This chapter is edited and betad! All mistakes are mine.

Beta: TeapotInATempest. Thanks again!

Sorry it took me so long, but I've been on vacation. At least you didn't have to wait 18 months for the update ... Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! You know what to do ;-)

Chapter fifteen

Just when they turned the corner and entered the wing which led towards the office area, they saw a woman in the distance heading towards the offices as well. John could have sworn that it was Dr Martin, although she was far away, and he couldn't be absolutely certain.

"Darn it!" Sherlock swore under his breath, "She's going into the office." His face had gone dark. "This is not going according to plan," he said after a moment, thoughtfully.

John rather hoped that Sherlock would abandon his plans of burglary for the night, but he knew him better than to think he would give up just because the odds were stacked against him.

"Well, come on, John. We'll start with the bedrooms instead," Sherlock said with a determined expression.

In spite of his capacity for concealing his emotions, John could easily see that Sherlock was in a state of suppressed excitement. John had to admit that he was himself tingling with that half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which he invariably experienced when he accompanied Sherlock in his investigations. It was the cure to boredom for both of them, and to Sherlock it even was an antidote for his cocaine addiction. John had not known Sherlock back then, but ever since he had become a good friend of Greg Lestrade's, and started meeting him weekly in the pub, John had heard one or two stories about Greg's long acquaintance with the detective. Sherlock had been a troublemaker, while he was suffering from drug addiction, and he had been arrested occasionally by the Yard for drug possession, public order offences, and insulting an official. It was because his brother had an important and powerful position within the British Government, even in the early days of his career, that Sherlock never had to answer for his behaviour in court. Instead, Mycroft had made a deal where the Yard consulted Sherlock about those crimes which presented some difficulty in their solution. Sherlock had developed a great interest in crime-related matters since leaving university, and the members of the police force did have some noteworthy encounters with the detective while he was being treated for drug addiction. Usually, he confronted them on his own accord with his deductions on cases and insulted them about their own stupidity. During his treatment for addiction, Sherlock realized one day that consulting detective work might just be enough to keep him busy and, therefore, to keep him clean. So he decided to create his own profession. Now, John knew, of course, that it had been Victor Trevor's father who had first given him the idea. Thankfully, Sherlock had been clean now for more than ten years. However, that didn't prevent him from doing something stupid like nearly taking poisoned pills or attempting burglary, John thought, sighing silently.

"Having second thoughts on the matter?" Sherlock asked with a faint smile. Meanwhile, his face had brightened.

"No," John replied, "Not at all. I'd never have a moment's rest until you were back, and I'd rather make sure myself, that you come back safe and undetected."

Sherlock's smile broadened in response. "I know you wouldn't shrink at the last," he continued in a low voice as they went upstairs together.

For a moment John saw something in his eyes that was nearer to tenderness than he had ever seen before. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more.

They had ascended the entrance hall staircase and went into the hall upon the second floor which led to the bedrooms of their fellow students, as well as their own.

"I think we should start with the Cameron and Emily's room, and continue with Howard and Grace's. The husbands described their wives as domestic, and it's likely that they will return first. Jack and Iris have an individual therapy session after dinner this evening with Dr Martin. Therefore it is safe to assume, that they will not return as soon," Sherlock explained.

Just as John had mentally prepared himself to actually start with the burglary business, he heard the laughter of a familiar voice from the landing of the first floor. There was no doubt that the person in question was heading quickly in their direction. John could hear the exaggeratedly light tread, taking two steps at a time, by which the person signaled the youthfulness and health he wanted to project.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock swore quietly, "not again." He looked intensely at John and shook his head slightly. "I apologise, John, but I am afraid, that I have to jump you again," he said after a moment. "Come on, quickly, towards our bedroom door."

John hadn't time to collect his thoughts. The footsteps were approaching rapidly now.

Sherlock took hold of John's wrist and dragged him towards the door of their room. In front of the door Sherlock halted and cast an apologetic look at John. He shrugged, and with a last glance at John, he took him into his arms, pressed his lips against John's for the second time this evening, and closed his eyes.

