Disclaimer: The case was stolen from the movie Untraceable.

The next morning, Sherlock made tea while hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn't decide to come in. If she ever discovered he had the ability to make some, she would most likely stop making it for him. That would be unfortunate. Surprisingly, it wasn't a hassle. He found himself wanting to be able to offer tea when John woke up, which would happen soon, considering he had every intention of waking him in the following minutes. There was something they needed to discuss. Sherlock's mother had given him an ultimatum; John was supposed to join Mummy that very morning, and once again, Sherlock found he wasn't ready.

On that calm day where the flat was quiet and just beginning to be bathed in morning light, Sherlock wondered if he would ever be willing to let John go. They could work well together. While Sherlock had been compared to a wildfire or a hurricane, John was like a fire ant: small, unthreatening-looking, but strong and dangerous. A whole army within one small body; he was fascinating.

He was shaken out of his reverie when the water boiled. He poured it into two mugs, threw a teabag in each, and brought them to the sitting room where John was still fast asleep under Sherlock's heavy duvet. After setting the mugs on the small table, he kneeled beside the sofa and watched John's sleeping form. He looked very peaceful, and a ray of sunshine was hitting his face, making his hair look more golden than brown. It was ruffled, but it still looked soft, and without thinking about what he was doing, Sherlock stretched a hand until he could catch a lock between his index and middle finger. It was even softer than it looked, and he was considering running his whole hand through John's hair when his phone beeped, announcing a new text from Mycroft. Well done brother, he thought, and he lowered his hand to gently shake John's shoulder.

He woke up with a start, and it took him a few seconds before he realised where he was. He blinked several times, yawned, and stretched his sore back and shoulders before smiling at Sherlock.

"Morning," he said groggily, and Sherlock smiled back, offering a cup of tea.

"Good morning John, I'm sorry I woke you up, but the sun is up and we need to talk," Sherlock said as he grabbed his own mug and sat on the table beside the sofa, facing John. Remembering the text message from Mycroft, he checked his phone.

Is John still alive?

Of course he is.

When John spotted the laptop on the coffee table beside Sherlock, he was reminded of the case and the poor man hanging from the ceiling somewhere in a London basement.

"How is he doing?" he asked, and Sherlock didn't need to ask whom he was talking about.

"Still alive, but he fainted a few hours ago," Sherlock answered, and John let out a sigh.

"At least he's still alive, we have time to find him," he said.

"That's the plan, yes. But before we work on that, we need to discuss your involvement in the case," Sherlock said, his voice solemn, before drinking a sip of tea. John's face suddenly fell; he looked dejected, a big contrast with the way he had looked a few seconds before.

"I was in your way yesterday, wasn't I?" John said in a voice that sounded a little off.

"John! No! Having you with me yesterday was…it was good, very good," Sherlock answered while fidgeting a little on the table. "However, my mother expects you before lunch."

"Oh," was John's only answer, and he looked down at his mug.

"Do you want to go to my mother's house?" Sherlock asked, and it was John's turn to fidget, twisting the duvet in his fist in the process.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful; your mother is very kind to offer one of her spare rooms, but since Mycroft is away until Sunday morning…. Perhaps, if you don't mind…err, maybe I could stay here and help you. You know, in case you need a doctor," John said, stuttering every few words.

It was a strangely endearing sight; John's cheeks were flushed, and so were his ears. He was also licking his bottom lip even more than usual. Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his smile from expanding up to his own ears; John wanted to stay with him! That plus a possible murderer meant his day was bound to be interesting.

"I would like you to stay. I appreciated your help yesterday, and that's exactly what I'll tell Mycroft," he said as he started texting.

I have a case. John's help is required; therefore, his arrival at Mummy's house will be delayed.

Do I need to remind you that John is supposed to marry me?

He's a doctor, he's useful, and I need him. Tell Mummy to stop ringing; John won't be back before we're done with the case.

Has it crossed your mind that perhaps John isn't interested in playing the role of your assistant?

He asked to stay, Sherlock wrote, knowing full well that it would annoy his brother.

He was right; Mycroft didn't answer, and Sherlock found the rush of superiority extremely rewarding. The feeling was familiar, he recognised it from all the other times he had had the upper hand on his brother. However, he didn't have time to dwell on thoughts of Mycroft, there was a man being held against his will somewhere in London, and something had to be done about that.

