I would like to thank my readers so far for continuing to read! Notes to the reviewers at the end of the chapter! From here on out, chapters after this are about the murders. We are going to see our favorite crime solvers travel to a new place and meet a lot of...interesting characters. I would love to hear your theories in future reviews :) Sorry for the Johnlock in this chapter. Not really.

Estella Jean

Srgt. Donovan knocked on the door to the office. She heard a faint assent for her to enter and did so, balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a file folder in the other.

"Greg, I have the results back from the lab," she told him, "and your coffee."

The man had been dangerously close to sleeping, his head resting in his hand and his back slouched over his desk. He perked up at the mention of caffeination. He willed his droopy eyelids to open.

"Thank you Sally, you're an angel," he mumbled, and sat up to accept the fragrant liquid energy. He smiled as he breathed in the wafting steam.

"And the results," she reminded him again with more insistency, her hand still outstretched.

"Oh! Of course, I'll look at it in just a moment. Uh...results for what again?," he asked a bit drowsily. Srgt. Donovan sighed.

"The latent footprints, and the DNA of the victims."

"Right!" Lestrade remembered. He flipped open the folder and looked at the first paper. It was a breakdown of chemicals found in the latent footprints discovered at the loading area of the art gallery.

"Hm..." He hummed in thought. Chemicals were not his area of knowledge. Luckily the trace evidence analyzers at the lab knew this, and included a summarized list at the bottom of the report which was slightly more straightforward, although still cryptic.

"Motor oil, iron rust, ash, partially oxidized paint, wine, ILRs, oak, tires, brick dust, an element composition matching the Thames...C4H8Cl2S, substance unknown?"

Lestrade gingerly set it back down and pushed the folder further away from him.

"Yeah...I'm going to save that one for later," he told her, clearing his throat and sipping at his drink. While he looked down at the warm liquid, another voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You don't need Sherlock Holmes for that you know."

The detective inspector looked up from his desk to see Anderson walking in and standing next to Sally. He gave him a look of surprise and irrepressible doubt. Sergeant Donovan smirked and crossed her arms in smugness, her pride inflating at the idea of Anderson proving himself above the arrogant consulting detective for once.

"He's right Greg. I bet he can tell you the exact location they were at before the gallery," she told him.

"Well...I suppose it couldn't harm anything," he decided and handed the list to Anderson. The forensic scientist took the paper, walking slowly around the room with an equally smug look as he read. Lestrade watched his path with curiosity.

Surely, Anderson can't do it. Right?, he thought to himself. Anderson stopped, seemingly coming to a conclusion. Sally dropped her crossed arms and stared at him eagerly. She had been waiting for so long for this moment, for her man to outsmart her nemesis. She knew he deserved more credit than Lestrade had ever given him.

Maybe this will change things, she thought too ambitiously.

"It seems," Anderson started, to keep the suspense alive, "That they were somewhere near a car garage and a wine cellar located near the Thames. ILRs are products of arson accelerants so one of the buildings was burned down, perhaps even by the thieves themselves."

The man glanced at Donovan, and then to the DI for the kind of shocked praise Sherlock usually receives. Instead, they looked behind him where a familiar voice chimed in.

"Brilliant" he drawled. Anderson turned to see the consulting detective himself, leaning arrogantly in the doorway of Lestrade's office, quietly listening in. "That's brilliant Anderson, coming from you. You really got that from the evidence?"

He walked into the room to face Anderson head on. The other man straightened his pose and raised his chin, although Sherlock was much taller than him. He wore a self satisfied expression.

"It's never as hard as you make it seem, Sherlock," he told him, straightening his shirt sleeves causally, "Anybody could do it really."

Sherlock tilted his head and considered his words for a second.

"No…hard? Maybe for me it's hard. To be so utterly stupid. But for you Anderson, it seems to come quite naturally. Now step to the side. Bring them in now Davidsen!" he called to the doorway behind him. Suddenly a flood of men filed into the office. Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan, watched with confusion and shock as gruff men with downcast faces, and bound wrists, entered the room. First came the men from the poker table, then the poshly dressed leader of the thieves, with his face still blistering from Sherlock's cigarette. At the end, was the guard and the electrician, each being pushed along by Davidsen and John.

"What the bloody hell Sherlock? Who are they?" Lestrade asked the proud man in the overcoat with alarm. Sherlock glanced at the men and back to the DI casually.

"The art thieves," he replied simply. Lestrade's eyes went wide as he looked at the captives.

"And how on earth did you manage to find and detain them in a single day?" Lestrade couldn't help but ask with curiosity, and perhaps jealousy. Sherlock groaned loudly.

"John!" he shouted, to the doctor. His partner sighed and maneuvered around the criminals until he emerged into view. Sherlock hated to explain himself, he had come to understand that. Therefore, he was often demanding John do the task himself, since he was often with him during the moments needing to be retold.

