Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of the aftermath of a violent murder. If this could be triggering for you please do what you need to for your own safety.

As I said previously, I normally write romances, so, the murder mystery part of this story is outside of my normal comfort zone. Feedback is always appreciated, as it will help me give you a better story.

Reviews, in general, are always motivating. So if you want to see more faster, review away!

Much thanks goes to Anitayvette94 for being the first to review!

Once again thanks to my Beta, Helena Chauby for her help in editing this story, as well as to Lady of Clunn for her helpful BritPicking. ^_^

Thanks also goes to my flatmate, sounding board, own personal Sherlock, Geoff.

Chapter 2: First Blood

The sound of feet pounding on the stairs were John's only warning before his bedroom door burst open.

"John! John, wake up, we have a case!"

John groaned and rolled over in bed as one very enthusiastic consulting detective whirled back out of his bedroom. He heaved himself into a sitting position, and glared at the early morning light sneaking in around his curtains. He hadn't got quite enough sleep, and he would really like to settle back into his warm covers.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock called up the stairs. Despite himself, John found a smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock's excitement was infectious.

"Coming!" he called back. John stood, looked around his bedroom for a moment, and began scrambling into fresh clothes. Sherlock was notorious for the furious pace he kept while working a case, and it was unlikely that John would get the chance to change again for a while.

John clamored down the steps while still shoving his arms through his coat sleeves. It was late spring and, if the sound from the windows was anything to go by, a cold drizzle was falling outside. He paused at the bottom of the stairs to tug his shoes on. He was lacing up his shoes when he became aware of Sherlock hovering impatiently over him.

"I'm going as fast as I-," John cut himself off when he saw the travel mug Sherlock was holding out to him, even as he shifted from foot to foot with pent-up energy.

"I made you tea," Sherlock said quietly.

John smiled up at his flatmate, and reached forward to take the mug, standing as he did so. "Thank you," he replied.

Sherlock flashed him a grin before dashing off down the stairs. John chuckled to himself before running down the stairs himself, anticipatory adrenaline thrumming in his veins.

John closed his eyes as he felt the hot tea slide down his throat. It was good; much better than the coffee Sherlock had made for him by way of an apology, after calling John his only friend. Was that so long ago already?

A warmth seeped into John that had nothing to do with the tea. He remembered how anxious Sherlock had seemed for John's approval in that moment. The signs were subtle, but John could read his consulting detective. That flash of vulnerability had been oddly endearing. Smiling to himself, John brought the mug of tea to his lips and took another sip.

John sighed in exasperated affection as he felt Sherlock fidgeting unbearably in the seat next to him. "Sherlock," he began as he turned to face the taller man, "the cab can only go so fast. Relax, will you?"

"It's a double murder this time," Sherlock launched to the facts Lestrade must have related to him over the phone. "We have a fanatic on our hands."

John took another sip of his tea before asking, "How so?"

Sherlock's faze fixed on John with a startling intensity. John felt Sherlock's breath ghost over his face as he replied, "The victims were crucified."

For all his previous restless energy, Sherlock was deceptively calm and sharply focused as they exited the cab. There were criminals to hunt down. John paid the cab before chasing after his friend.

Yellow police tape surrounded the entrance to what appeared to be an old commercial building that had been converted into a small home. It was neat with small flower boxes affixed to the outside of the front windowsills. Sherlock strode with purpose, ducking under the tape while holding it up for John.

John grinned as he followed after Sherlock. That grin quickly faded when he saw Donovan glaring at them from further down the walk. "Sherlock. John." Her acknowledgements, one couldn't call them greetings, were clipped. John returned her icy glare and felt gratified when she took a step back.

She and Anderson had stopped heckling Sherlock since his return from the dead. Part of this was because of the realisation of all that Sherlock had done to protect others. Another part, John suspected the bigger part, was out of fearful respect. John had never forgiven them for losing faith in Sherlock.

On Sherlock's first case after coming back, Anderson and Donovan had both started up with the usual insults. John had never come so close to beating a police officer. He would have decked the both of them if Sherlock hadn't stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. As it was, John had verbally berated the two officers for their incompetence, presumptuous judgment, lack of respect, and everything else he could think of. John hadn't been the least bit sorry about their abashed looks and downturned faces, especially after he caught Sherlock smiling at him. Apparently, the consulting detective approved of the insults and, for once, had nothing to add.

