrs. Hudson and examined it carefully.
It seemed to be a perfectly normal letter except for the colour.
The address was written in a very feminine way and Sherlock could see from the way she wrote his name that she put very much care into writing it.

Carefully he started to open the letter.
The letter paper was also pink and Sherlock really hoped the content wouldn't be as bad as it seemed.

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I'm a big fan of yours. I'm always reading your website (and Doctor Watson's blog), collect all the newspaper articles I can find and have just recently joined your fan club.
I'm amazed about what you're able to do.
To me, you're the most genius and most handsome man that exists.
Therefore I've been wishing to meet you for quite some time now and with this letter, I wanted to ask you out.
Enclosed is a picture of me and my contact details.
Hoping to hear from you soon,
Ivy McDougal

For a minute, Sherlock just stared at the letter.
This had to be some kind of joke.
Maybe John had sent the letter thinking it would be funny to see his reaction?

But one look at John showed that he had no idea what the letter was about and seemed rather curious about the content.

Sherlock did not know what to think and decided to have a look at the mentioned photo. Perhaps he could deduce something.
It showed a young lady, about 25 years old, with short blonde hair.
Other men would probably find her attractive, but Sherlock didn't care about women in that way. To him she seemed rather boring.
From her clothing and the way she stood, he could deduce that she was from a wealthy family and therefore never had to work. Also she had had a string of lovers, but nothing long-term.
What could such a girl want with him?
The problem with the picture was that he could not see how old it was.
There was no date on the back and the photo was taken in a studio.
It could be only some days old or already some years.

"So what's the letter about?"

Sherlock looked up from the picture.
He was surprised to find that Mrs. Hudson had left the flat and only John was still standing across from him.

Without a word, Sherlock passed him the letter.
While reading John's eyes got bigger and bigger and a light blush crept onto his face.

"This is ... a fan letter? And ... she wants to go out with you? Obviously she doesn't really know you. Nobody who really knows you would want to go on a date with you." He sounded somewhat displeased.

Sherlock felt a light pang in his chest. What was wrong with him lately?
"I don't see why anyone wouldn't want to go on a date with me. I'm delightful."

John shot him a look.

Sherlock ignored him and continued. "It's just that I don't want to go on dates with them."

"I know you don't. It was a joke." John took the photo from Sherlock and their hands brushed.
Sherlock could feel heat rising to his cheeks and his fingers felt warm where they had met John's.

"She's really good-looking. She could have anyone."

Sherlock turned his head as fast as lightening. His eyes had narrowed to slits.
John.
John who liked women. Who was attracted to them.
If this woman and John would meet, she might realize that John was much better dating-material than him and then she would try to get John all for herself and John would think she was a good catch and then this endless dating would start all over again and maybe then John would have found what he wanted and would leave Sherlock.

No. He couldn't possibly let that happen.

At once, Sherlock took letter and picture from John, ripped them together with the contact details and burnt the pieces with his Bunsen burner.
There, problem solved.

Grinning he turned around to John who stared at him, open-mouthed.

"Why did you do that?"
"Well, I'm not interested in that woman and as it's an invitation to me, I decided to destroy it and never be bothered about it again. This just never happened."

Pleased with himself, he went to the couch and lay down.

"We have some time to spare until Lestrade texts, so please, John, eat something. We might not have time later on."
With that he went to his mind palace, trying to order the data about the case and delete everything about the annoying letter.