Once they'd eluded the officers set on them by the confused tourist, the pair settled into a comfortable pace. At some point, Sherlock had draped his arm across John's shoulders, but didn't seem to realize it until they reached 221B.

The consulting detective smiled down at his flatmate for a moment, then finally seemed to notice what he'd done as he considered the need to retrieve his key. Before he could remove his hand from John's right shoulder, however, the blogger's left arm slid loosely around his waist.

"No need, I've got mine right here, just a mo'," John said, reaching into his own trouser pocket.

Just bracing himself, Sherlock thought, though John continued to hold fast to the taller man's hip as he leaned forward and unlocked the door. Maintaining his balance, he told himself as John turned to face him, backing into the hallway. Only… um… his mind groped for another excuse as John leaned against the wall, pulling the surprisingly nervous detective toward him.

"That," John gave a low, breathy laugh, "was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock countered, hearing his heart pounding against his ribcage and hoping it wasn't equally audible to his… his…

"Well," the pressure of John's arm increased on Sherlock's lower back. The blue of the soldier's irises deepened dramatically, and he tilted his head upwards. "That wasn't just me."

The detective suddenly became aware that he was holding his breath. John's intention was unmistakable, and yet, it couldn't be. He's not… in those texts with his sister, he clearly stated… though he also said he was "like me." I do always miss something. Could he really mean…?

"Sherlock," John's voice brought him back. He'd have to decide. Now. Is it worth the risk? What happens when I inevitably wreck this? Is there even a chance he would –?

"Sherlock!" Came Mrs. Hudson's tearful call from her doorway. The two men instantly fell apart, standing side-by-side against the wall. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

Sherlock came barreling through the sitting room door. "You can't just break into our flat!" He yelled indignantly.

"I didn't. 'S a drugs bust." DI Lestrade seemed all too happy to watch his team tear through every cupboard, drawer, and bin in the place.

John stepped in calmly. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call 'recreational.'"

"John," Sherlock turned his back on Lestrade, fixing his flatmate with a meaningful stare. John gripped Sherlock's upper arm firmly and nodded almost imperceptibly, never breaking his gaze. When he felt a bit of the anxiety release from his bicep – surprisingly muscular, John couldn't help confirming to himself – he slid his hand away.

"Are these human eyes?" Sgt. Donovan shouted from the kitchen, destroying Sherlock's brief moment of composure.

"We found Rachel," Lestrade interjected.

"Nevermind that," Anderson said gleefully, peering around the corner, "we found the case! According to someone, the murderer will have the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath – "

" – do your research," John finished. Sherlock caught the shadow of a smirk on his doctor's face before diving into the details about Rachel with the DI.

"Shut up, everybody shut up, don't move don't even SPEAK. Anderson, turn the other way, you're putting me off."

As Sherlock rattled off a series of rapid-fire thoughts intended only for himself, John detached the luggage tag from the Pink Lady's case and began typing into the laptop. Wait, isn't this my laptop? Ok, come back to that later, not the time, Watson.

"She planted the phone to lead us to her killer," Sherlock concluded.

"But, how?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"Rachel!" Both of the flat's thoroughly aggravated residents shouted in unison. Sherlock spun around to face John in shock, but couldn't manage a comment before being interrupted.

"So we can read her emails," came the snarky retort from the kitchen.

"Anderson don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street."

John began to laugh at his friend's outburst when the online GPS tracker made his blood run cold. "Sherlock," he whispered shakily.

"Where is it, quickly, where?"

"S'here… it's in 221B Baker Street. How can it…" But John's voice faded as Sherlock became lost in his own recollections of details of the previous suicides murders. Mrs. Hudson had been prattling on in the background about a taxi driver for several minutes, but only now was he understanding. The text alert on his phone beeped.

COME WITH ME

"Sherlock, you ok?" the doctor ventured.

"What, yeah, I'm fine…" The obviously untrue response lingered behind him as he ran down the stairs and out onto the pavement.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."