Breezing past Donovan, and ignoring Anderson completely, John clamored up the front steps. Over Sherlock's shoulder, he could see there were the usual scene of crime officers and other personnel milling about.

Sherlock had paused to examine the door frame and the surrounding entryway. John took a moment to get his own impressions of the house. The floors appeared to be mostly polished hardwood. The walls were a smooth white with scattered pictures and artwork. Two men, and sometimes a small black cat, looked out at John from varied photographs.

"It was a gay couple then?"

Sherlock "hmmed" in agreement before darting off through a doorway to the right into what appeared to be a living room. The ceilings arched high above them showing off decorative, but apparently strong, support beams. John surmised they were strong beams because there was a man hanging from one of them.

It was a completely naked man. John recognized him from the photos in the foyer. His arms were stretched taut above his head and bound together at the wrists by some sturdy rope. More rope was hooked around the bindings and secured to the support beam. John could see the tension in the man's shoulders from five feet away. It was caused, no doubt, by all of the, literally, dead weight.

John scanned the face of the body. The man had straight brown hair that fell in choppy pieces over his eyes and ears.

"The man hanging from the ceiling is Thomas," Lestrade began. John blinked and looked to his right, noticed Lestrade for the first time. Sherlock had already begun exploring the scene, circling the room from the outside in. John knew Sherlock was looking for what was there, not what he wanted to find. John had been endlessly lectured on the importance of observation as opposed to speculation. He smiled briefly. It was always a wonder to watch the consulting detective at work.

"His lover, Sean, is at his feet here," Lestrade continued.

John glanced away from Sherlock and back to the body. Oh right. Bodies. At Thomas's feet knelt another, equally naked and equally dead, man, who much have been Sean. Sean's arms were wrapped securely around Thomas's knees. His head hung limply in death, and John could see soft blond curls of hair decorating Sean's head.

John walked around the bodies, examining them. Closer to the bodies, and further into the room now, he could see that Sean also had rope around his hands. These bindings had been used to secure Sean's arms tightly around Thomas's knees and keep him there.

John felt his chest constrict a little at the scene; Sean kneeling at the feet of his crucified lover. It was clear, to John at least, that these two had loved each other very much. Scanning their hands he was able to find the gleam of two rings on each man's left ring finger.

Despite John's frequent protests that he was not gay he had, in fact, no problem with gay people. People invading John's privacy, that was another matter altogether. But, especially after Harry had come out, John had made a point of educating himself. He had certain qualms about Harry's drinking problem, but not her sexuality. As John had informed Sherlock on their first case together, 'It's all fine.' Perhaps the killer disagreed with him.

John felt Sherlock come up beside him, examining the bodies at last. "Well, John?" he asked.

John looked up at Sherlock with a brief, warm smile before returning his gaze to the bodies and scanning them from the ceiling down.

"There are scratches on the forearms," John began, narrating as he noticed things. His eyes drifted downward. "There is a nasty bruise along one temple, closer to the hairline than the forehead. He may have been struck from behind."

"Good, John," Sherlock murmured, "What else?"

John took a breath and began again. Sherlock's voice wasn't distracting. It just wasn't. "There are more bruises on the shoulders and chest. He didn't go down without a fight. There may be some DNA under his fingernails."

"We can check at the morgue. Please continue."

John began circling the bodies again as he spoke, searching for new details. "He's been whipped. Some of these marks look lighter than others. Maybe the killer used a flogger as well?"

"A flogger?" one of the SOCO's interjected. "Isn't that the same thing as a whip?"

John shook his head. "A flogger, more commonly known as a cat of nine tails, is less dangerous. It can sting if the person wielding it knows what they're doing, but it doesn't have the mass of a whip. A whip is usually made of braided leather, and its length enables the user to crack it with great force. It's easy to scar if you're not careful. A flogger, on the other hand, is often made of many strips of unbraided leather. If someone was using or trying to use a flogger as a real weapon it might have bits of sharp metal or glass at the end of those strips. Most whips and floggers on the market today are meant to be sex toys more than actual weapons."