Some movement on the laptop's screen interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. From behind the camera, a very long arrow was shot, and it went straight into Peter Howarth's heart. John let out a shivering sigh, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the blood slowly saturating the dead man's shirt. Soon, a new message appeared under the live feed, sliding across the screen in large letters.

Did you enjoy the show, Sherlock Holmes?

John's eyes widened, and he looked at Sherlock expectantly, hoping to get an explanation. An explanation that didn't come. Sherlock was just as puzzled as John was, and he frantically searched through his inner hard-drive, trying to list all the people he knew who could have potentially done this. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel the faintest hint of amusement when he thought about his list of enemies, just annoyance. Why were there so many of them? His mental list-making activities were interrupted by a text from Lestrade.

We need to talk.

On our way, Sherlock answered before dragging John off the sofa and away from his comfortable spot under the extraordinarily warm duvet. They didn't take time to change their clothes, shower, or have breakfast; there was a case on, someone had just been murdered, and the killer was reaching out to Sherlock. The game was on.

:::

They spent most of the day in Lestrade's office. At first, the DI just yelled at Sherlock, demanding he shared the information he was obviously holding back. For John, it felt like watching a tennis set, the two men were bouncing insults, passive-aggressive comments, and a little bit of useful information off each other with the ease of two players who have been volleying together for years. Eventually, John had to put his foot down and ask them to settle down, because as entertaining as it was to watch them bicker, there was still a murderer to catch. A murdered who was bound to continue, since his first attempt on a human had been a success (from his point of view).

The video feed was gone from the website, the only thing left was the scrolling message inquiring about Sherlock's amazement at the whole ordeal. The message was both a blessing and a curse; it had largely reduced the number of potential suspects, bringing it from anyone in Britain to someone who knew Sherlock. Unfortunately, it looked as though everyone who had been watching the Watch Me Kill website (and apparently, there had been a lot of people watching) had Googled Sherlock's name, found his website, and discovered his forum.

Sherlock's phone was now beeping at least once every minute. As tempting as it was to just turn the sound off, Lestrade insisted on reading through every single one of the messages in case there was a useful clue in one of them. Also, they couldn't ignore the possibility that the man Lestrade called the Internet Killer would try to contact Sherlock personally. There were over a hundred new messages on Sherlock's forum, and John offered to look through them while Sherlock and Lestrade examined the enlarged photos of the basement in which Peter Howarth had been detained.

John's task took all morning. He worked as fast as he could, considering he was using an unfamiliar keyboard (Sally Donovan's). He meticulously noted IPs and dubious messages, but new messages kept popping up, which considerably slowed down the process. From Sherlock's point of view, it was all terribly distracting. Every time he looked up from the pictures, he got an eyeful of John licking his lips, or with his tongue poking out slightly. Sherlock had never seen such an unsettling organ in his entire life, and he had seen his fair share of organs. Had he been a less rational man, he would have suspected that John's tongue was taunting him, enticing him.

Several hours later, Sherlock and Lestrade had concluded there was absolutely nothing useful they could use to track the Internet Killer. John had made a list of suspicious IP addresses, which had been faxed to PCeU so Jim could pursue the investigation; his department was much better equipped to do so. New messages were still being posted on the forum, but the flow had decreased now that the scrolling message had been up for a while. John continued to read them, but the task wasn't as difficult as it had been earlier.

Sherlock, at Lestrade's insistence, had made a list of everyone who had a reason to hate him. Unfortunately for Lestrade and his team who would have the pleasure of looking into the background of each and every one, the list was four pages long. Curious, John looked over Sherlock's shoulder, and he spotted a name he had recently become acquainted with.

"Sherlock? Why is your brother's name on that list?"

"Because Lestrade said I needed to write the name of everyone who had a reason to hate me. Whether that reason was good or not," Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"Why does he hate you?" John asked.

"I'm afraid that list would be another four pages long and would take no less than an hour to make. Considering your stomach has been rumbling for the last forty-five minutes, and there is nothing else we can do while Scotland Yard's finest do their work, why don't I take you home?"

John agreed and got his coat, more than ready to leave, but Lestrade wouldn't let them get out of his office until he cleared something up with Sherlock.

"This is not a game, Sherlock! Do we really need to look into your brother's background? Because there's a man killing people, and I would hate to lose precious time on unnecessary investigations!" Lestrade said, never raising his voice, but managing to sound threatening nonetheless.