John was too much taken by surprise by Sherlock's sudden actions to resist the embrace or the kiss. With the footsteps only seconds away now, John placed one hand on Sherlock's back, took hold of his neck with the other, and closed his eyes as well.

The footsteps stopped abruptly.

Then, their self-control disintegrated. John lost track of time. He couldn't care less about what was going on around him. Their lips parted, their tongues were exploring each other's mouths. Their hands caressed each other's backs, ruffled each other's hair and touched each other's cheeks. The kiss deepened and grew more violent by the second. They rummaged each other's clothes for the keys and stumbled into their room.

Sherlock violently closed the door behind them with one of his feet. Outside, the footsteps hastened away. The deep kiss lasted for several more seconds before John eventually had to break apart to catch his breath. They held onto each other, panting.

"I think he's gone," John said, gasping for breath after each word.

"I think so," Sherlock replied, breathing heavily himself.

"Maybe Howard will cool down now," John murmured hopefully.

"I sincerely hope so," Sherlock answered, smiling, "but I wouldn't bet on it."

Finally, Sherlock reluctantly let go of him and went to the window in the darkness.

John, slowly coming back to full consciousness, silently shook his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, did we just kiss senselessly?" he asked, still slightly panting.

Sherlock turned towards him, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "Yes."

"Err…okay," John replied confused and added, "Did I just kiss you back?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said in his low baritone voice with a hint of impatience.

Bloody hell!

"Oh. Good," was all John could come up with.

Sherlock cocked his head and sighed. "Come on, John. We've got work to do." With that he opened the door connecting to the balcony.

Suddenly, John didn't have the time to worry further about the kissing. "You mean we're going that way?" John wanted to know. "Climbing from balcony to balcony?"

Although John couldn't see his face in the dark, he knew that Sherlock probably rolled his eyes at his remark.

"John, come now," he insisted.

John could tell that Sherlock's patience was wearing thin. "Ready when you are," he gave in, sceptically, and followed his friend outside.

They carefully climbed on the balustrade and easily managed to reach the next balcony. It belonged to Iris and Jack's room; they were absent and they would search their room last. From there they jumped to Cameron and Emily's balcony. Sherlock fiddled a minute with the lock of the door until it flew open with a sharp but silent snap. They quickly entered the room and closed the door behind them. Sherlock immediately settled down to a systematic examination. Swiftly and methodically he turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and closet after closet. After twenty minutes he was no further than when he had started. John himself had carefully examined the couple's personal belongings. In Cameron's luggage he found his diary. The only entries of interest were encoded appointments with his lovers, but Sherlock quickly broke the code. John did, however, find a small card hidden between two pages.

"What's this, Sherlock?" John asked, showing him his discovery. "I will be there," it read.

"Ah, that's interesting, John. It's a message, he must have received recently from a woman inside the Clinic," Sherlock deduced and quickly replied to John's questioningly face, "A woman? Yes. Look at the handwriting. From an insider? Yes. Look at the hidden watermark in the paper. They use these cards at the reception desk too."

"Excellent," John remarked.

"Elementary," Sherlock countered.

John sighed and decided to disregard Sherlock's remark and the corresponding haughty look on his face. "The question is, who wrote it and for what purpose?" John asked instead.

"A good question indeed. You excel yourself today, John," Sherlock replied with a hint of sarcasm but with a fond expression on his face all the same. "For now, I am afraid that we'll have to bear it in mind and see where it may lead us in time."

John chose to overlook Sherlock's sarcasm for the time being. He could see at once from Sherlock's eager face that his hopes had been raised. However, they didn't find anything else of interest to their investigation in the room.

"Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we will find something in the other rooms which may help us," Sherlock exclaimed at last and walked out on the balcony again. He carefully closed the door behind John and leaped from the balustrade to the next balcony.

John climbed on the balustrade himself but when he jumped after Sherlock, he was careless for a moment and slipped.

He fell, and his heart skipped a beat.

Bugger!