The SOCO flushed slightly before asking, "How do you know that?"

John looked over his shoulder for a moment at Sherlock, who raised a solemn eyebrow. "Sherlock, of course," he replied. He turned back to the SOCO and giggled at their expression. Sherlock was still stone-faced but John saw the mirthful glitter in his eyes.

"What have I told you about giggling at crime scenes?" Lestrade broke in. "Honestly!"

John blushed as he realized the double meaning in what he had said... This was not helping the "I'm not gay" argument. He took a breath to stop the blushing, and returned his attention to the bodies. "Thomas is strung up tightly, his feet are a good three inches off the floor." John crouched to examine Sean more closely without moving him. "Sean has similar injuries, however he's tied up to Thomas. I'm guessing the killer tortured him elsewhere then tied him up here."

John swept his gaze along both bodies again, checking for anything he may have missed. "They both have bruises on their necks consistent with strangulation." John examined the faces of each victim. "There was, without a doubt, oxygen deprivation. They both have burst blood vessels around the eyes, as well as a bluish tint to their lips and nails. Sean received the worst of it; he died of asphyxiation." John lifted his gaze to Thomas again. He hadn't seen it the first time, through the whip marks and clotting blood, but there was a stab wound, right through the heart.

"There," he gestured, pointing, "Thomas was stabbed to death."

John turned to Sherlock with a cautious smile, hoping he hadn't missed too much. He knew Sherlock would see something he hadn't. He always did. "How did I do?"

Sherlock was still looking thoughtfully at the bodies. He nodded slightly. "You didn't miss everything of importance," he acknowledged. John huffed a laugh.

To the outside observer Sherlock might seem dismissive, but John recognised a compliment when he heard one. There was so much of Sherlock that other people completely missed. They thought him a cold, calculating machine. John, although he had his doubts at one point, knew better. Sherlock had a very human heart, he just expressed things differently.

It was similar to the way that John, as a doctor, had to set aside empathy for his patients when he had to hurt them (whether it was for a blood draw, a biopsy, a lanced abscess, or what have you). Sherlock was also forced to set aside the caring parts of himself and surrender to logic in order to work his brilliance, catch criminals, and save lives.

John suspected that Sherlock actually cared more than most people, in his own way. He saw, and he listened. The counterpoint to that was his distance. He refused to let others get personally close to him, unless he felt he could trust them. Once one was close to Sherlock, John surmised, it was all or nothing.

Sherlock had let Mrs. Hudson in, and proceeded to beat the hell out of the men who dared to threaten her. John smiled to himself as he remember the warmth Sherlock conveyed when he had wrapped an arm around Mrs. Hudson and proclaimed that England would fall if she ever left Baker Street.

It should also be noted that there was also more to Mrs. Hudson than most people suspected. She would laugh at Sherlock's excitement for murders in one breath, and nag them both in a motherly fashion for not cleaning up after themselves in the flat.

Sometimes John wondered why Sherlock had teamed up with him all those years ago. John knew he was just your average ex-army doctor, while Sherlock was much more interesting. His dangerous lifestyle, his genius deductions, and his fierce loyalty were rare and wonderful attributes. Also, from a completely aesthetic point of view, Sherlock was beautiful. Tall, graceful, pale skin, soft black curls of hair, and those eyes. They shimmered like opals or moonstones when Sherlock was on the case.

"John!"

John jumped and looked up at Sherlock, a little abashed for having zoned out. Sherlock must have called his name several times.

Lestrade groaned and ran a hand down his face. "Don't you start developing a mind palace too. I've already got him to deal with, " Lestrade threw his arm in Sherlock's general direction. "I don't need two."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began speaking again, "As I was saying, there were slight scratches on the front door and the door frame. Our killer picked the lock. It was late, he probably expected to catch his victims sleeping. They were busy having sex in the living room so they didn't hear the click of the lock."

"And how, exactly do you know they were having sex," Lestrade cut in, frustrated but patient. "I didn't see any condoms or other things."

Sherlock scoffed. "Look at their wedding rings Lestrade. Flawless, sparkling white gold. They're at least five years old and they look new. They've been regularly cleaned and treated with rhodium. This was a very happy marriage."

