Author's Note: So I have actually finished the rough draft of this supposed 'one shot' I wrote. Solid 26 pages worth…I am way to long winded. It's a matter of getting it up and posted now, but anyway. Enjoy the next instalment, I hope people are enjoying!

I'll Wait for You

Case 2 – Pants, Bodies, and Bombs

1 year later.

Sherlock strode around the room draped haphazardly in his bed sheet, his mind whirring in a million different directions. Data flowing endlessly through, cataloguing, and filing it away information for another time. The rustle of a paper turning had him spinning to the other occupant of the room, and currently the most infuriating person in his life. Doctor John Watson, blazing gray eyes narrowed at the man innocently reading his morning news. They had been living together for a year, a whole year since he'd met the man at the junkies death. He had been intrigued by him, a passing fancy he had assumed, but somehow the five foot nine army doctor had wormed his way into his life.

It had started innocently enough; he had needed some deeper medical knowledge on certain cases. He had helped in solving seemingly connected suicides…then John had had done the unthinkable; he had saved his life. That had been the first time, the first time he'd seen him as something more then a person he knew…he'd become a friend. Sherlock didn't do friends; he knew that, he knew he was off putting, a sociopath, and a 'freak'. He danced a fine line between madness and genius, often times the madness getting the better of him. But John had been there. He hadn't run when Sherlock's own dear brother absconded him, offering money to keep an eye on him. John had, in Mycroft's words, 'shown an astounding amount of loyalty'. He thought it misplaced, but Sherlock, he had felt something he'd long believed buried. A warmth

.

Since then they had faced a battery of crime, the most recent of which had just about cost John his life. Strapped to those explosives, Sherlock had felt fear, fear that he was going to loose the one person worthwhile that he had found in this life. That person who was making him feel again. Everyone form the Yard to his brother thought him emotionless, cold, and aloof beyond human emotions. He himself had believed it, believed it in an effort to control his life spinning out of control. His genius had come at a steep price, far from being cold and emotionless, his emotions at one time had almost overwhelmed him. So he had buried them, out of self-preservation he had erected a wall, impenetrable to those baser 'human' failings. Yet here this stocky man, with no fashion sense, astounding loyalty, and the patience of a saint; had barged in, and tore his careful construction all to hell.

As a friend, a colleague, at times a doctor when he'd patched Sherlock up in the bathroom more then once. He recalled a particular moment, after a nasty case. His mind recalled the scene in minute detail; it had been only a month into their new partnership. For the first time Sherlock had seen the solider instead of the doctor;

The silence was thick as he quietly dabbed at his face in a no nonsense manner. The gash along his cheek was shallow, and ragged. Sherlock watched fascinated as bruised, split knuckles opened the plaster gently smoothing it into place. Questions, where tumbling over themselves in his mind, begging him mouth to ask, to deduce. "There," he said softly, John knelt between long lanky legs, checking his work with a critical eye. The compact man was sporting a black eye, and bloody noise but the others…in his mind Sherlock was replaying the scuffle.. John had dealt with ten well trained men as if they where out of hand. They had managed to catch them by surprise, leading to the black eye and noise, but John… had wailed the tar out of them. His movements contained and fluid, not a single motion wasted; it had been life poetry.

"You are more then a doctor aren't you…" John looked at him searchingly, "Yes." He said simply, "SAS weren't you…" the other man smiled nodding slightly, "I have a feeling Mycroft could probably get you my file if you are so interested." Sherlock paused it was intriguing, there was a depth to this man, one that he was not able to deduce, it would all be conjecture. Mycroft could get him that file, he had clearance above and beyond a top secret military, yet…no, John was fascinating. Getting the file would be cheating.

"You need something?" John's voice cut through his mind, and he realized he was still standing, glaring at the object of his musings. "I'm board," he stated, whirling to pace again, "Board pacing dose not merit pants?" Snorting the detective, swept by, "I will only wear pants if there is a reason too…" John chuckled well used to his proclivities by now. "How about some breakfast?" He asked moving into the kitchen weaving though the experiments like a cat, unfazed as he opened the fridge eyeballs and ears in sealed Tupperware.

Sherlock looked over at him feeling suddenly hot, and uncomfortable. Here he came to the crux of his latest John problems. He had a whole file in his mind dedicated to the man, tucked away in his massive internal storage system and the thing was growing by the day. The 'incident' as he was coming to call it, had occurred three days ago.

Sherlock absorbed in his latest experiment did not look up at first, he knew it was John padding out of the bathroom. His familiar light step moved across the living room into the kitchen no doubt to get a cup of morning coffee. Sherlock suddenly fancied himself a cup as well, he looked up to call out when the words died on his lips. John stood, all but naked save for the towel clinging to his narrow hips. Sherlock's eyes widened he'd never seen John in such a state usually he was wearing his tattered navy robe.

Keen eyes took in every muscle, as it bunched and moved he was well built toned, and strong. He hummed oblivious to the scrutiny, his chest covered in a dusting of hair narrowing where it disappeared beneath his navel. His dog tags gleamed, clinking softly, and gray eyes took in the scars. A puckered pink hole in his shoulder from a snipers rifle. A long scar arching across his back someone had snuck up on him when he wasn't wearing his Kevlar from the shallowness though he'd managed to dodge the fatality of it. More across his ribs, these where shinny, the skin a taut newness about it, burns, no doubt for an explosion.

What caught his eye though was his shoulder opposite, it sported a large tattoo. Sherlock frowned he had lived with the man a year he had no idea he had such art on his body.