"Alright," Sherlock murmured, and he took his list back from Lestrade's hands. Picking up a pen, he crossed out Mycroft's name.

"It doesn't mean he doesn't have any reason to hate me, but my brother is cleverer than any investigator you will put on the case. No one will ever find out anything about him, and since his current presence in Côte d'Ivoire makes it unlikely he's the one killing people in London, I think your team's time could be best used otherwise," Sherlock said, and he turned to leave, but Lestrade stopped him again.

"Wait, who's your brother? What does he do?"

"He's the most dangerous man you could ever meet. Now come along John," Sherlock said before stepping out of Lestrade's office, John following in smaller, but eager strides.

:::

Back in Sherlock's flat, John practically threw himself at the leftover curry chicken he had made the day before. He was about to take out a second plate, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Digestion slows me down, I rarely eat while on a case," he said while shaking his head.

"That's insane!" John exclaimed. "And completely unhealthy!"

"My body doesn't need much," Sherlock replied as he picked up his laptop to check on the macabre website. There was nothing new, just the familiar black background and the redundant message taunting him.

"You sure you don't want some? I always find it's better the next day," John said before biting into another chicken piece.

Sherlock was about to refuse for the second time when John let out an exceptionally satisfied, almost obscene moan as he closed his eyes and swallowed. When he threw his head back, sunlight hit his throat and highlighted his Adam's apple in such a way that Sherlock felt the urge to lick the tempting protrusion. And maybe suck a little bit. Nibble, too.

"Come on Sherlock, even if your body doesn't needit, I'm sure it would appreciate it," John said, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he offered Sherlock his fork.

Even if he had spent hours thinking about his phrasing, John couldn't have come up with worse words; Sherlock's body didn't need it, but it sure wanted it. When Sherlock made no move to grab the offered fork, John shrugged and brought it to his own mouth, closing his eyes and sighing as if he had never tasted anything better. Perhaps if he had had the ability to move, Sherlock would've given in and taken a bite, but he felt paralysed.

He knew John was taunting him and mocking his eating habits. Still, he couldn't help the rush of blood to his groin when he imagined what it would be like to be the one making John moan and sigh like that. He frowned at his delinquent thoughts; his libido was generally quite tame, but when he had a case, it was non-existent. That was unusual: wanting to climb on the table, grab a fistful of John's hair, and kiss him until he forgot all about his chicken. The desire to drag John into his bedroom, to undress him, lick him, kiss him, and bite him, not only to study the sounds he would make, but to pleasure him relentlessly, that was new. Oh, he was in trouble, wasn't he? But he wanted the trouble if it meant he could have John. Not only in his bed, but everywhere, in every single facet of his life.

"Sherlock!" John said, startling him. He had spoken loudly enough to suggest it wasn't the first time he had tried catching the detective's attention.

"What?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to sound annoyed, irritated, frustrated…anything other than aroused.

"I'm going up for a quick shower, do you need the bathroom first?"

Sherlock shook his head, and he watched John as he got out of the kitchen and climbed the steps leading to the bathroom. It wasn't long before Sherlock heard the water running upstairs, and, sighing, he went to the sitting room to see whether there had been any changes on the website. When he hit refresh, the familiar black background appeared, but with a video feed positioned in the centre of the screen. Sherlock was surprised; he had thought he would have had more time before the next victim. However, the situation was different; there was no counter, and instead of a struggling man hanging from the ceiling, he was watching a building. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock when he realised he was watching the façade of 221 Baker Street. Unplugging his computer, he brought it with him to the window. The video was live; he could see his silhouette in the window of 221B. The camera was clearly lower than he was, so not in a window of the opposite building. A car, then? He looked out the window again, but couldn't locate the camera.

"John?" he cried, but got no response, so he tried again, louder.

"JOHN! Hurry up, we're being watched!" he shouted, and he heard John shouting something back, but he couldn't make out what he was saying.

He decided not to wait; this was too urgent to wait. He threw his computer onto the sofa and hurried outside to look for the camera.

:::

Inside the flat, John was coming out of the bathroom dressed only in his jeans and a t-shirt. He had heard Sherlock calling after him, had gotten out of the shower as quickly as possible, and had hurriedly put on clothes in case Sherlock had managed to get himself into trouble in the short time John had been in the shower.

"Sherlock?" John shouted as he limped down the stairs, his wet hair dripping onto his white shirt.

