Author's Note:

Maybe I'm just needy, but the lack or reviews makes me nervous. Hope everyone is still enjoying this story with Sherlock and John!

Lestrade entered the flat half an hour before noon, grimacing when the young cat managed to work itself in when he was closing the door. The stairs creaked with every step and that's when the Inspector realized the flat was oddly quiet. It hit him that John was really gone and that Sherlock was by himself. He entered the flat slowly, looking around, and sighing when he found Sherlock asleep on the floor against the wall. That couldn't be comfortable. He turned toward the kitchen, put water in the kettle, and put it on the stove to start some tea before moving across the living room and kneeling next to the sleeping man. "Sherlock," he placed a soft hand on Sherlock's shoulder, noticing the envelope addressed to John. "Sherlock, we've got a crime scene to go investigate."

Lestrade's voice didn't register, but a hand on his shoulder did. Sherlock awoke with a start, shoving the Inspector away blindly and stumbled to his feet. The kitten scurried up his legs and the only thing that kept him up was the fact there was a wall behind him. He growled in ill temperament. Finally his vision focused on Lestrade. "Thought you were supposed to text me, not sneak into my flat." He clearly wasn't in a good mood.

Lestrade fell back with a small grunt, looking up at Sherlock much like a father would to his son. "Calm down," he stated as he moved to his feet. "I did text you and you didn't answer. I was worried because you usually don't sleep." He moved over to the kitchen. "I started the kettle for some tea. Figured we could discuss the case before we left." He pushed the pictures of John away to place two mugs on the table. "Are you alright?"

"Look, we both know what's wrong and if I was going to discuss it with anyone it wouldn't be with you." Sherlock followed after Lestrade into the kitchen. The kitten meowed loudly. "I just fed you last night." He mumbled but went to the refrigerator anyway. He picked out some turkey but the kitten refused to eat it. He rolled his eyes and got a jar of jam, it was mostly empty. He stuck his finger inside and offered it to Hamish. The kitten sniffed it, whiskers sweeping forward and then began to lick it off. He sat down at the table, idly feeding the cat jam. "So, the case? You said you wanted to talk about it?"

Lestrade poured the hot water into the cups and placed the tea bags in each mug before sitting opposite of Sherlock. The cat caught his attention for a moment before he spoke. "We had another body show up last night. Kid," he finally met Sherlock's gaze and sighed. "Not in the same spot but on the shore of the Thames. Except there wasn't a mark on him. Nothing." He shrugged and pulled a picture out of his jacket, sliding it past the kitten and toward Sherlock. "We need to know if it's the same person. Possibly what they did."

Sherlock took the picture with his free hand, still feeding Hamish with the other. He scrutinized the boy in front of him. "Clever, clever." He muttered to himself and handed the picture back to Lestrade. "I'll want to see the first dump site, then where the kid was found, but the first thing I want to see is the kid's body." The jar ran out of jam and he wiped the stickiness onto the table, and finally picked up his cup of tea and took a drink. The kitten meowed loudly again. "No. Not right now." He said to Hamish, as if he had actually understood it.

Lestrade nodded and took a sip of the tea himself before nodding toward the cat. "So, did you name it yet?" He questioned with a bit of a smile. Sherlock didn't have John anymore but, still, he was talking to the cat like it was a human. "We can leave when you finish your tea and eat something. John called me before his patrol early this morning. Misjudged the time, really, and called me at two in the morning. He worked overnight." Lestrade took another sip of his tea.

"Nope, no name." Sherlock lied easily. His body went rigid. "You talked to John last night? He called you, but not me?" The consulting detective glared into his cup of tea as he drank it. The cat meowed again and then bit his ear. "Damn you cat!" Hamish went wide–eyed and jumped off the shoulder, ran to the living room and hid under the couch. "Stupid thing," he muttered. It was clear he was displacing his anger on the poor creature.

"Yes, I did. And before you get any more upset, he knew you were asleep." Lestrade studied Sherlock for a long moment. "It wasn't personal, I can promise you that. He called me to see how you were doing. He knew you wouldn't tell him the truth and I had dropped by to see you. He also told me that you probably wouldn't sleep in the room but that you would sleep." He shrugged and lifted the tea cup to his lips. "He was right." He took several sips from his tea. "Don't worry, I'm sure he's calling you today. Also, he's waiting for your letter, he was extremely tired, and he was sucking on coffee grinds. He didn't want you to hear how miserable he was, especially on day one."

