As they come nearer and nearer to the hospital, Sherlock speaks less, pays less attention to what john is saying, and seems altogether apart from what's happening in the car. John ignores the twinge of jealousy he feels - how can he be jealous of a case? A dead man? A lunatic? While they are, in fact, taking Sherlock's attention away from him, they're also a lot of what make Sherlock the man he is - cool and aloof like a cat, skittish until he trusts you, and even then...
Wrapped in his ponderings, it takes John more than a few moments to notice that he's exited the car and is following Sherlock's billowing footsteps towards the morgue. Somehow, in his infinite grace, he trips over a pebble - or perhaps his own foot - and almost goes down entirely, but strong arms life him up and set him to rights.
"I heard your walking pattern alter a few moments before you fell." Sherlock whispers, using most of his willpower not to run his hands over every inch of John's body to make sure nothing is damaged. John feels the tightening of the long-fingered hands on his biceps, and involuntarily flexes. He sees Sherlock's pupils blow wide and their breaths are mingling -
"Oi, gents!" Lestrade's voice pierces the air, shattering the moment. After one last searching glance, Sherlock releases John and sweeps inside, turning his coat collar up against the world.
"Sorry, mate. I didn't realize - " Lestrade catches up with John as they prepare to enter the building.
"Nothing happening, Greg." John clasps his hands behind his back, and rocks back on his heels, pursing his lips. There are only a few reactions Lestrade could have after what he'd witnessed, and John thinks he's prepared for any of them.
He's not.
"Be careful with him, mate." John's gaze snaps to Lestrade's face, which is irritatingly impassive, even having made such a pronouncement. Sensing John's eyes on him, Lestrade chuckles. "I know he doesn't seem fragile. Somehow you know him better than any of us do. Only took you a couple of days to get in there. You're stuck with him now, I'm afraid."
John huffs out a low laugh, watches thoughtfully as Lestrade strides away down the hall. Needing a moment alone, he turns back to the outdoors, tipping his head back, and marveling at the number of stars he can see, being in the middle of London and all.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" A shiver shakes John down to his soul, and he knows he is lost. His eyelids flutter closed, basking in the glow of the brand-new feeling. He hears the whisper of expensive fabrics rustling together, the crunch of well-shod feet, and feels the warmth of Sherlock's body long before they're close enough to touch each other.
Sherlock notices the shiver, and for one wild moment thinks John might simply be cold, might not be feeling these...emotions. Fortunately, deductive reasoning wins out and continues on the path he doesn't consciously remember choosing. If he believed in that sort of thing, he might say the path that had long ago been chosen for him.
The anticipation is too much for John. He turns on his heel, and finds Sherlock frozen perhaps an arm's length away. They breathe in the starlight, hearts beating too fast, both unwilling to be the first to cross the chasm. Sherlock, ever the aristocrat, stands straight, heels together, fighting to keep the passive, thoughtful look on his face as natural as possible. He is, in John's opinion, failing miserably.
"Oh for fuck's - " John mutters, and steps across the gap. In on motion, he is Sherlock's space, grasping dark curls, and gently, firmly, guiding Sherlock's lips to his. When their lips finally - finally! - meet, there is a breath where their eyes lock, and they both grin, and Sherlock's arms are pulling John in tighter than he's ever wanted anyone and John's hand is sliding to the nape of Sherlock's neck through tumbling curls...
A cruel wind whips through the parking lot, fluttering the tails of Sherlock's coat and wrenching both men back to their reality. Almost back. Sherlock lifts his head from John's reluctantly.
"I figured out the connection." Sherlock whispers after a moment.
"You weren't with the body long enough to figure anything out." John protests, already knowing he's wrong.
"Really, John, it's as if you don't even know me." Sherlock grins, tightening his grip on John, who has no intention of going anywhere. He waits, knowing eventually he'll get an explanation. When he cranes his neck to watch Sherlock's face as he flits through his deductions, he finds a small, intimate smile resting cozily on Sherlock's lips. Just as he's lifting up on his toes, just as he's running a hand up Sherlock's lean jest to rest against his pale jaw, just as Sherlock spreads his hand across the back of John's neck, Lestrade bursts out of the hospital, panic, grief, horror, all standing stark on his face.
"Sherlock!" he tries to shout, but his voice breaks. Knowing he won't get the word unstuck from his throat, he instead sprints to the corner of the parking lot where shadows cling to the two men he seeks.
"John." Easier to say. Lestrade gets this name out with much less trouble, and he sees and understands the annoyed look on John's face when he registers the interruption. When he sees Lestrade, however, really sees him, all irritation disappears.
"Christ, Greg, what happened?" John breaks free of Sherlock's embrace and crosses the distance to Lestrade. Greg can't explain. He simply says, "Come." A fleeting glance back to Sherlock is all it takes to get moving. Lestrade moves like a man in a dense fog - slowly, seemingly unsure of where he's going or from where he came. Eventually, they make it to a small office. There is another officer John doesn't recognize at the shabby desk, empty of anything but a phone and a tape recorder. They crowd in, and only then does John notice the same consternation on the officer's face that had lined Lestrade's in the parking lot.
"What's happened? Why aren't you with - " Sherlock starts, but seems to answer himself before Lestrade can. "No. He wouldn't. I - "
"Listen." Lestrade chokes out, and nods to the officer. He nods, paler than ever. He presses a button, and the tape rewinds quickly, then stops. He presses another button.
"We know where you are, love, just wait for the officers to find you, okay?" Lestrade's recorded voice fills the small room.
"Okay. The other man won't come back, right?" a small voice answers shakily.
"No. We'll never let him get to you again."
"He had mean eyes. They were black and angry - "
"Don't say anything else! Not a word!" Lestrade's voice shouts, but it'e too late. A single shot is heard, then silence. "Hello? Hello? Fucking - "
The recording stops. A tear trickles down the pale cheeks of the unknown officer. John is in shock. He whirls on Sherlock.
"You said you solved it." He doesn't yell. There's no point. His voice shakes with the effort of not yelling. He tells himself there's no point. "You. Said - "
"I know what I said, John, and it was true. I did solve it. That's why they could find her. Why she could speak. And then she said too much. She'd seen his face. This one he did personally. Why? For everyone else he had a lackey." He paces from one wall to the other, fingers steepled under his chin. John gives up on that avenue for help.
"We should've been here." He speaks low to Lestrade, knowing annoying Sherlock will be more of a hindrance than helpful, not matter how he wants to lash out at whatever - whomever - he can find.
"Wouldn't have helped, John." Lestrade's voice is hoarse, unshed tears making it difficult to speak. "No one was close enough to do anything. He must'v ehad the sniper on her even after he hung up to make sure she didn't - " he breaks off, unable to voice the horrifying truth. "She just... she just said..."
"I know, Greg. I can't believe we failed." John sits on a corner of the desk, eyes mapping Sherlock's every movement. His steps have slowed, hands tighter together, left lower eyelid beginning to twitch - likely close to figuring something out.
Sherlock hasn't figured anything out. He is feeling too many things to think properly. He's considering the pleasures of kissing John. He's also contemplating the fact that he is affected by the death of this girl in a way that is unprecedented. He is hurt. He's angry. He has span feelings about this. It his exhausting. He sneaks glances at John during his pacing. Should he be upset at this destruction of the carefully constructed walls around his heart? He's certainly not glad of it, but it is an interesting sensation. Perhaps worthy of further exploration. He sees the expression on John's face, and his heart skips a beat. The empathy stirs something in Sherlock's deeply recessed soul. Looking at this miracle of a man, he knows a new truth.
The work is no longer all that's necessary.