"Alright," John said with exasperation before going over the events of the day. He began with earlier that morning when he made the discovery that the thieves were international, and continued to the point when they had Davidsen hack into his own confiscated computer in the evidence room of Scotland Yard.

"I hope my assistance with the case will pardon me," Davidsen told Lestrade with a rotten grin. Lestrade gaped at him and then at Sherlock.

"Jesus Sherlock he's a criminal" He said, exasperatedly, while rubbing his hands across his face.

"But a helpful criminal," Davidsen said hopefully. Lestrade groaned through the barrier of his palms.

"Ugh the paperwork..." he mumbled. John continued the story to the end when they snuck into the pub, attacked the men, held them at gunpoint, and restrained them. By the time he finished, Lestrade looked at the pair and then to the grinning Davidsen and back to Sherlock again.

"I'm just going to pretend all that was legal...Fantastic job. International black market thieves in a single day. I have nothing to complain about. One question however, where is the statue? Have you found it?" He asked them. Sherlock looked to the leader, and he grinned back with a smile, wincing as the flesh of his burned cheek stretched.

"You can't prove anything without the statue," he said furiously, through gritted teeth. Sherlock smiled almost predatorily.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Give me the footprint analysis Lestrade," he demanded. Lestrade did as he said and Sherlock's eyes darted across it quickly.

Motor oil

Iron rust

Ash

Partially oxidized paint

Wine

ILRs

Oak

Tires

Brick dust

An element composition matching the Thames

C4H8Cl2S (substance unknown)

Substance unknown?

Sherlock closed his eyes and drifted away. Lestrade's office slowly took a different form and the people vacating it vaporized. Everything was replaced by gold, gold intricate molding, gold scrolling wallpaper, gold frames containing priceless paintings, armchairs with gold pinstripe fabric and clawed feet. Around him numbers, letters, and molecular formulas swirled in the air.

Back in Lestrade's office, the people eyed him curiously, except for John who was quite used to seeing Sherlock in his astral plane like state. His mind palace, John smiled, shaking his head at the idea. Although it was strange, it was very effective. It was like a bizarre mixture of art and science. Anderson and Donovan rolled their eyes and scoffed, clearly assuming it was all an act for attention. John smirked at the way Sherlock was about to prove them wrong.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

C4H8Cl2S is Dichlorodiethyl sulfide, mustard gas.

Obviously it's not a car garage, although there are traces of motor oil and tires. It's a WWII storage warehouse which used to store chemical supplies as well as military vehicles. Not many WWII storage buildings still exist in London, and there were few that ever contained chemical warfare. ILRs are the products of fire accelerants. I think there is a derelict WWII storage warehouse located by the Thames that was burned down by arsonists in the 1960's, decades after it closed. The wine and oak points to a wine cellar, most likely located nearby the storage building. Wine is stored where it is cool and devoid of light, so it would be underground. Maybe they took the statue there for extra protection.

He took his mobile from his pocket and quickly swiped it, punching in information, and immediately finding a related article.

"Derelict Army Supply Reserve Depot at Convoys Wharf Left in Ruins after Arson Fire"

He located the address in seconds.

"Here," He said, sliding his phone to Lestrade. The detective inspector furrowed his brows at the address in concentration, trying to figure out how the man came to that conclusion. He swiftly wrote it on a writing pad as he mumbled 'amazing' under his breath.

"There should be an old brick wine cellar" Sherlock continued, beginning to walk around the room. John watched him with interest as he explained.

"It is underground where the wine could have been kept cool and dark, providing them more protection. It's identifiable by its newly painted exterior, the paint was not fully oxidized so it was very recent."

Sherlock stopped, eyeing the man who had offered him a cigarette earlier. He stared into Sherlock's eyes daringly.

"The real question is who are they supposed to be delivering the statue to?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes but the man refused to speak. It quickly became a silent, unwavering battle. The man would not be intimidated by the consulting detective. John watched the tension build between them and began to feel unusually uncomfortable, possessive even, of his best friend. He had the urge to break them up, to shove the captive to the ground and force him to reveal the information Sherlock sought. Instead, he frowned and silently looked down at his feet.

Another thief finally responded however, the lanky blonde who introduced John to the game of poker, which was ultimately left unfinished.

"They...contacted us anonymously," he said with a shaky voice. The leader broke his gaze with Sherlock and glared at his worker, fire in his eyes.

"George-" he started to warn him through gritted teeth, but the blonde ignored him.

"We didn't even know who it was...they offered a large sum of money for the statue and said to deliver it tonight. To a warehouse."

Sherlock listened carefully to the man. He walked closer to him and the man began to tremble with fear. Sherlock showed him the address on the screen of his mobile.

"This warehouse?" he asked. The blonde held his breath and glanced down at the phone screen without moving his head. Then gave a single nod. Sherlock grinned in response.