Sherlock slammed the tea cup on the table. The contents sloshed around violently but didn't spill over. He stood up from the table, shoving the chair roughly and it tipped over and landed on the floor with an echoing clatter. He had been a ticking time bomb ready explode over the last month and the latest news had been his ignition. He stalked out of the kitchen, picked up the letter he had written to John and was about to tear it in half but at the last minute he slammed it down onto the floor. "Shit." He muttered to himself and slumped down into his chair. The kitten watched his tirade, timidly came out from under the couch, jumped onto his lap and started purring loudly at him. He gave it rough pet on the head, which in turn got his finger nipped. He sighed but didn't rebuke Hamish this time, as his temper tantrum seemed to run out of steam.

Lestrade sat at the table with his head lowered, waiting patiently for everything to calm down. When the silence became too overbearing, he slowly stood up and moved into the living room. "Sherlock, he didn't do it to piss you off. We all know how much you hate him being in Afghanistan and he wasn't going to call you to tell you to take care of yourself and then complain about how miserable he was. He wouldn't do that." He hesitantly set a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Do you want to call him?"

Hamish growled and bit down on Lestrade's arm, hard. Sherlock arched a brow and he had to yank the kitten by the tail for it to release its hold. The consulting detective couldn't help but smirk, even though he knew the Inspector would not be amused. "No, I'm sure we'll talk tonight. I can…wait. We have things that need done."

Lestrade shouted and yanked his hand back when it was free, shaking it with a few choice words. "Okay, fine. Let's get the Hell out of here for a while." He moved instantly toward the door. "And grab your letter to John," he shouted over his shoulder as a second thought. "It'll make his day when he gets it. C'mon, we need to get you back in three hours." He moved down the stairs swiftly.

Sherlock laughed quietly, as Lestrade spoke to him. He picked Hamish up and put him on his shoulder. "I think I like you more now." He gave the kitten a pat on the head and it purred loudly. He got up out of the chair, picked up the letter to John and then with a few quick strides he caught up to the Inspector. The kitten stared at Lestrade for a moment with a twitching tail, before doing a few circles and fell asleep on Sherlock's shoulder.

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock for a moment and did a double take. "No. The cat stays here. It can't come to the crime scenes." He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "See you in the car." He turned and finished going down the stairs before leaving the flat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the sleeping cat off his shoulders. Hamish was awoken immediately, meowed pitifully and looked up him with big, yellow eyes. "Big mean Uncle Greg said no, I'm sorry." The kitten meowed again and ran back up his pant legs and settled onto his shoulder once more. "He's just pouting because you bit him." He whispered to Hamish confidentially. He walked outside, the kitten still on his shoulder. "I know you said no, but Hamish isn't listening…"

"The cat isn't goi- Hamish?" Lestrade raised one eyebrow curiously before shaking his head. "No. Sherlock, you can't. We've discussed this before. I'm breaking enough rules letting you go. I really can't let that cat go. You aren't getting in the car with it." He opened the door to the driver side and slid in, peaking out to speak again. "And I mean it this time." The door shut and Lestrade calmly started the car, glancing at Sherlock through the window.

Sherlock signaled for a cab. "I'll see you at St. Bart's Inspector." He smirked a bit and got into a cab as it pulled up. The cabbie arched a brow at the cat on Sherlock's shoulder, but drove off anyway. "This will be fun. I think you'll like it." He told Hamish and stroked the kitten's head, which began purring immediately. He paid the fare and got out of the cab, once it came to a stop at its destination. He didn't bother to see if Lestrade was there or not and he headed down to where Molly would be, ignoring all the strange looks he was getting and the whispering.

Molly looked up with a flustered smile, frowning a bit when she remembered that Sherlock was alone. "Hello." She cast her glance down and jumped a bit when Lestrade entered as well, hands shoved tightly in his pockets and a scowl on his face. "Hi Greg." She bit her lip when she only got a grunt in reply. "Alright. Well, six bodies. The newest one is closest to you," she looked at Sherlock, "And they go in order after that." She hugged her clipboard tighter to her chest, eyes trained on the ground.

Sherlock nodded a hello and was already inspecting the boy's body before it was even pointed out to him. He slipped on a pair of gloves. He circled the body several times, his body bent at the waist for closer inspection. "Cause of death was heart failure, yes?" He asked Molly, without looking up. The cat meowed at him. "Yes, I'm well aware. Thank you for your input though."