"Okay," the detective inspector conceded, "So they were happy-,"

"Not finished," Sherlock continued. "With a happy committed relationship that long standing, unless there was some risk of STD/STI infection, there would be no need for condoms. At least not for protection's sake. I suppose if they minded the mess there might be condoms. Although given the untidy state of the house I don't think-"

"Alright!" Lestrade cut him off again. "Anything else?"

"Plenty. Lube's between the couch cushions by the way. I'm sure forensics will find traces of said lube on Thomas's fingers and penis as well as in Sean's arse."

"How do you know our killer wasn't involved in that somehow?" Lestrade asked. John smirked to himself. At least Lestrade had stopped verbally dismissing Sherlock's theories.

Sherlock huffed again. "The killer hates homosexuals and/or homosexuality. I was going to get to that but if you think your tiny brain can follow along I'm happy to jump around."

Lestrade sighed in surrender. "No no, please continue from the beginning."

"Thank you," Sherlock paused for a moment, surprised at himself. This was John's influence no doubt. Not important; this was the time to relate facts. "As I said, they were having sex at the time of the break-in, and so did not hear our killer enter. Our killer went to strike Thomas over the head. Sean must have seen or heard something in the darkness and tried to warn him. This is why the blow landed more on the side of the head than on the back. There was a scuffle, which resulted in some of the bruising you see on both bodies."

Sherlock paused a moment, scanning the scene, then continued. "Yes our killer must have been very strong to subdue both Thomas and Sean. That and the strong handle of the whip, which was what he used to beat them both over the head. Once he had them disoriented and tied up, the rest was easy. He either knew this property well, or was using the tools at hand when he strung these men up to crucify them."

"It's not a proper crucifixion is it?" A SOCO broke in. "I mean this one bloke is on the floor and the other is just strung up by his hands." Sherlock turned and glared at the woman until she backed off with a small, "Sorry."

"We will be here all day with these constant interruptions!" Sherlock heaved, frustrated. He took a deep breath, and became calm and clinical once more. "The lady does raise a good point. The use of tools around him in addition to the hesitation whip marks, which you mistook for flogger marks, John, those lead me to conclude this was his first killing. He hadn't planned for everything, and he was a bit hesitant at first." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over the bodies. "That didn't last long, however."

Sherlock pointed up to support beams on the ceiling, across the room from where Thomas hung. "Sean was also hung. You can see traces of the rope on the beam, and slight traces of wear on Sean's ropes. This man whipped them. He clearly isn't experienced with whips, but he was passionate in his intent to cause harm. Sherlock's eyes swept the blood spatter beneath them, covered with clear plastic tarps to allow movement around the scene. There was a lot of blood splatter and smear.

"Our killer was a large man, you can tell from the impressions of his shoes, which are markedly larger than the smaller impressions left by Thomas and Sean's feet. Don't bother looking for tread marks, he covered them with something. So, while this was in part a crime of passion, he was likely thinking about it for some time. Our killer is a very religious man to have decided on crucifixion. This is further confirmed by the Bible passage torn out and left by the fireplace."

Sherlock strode towards the fireplace and pointed down, two feet away from the remnants of a fire. There, affixed to the floor in clear duct tape was, indeed, a passage from the St. James bible. It read:

Leviticus 18:22 - Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.

"Such theatrics," Sherlock sighed with disdain, before gesturing to the fireplace proper. "You can see the remains of a rainbow flag in these ashes. No doubt it belongs in the window, as evidenced by the residue of the tape used to hold it there," Sherlock gestured and every face in the room turned.

"Just brilliant," John breathed in the following silence.

Sherlock turned to John and smiled warmly. "I'm not done yet." With a sweeping gesture, Sherlock brought everyone's attention back to the bodies. "Our killer probably lectured them as he whipped them, beat them, and strangled them. He must have been a bit more energetic with poor Sean given the extent of his injuries. He must have thought he had killed Sean, and didn't want to leave him in a semi-crucifixion. In his eyes this would be 'too good' for Sean." Sherlock rolled his eyes again in disdain. "Honestly the symbols some people venerate. It boggles my mind."

Sherlock rounded and approached Sean again. "Sean, however, wasn't quite dead. His windpipe was likely crushed or partially crushed, allowing just enough oxygen to keep his brain going for a few more minutes."

