Hello! I hope you all had a very nice Christmas. Sorry I haven't been able to update very quickly, but there was Christmas then Boxing Day and then my dad's birthday. Plus there was the distraction of a pile of DVDs, all of which starring either Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman. I hope this makes up for it!

December 5th

10:30 am

"I don't see why we had to wait so long," Sherlock said grumpily, climbing the steps to the door of Wasim Blake's house.

Lestrade knocked briskly on the wood of the door. "Because I'm fucking knackered, that's why."

Sherlock frowned. They were losing valuable time- if they lost the game just because of this… Still. It wasn't good to dwell on past mistakes for too long.

A tall, dark haired man answered, looking faintly disgruntled. He had deep set eyes, giving him an intriguing air of mystery. They were gunmetal blue, but had highlights of dazzling silver, so pure they were almost white. "Well," he said, his voice thick with an American accent. "Can I help you?"

"Mr Blake," said Lestrade, settling into a routine with which he was clearly familiar. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Me and my…"

"Colleagues," John added helpfully.

"Colleagues, would like to ask you some questions in connection to your ex wife."

"Leticia," the man groaned. "What the hell has she done?"

"If we could come in, that would be most helpful," Lestrade said helpfully.

"…Sure, whatever." He beckoned for them to come inside. The house seemed to gleam, light bouncing off every surface. It was furnished in a very modern style, all cold steel and glass panels. Wasim led them over to a small leather sofa, and sat in the chair opposite. Sherlock, John and Lestrade sat together, Sherlock sandwiched between the two men and feeling very squashed.

"Mr Blake," Lestrade began.

"Call me Wasim," he said, a hint of exasperation audible in his voice.

"Wasim," Lestrade continued. "Your ex wife has been involved in suspicious activity that-"

"What's she done now? Got smashed and assaulted some poor woman in a night club?"

"Er, no. Though she has technically done nothing illegal, she is connected to someone very dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"Very dangerous indeed," said Sherlock darkly. "Mr Blake, what is it you do for a living?"

"I am an architect."

"What kind of building?"

"Oh, new housing, offices, public places mainly."

"I see."

"What does this have to do with Leticia?" He asked firmly.

"Nothing that I can see," Lestrade said sternly, shooting Sherlock a warning glance. "Your ex wife has been injecting steroids into horses to improve their racing ability. This isn't illegal, but the purchase of such steroids is regulated strictly and she has been buying them from a notorious criminal. This man has set up a complicated… Well, there's no other way of explaining it, a game for the police to solve. He is killing people, and Leticia would have been one of them if we hadn't stopped it."

Wasim looked shocked. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Sherlock said in a monotone. "We need to find the next victim. Is there anyone you know who could be connected to such a killer?"

"…No, not that I know of," he said quietly. "I can't even imagine that Leticia could do such a thing. He was really going to kill her?"

"Yes. I realise that this is a hard thing to do, but is there anyone you know who could be capable of illegal activity?" asked Lestrade.

"I'm sorry I can't be more of a use to you, but I really can't think of anyone."

Sherlock stood up. "Well thank you for your time, Mr Blake. You've been very helpful."

Once outside the house, Lestrade sighed. "Well that was a total waste of time."

"I don't think so," said Sherlock, with the smug atmosphere of someone who knows something no-one else does.

"Sherlock, just tell me will you?" Lestrade said irritably.

"I need you to find me records of all the buildings Wasim Blake has worked on over the past 5 years. Detail is essential, get everyone on it that you can. Don't call me until you're done."

"And where are you going to be?"

"Teaching," Sherlock grabbed John's collar and began to drag him down the street, before flagging down a cab and driving away.

1:30pm

Sherlock and John arrived back at the flat later than they had planned. Sherlock had reduced a waitress at one of John's favourite restaurants to tears after rather tactlessly telling her that he didn't give a damn what the specials were, and that if she spent more time serving food than making idle small talk she wouldn't be in such financial trouble.

"Well, that's another restaurant where we're not welcome," John said moodily.

"You say one thing and people get upset. They can be so sensitive."