Molly glanced at the kitten before nodding. "Yes, and we're still waiting on toxicology." She took a deep breath sand glanced back at Lestrade with a smile that he readily returned. "Coffee again tonight?" She asked him softly, grinning when he nodded. "Right. Well, Sherlock, any thoughts."

"The toxicology report is a waste of time, you won't find anything. He wasn't poisoned." Sherlock turned the boy's head and pointed to a very faint and small needle prick on the neck. "Air bubble. Stops the heart. More or less undetectable unless you are looking for it." He stood up straight and finally looked over to Molly. "Have you had more of these? Heart failure cases? In particular on terminally ill patients from the local hospitals?" Even though he was looking at her, it was clear his mind was elsewhere as he went through different theories in his head.

Molly rushed over to inspect the boy's neck, furrowing her brows. "No, I don't think so." She bit her lip and met Sherlock's faze. "He's the first one to show up like this." After a long pause she fidgeted with her clipboard and glanced back at Lestrade. "W-Why? Isn't it just a serial murder we're looking for?"

"Damn it. That doesn't fit or make sense." Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else at this point. Hamish meowed. "Yes, of course you are right." He turned to face the Detective Inspector. "The crime scene where all the bodies were found, I need to see it now." Without another word, he left the lab.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock without another word driving to the scene and standing calmly. "We're between the two sites." He motioned his head to his right. "That's where the first ones were found," he met Sherlock's gaze and motioned to his left. "That's where the boy was found. Enlighten me," he snapped.

Sherlock held up a finger at Lestrade, hoping it would silence the Inspector so he could think without any interruptions. He inspected the ground first. Shallow graves had been dug. He took several pictures on his phone, from several angels. He knelt down and inspected the graves individually, taking a soil sample from each one and placing them in separate baggies. He moved away from the dump site and moved to where Lestrade had motioned. "It isn't the same killer." Sherlock said at last. "The boy was a mercy kill. He had a degenerative disease that was killing him slowly. I'm sure Molly will confirm my conclusion with her medical analysis. The body was dumped here to make us think it was related to the other bodies that were found. I had thought we had two serial killers, one of them an angel of death. That was too much to hope for I guess. For the boy's death, I'd suggest looking at the parents first. Probably both, mother administered the air bubble. Quick and painless. She's probably a nurse or a doctor. The father is probably the one who dumped the body. A mother would have taken more care of her son, a blanket or some other sentimental thing."

Lestrade shifted on his feet before pulling out his cell phone and sending a quick text. "Right. Then the other bodies? What about them?" He glanced at the area, roped off by bright yellow tape, and shrugged. "Five bodies, same killer there? Same spot suggests it is, unless it's a group doing it all to throw us off. We've considered it," he muttered as he looked at Sherlock. "Honestly, it's the only thing we have to think. We could be dealing with multiple killers with this group." He knelt down and ducked under the tape. "They were all found lined up, kind of like a cemetery. All buried the same. Very politely, hands folding over the chest, bodies clean of any blood," his mouth twisted slightly to the side.

"A group of killers? Do you just stand around coming up with stupid theories with the other officers? Are you sure you're a Detective Inspector? Did you pay attention to anything I said at all yesterday?" Sherlock said with a shake of his head, clearly disappointed in the other man. Hamish suddenly jumped off his shoulder and began running down the beach. He didn't chase the kitten, because it had run away from where the bodies had been found so at least it wouldn't be contaminating any crime scenes. It stopped and began pawing at the ground and meowed loudly. Sherlock looked to Lestrade with raised eyebrows and went to go investigate what Hamish was up to. A hand could be seen beneath where the kitten was scratching. He looked over to Lestrade with a smirk, "Bet you are glad I brought him..." he paused, picked the kitten up and inspected its genitalia. "...yep...him along." Hamish squirmed from his hand and settled on Sherlock's shoulder once more.

Lestrade didn't answer, following Sherlock as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "I'm not but thank you," he stated before talking. "This is DI Lestrade. We've got another body along the Thames." He looked at Sherlock and nodded his head. "I'll drop by tonight with information," he stated softly, almost mouthing the words, before turning his back and squatting beside the hand.