Lifting his gaze to Thomas, Sherlock continued. "Thomas wasn't quite done yet, but then our killer is interrupted."

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade as he asked, "You said the housekeeper called this in?"

Lestrade nodded. "Isabel Bruckner. She was in hysterics, we could barely get the address out of her. She asked to be allowed some time at her church after I took her statement. Bit unusual that, but I figured it might calm her some, so I let a uniformed officer take her."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that may come to benefit us later." His silvery-blue gaze swept back to the bodies and he launched into narration once more. "Our killer hears the housekeeper beginning to enter. He is out of time. He takes a knife, probably a short, sturdy work knife given the wound, and stabs Thomas in the heart to ensure his death." Sherlock's arm swung up and towards Thomas as he spoke, miming the gesture. "Given the angle of the wound compared to my hand, I surmise that the killer is almost exactly two meters tall. Sherlock paused for a moment before sweeping his arm to the right, towards the window near the back of the house. "Then he flees out of the very window from which he ripped the rainbow flag."

There is another moment of silence before Lestrade speaks. "And Sean? Did the killer arrange him like this?"

Sherlock gave Lestrade a withering glare. "Don't be daft. As I said, he wasn't quite dead. The clatter of his killer's escape, and the hysterics of the housekeeper probably roused him from an oxygen deprived stupor. His dying thoughts were to be close to his lover. They must have hung separated for hours." Sherlock gestured at a long, wide smear of blood which trailed from where Sean would have hung to his current position at Thomas's knees. "In a final act of defiance Sean drags himself to Thomas's feet and binds himself there with the very rope his killer had strung him up by."

"That's almost poetic," Lestrade mused.

Sherlock scoffed again. "Useless sentiment. It would anger the killer to no end to know that, despite all his efforts, these two lovers still died together whilst embracing. Make sure a picture or a description ends up in the papers."

"What?!" Lestrade sputtered. "You just said this would make him angry! It might make him angry enough to kill again!"

Sherlock faced Lestrade squarely and smirked. "I'm counting on it." He took two quick steps forward and held out his hand to stay another outburst as he explained, "The clues tell us we are looking for a man passionately committed to his cause. He would strike again regardless. If we make him angry, we might make him sloppy. If he is sloppy, we are more likely to catch him." Sherlock emphasized his final point by poking Lestrade firmly in the shoulder.

Lestrade glared fire at Sherlock for some long moments before expelling a forceful breath through his nostrils. It wasn't verbal consent, but both men knew Sherlock had a point.

After a long moment Sherlock stepped away from Lestrade and began ticking off on his fingers as he reviewed the points of note. "To review," he began, "We are looking for a tall man, about two meters even. He is a muscular man, who is religious, he has some level of intelligence-further crimes will tell us how much-, and he has some strong, personal reason, some vendetta, against homosexuality and/or the homosexual community."

Sherlock turned to take in the bodies once more. "These men weren't poor, but not too far from it. They were somewhat involved in the gay community as well as church. We can surmise this from their various pictures and the bible, undisturbed, on their bookshelf."

Lestrade raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Sherlock, I've got a bible on my bookshelf, and I haven't been to church in years."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and pointed forcefully at the bible. "Don't you see?! Tucked between the pages there are some pamphlets for a Church." Sherlock whipped out said pamphlets and thrust them at Lestrade. "There are several, which indicates they may have spent time passing these out; something they wouldn't do if they were only casual members of this church. They were committed members."

Lestrade nodded slowly, turning the pamphlet over in his hands. The writing on the front declared it to be advertising for a church called "All God's Children United."

"This is the church Isabel asked to be taken to," Lestrade observed, gesturing at the printed address.

"Brilliant observation, Lestrade," Sherlock intoned sarcastically. "For once you are a mere four steps behind instead of ten."

"Sherlock!" John admonished, glaring at the lanky consulting detective from a few paces away.

Sherlock returned the glare for a moment before letting out a small sigh and refocusing his attention back on the bodies. "These were his first targets. If this is a vendetta against the community as a whole, these killings will get more dangerous and more high-profile. This killer will want his message out there."