"Shame that. I liked it there, they did wonderful pasta."

"There's always Angelo's," Sherlock said in an offhand way, picking up a book from the coffee table and scanning the blurb. When he looked up, John was brandishing a suspiciously familiar notebook at him. "Oh no," he groaned. "It's not-"

"A Christmas planner!" John said brightly. "Cheer up, it could be worse. I've written everything in for you so you don't have to do it yourself."

Sherlock chuckled. "Your organisational skills astound me. What are we doing today?" He flicked to December 5th in the notebook. "Decorate the flat?"

"Yes! It's tradition!" John was still beaming, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his childlike enthusiasm.

"But I just don't see the point, John. Why do people want to hurl vulgar decorations here there and everywhere, anyway?"

"You're no fun."

Sherlock glared at John, but couldn't stop a grin breaking out on his face. "Time for your lesson."

John sat down on the sofa, looking eagerly up at Sherlock. "What are we doing now?"

"Well, as I proved earlier this morning, your self confidence has been improved. And it shows- you flirted with the waitress and she responded well." He resisted the urge to tell John that was indeed why he had broken her down. They could have been married for all she knew. Harlot.

"So? What now?"

"Just because you are a good overall package for women doesn't mean you can't be improved."

"Like how?"

Sherlock went into his room and produced several large bags. "Just little things. Your clothes for one of them."

"What about them?" John looked affronted, glancing down at the baggy woollen jumper he was wearing.

"Not your regular clothes, your formal wear. That suit, whilst appropriate for business occasions, doesn't say sexy."

"Oh."

"Try this on," Sherlock pulled out a freshly laundered suit from one of the bags. "I believe this will fit you."

"How did you know my size?" asked John.

Sherlock found himself blushing. "I checked your existing clothing."

John was stuck between a smile and a sigh of exasperation. "… Ok." He went into his bedroom, and emerged a few minutes later wearing the clothes Sherlock had bought him.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. The simple black suit fit John perfectly. John's body was outlined brilliantly, tight where it needed to be, loose where it didn't. It exposed a physique that Sherlock had never seen before- years of military service had made John muscular and well toned. Why the hell did he hide it under those baggy jumpers?

John looked extremely nervous. "Is it alright?" He asked sheepishly.

Sherlock was almost lost for words. "… It's great, John," he managed to force out hoarsely. "Suits you."

"Thanks. What else?"

"Well," Sherlock continued, trying to stop himself staring at John's chest through the thin white shirt. "There are several more suits of the same style in here, in various colours. There are also some more casual things to wear on dates that are far more in vogue than the stuff you've been wearing recently. From what I can tell about Sarah, she's into clothing. There's also a change of shampoo and some new body wash."

"Why? What's wrong with mine?"

"Nothing. These will just make your hair softer and shinier, that's all." Oh how he longed to be able to test that for himself. To run his hands through it, just the once. "And Sarah likes lemon, so the body wash was a natural step."

"You seem to have thought of everything," said John, chuckling.

"Well, think of me as your knight in shining armour," Sherlock said, then immediately regretted it. What a stupid way to phrase it.

John just laughed more. "More like prince of darkness. Come here and help me then, I can't get these cufflinks in."

Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, trying to force the pieces of metal into the hole. His hand brushed momentarily over John's, and he felt a small jolt of electricity.

"Static electricity," Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah," John said, almost sighing. Their hands were still touching, Sherlock's long pale fingers lightly touching John's tanned palms. The heat radiating from their bodies was immense, and Sherlock noticed for the first time how impossibly close they were. John slid his hand down, interlocking his fingers with Sherlock's and allowing his thumb to gently stroke the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's eyes darted to John, and John looked up at him. There was an expression of such confusion and, dare he say it, desire in that look that it threw Sherlock off balance. Their hands had lingered far too long to be called normal. Sherlock began to caress John's index finger with his own thumb, their gazes still locked on each other.

There was a shrill, tinny tone. Sherlock's pocket vibrated. Cursing Lestrade's timing, Sherlock let go of John's hand and answered the phone. "What?" he said angrily.

"We've got the information you wanted Sherlock," came the reply.