Sherlock smirked briefly but it quickly turned into a frown at the dismissal. He had intended on staying at the crime scene and look it over himself, not be informed about it later that night. He huffed in annoyance but he left without a word of complaint, because he had figured John would be calling him soon. Why else would the Inspector have told him he needed to be back at the flat in three hours before leaving? He took a cab home, found some more ham in the refrigerator and fed the kitten.

John had just woken up, sleeping through most of the day to recover from his first night patrol. He had eaten silently and by himself, grimacing with every bite, before deciding he was bored enough to try and phone Sherlock. His feet dragged on the ground and he plopped on to a stool with a sigh as he picked up the phone and dialed Sherlock's number.

Sherlock had just finished feeding the kitten when his cell phone came to life. He answered it without hesitation, "John. Hey."

John hummed tiredly at hearing Sherlock's voice, running a hand down his face before replying. "God I forgot how much I missed your voice in one day," he laughed weakly and rested his head on the flat surface in front of him, smashing the phone against the side of his face. "How're you doing? And the cat? Named it yet?" He asked the questions quickly, his words slurring together a bit. It was a good thing his men could read him so well already because there was suddenly a large Styrofoam cup directly in front of his face. He took a noisy sip and let a small moan of appreciation escape his lips.

"Keeping busy. Have a serial killer dumping bodies on the Thames. Should keep my mind focused for a little while anyway. The kitten is fine, but I think I'm the only one who likes him. Everyone says he is weird. He bit Lestrade." He gave a brief laugh and then paused for a moment and then continued on. "I erm…named him after you. Hamish. He likes ham, so it seemed to fit. He also likes jam. You? Running around saving lives, my dear doctor? Getting enough sleep? You sound tired."

John set the hot coffee down with a sputtering cough, glaring a bit at the phone. "You named the poor thing Hamish? Oh, Sherlock." He chuckled and took a deep breath, taking another sip from his coffee. "I'm good. Nobody has been shot yet so I've just been going on patrol and trying to keep myself clean. Isn't working." He scratched the back of his neck. "I am tired, though. Night patrol wasn't nice to me. It never will be." He ran his tongue across his top teeth and glanced around, happy to see that he was the only one in the room. "Sherlock, Christ, I had a dream about you while I was asleep."

"A dream about me? Good I hope? No nightmares?" Sherlock asked, as he shifted in the kitchen chair to get a little more comfortable. "Do you want to tell me about the dream?" He gave up trying to get comfortable, got up and walked over to the living room and slumped into his chair. The kitten trailed after him and instead of jumping up on him, Hamish laid down on his feet and fell asleep. So much for trying to find a more comfortable place to sit. He wiggled his toes but the kitten didn't budge.

"Well," John cleared his throat nervously and laughed. "It was certainly a nice thing to wake up to. You were below me." He lowered his voice a bit. "Scratching at my chest while I shagged you," there was a bit of a pause. "And even in my dreams you're extremely quiet." Another laugh before John took a deep breath and took a large sip from the coffee, ignoring the burning sensation at the roof of his mouth. "Had to jerk off before I left my quarters." He made the statement like it was completely natural but a grin was plastered on his face. "Maybe it's because I slept with your scarf last night."

Sherlock grinned a bit as he listened to John and then asked, "Do people have dreams like those often? I've never had a dream like that." He attempted one last time to get comfortable, shifting so the kitten would slide off his feet. Hamish growled and bit his ankle, before stalking off to John's chair and jumped up on it, where it slept once more.

"I don't know. I'm sure they do. Except it doesn't surprise me you haven't had a dream like that. You're Sherlock, your dreams must be all about solving impossible murders and identifying new types of tobacco ash." John loudly licked his lips and sighed. "You might before I come back. I mean, d'you ever wake up with..." he paused and shook his head with a smile. They were honest to God discussing this over the phone. "Y'know. A need?"

A frown formed on Sherlock's lips in thought, as he tried to follow what John implied. "Need? Like a sexual urge? John, I haven't even masturbated since we've been together. Although, that's probably due to the fact you more than satisfied my sexual needs in the last month." He paused as a thought occurred to him. "I forgot to send your letter out today, got distracted with the case. I'm sorry. I'll send it out first thing in the morning, I promise."

Any thought of the last month with Sherlock caused John to tense and he tried to redirect his thoughts to anything but shagging or being shagged. "It's fine. I'm glad you got distracted with the case. That's what I wanted." He shifted a bit on the stool and sighed with some frustration. "Seriously, just talking to you is giving me a blasted hard on. Just your voice," he groaned slightly and exhaled loudly through his nose.