At the very last moment, he grabbed the lowest rail of the balustrade with his hands. His fall came abruptly to a halt, and he felt as if his arms had been pulled to twice their normal length when his full weight suddenly came upon them. He bit his lip so he did not cry out loud. Fortunately, he had never stopped working out and was thoroughly fit. His arms were able to carry his weight, and, after regaining his balance, he slowly tried to climb up again. He was fairly sure though that his arms were going to hurt the next day.

"For heaven's sake, John," Sherlock whispered and looked relieved to see he had saved himself.

"Don't worry. I'm fine," John replied through gritted teeth and swarmed up the railing. "That was close," he said, fighting for air and looking down with knitted brows. He breathed a sigh of relief, before he carefully attempted a second jump. This time, he landed safely on the opposite balustrade.

Sherlock put a finger on his lips and motioned John to remain silent. The room was dark, and he quickly confirmed that Howard had gone back downstairs, before he fiddled with the door lock. "After you," he whispered jokingly.

John entered the room, silently shaking his head over his friend's suggestive comment, and Sherlock gently closed the door behind them.

"He would give his right arm to have you right here, John," Sherlock insinuated as a response to John's silence.

"That man's creepy," John replied darkly and walked straight to the drawer. "You take care of his personal belongings. There are things I just don't want to know."

Sherlock said nothing, but did as John asked, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

"You're lucky that he's not after you," John frowned.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of him," Sherlock whispered, while he examined the contents of Howard's luggage.

"Oh, la, la! Look at this!" Sherlock held up a box of condoms together with some other items of a more dubiuosl nature. "I doubt that these are meant for his wife. His suitcase had a double bottom, where I found them. He seems to be prepared for all eventualities," Sherlock said and added after a moment, "He seems to have gotten lucky with the massage instructor. He's got his private number."

John coughed. "That's hardly useful for the case!" He hissed.

"No, but very illuminating all the same," Sherlock teased him.

John knew better than to respond, and kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.

"Nothing in here," John stated disappointed ten minutes later. "Apart from any insights in his sexual life, we're not one tittle further than before."

Sherlock leaned back in the chair he was sitting on while searching Howard's things. "Well, John. There is nothing more stimulating than a case where everything goes against you. It seems we must cast around for another scent," Sherlock said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Couldn't you just break into their laptops?" John asked hopefully.

"I'd need more time to do so. They have very few belongings with them from which I could try to deduce the passwords. I called Greg earlier this evening and asked him to check their names, histories, and so on. That shouldn't make too much trouble for him if someone finds out about it."

"Maybe trouble enough. Not everyone in the Yard admires you," John objected. "Which is a mystery to me, of course," he added dryly.

Sherlock let it pass. "He'll have to take the chance. It's a part of the deal," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "And besides, we are friends now, he and I, aren't we?" he added mischievously.

"I guess he knows what he's committing himself to," John replied with a shrug. Not that Greg had any choice in this commitment. Mycroft would see to that personally. But then again, everyone had to bear their own cross, John thought, casting a glance at his engagement ring.

"Moreover, I asked Mycroft for a favour on the phone," Sherlock grimaced. "I'm not particularly happy when I have to place myself at my brother's mercy, but it had to be done. I need results, and quickly too."

"What's he going to do?" John asked surprised.

"One of his experts will thoroughly check out the suspects' agendas of the last five years, their GSM data, holes in their stories. Things like that. He will look everywhere neither Davies nor Greg can look without the necessary formalities. And since there is no proof, yet, they can't do anything."

"That's a well-considered move," John admitted in admiration. "What did he say?"

"He wanted to know why he was going to spend a considerable amount of the Government's money and time. I told him it was his duty to serve his people by helping to bring a criminal to justice - and that he could rejoice in the knowledge, that I owe him a favour now." Sherlock looked as miserable as sin.

If asked, John would say that the Holmes brothers already owed each other several favours, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Instead, John whistled. "Oh, he must really be having the time of his life."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, pulling a wry face. "He seems to enjoy himself." For a moment he seemed to be absorbed in thought, then he glanced at his watch. "Come. We better continue with Iris and Jack. We are groping in the dark here," he continued.

John carefully replaced the contents of the drawer and followed the detective outside. Within several minutes they had climbed the balconies, opened the door and stood in their next door neighbours' bedroom. Again, they thoroughly examined the contents of drawers, desks and closets and went through their personal belongings. Aside from several books published by their church – including one against homosexuality – they found nothing.

