"Why me?" Tim asked

Gibbs gave him the Come on, I know you aren't that stupid, so stop acting like it look.

"Fine. Teach me to ever stand up for you guys again."

Gibbs grinned at him. "No good deed goes unpunished. Go find him, talk to him, and see if you can get him to do some work around here."

"On it, Boss," Tim said as he headed off to the smoker's exile behind the parking lot.

Sherlock was leaning against the brick wall, head back, three cigarette butts littering the ground around him, fourth lovingly held between his lips as he inhaled with a vengeance.

"Been a while, huh?"

"How astute."

"Give me one." Sherlock shook a Morley out and handed it to Tim. He lit it and inhaled easily. "It's closer to a quarter of a pack a month, and only after a really bad case or really good sex."

"And really bad cases tend to lead to really good sex at the office which is why you have them here instead of at home."

"Yep." Another long inhale, nicotine zipping through his system. The first one after a long time always feels really good. "Plus they don't feel as good if you smoke a whole bunch of them at once, and it's easier to limit myself if they're here instead of at home."

"I'll take your word for it."

They smoked silently for a moment.

"Where's John?"

"That is the question, now, isn't it?"

"But that wasn't him on the slab?"

"No."

"Help us figure out who the man on the slab is and how he got there, and I'll look for John."

Sherlock tried to look coolly down at Tim, but that didn't quite work because they're the same height. So he settled for verbal disdain. "Three brain cells does not mean you're equipped to find John."

Tim's spent years being intimidated by people who had spent their entire lives honing the craft of intimidation. Skinny dude with a posh voice and a bad attitude wasn't going to do it for him. So instead of going pale and stammering, he said, "Because you with all twenty-seven billion of them are doing such a great job of it."

Sherlock actually glared at him.

"He's been missing what, three weeks now?"

"Yes."

"He didn't just leave, did he?"

"No."

"You're sure? I can't imagine you're easy to live with."

Sherlock inclined his head at that, probably as close as he gets to nodding in agreement. "I'm not easy to live with. He still wouldn't just leave."

"Uh huh. He your boyfriend?"

"And that would matter why? Will you look harder for him if he's my lover, or will that make you call me a nancy poof and bury the case?"

"Doesn't matter who or what you sleep with, if you're my case, I'll put everything into solving it. I'm just curious."

"Why?"

"You act like you care for him. But you also look cold enough it's hard to believe you care for anything. So I'm curious. And I'm asking because I can't just look at you and see the answer."

"Try. You see more than you think."

"You're wrecked. I can see that. Haven't had any solid sleep in days, possibly the entire three weeks. Probably haven't eaten well, either, but you're skinny enough that might be normal. You're here looking for him, and that's not normal. Tells me you love John. Doesn't tell me if he's your best friend, pseudo-brother, or lover."

"What's the stupid one of?"

It takes Tim a second to realize Sherlock is asking about his tattoos. "Why?"

"Even I can't see through clothing."

"Heart with Mom in the middle, on my ass. Is John your lover?"

"As close as I'll ever get." Sherlock inhales deeply on his cigarette.

"What does that mean?"

"What's the most personal one?"

"Is this what we're going to do, trade information?"

"Until I get bored."

"Wonderful." Tim unbuckled his watch, showing off the slim band of knot work in black and red circling his right wrist. "My wedding band."

"And she wears the same mark under her wrist cuff?"

"Yes. Tell me about you and John."

"We live together, share a home and a bed, have sex on occasion, less often than he'd like, but as often as I can manage it. He loves me. If I'm capable of love, I love him. More realistically, I'm obsessed with him. He's my latest, best drug."

"That's harsh."

"Do I look like a warm or fuzzy person to you?"

"No. Aspergers?"

"Highly functional sociopath."

Tim's eyebrows shot up. "Even better. What happened?"

"Why are you scared of your Boss?"

"Because I have three brain cells to rub together. If you aren't afraid of Gibbs, you're stupid or insane, and I'm neither."

"Goth Girl isn't."

"The lack of food and sleep is showing. Takes two to keep a marriage secret, and trust me, if she wasn't scared, too, we wouldn't have been hiding."

Sherlock seemed to think about that for a moment. "Three weeks ago we went to bed. Next morning I woke up and started composing. It took me two days to notice something was off."

"Two days?"

"I was composing." Sherlock looked at Tim like that should be a sufficient answer.

Tim was looking back at him like he's insane. "Uh huh… Is that supposed to be an excuse?"

"It's just who I am. Minor details don't matter, get forgotten instantly, and tracking time when I'm not on a case is one of those things."

"How do you know it was two days?"

"My mobile battery was full when I went to bed that night, and when I went to text him, it died on me. Two days."

"Okay. What did you do next?"

"Told Mrs. Hudson to text him."

"And?"

"Got back his number wasn't in service."

"Interesting." Tim noticed something about what Sherlock said. "You didn't actually notice he was missing until the text."

"No. He works at a surgery on occasion, goes out to the Pub, helps Lestrad on cases. I thought he was out. Texted to let him know we were out of milk."

"Two full days, you didn't see or hear him, and you just didn't notice he wasn't there?"

"I was composing."

Tim couldn't fathom trying a relationship with someone who didn't notice if you're even in the room for two solid days. "Why do you think he didn't just leave you?"

"His clothing was gone, his computer, gone, his phone, gone, his bank records, gone, his NHS records both as a person and as a doctor, gone, his military service records, gone. Someone erased every trace of him. It's possible he'd leave me. It's not possible that he'd erase every trace of his existence to get away from me."

Tim was starting to get a bad feeling about this. Either he was staring at a kidnapping, in which case John needed help, or he was staring at an abused lover trying desperately trying to get away, and he needed to stay the hell away from it.

"Are you sure? If he wanted to get free of you, really free, he'd have to do that, right?"

"He'd have to die."

"Shit." Tim stared at him with wide eyes. The bad feeling got more intense. He needed to do some extra legwork on this before really hunting for John.

Sherlock tilted his head a little, finished his cigarette and tossed the butt on the ground, and said, "You're scared of me now, too."

"You're terrifying."

"You're not nearly as stupid as you look. Seven brain cells."

"Thanks," Tim said, looking deeply disturbed by the compliment. "If someone completely erased his electronic existence, I can figure out who did it."

"Ha."

"Try me. I've hacked your government before, doing it again, not an issue."

"Why would I need to hack what I've got open access to?"

"Because you still don't know what happened to John."

Sherlock lifted another cigarette from the pack. Tim took it from him, and put it back. "Go back inside, help the rest of the team with the John Doe. Try not to piss them off so bad the Gibbs kills you. I'll look into John Watson."