"Really? Hmm, interesting..." Sherlock trailed off as he thought for a moment and then went on. "What's that thing people do on the phone? Phone sex? Does that work? It sounds silly to me, but I've never done it. Would that help you at all, or just make things worse?"

"Mmmm, I wish. I can't. I'm in a pretty public area." John couldn't help but smile because Sherlock was trying. Really trying. "If I had a phone to myself near my bed I would take you up on that offer but I can't. Looks like I'll have to take care of it myself when we're off the phone," he kept his voice low and paused to finish his coffee. "Nothing for you at all over there? Not even an urge to kiss me?"

"Public. Private. Does it matter?" Sherlock shrugged, even though John couldn't see it. He thought about the questions. "I don't know. I know I miss you. I want to hold you again. Miss running my fingers through your hair. That sort of thing. I sound so stupid and ordinary admitting this to you…"

"It kind of does matter, Sherlock." John couldn't help the laugh and wide grin. "I can't just whip it out in the middle of a room where other soldiers call their loved ones. Not exactly appropriate." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and lowered his head. The blush spread quickly across his cheeks, coloring the tips of his ears. "I love it. It's not stupid or ordinary, Sherlock. That's what people do. I miss you running your fingers through my hair, even though it's shorter now. I miss sleeping against you. It's hard to fall asleep without feeling your heartbeat."

"Oh right. Social decorum and all that." Sherlock replied and couldn't help but smile. "Try imagining my heartbeat against your ear. The rise and fall of my chest. Think of me and smile my dear doctor. I don't know if that will help you sleep or not, but perhaps." He paused then said again, "I miss you."

John closed his eyes and instantly relaxed. His breathing slowed considerably and a weak smile tugged at his lips. "I love you." His voice was low, rough, and his words slurred together. He was suddenly tired and wanted to curl up next to Sherlock and sleep. When he opened his eyes the scenery jarred him slightly and he realized he wasn't in 221B. "I miss you so much, Sherlock. I didn't think it was going to be this hard."

"I love you too, John." Sherlock replied and then fell quiet. He had expected it to be this hard. Really he thought it would be worse. Maybe it would get worse as the days wore on. Only time would tell on that. He kept his thoughts to himself, because as before he didn't want to start a row with John. He had decided the no fighting rule should apply to while John was away as well. "Is there anything I can do to make it better for you, my dear doctor?"

"Come to Kandahar and fuck me so loud the entire airfield will hear?" John stated softly with a laugh, shaking his head. "Just be strong. I'll have enough time to get on Skype in three days. I think this will be the last time we'll talk until then. The patrols are picking up here." He hesitated before continuing, "We were shot at last night a few miles out so we're going a bit further to see if we can get them." He hadn't planned on telling Sherlock anything like that. Worrying his boyfriend wasn't what he wanted to do. Except he had a right to know and he figured he shouldn't keep anything from Sherlock.

"Don't tempt me, I just might do that." Sherlock said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Three days until they would talk again? The thought tugged at his stomach and twisted it into knots. Well, there was the feeling worse part sure enough. "Be safe. Be careful." He didn't say what else he was thinking. That he needed John to come back to him. That he really would be lost without his blogger. Fear gripped inside of his chest, causing his breath to catch.

"Of course. I'm coming back. I promised you." John spoke surely. He couldn't imagine not going back. Dying in the field and forcing everybody to go through that made him sick to his stomach. He heard Sherlock's breath catch. "Calm down. I'm fine. I'll be fine. So will you." A shout echoed through the phone room for him and he jumped to his feet. Wounded. "Sherlock, I've gotta go. Wounded soldiers. I love you." The call ended abruptly as he rushed out of the room.

Once more the call just ended. Sherlock threw the phone at the sleeping kitten out of frustration. Hamish awoke with a startled mewl and jumped out of the chair in fright. He closed his eyes, fighting for control over these stupid emotions. No drugs. John wouldn't be happy with him. He needed something to occupy his mind. He needed to get the hell out of the flat because everywhere he looked, it reminded him John. He stood quickly, grabbed his coat and scarf and then left. The kitten ran after him and barely made it out the front door. Hamish clawed its way up his back this time and settled onto its usual perch. He hailed a cabbie and took it to St. Barts. He was going to analyze that sand he had taken. He went down to the lab and used an available microscope.