"What are we doing?" John asked.

They were sitting at the table in the living room. Sherlock had slid very low in his chair, long legs stretched out beneath the table. He'd been staring at Tony Bauer's Facebook page intensely for some time.

"Brainstorming," he said without moving his eyes from the screen.

"Brainstorming…?"

"How we can get him to take off his trousers for us." He intertwined his fingers and squinted at the page.

"Right." John looked at the nutter he'd agreed to live with. "Erm, why?"

Sherlock exhaled in a longsuffering way. "We have no reason to believe our three victims are the only people with these scars. They're only the ones who've died."

"Oh right," John said, blinking at the thought which should have been obvious but of course never was. Not unless you were Sherlock Holmes. "God knows how many have scars but haven't died."

"Or haven't died yet. Already sent out an alert to the morgues. We'll hear about it if another one turns up with the same pattern. But in the meantime…"

"You want to check Bauer."

John was hoping for more of an explanation, but Sherlock merely hummed his agreement, tilting his head as he slipped off on another train of thought.

John looked at their latest target's cover photo. It had been taken at a wedding, and it showed the groomsmen with their arms slung over each other's shoulders, some laughing some looking at the camera. John almost felt sorry for the guy. They didn't even have a plan yet, but he was fairly certain that of all the possible solutions to this particular dilemma, zero of them were going to involve a pleasant evening for Tony Bauer.

"People don't normally take off their trousers in front of two strange men," John commented, feeling the need to point out the crux of their problem.

"No."

"And the probability he'll just answer the door in his pants…"

"Is negligible enough to discount."

"Tell him the truth? We're private investigators and we believe thigh-scars are somehow linked to murders, and ask him to show us his legs." It wasn't until John finished speaking that he heard the full stupidity of his statement. Sherlock looked up from where he was slouched and the look was reprimand enough.

John sighed. "Interview the girlfriend?"

"He's single."

"Ex-girlfriend?"

"We need current information. Besides, he lives close by and he's home tonight."

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock reached out and languidly tapped the keyboard. The tab switched to Twitter. Bauer's latest tweet informed anyone who cared to know that he would be spending the evening in, binge-watching telly. Sherlock unconsciously wrinkled his nose in distaste as he reread it, and John felt a small smile tug the corner of his mouth.

It didn't happen often, but occasionally John caught a window into Sherlock's thought process. The detective had very few tells, but in all their time spent together John had learned to read a few of them. This one, he knew, was an expression of Sherlock's annoyance at social media. He felt people broadcasting their locations and activities around the clock made his job too easy. In the past when John had retorted that he didn't have to use it, the look he'd received had been sharp enough to slice his head off. He'd been informed, in no uncertain terms, that not to use readily available information just for the sake of not using it would be negligent and contemptible and moronic and whatever else John didn't know because he'd already put in his earphones.

"Do we have to see his legs?" John tried. "Can't we just question him about Riley's scars and get him to tell us what we need to know?" If Tony Bauer was close mates with one of their victims, Brandon Riley, there was a good chance he'd know something about it.

"The location of the scars has been chosen with concealment as the priority. He'll deny having scars, whether he has them or not, just as he'll deny knowledge of Riley's scars whether he knows of them or not."

"We could get a warrant—"

"No time." Sherlock cut his eyes sideways towards John. "Not that I wouldn't like to see you ask Lestrade to get us a warrant for this particular purpose."

John snorted, thinking of Lestrade's reaction. "Fine," he said, "I give up. Just tell me your brilliant plan and we can get on with it."

Sherlock shrugged.

"What, no plan?" John lifted his eyebrows. "Sherlock Holmes can trace a locked-room, delayed-action stabbing to a wedding photographer, but he can't get a man out of his trousers?"

Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood. "It's not exactly a required skill for detective work." He began to pace the room.

"Until now."

Sherlock threw a glare at him.

"Could be a skill that comes up in personal life," John offered, voice slightly tentative as he saw a rare opportunity to question Sherlock further about said mysterious personal life.

"In your personal life how many men have you gotten out of their trousers?"

"What?" John asked, startled. "What makes you think I've done that?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I have?"

I don't know what to think about you," John muttered.

Possibly Sherlock didn't hear it. "We're running out of time," he said. "His sister could call him any minute and mention us. She might have done it already."

John was silent, watching Sherlock pace. He'd thrown his suit jacket over the edge of the couch and was wearing one of his tight, button-up shirts. It was impossible not to notice the narrow length of his torso and where his belt rested low on his hips.

John wondered whether he would be able to get him to eat dinner tonight. He'd just decided he'd probably have the same chance of getting Sherlock to eat a teacup when he spoke again.

"How do you get women to take off their trousers then?"

"What?"

"I assume you've done it before."