"Lestrade, you have a job tonight. You better send someone to stakeout that warehouse and see who shows up."

"Right," Lestrade agreed and looked directly at Donovan.

"Greg, are you serious?" Donovan scoffed with indignation. Lestrade stared back in all seriousness and she got visibly more upset. She bit her lip and flexed the muscles in her fists, but swallowed her anger.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying to contain her fury. Suddenly, she pushed through the crowd in the room and stomped out of the office. Anderson followed soon after, but not before sending an antagonistic look Sherlock's way.

Sherlock felt a small smile play on his lips, a genuine one, as he watched the pair escape their defeat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John staring at him. He turned to face him, and the doctor's eyes glowed with admiration, and possibly relief. The latter puzzled him, which is a difficult thing to achieve when it comes to Sherlock. His smile began to grow. They both knew what the other was thinking. Without another word Sherlock began moving toward the door.

"Whoa, hold on a minute. Where do you think you're going?" Lestrade asked in a stressed tone.

"Food," Sherlock grunted and did not bother to turn around. John followed close by his side, his hands resting in his pockets and his mind at ease.

"We need your written statements! Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening?" Lestrade asked desperately.

"Sherlock, I mean it!" he called, but he was already carelessly out the door.

"We told you the story. You write the statements," came the distant but smooth reply of the curly headed man. John snickered at his rebelliousness, feeling the exhilaration of previous events still coursing through his veins.

Once they hit the night air, they broke into excited laughter. John looked at his feet and chuckled while Sherlock grinned beside him, gazing at the street ahead. The cool air invigorated them and only caused their senses to heighten in the moment, few people can say they know that feeling of being absolutely alive, in every aspect of the word. John could feel London around him, the very essence of the city, the lights, the cars, the people, the sounds.

He knew what it was like to be Sherlock Holmes, to be inside everything at once.

He was behind in his breaths but he did not want to stop to revive it. The breathlessness was vital to this current state he found himself in, to be a step behind the next thing he is pursuing.

"Oh Sherlock," he sighed with contentment, "Can you believe today?" he chuckled to himself at the memory. Sherlock smirked and glanced over at his shorter friend.

"As in, can I believe you kicked the arse of a man taller than me, with the frame of the Hulk?" he laughed, "Or as in, can I believe that you found that man in question to begin with, considering the brief instructions I gave you? Both of which are equally astounding."

John looked at him and grinned, the tenderness of his swelling cheek temporarily forgotten.

"You know what's astounding? That you picked up on a pop culture reference in that silly computer brain of yours."

Sherlock looked around the street, spotting a cab dropping off a person not too far ahead.

"I guess we are both full of surprises today," he mumbled, "Speaking of which, that's our cab up ahead. We better quicken our pace."

His long legs took greater strides, and John was forced to fast-walk to keep up with their gaining distance.

"Why?" he asked with an expelled breath that sent a cloud of vapor from him.

Sherlock smiled, "You'll see."

…

When they pulled up to the restaurant, John turned to see the sign and smiled, letting his back hit the seat of the cab again. Sherlock noticed but was confused, he didn't know what the action indicated, but found it contradictory.

"I'm sorry, was this not-" he began with regret and even embarrassment causing him to blink a few times. John turned to him, his head still against the seat lazily but content.

"No! It was a great idea, just unexpected." John smiled with nostalgia, "We haven't been here since-"

"We met," Sherlock finished with a nod. It was a location associated with strong emotions for them both. If anything, the plan to take John here again made Sherlock more sensitive and on edge.

"Yes," John mumbled in thought. Sherlock took a deep breath and mustered up the courage to face his insecurities, opening the door to the cab, and stepping out onto the street. He bent down to look at John, a daring expression in his eyes.

"Coming, John?" he asked and his flatmate gave him his signature half-smile. The next moment, the two of them were entering the doors to the italian restaurant. They were instantly flooded with the atmosphere of that first night, the thrill, the nervous buzzing in their stomachs, which hasn't really gone away since. The lights were dim as before, but even in the darkness it was easy for Angelo to spot the pair.

"Sherlock, John! What a great surprise to see you here again. Is it your anniversary?" he joyfully asked the men. Sherlock looked at John, who stood awkwardly in response to the assumption.

"Yes," Sherlock blurted out to John's astonishment. He looked at his partner questioningly but Sherlock only smiled mysteriously at him. Angelo grabbed a couple menus and led them to the window table they sat at before, the one overlooking the busy street. They sat down across one another and the man handed them their menus.

"Never went back to the cane John?" he asked inquisitively. John smiled at the thought of his lack of dependency.

"Nope. After I left it, I never looked back," he told him proudly. Sherlock smiled at John's words while he read over the menu.