There was no trace of Sherlock in the kitchen, no trace of him in the sitting room, but John spotted the discarded laptop on the sofa, and he picked it up to see what website was opened. The building on the video feed seemed extremely familiar, but he only recognised it when he saw the tall, lanky man dressed in a suit standing in the street. Baker Street. Sherlock!

Immediately in combat mode, John ran up the stairs and picked up his service gun that he had hidden at the bottom of his suitcase, buried under all his clothes. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and hurried outside, shouting at Sherlock to "come back inside you idiot!" Sherlock turned around to look at John, who grabbed both his arms and looked at him, trying to determine whether he was hurt.

"I'm fine John, but the killer was here, there's a camera on top of that car," Sherlock said, pointing at the car in question.

John looked around, trying to see if the man who had put the camera there was still around, but he was distracted by the abundance of passers-by on the pavement. Then, a suspicious movement caught his eye; a man looked back, his eyes fixed on where John and Sherlock were standing, before turning around and disappearing in an alley.

"This way," John said, and he started running towards the alley, Sherlock following.

It was thrilling. The rush of adrenalin wasn't like anything he had experienced since he had been invalided home. He felt like the protagonist in a movie; running after a suspect, watching him disappear when he turned a corner, but always following not too far behind. He could hear his heart pounding, feel his lungs expanding, and his feet hitting the pavement in rhythmic thumps. The wind hitting his face was making him giddy with excitement, and Sherlock's presence at his side rendered him invincible, unstoppable. It was incredible.

John and Sherlock chased the other man for what felt like hours before he disappeared into a black car. Then, Sherlock took the lead, and they zigzagged from one alley to another, using restaurants as shortcuts, climbing emergency staircases, and running across rooftops. Sherlock apparently had a map of London embedded into his brain; he knew which one-ways would slow down the black car, and which traffic lights would stop it completely. They managed to keep up for a while, sometimes catching a glimpse of the car around a corner, but eventually the vehicle ignored a red light, and they lost track of it.

Panting, John leaned against the closest brick wall and took several deep breaths that turned into giggles, and then into fits of genuine laughter. At first, Sherlock looked at him curiously, but he joined in, and soon enough they were leaning slightly towards each other, Sherlock's right arm pressed against John's left one. When he had enough breath to speak, John turned his head to look at Sherlock.

"That was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You live a much too quiet life," Sherlock answered, also turning to look at John with a bright smile illuminating his features.

Sherlock was right, his life was too quiet, and he was doing nothing to change that by marrying Mycroft Holmes. A long, quiet, and mundane life, that's what awaited him, but he needed quiet, didn't he? He had lived a more exciting life before, but that had only led to trouble, a bullet in his shoulder, some more trouble, and a heavy burden he could never forget for very long.

He had almost howled with laughter when he had read Mrs Holmes' email, but after months of polite conversations (first by email, then on the phone), he had been forced to admit that the idea of an arranged marriage between himself and Mycroft Holmes had a lot of advantages. Other than it being an excuse to get away from Harry's tiny flat, it was a way to put a very unpleasant part of his past behind. Also, the companionship, someone to share stories with at the end of the day, to prepare meals with, to laugh with, someone to fill the other cold half of the bed, those were all non-negligible bonuses.

Sherlock poking him violently in the ribs shook him out of his reverie.

"Ow! What was that for?" John asked.

"To bring you back to earth. Now hurry, I'll race you to my flat, we need to check that car," Sherlock said before winking at John and running off.

John laughed and ran after him, the chilly April wind cooling the sweat on his forehead. He followed as Sherlock twisted and turned in what seemed like random patterns. When they were back in Baker Street, the camera was still on top of the mysterious car. Sherlock grabbed it and unplugged it, but he put it back so it could be analysed by Jim or someone from his department.

"Do you know whose car it is?" John asked.

"I have a theory," Sherlock answered as he picked the lock of the boot.

Inside was the body of Peter Howarth. Sherlock was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, and he clasped his hands together, looking at the body with obvious enthusiasm. He announced that he wanted to have a look before texting Lestrade, and he ordered John to follow him inside so he could hide his gun while Sherlock got his tools. When John came down from the spare bedroom, Sherlock was waiting for him in the sitting room, twirling his cane around like a baton.

John stared, his mouth agape. He hadn't been bothered by his leg since he had seen Sherlock outside the building on the 'Watch Me Kill' website.