John scoffed, "Yeah, once or twice—"

"The basic principle must be the same."

"Why are you asking me, Mr. Shag-a-Lot Homes?" John returned, referring to one of the many headlines that had come out in the tabloids the week Janine had taken her story to the press.

Sherlock stopped pacing. "I know you don't like it when I call you an 'idiot,' but when you freely display a thought process at the level of tabloid-readers you make it difficult for me to give you any credit otherwise."

"I didn't believe the tabloids," John snapped. "But Janine looked pretty comfortable sleeping in your bed when I found her there in her knickers, so I assumed—"

"Then you couldn't possibly be wrong, considering your record for your incisive and percipient assumptions."

"Do you mean…" John faltered. "Did you not… Have you not…"

Sherlock glared at him.

John swallowed. Was this it? Was he finally getting an answer to what had been one of the most mysterious facets of Sherlock Holmes? John knew that in some ways it was none of his business, but in other ways he was fantastically fucking curious.

Ever since the bizarre, half-miscommunicated conversation that first night at Angelo's, John had been trying to piece together the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes' sexual history. And he had to say, after years of careful attention and collection of various clues, he'd done a right lousy job of it.

The detective was an enigma far too difficult for John to solve. He claimed to view his body merely as 'transport,' and displayed annoyance about having to attend to any of its needs—food and sleep being the most pressing John had to fight for in order to prevent Sherlock from collapsing (as he'd done on one or two occasions before John had gotten better at surreptitiously monitoring both). Yet there was no one who could attest to the time and money Sherlock spent on his appearance better than John. For all he seemed to neglect his body, he spent an inordinate amount of time maintaining its attractiveness. Their bathroom was filled with expensive shampoos and soaps and styling products. One look at his wardrobe would be enough to know the skew of its fashion to comfort ratio.

From the infamous Angelo's conversation he had gathered that Sherlock was gay, but not interested in dating (girlfriends were 'not his area,' but he simply said 'no' when John asked if he had a boyfriend). But after living with him for some time John had changed his opinion to believe his flatmate was more likely asexual. His antisocial dislike of all people, regardless of gender, combined with his contempt for sentimental emotion seemed to preclude the possibility for any kind of romantic interest. Perhaps his meticulous attention to his appearance was only part of his sardonic streak—to make himself as attractive as possible while knowing he would never return the interest.

And then Irene Adler had thrown him for a loop. Sherlock had reacted differently to her. Although nothing had come of it (as far as John knew), he had begun to wonder if it wasn't that the world's only consulting detective was asexual, but that there was no one good enough for him. No one clever enough, attractive enough, and challenging enough had crossed his path. Perhaps Irene had come the closest, but she was dead, and John doubted anyone could come as close again.

And then he'd found Janine in Sherlock's bedroom wearing nothing but a shirt and her knickers. It had made no sense at all—not remotely fitting with any of his theories—until it became clear that the entire relationship was a ruse to break in to her boss's office. Sherlogic at its coldest.

But still when the headlines came out in the tabloids John had been stunned enough at catching sight of them on the news rack that he'd halted in the street, causing the man walking behind him to slam into his back. He supposed Sherlock had been sleeping with Janine (although he didn't miss the fact that the morning he'd found her in Sherlock's bedroom Sherlock couldn't have actually slept with her that night. He'd evidently preferred to kip at the crack house where John had found him earlier). After all, Sherlock was dating her—undercover for a case, but still he'd wrapped his arms around her and kissed her thoroughly enough. It wasn't a stretch to assume he'd done everything else necessary to play the role of 'boyfriend' convincingly. John knew better than to believe the tabloids. The 'Seven Times a Week'/'He Made Me Wear the Hat' headlines would be Janine getting some kind of backhanded revenge for the way Sherlock had played her, but there was no reason to believe it wasn't simply exaggeration rather than complete fabrication.

However, his brother had called him a virgin, in more or less terms. And Mycroft would know, wouldn't he? Sherlock could read a person's sexual history in a glance, and John had seen first-hand that Mycroft's skill in deduction was at least as good, if not better than his younger brother's (John remembered Mycroft even correcting Sherlock's observations once or twice). Assuming Mycroft was right, would Sherlock really have sex for the first time with Janine for the case? John supposed he would. There was nothing he had known Sherlock not to do for a case, including drugs, murder, faking his own death, proposing, etc.

Sherlock was sentimental about nothing, and John supposed his virginity wouldn't be an exception. On the other hand, while the detective was a first rate actor, John knew there were some things that couldn't be acted. If he was as contemptuous of physical affection as he seemed, and if he was as disinterested in Janine as he proved to be while barely sparing her unconscious, injured figure a glance as he swept past her into Magnussen's office…

Well, Sherlock hadn't said a word about it. And of course John didn't ask. But Sherlock was glaring at him now. Did that mean—had he not slept with Janine at all? Had he never slept with anyone, ever? Was this the one thing Sherlock Holmes wouldn't do for a case?