Lestrade shook his head. "Just perfect. I don't suppose you deduced any witnesses that could give us a place to start."

"You have the housekeeper," Sherlock pointedly reminded him. "We've already established that she attends the same church as the victim. The killer could have attended service a few times in order to select his victims. Being religious, he probably felt comfortable starting from a church, and justified in selecting victims from a church that accepts homosexuality."

A soft cry from under the sofa brought everyone, but Sherlock, to a pause. He leaned down and, after some coaxing, held a small black cat in his arms. "And there was the cat. The cat probably saw the killer."

"You're impossible sometimes, Sherlock," Lestrade muttered, before stalking away.

Sherlock smirked to himself, gently stroking the cat in his arms. Warm fingers brushed his own and Sherlock turned his head to see John beside him, also stroking the cat. John was beaming up at him.

"You're amazing, Sherlock, you know that?" Sherlock felt a flush of warmth in his chest at John's comment. That was what had first set John apart from other people in Sherlock's mind; his amazement of, and pride in, Sherlock's abilities. As ordinary as he had first appeared, John was forever surprising the consulting detective.

"Try not to swell his ego," Anderson commented as he walked into the room, "He doesn't need it."

"Perfect timing Anderson," Sherlock stated, holding the cat out to him.

"What do you want me to do with that?" Anderson asked, making no move to take the cat at first.

"She was their cat," Sherlock stated, gesturing towards the bodies with his head as he did so.

"Do what you do. Call next of kin or something."

The cat let out a thin whine of protest as Anderson finally stepped forward to take it.

"I think she likes you," John chuckled to himself as Anderson walked away.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure the protest originated from disquiet at being left in the hands of a lower life form such as Anderson." John chortled quietly while Sherlock started for the front door.

"Come, we've a long day ahead of us. Let's start with the housekeeper at the church."

John took off after Sherlock, and caught up to him on the pavement. They walked down the street in comfortable silence for a minute before John spoke again. "It wasn't useless."

Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "Pardon?"

"Sean's sentiment," John continued with a small smile, "It wasn't useless."

"It didn't help him stay alive, now did it?" Sherlock quipped

John shook his head. "No, but as you said, yourself, his actions created a situation which could help you catch his killer...by angering him."

Sherlock stopped short on the pavement and stared down at his blogger. John couldn't help the slow grin that spread over his lips. "I'm right," John murmured, "and you know it."

The pause only lasted a moment before Sherlock was striding rapidly down the street once more.

"Not admitting it won't make it any less true!" John called after him, still smiling, jogging to catch up.

John and Sherlock rounded a street corner together just as the church they were looking for came into view; the walk here had been brief, making a cab unnecessary. The building itself was made of rough-cut gray fieldstone. John assumed it had been sold to this congregation from the Church of England, given its age. It had a steepled bell tower and stained glass windows that shone even in the overcast light of midday.

That made John smile. He wasn't a particularly religious man, but he appreciated the architecture that went into these old buildings. That kind of history, for John, was part of what attracted him to London.

"Keep up, John," Sherlock called out over his shoulder as he pushed open the church's heavy wooden doors.

John shook his head and smiled affectionately at Sherlock before moving to catch up to him.

Sherlock strode down the centre aisle of the church towards a small group crying near the altar with John trailing after.

A short, robust woman broke away from the crowd and took a few steps to meet Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes?" she choked between her tears. Her thick brown hair fell around her shoulders and back like a veil. The way it crinkled led John to believe she's had it up recently, probably for her housekeeping job.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, "Isabel Bruckner?"

She nodded, holding her arms close to her stomach as if she was in pain. "Yes, did detective Lestrade give you my name?"

Sherlock half nodded, "He did, but I stole his note pad anyway." Sherlock displayed the small book with a flourish of his hand, "In case he 'forgot' anything."

"Sherlock!" John admonished, swiping the notebook out of his hand. "Was that honestly necessary?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It was fun."

A strangled laugh from Isabel brought their attention back to her. "I'm sorry," she said, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. "You two are just...such a sweet couple. Thomas, Sean, and I were fans of your blog, Dr. Watson. They would have been honored to meet you." She took a few deep breaths. "We, uh, had a little betting pool between us, about when you'd finally tie the knot."