"Fine. I'll be there soon." Sherlock hung up abruptly. John had sat down in an arm chair, his expression unreadable.

"Lestrade?" he said in indecipherably blank voice.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled. "Do you want to come?"

"I'll stay here for a bit," John replied. Sherlock was upset, but not surprised. John had never refused an opportunity to go with Sherlock to a crime scene.

"Ok. I'll see you later." Sherlock made sure not to make eye contact with John as he collected his coat and scarf, not saying a word until he had left the building. But whilst he was shutting the door, he could have sworn he heard John sigh.

2:30pm

"These better be good," Sherlock said with annoyance. "I've left something very important."

"What, another eyeball-in-the-microwave experiment?" Sally sneered at him.

Sherlock ignored her. "So? What did you find out?"

Lestrade pointed at a huge pile of files, and Sherlock's heart sank. "There's a hell of a lot, I know. But I figured you'd know what you're looking for."

"In a sense. It'd be best if you left it to me."

The others left and Sherlock buried himself in paperwork, trying to forget John's expression of sheer longing at Sherlock's touch which he was sure he had imagined.

7:00pm

Sherlock burst into the room, a smug smile on his face. "I've found a link," he said, slapping a file down onto Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade picked it up. "These are the plans for the new Savoy hotel."

"Yes. Wasim Blake was part of the team that designed the building. He played a large part in the design of the new River Restaurant."

"So? What does that even mean?"

"It means that the killer will strike there, right in that very restaurant. At midnight, tomorrow."

"But, how can we know which of the diners is targeted?"

"That's what we need to find out. Tomorrow we'll go down to the Savoy and check their guest lists."

"So what do we do now?"

"There's nothing we can do now. We'll have to wait. Bide our time."

8:00pm

Just knock. Knock on the damn door; you'll have to go in there eventually. But whatever he told himself, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to enter the flat where he knew John would be. Waiting for him. Waiting for an explanation.

Ok. 3…2…1…

He stepped briskly into the flat, feeling very aware of his limbs. John was standing by the fireplace, draping tinsel around the mantelpiece. In every corner of the flat there seemed to be decorations. To Sherlock's horror, there was even tinsel wrapped around his skull. His mouth fell open.

"You put tinsel on my skull?"

"Yes. It's festive."

"It's an abomination!"

"Don't you dare move it."

Sherlock had been so shocked by the desecration of his skull that he had momentarily forgotten about the events of earlier in the day. "John,"

"Yes?"

"About earlier-"

"What about it?" John said quickly.

Sherlock frowned. "Well, we-"

"Can you help me hand with this tinsel?" John interrupted. He passed Sherlock one end of the decoration whilst he hung it across the doorframe. Sherlock sighed inwardly. He was pretending as if nothing had happened. Because what had happened was unwelcome. Of course. What was he thinking, imagining that John was about to declare undying love for him after one touch?

"There," said John. "That looks good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah,"

John admired his handiwork. "Took me forever but I did it. You don't mind do you? I didn't think you'd really want to decorate the flat…"

Sherlock forced a grimace. "No, I'm fine. It looks… nice."

"Great. I'm going to get a Chinese, I'll be back in a sec. You want your usual?"

"Yeah,"

"Cool."

The door shut. Alone again. Sherlock scolded himself. To think that anyone as normal, as healthy, as good as John could love him. He was aware of a feeling like a weight in his chest. It pulled him down, every step he took was harder for it. Like his heart was splintering and the shards caught his chest, making it hard to breathe. Was this love? Sherlock had only heard it referenced to as something wonderful, something joyful. Not this burning, ever present pain. But maybe he did love that wonderful, ridiculous doctor that he lived with. The man who wore jumpers two sizes too big for him. The man who made a Christmas planner so he wouldn't forget anything. The man who could put up with all of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. And Sherlock knew that he'd rather suppress his feelings and still have John near than be miserable without him. It was worth all the pain in the world.

Bleh… Cheesy ending, I know, but I didn't know how to put his feelings into words. I have to go, I got the box set of The Office for Christmas. SQUEE!