"I thought—" John started.

But Sherlock was ready for it. "I always know what you think; it's rarely interesting and usually to do with tea."

It was an opportune moment to return Sherlock's glare. "So you can take Mr. Bauer out to dinner," John offered rather uncharitably. "Possibly several times over the course of a few weeks and spend a lot of money on good wine. Then you might be able to get him to take his trousers off for you."

"Is that humour?" Sherlock snapped, resuming his pacing.

"I suppose you wouldn't recognise it," John returned.

"I might if it were done properly."

John crossed his arms and tried not to sulk. "I was simply—"

"Yes, yes, you are always 'simply.' Everything is simple with you, isn't it? It must be so bright and clear inside that simple head of yours. A cloud drifts past, birds sing, a butterfly flutters by…"

"What?" John gaped at the raving detective.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "That's it!" he cried. "Yes, John! You must be the great inspirer of true genius."

John goggled at his mad hatter flatmate as he darted across the room.

"Simplicity!" Sherlock yelled, disappearing into his bedroom. When he arrived back in the living room he was carrying a black duffel bag. "While rarely useful in my work it should never be entirely overlooked. John, you are the very reminder of simplicity."

Not at all convinced it was a compliment, John stood and glowered at the detective. Then something occurred to him. "Oh god, you're not really going to take him to dinner tonight, are you?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He'd opened the bag on the couch and was rummaging through it.

John balked. "Sherlock," he said, stepping over to where the detective was standing with his back to him. "Look, you're a very, er, attractive man, but you can't expect—I mean, you don't think—"

Sherlock spun around and seemed surprised to see him there. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I was talking to you," John growled.

"What about?" he asked, returning his attention to where he was securing something into a smaller shoulder bag.

John sighed, "The odds on the horses at the Royal Ascot this year."

"That's very random of you, John," Sherlock said, turning around. "You need to keep your head in the game." He shoved the bag into John's arms.

"What's this?"

"Camera," Sherlock said, throwing on his suit jacket and buttoning it. "Let's go." He walked toward the door and swung his coat on.

"I suppose this means you have a better plan than the dinner date?"

Sherlock was already holding out John's coat when he got to the door. John turned and put his arms through the sleeves, shrugging it up around his shoulders. He slung the camera bag on over it.

"Obviously," Sherlock said and rushed down the stairs. John shook his head, unable to suppress a grin as he locked the door behind them.

"Hello!" Sherlock said brightly when Tony Bauer opened his door. "I'm Sherlock; this is John. We're friends of Kathleen."

"Oh, er, hi," Tony said, looking confused. He was, unfortunately, fully clothed, wearing jogging bottoms and a hoodie.

"We were in the neighbourhood and Kathleen asked us to drop off your work badge," Sherlock said, drawing a white ID card out of his pocket. John looked at it in amazement. He must have nicked it from Kathleen's living room.

"Oh, great! Thanks," he said, clearly relieved to get it back. "She said she wouldn't be able to get it round till Friday."

"She also said she left something of hers here… John works in her office, so he can return it to her tomorrow. But what was it? John do you remember?"

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Well I wouldn't know. I wasn't there when she said it."

"Oh, that's right." Sherlock mimed thinking.

"Well, come in," Tony said, opening the door wider. "I'll have a quick look round and maybe I can find it."

He disappeared into his living room and Sherlock smirked at John before walking in. John wondered if geniuses came in any other variety than smug.

They stood in the centre of Tony's living room. There was an open beer on the side table next to the couch and Game of Thrones was flashing mutely on the telly. John was intensely curious about how Sherlock was going to get them from here to a view of Tony's bare legs. But Sherlock had been silent during the cab ride, which John knew meant he would (once again) have to find out in real time.

"Quick," Sherlock said, voice low, "what's the name of the series on the telly?"

"Game of Thrones," John said, bemused.

Tony arrived back a moment later carrying a purple jumper. "This is probably what she's looking for. Left it here last week."

John reached out for it. "Thanks, I can get it back to her tomorrow."

"Is that Game of Thrones you're watching?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the telly.

Tony looked over at the screen and Sherlock moved in a flash. He stepped closer to John and dropped his hand to John's hip. John froze as Sherlock moved his hand up underneath his coat and layers until he felt the heat of it against the skin on his lower back.

"Yeah," he heard Tony saying. "It's from the last series; I'm not caught up yet…"

Sherlock dipped his hand down and John felt the weight of his gun being lifted from the back of his jeans. His eyes fell shut. Oh bloody Jesus.