"Coffee?" He asked not bothering to look up, suddenly the lanky man was an inch from him, long fingers gripping his arm. "You have a tattoo!" the detective accused, John pretended to be surprised. "Would you look at that…." He said feigning surprise. Sherlock gave him a dirty look. Long elegant fingers gently gripped the inked flesh, it was a half sleeve, ornate clearly well done, older he had got it when it was younger judging by the condition of the ink it had seen some wear, "What's it mean?" he demanded, a blonde brow arched, "You haven't deduced?" the younger man went back to the pattern, it was an easy one, "St. George slaying the dragon…patron saint of soldiers. Your id number, the name of your regiment…" he paused suddenly, realizing John was smiling at him amused, not minding the man handled his arm.

He released the warm flesh quickly, "It's nice, and yes coffee would be great." Nodding he turned back to the counter, "Where is your robe John?" The blonde laughed, "Someone used it to clean up a chemical spill…" Sherlock feigned innocence.

Since then that image of John had been haunting him, all sinew and muscle, it made him hot and bothered…Sherlock was confused. He had never had to deal with these types of feelings… his thoughts cut off as his phone dinged; he swept over to it in a flurry of expensive sheets. "Lestrade," John predicted from the kitchen, and Sherlock glanced at him again before looking at the message.

We have a weird one… -L

How weird? – SH

The body was dismembered and reassembled – L

That did it, "John!" he yelled throwing the sheet off he stood in his boxers, he turned to his companion, "We have a case!" Nodding unconcerned the doctor sipped his coffee, "You may want to put some pants on if your going to fight crime today," a mop of black curls looked at him puzzled then down. "Perhaps you are right…" he muttered moving into his bedroom John watching him hiding his smile in his cup.

Unhurried he sipped his beverage pulling on his jumper, and slipping on his shoes he looked at his watch he had another five minutes yet. Sherlock liked to pretend he didn't care, but he always fussed getting dressed. It was scary how well he'd got to know the man in the last year. Despite all the warning to stay out, he hadn't. He had stayed, he had learned more then he'd ever wanted to know; but it had a hell of a ride showing no signs of stopping. He had taken up a part-time position at Matt's recommend clinic, but the majority of his time was spent chasing a long limbed consulting detective around London…and loving every moment of it. There had been some tough scraps, and dark days, for both he and Sherlock. They had weathered the storm though, seen the worst of each other and come through on the other side. Side by side.

Sherlock could be an incredible ass, but John had never met someone like him. Probably never would again. He was rude, obnoxious, and had no consideration for others, but John wouldn't change him for the world. "Ready John," he announced sweeping by in his coat, looking impeccable, the gleam of the hunt in his eyes. They where out the door and into the street minutes later.

The pulled up in front of police tape sweeping through, well Sherlock swept John sort of just sauntered. "Hullo Greg," he called to the detective, the man nodded at John,
"Got a hell of a mess here John…" he said shaking his head, his complexion was pallid and tired. Either the job was running him down, or the wife was. Either way John could sympathize. Sherlock wasn't paying attention he was already squatting looking at what they had.

"What do you think?" he asked with no small amount of trepidation. "This body has been dead for a long time, the parts where cut with medical precision but not here else where." He looked around, they where in the cheaper side of London, the house run down barren and falling apart. "The scene was staged?" Lestrade asked perplexed, as John got closer, "It would appear so," Sherlock was moving around the room taking in the information storing it away.

It was John that heard the soft click, a click that haunted his waking nightmares, and a sound he had hoped he would never hear again. Without thought he was up running, "Out!" he yelled in his best parade voice, hitting Sherlock dead on he punched them through the wall and into the adjoining room. Seconds later the world exploded.

Ears ringing he blinked dust out of his eyes, rolling off the taller man, "You ok?" he shouted shaking his head to clear it. Sherlock looked confused, muddled, it was an odd look for him. "What happened?" he shouted back, John was already up and moving back into the smouldering room. "You two ok?" Greg was looking at them from the other side of the room, bewildered and dishevelled. "What the hell happened." John was already kneeling, pulling the small device out, it was crude, made from a plastic bottle. "IED," he said standing to face Sherlock, the tall man frowned, his face was smudged with dirt as he studied the bottle. Brows knitted, "I heard the click, it's a sound that mean's life and death." John said answering the unspoken question, Sherlock looked at him grateful for a second.

"It's very simple design," the detective muttered looking at the twisted remains, "Yeah I've made better then that…" John said offhand, grey eyes looked at him in surprise. "What the hell is going on?" Lestrade demanded moving from bewilderment to anger, royally pissed someone had tried to blow them up. "Staged crime scene, and a bomb…" there was a sudden excitement about Sherlock that John was used to seeing by now. He was excited by the puzzle, for the game and ultimately a conclusion. Yet his excitement for the bizarre and horrendous had earned him that label of 'freak' and 'sociopath'. Judging by the look Anderson was giving him, the nickname wasn't going anywhere in the near future. Once upon a time it had bugged John to no end, wanting Sherlock to defend himself. He never had, he had allowed others to just assume, he didn't give a flying fuck what people thought of him…John smiled a little to himself.

"So now what?" Lestrade was looking at them for guidance he was out to lunch. "Check all the morgues and medical laboratories, see if anyone is missing a female body age 26 maybe 27, recently died of natural causes. I need to think…" he strode out of the room and John looked at Greg, "Give us a text ya? I'm more worried about the bomb." He was headed after Sherlock when the detective spoke again. "Why the bomb?" John turned back, "It wasn't meant for a building, it was meant for the people in the room." There was a chuckle, "He'd rubbing off on you mate," laughing he gave a wave, picking up his pace catching his lanky friend halfway down the street. He said nothing simply fell in step beside him, "Ok?" John asked softly, as crossed the road, a long arm waving down a cab. "Yes, of course John," he replied absently as they got in headed for home.