"At least now we know why they're watching the two of us so closely," John remarked, pointing to the book.

Sherlock took a close look at the cover. "Why would anyone waste their energy on something so ordinary as this? Who cares who is sleeping with whom?" he asked with knitted brows.

"No idea," John replied. He could tell that Sherlock was getting edgy, despite the sporting challenge of a case without a scent.

Sherlock tapped nervously with his fingers on the desk where he sat. "There's too much of nothing if you know what I mean. I can't put my finger on it. My intuition tells me that this is wrong," he explained impatiently with a wide hand gesture. With that, he knocked over a photo which stood on the desk. Fortunately the glass didn't break.

"That was close," he whispered, being equally relieved about his luck and vexed at his own clumsiness. "But wait, what is this?" he added after a moment. A startled, surprised look came over his face. The photograph showed Iris in front of a farm, but the picture was displaced in its frame and revealed a second picture hidden behind the first. Sherlock recovered his self-possession in an instant. Carefully, he opened the frame and examined the second photo. It showed a woman in her late twenties or early thirties, not unlike Iris in appearance, who was also smiling forcefully into the camera.

"Who is she? Do you think it is one of the victims?" John asked breathless.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered and took a picture of the photograph with his phone. "We'll know soon enough. I'll let Mycroft investigate." He carefully put the pictures back into the frame and placed it on top of the desk again. "Sometimes all one needs is a little bit of luck," Sherlock remarked with a smirk. "There will be time to suss it out tomorrow. Let's go back to our room. We'll wait until everyone is asleep before breaking into the office. I don't want another interruption on our way."

Considering the noises now coming from Howard and Grace's room, the two obviously had returned and were having an intimate night.

John pulled a face. "I'm tough but that guy really makes me sick. Poor woman."

"Maybe we've inspired him," Sherlock replied unblinking. "I told you every man is responsible for his own actions. She knows, John. She knows everything."

John could only stare at Sherlock disbelievingly, with a sour face. "The world's gone mad," he said. "Is she out of her senses?"

Sherlock shrugged as he opened the balcony door for John once more. "To each his own."

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. When they returned to their bedroom, he lost himself for the next two hours in a scientific essay on the science of deduction which he had begun to write. Unlike his friend, John had none of this power of detachment, and those hours, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great importance of the issue and the dangerous nature of the adventure which they were undertaking - all combined to work upon his nerves. It was a relief to John when at last, they set out upon their expedition again.

The door to the office area was locked, but Sherlock took out one of his instruments and fiddled with the door lock. An instant afterwards, they were inside and Sherlock had closed the door behind them. He seized John's hand in the darkness and led him swiftly through the darkened corridor. Sherlock had remarkable powers of seeing in the dark. John had no doubt that he had carefully cultivated them as he did all of the talents that might be useful for his work. Putting out his hand, John felt several coats hanging from the wall. They were in a passage. They quickly passed along it. Sherlock was still holding John's hand when he very delicately opened a door on the right. He entered on tiptoe, waited for John to follow, and then closed the door very gently. John was vaguely conscious that they had entered a large room in which a cigarette had been smoked not long before. Sherlock felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and carefully closed it behind them. Finally, they were in David Jones' office.

The room was shrouded in complete darkness; there were no lights in the adjacent part of the garden. At each side of the windows were heavy curtains, which Sherlock decided to draw closed. He had brought two of his torches with him, which illuminated the room sufficiently. On the other side was the door which led to the terrace. A desk stood in the center, with a chair of shining black leather. Opposite was a large bookcase, a dark sculpture of Buddha on the top. In the corner, between the bookcase and the wall, there stood a tall green safe, the torchlight flashing back from the polished steel knobs on its face.

"Ah, there's the safe!" Sherlock breathed. He went across the room and examined it thoroughly.

Although he couldn't see his face, John could tell his friend got a kick out of it.