John stiffened beside Sherlock and Isabel reached her hand out to him, as if to comfort him. "We could tell that you weren't very public with your relationship," she pressed on, "We weren't trying to pry or anything. It's just that your partnership shone through so clearly in your writing."

Upon hearing Ms. Bruckner's commentary, a plan started to form in Sherlock's mind. There was only one problem; it would be wrong, wrong and selfish, to take advantage of a case to initiate physical intimacy with John.

Well, Sherlock had never been a saint. He wrapped his arm around John's waist and pulled him closer. John started a little at the unexpected contact, suddenly looking a bit flushed. Embarrassment, no doubt. Still, like the brilliant (work) partner that he was, he followed Sherlock's lead. That impulse had saved their lives on more than one occasion.

"We keep our personal life private, generally," Sherlock began, his baritone voice warm and inviting, "but we appreciate the support."

Isabel nodded with a watery smile. "Of course." She looked around for a moment at the church, then at her companions, who were hanging back respectfully. "That kind of support is what makes this church so special."

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, showing interest. "Please explain." John figured Sherlock had deduced everything Isabel might tell him, but Sherlock was thorough and wouldn't risk missing something important for such an interesting case.

"Well," Isabel began. "I first met Thomas and Sean when they joined this church." She paused and her gaze swept over the shining stained glass. "No one is discriminated against here. Not because of race, or gender-"

"Or sexual orientation," Sherlock finished for her.

She nodded. "Exactly." She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "I am doing my Master's, and Sean and Thomas offered to take me on as a housekeeper to help me pay for tuition. They were such a lovely couple. So much in love."

Sherlock nodded. This had been in line with his earlier deductions.

"I-," she choked up a bit, "I just don't know who would want to do this to them. Everyone loved them. They had one of the best attended weddings I've ever seen at this church-" she broke off into sobs.

Sherlock gave her a few moments to collect herself before asking, "Has anyone new joined the church recently? Someone a bit shy perhaps?"

"Mr. Holmes," Isabel said, "As much as this church can be like a family, sometimes a surrogate family, it is an open community. We have new people coming and going every week. Many of them are shy. We don't ask too many questions. It's up to the people to decide if they feel comfortable here."

Sherlock nodded with a small sigh. "I don't suppose you have any way to track newcomers either?"

Isabel shook her head no, looking a bit surprised. "You don't think someone from the church-"

"It is too early to assume anything Ms. Bruckner. I need more data. To jump to conclusions now could be disastrous. Please, leave the investigating to me."

She nodded again. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. If anyone can bring justice to Thomas and Sean, it's you."

"Very good," Sherlock replied. "If I need to talk to you again-"

"Oh please," she cut him off, "Take my card." She pressed a brown rectangular piece of paper into his hand.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you for your help, Ms. Bruckner."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," She replied with a soft smile. Her eyes flicked to John once more and she leaned towards them, speaking softly. "Just so you know, if you ever decide to exchange vows, this church would be thrilled to hold the blessing ceremony."

Sherlock smiled and gave John a squeeze. "We'll think it over, I assure you."

Isabel looked pleased. "Well, if you'll excuse me Mr. Holmes, we were talking about...bout the services for Thomas and Sean."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. "Good day."

Isabel gave them one last, warm smile. "Good day," she murmured, before turning back to the small group of parishioners.

John leaned against Sherlock's shoulder as they walked away. He told himself it was to look convincing and to be able to whisper to the consulting detective, not because it felt so good.

"Trying to play off her sympathies?" John whispered after they exited the church. Sherlock didn't let him go... probably in case someone looked out the window.

"Naturally," Sherlock whispered back, his breath warm in John's hair. John shivered a bit at the sensation. "Thank you for playing along."

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes and smiled at the warmth he saw there. "I trust you, Sherlock, and I've got your back. Always."

They slowed to a stop then, at the edge of church property. Sherlock was looking at John intensely, and John found that he couldn't look away.

Sherlock leaned in, slowly, not breaking eye contact until the last moment, and pressed a soft kiss to John's cheek, close to his lips. John's eyes widened and his breath hitched as Sherlock lifted his lips closer to John's ear.

"I'd be lost without my blogger," he whispered.