"Good to hear! Well I'm glad to see things worked out so well. I knew you were special John, when I first saw you. I thought to myself 'Angelo, that poor man comes in here every week, and every week he comes in alone, and frankly looking like a completely miserable bloke.' That cynical exterior never fooled me one moment, Sherlock. Then one day, he walks in with a smile on his face and low and behold, another human being. I thought to myself 'Angelo, that's got to be a special one there.' A very special one," he gave a round, loud, laugh and finally departed.

As soon as he was out of sight, John set his menu down and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Sherlock why did you let him believe all that?" he asked urgently, but gently at the same time. Sherlock looked back at him as if it were obvious.

"For the free bottle of wine of course." he replied. John leaned back in his chair again and shook his head with amusement.

"That's awful," he said with humor in his voice. Sherlock snickered and continued searching the menu.

"I couldn't help it," he muttered. Just as Sherlock predicted, when Angelo returned to take their orders, he came back with an expensive red wine, which he carefully poured for the pair. They struck a conversation over their smooth, rich, red beverage.

"Why Angelo's?" John asked finally, after a long period of comfortable silence. Sherlock swirled his glass of wine delicately while he answered.

"Why must there be a reason?" he asked absentmindedly. The wine seemed to make him feel lighter, as if he was starting to float away.

John scoffed with amusement, "Says the man that believes there is a reason behind the color socks people choose to wear."

"But there is a reason John-"

John held his hand out to stop him from going on another tangent, although they were usually very interesting. It just wasn't the kind of answer he was hoping for that night.

"Whatever the reason is Sherlock, it was a good choice." he said, his blue eyes twinkling as a cab drove by the window. Sherlock watched the shine pass over the orbs curiously.

"It was?" he asked, feeling even more light, although he had not had anymore wine yet.

"Yes," John smiled, staring into the consulting detective's analytic eyes. The doctor was thankful they weren't too analytic. John himself, was proof that Sherlock's mind wasn't a perfect machine. There were some details it somehow overlooked. But as they gazed, Angelo suddenly appeared with their meals and the moment was lost behind carefully constructed walls.

John remembered the conversation they had at this very table.

"You have a girlfriend?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Girls, not really my area," he replied casually. I stopped in my tracks when the knowledge settled in my mind. Sherlock never took the time to explain things. He only gave brief straightforward responses, so I had to put the pieces together like a puzzle.

"Oh...so do you have a boyfriend?" I asked, somehow hoping to hear no and yes at the same time. Why...I don't know. I remember instinctively licking my bottom lip.

"...Which is fine," I added quickly. Maybe too quickly.

"I know it's fine," Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes, but did not elaborate.

"So you have a boyfriend." I clarified. He looked startled by the assumption and instantly denied the statement.

"No."

My heartbeat sped up.

"Oh, okay. So you're unattached then. Just like me. Fine, good."

I realized that maybe I had said too much. The last thing I wanted was to lose our chance at being flatmates because of my uncomfortable prying.

"John...erm…" he began. I gulped, not knowing what he was about to say.

"I think you should know I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm not really looking for any-"

Oh God. He thinks I was hitting on him!

"No, no, that's not what I...no! I'm just saying… it's all fine," I stumbled, trying to cover myself with justifications. My face became a darker red and I prayed he wouldn't notice.

"...good, thank you," Sherlock's voice drifted into silence.

John sighed and set down his glass of wine. It didn't taste quite as sweet anymore but he couldn't articulate why. The memory had some odd feeling of regret associated with it. Sherlock frowned as he noticed John's silence.

"You know, I thought that was rather good, how we disarmed those thieves, today," he mentioned as he took a bite of food. John smiled at the thought of their ninja like skills, slowly being pulled from his more somber thoughts.

"Yeah you burned a man's face with a cigarette bud. Davidsen's right. We are dangerous men," he laughed and Sherlock laughed too, satisfied that John was back again. The rest of their time at Angelo's was spent with light conversation, praise, teasing, nagging, and of course, a lively debate about Sherlock owing John money for having lost so many bets during the poker game with the thieves earlier.

"But I shouldn't have to pay you back John. I got you wine," Sherlock told him with narrowed eyes. John scoffed.

"Angelo got us wine!" he argued.

"But because of me," Sherlock pointed out. John shook his head with what seemed like a permanent smile.

…

Late that night, John got a message just before he fell asleep:

Come to Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow. The bodies have been identified.

GL

ImaSupernaturalCSI thanks for the praise! John needs to be more represented as a badass in my opinion. Sure, Sherlock is an intellectual prodigy, but the reason he likes John is because he's smart for an average guy and he can be tough as nails (yet still a total softy). More Bamf!John in future chapters.

Abutterflymind you already know how awesome and helpful you are! Thanks for the reviews as well. I love Davidsen's character, and I love making John the badass he is. There will be more of that for sure.

And thank you anonymous reviewer! I hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters as well.