While Sherlock was occupied with breaking open the safe, John examined the outer door. It had struck him that it would be wise to secure their retreat through it. To his amazement it was neither locked nor bolted. John quickly walked over to Sherlock and touched him on the arm. Sherlock turned his face in that direction. John saw him start, and Sherlock was evidently as surprised as John himself.

"I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to John's ear. "I can't quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

The sudden closeness of Sherlock in the dark made John shiver again.

"Can I do anything?" John asked restlessly.

"Yes. Stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside, and we can get away as we came. If they come through the second door, we can get through the other door if our job is done, or hide behind these window curtains if it is not. Do you understand?" Sherlock shone John's face with his torch and looked at him carefully.

John nodded and stood by the door. His first feeling of fear had passed away. Now he was thrilled with excitement. He started to understand Sherlock's justification from earlier that evening and his enthusiasm for the less than legal actions. The high object of their mission, the consciousness that it was done for the good, the diabolical character of their mysterious opponent, all added to the sporting interest of the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, John enjoyed their dangers. With a glow of admiration he watched Sherlock unrolling his case of instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a surgeon who performs a delicate operation. John knew that the opening of safes was a particular hobby with him, and he understood the joy which it gave him to be confronted with this green monster. Turning up the cuffs of his shirt, Sherlock laid out several of his instruments. For a moment, John's eyes fell on the lean but nevertheless very muscular forearms which he could make out even in the dim light of the torch. He was still surprised by the strength by which he had been pinned against the wall. He felt his face warming at the thought of it. Fortunately, the darkness kept this secret from his friend's sharp eyes. John carefully banished any thoughts about the second kiss. He'd analyse those thoughts later. Now was not the time.

John stood at the middle door, glancing at each of the others, ready for any emergency; though, indeed, his plans were somewhat vague as to what he should do if they were interrupted. For what felt like half an hour Sherlock worked with concentrated energy, laying down one tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength and delicacy of a trained mechanic. Finally John heard a click, the broad green door swung open, and inside he had a glimpse of a number of paper packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Sherlock picked one card on top of a pile out.

"Meet me tonight. 11.30 p.m. C.M.".

"What do you make of it?" John whispered curiously.

However, Sherlock didn't get a chance to explain any of his theories. Outside on the veranda, they heard footsteps approaching.

John guessed they had less than a minute to either run or hide.

In an instant Sherlock had swung the door of the safe to, stuffed his tools into the pockets of his coat, and dragged John behind the curtain. Luckily, the door was on the other side of the room, so that the parting of the curtains remained unnoticed.

Whoever was coming, he paused at the outer door. A moment later the door opened. There was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door was banged shut, and they picked up the strong scent of a cigarette. Then the person was pacing backwards and forwards within a few yards of them. Finally, there was a creak from a chair, and the footsteps ceased. So far John had not dared to look out, but now he gently parted the division of the curtains in front of him and peeped through. From the pressure of Sherlock's shoulder against his he knew that he was sharing John's observations. Right in front of them, and almost within their reach, was the broad, rounded back of Cameron. He was leaning far back in the black leather chair, his legs outstretched, the cigarette projecting at an angle from his mouth. In his hand he held a document, which he was reading in an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and his comfortable attitude. John had no idea what to make of it. What the hell was Cameron Meyer doing in David Jones' office?

John felt Sherlock's hand steal into his own and give him a reassuring shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was easy in his mind. John was not sure whether he had seen what was only too obvious from his position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that Cameron might at any moment observe it. In his own mind John had determined that if he were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his eye, he would at once spring out, throw his jacket over his head, pinion him, and leave the rest to Sherlock. But Cameron never looked up. He was languidly interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was turned as he followed the author's argument. At least, John thought, when he has finished the document and the cigarette he will go to his room; but before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable development which turned their thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times John had seen Cameron look at his watch, and once he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea, however, that he might have an appointment at such a strange time never occurred to him until a faint sound reached his ears from the hallway door. Cameron dropped his papers and sat rigidly in his chair. The sound came again, and then the door opened.

"Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. John had closed the slit between the curtains as Cameron's face turned in their direction, but now he ventured very carefully to open it once more. He had resumed his seat, the cigarette still projecting at an insolent angle from the corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric light, there stood the small blond figure of Dr. Martin. Her breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

"Well," said Cameron, "you've made me lose a good night's rest, my dear. I hope you'll prove worth it?"

The woman shook her head. "What do you want from me?" she asked coldly. However, she couldn't keep the fear out of her voice completely.

"Pull yourself together!" he said. "Now, let us get down to business." He took a note from the pile he had put on the desk. "It is just by coincidence that I happen to know of your business with Mr. Smith; Mrs. Smith was very forthcoming when we spent some time together, you see. They used to make some money with it, you know. They were professionals; seducing the rich and the famous and then making them pay for their intimacy. I actually slipped into their room before the police arrived."

This made Dr. Martin cringe slightly.

"Oh, don't worry. I didn't kill them," he explained. "I have five letters in my possession which compromise you and your business activities. I want to sell them. You want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price." Cameron laughed. "I assure you I wouldn't harm a fly, but every man has his business and what am I to do? I will put the price well within your means. Let's say 5.000 pounds per letter, and I will leave you alone. I warn you though, my dear, if you act contrary to reason, I will sadly enough find myself constrained to make your affairs public."

"I could hardly pay you 15.000 pounds. 25.000 pounds is absolutely impossible, I assure you. I told Smith the same," Dr. Martin answered coldly.

"Well, considering your position as a new counselor at the Clinic, your salary probably isn't that high at the moment. I understand that. I can imagine that your expenses are quite large, since you're dealing with high society. Your appearance has to represent the business, of course. Expensive suits, jewelry. And your wealthy lover murdered under your very eyes. No, you find yourself in a pitiful situation, indeed," Cameron said sarcastically and smiled an evil smile. "I am no monster, you know. I am willing to help you. I will sell you the letters for the 15.000 pounds you offered, if you are willing to comply."

"What do you want?" she asked in a strained voice.

Cameron's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously. "Nothing you weren't willing to give Mr. Smith before, my darling. If you will be at my disposal for the remaining weekends of counseling, and possible forthcoming workshops which I might attend, I will forget about the other 10.000 pounds. You see, I am a reasonable man."

So this was the explanation of the mysterious letter the police had found in David Jones' office. It had been Dr. Martin he had seen earlier that evening, opening the outer door of the office for Cameron. It had been Dr. Martin who had diverted the missing money, and that was why Mr. and Mrs. Smith had tried to blackmail her. Now, Cameron was taking advantage of the situation. John was baffled.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Martin yielded to the conditions after careful deliberation. She agreed grudgingly, but coldly and with an air of calculation, nevertheless. "Well, the ball is in your court. Show me your paces," she purred and pressed her body against Cameron's.

He didn't need to be told twice. Hungrily, he took hold of her waist with both hands, and covered her with hot kisses. She moaned with - probably feigned - pleasure as a response. When he started to unbutton her blouse, she drew back.

"Not here," she objected. "Come to my consulting room."

Reluctantly, he allowed her to free herself from his grip. She moved with an inviting swing of her hips to the door and held it open for him. He smiled sardonically and followed her outside.

John stared after them in disbelief. As soon as they left the room, Sherlock slipped across to the safe with perfect calmness. He quickly examined the papers in the safe and closed the door properly afterwards. With swift, silent steps, Sherlock was at the outer door. He drew the key from the door, shooed John outside, passed through after him, and locked it on the outside. "This way, John," he said. "We'd better go through the garden where they've removed the snow. We'll leave no footprints there. I don't want to take the chance of meeting anyone in the corridors again. It's too dark outside to be seen. There are no lights in this part of the garden, and that will work in our favour. It seems we'll have to use the balcony again."

"Our room is on the second floor, Sherlock," John objected. He tried to keep his mind off the painful scene he had witnessed a few moments earlier. Apparently this marriage education workshop attracted people who had problems with sex addiction.

"The wall next to our balcony is covered in ivy. The stem is old and has strong limbs," Sherlock replied.

"Apparently you thought of everything," John muttered darkly.

"It's a piece of cake! You will give me your hand and I will give you mine. Just try to not break your neck, will you?" Sherlock teased him.

John scowled at Sherlock. "Funny, Sherlock!" he grumbled.

Sherlock smiled one of his charming smiles and cast a swift glance of triumph at John. "It looks like the fog around one mystery is clearing."

In bed John was tossing and turning. Adrenaline was coursing through him. He was still flushed with the excitement of their latest adventure. He had to confess that he had enjoyed the burglaries more than he should. Sherlock was weaving his web around the culprits and both the murderer and the blackmailer were doomed to fall into his trap, sooner or later. John felt the thrill of anticipation. The case was near its peak.

Aside from this obvious source of excitement, he couldn't fail to notice that he had also been aroused by their physical contact that day. The thoughts which he had carefully tried to push to the back of his mind all evening returned. He desperately needed to clarify them. Resolutely, John took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes. He was going to sort out his mingled feelings, once and for all. He called the events of the evening to mind. They shared two proper kisses. The first one had been gentle and careful, even if John had been pinned to the wall. The tingling of his skin had been sensational. He had never experienced anything like it before, and he was a fairly experienced kisser. The second one hadn't been gentle at all. It had been hungry and sensual. Two attributes he wouldn't normally connect with Sherlock, but he had been most thunderstruck by his own reaction. Until very recently, they had never ever shared the slightest physical contact, but now, he had kissed Sherlock back, properly, on the mouth. He darkly recalled that the kissing had deepened afterwards, and there had been tongues involved. Sherlock had tasted pleasant, wine and a flavour of his own. John certainly had acquired a taste for it immediately. Luckily, they had those burglary plans that night. John wasn't so sure whether he could have controlled himself otherwise.

When it came to Sherlock he had always been a lost cause, of course. He had been in Sherlock's orbit from the very first second they met. He had been drawn to him, mentally, ever since. It was like magnetism.

In the beginning he had hoped that his positive reaction to Sherlock's seductive "new self" was some sort of stress syndrome, caused by the pressure of the case. Now John realised that he had never reacted to stress in the way others did: his tremor and his limp had vanished when he met Sherlock and started their rather adventurous life.

Deeply stirred, he thought of one of Sherlock's maxims.

Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains – however improbable – must be the truth.

He heaved a silent groan when the revelation hit him. If he was honest with himself, there was at least one conclusion he was forced to draw at the end of this day: He had to admit that he was not only mentally, but also physically attracted to his best friend. He had no idea how, why, or when that happened, but he had started to react to him. He had never been attracted to another man before, and this felt strange, to put it mildly. At the moment, he didn't even dare to think about the dreaded four-letter L-word. If this was just a game to his friend, John was screwed now.

Next to John, the detective had fallen asleep, content and worn out from the night's work. In the dark, John could only make out his features faintly, but he heard Sherlock's steady and regular breathing.

Anne's statement as well as Howard's kept running through his mind. "Sherlock does love you, you know. He's just socially awkward." "This is about true love then?" "The truth hurts."

He heaved another sigh. In the end it came down to two questions. First: Was John willing to find out the absolute truth, no matter what the cost? Second: Was he going to trust Sherlock Holmes with his heart as well as his life?

Was it love or just a game?

After some restless hours in which weird dreams about entangled, naked limbs alternated with sleepless periods, during which John pondered the matter carefully, he arrived at a decision.

To hell with it! What was he afraid of?

He never felt better than when he was together with his best friend. The friendship that lay beneath would never be at stake, he was convinced of that. Hadn't Sherlock said so himself? Fortune favours the brave. John had suddenly realized that they'd reached the point of no return quite some time ago.

He decided to take a leap of faith and let the chips fall where they may.

Once he came to this decision, he was at peace.

John had such a deep respect for Sherlock's extraordinary qualities that he always deferred to his wishes, even when he least understood them – like the necessity of being engaged for the case. But now his instincts were aroused. The science of seduction was a subject Sherlock apparently was at home in – despite his limited experience. However, John was no stranger to it either, and he would be going one step further. Reaching for true intimacy.

It was time to take matters in his own hands and to face destiny.

Let him be my master elsewhere, John thought, I am at last his equal in this.