John

"Anything?" I asked Sherlock when he reappeared through the door of 221b, doing my very best keep a healthy distance between us and attempting to sound only professionally interested.

"Yes." Sherlock replied vaguely and completely unhelpfully as he drifted into his bedroom without meeting my eyes.

"What?" I elaborated through the door of Sherlock's bedroom which had just been slammed in my face.

There was a long silence so I rapped my knuckles on the door and called, "Sherlock? What did you find out?"

Sherlock opened the door and stuck his head out so that I had to nearly dislocate my neck to ensure we didn't touch each other's faces.

"The Moonblood Cult is what it's called apparently, this secret organisation which sells alcohol in bulk very cheaply. Apparently they meet their customers in a different place for every transaction, one at a time. They have a sign so that they know who's who on both sides, that's I suppose why Harry and the man were wearing the hoodies but the piercings must be for some other reason, maybe they met through another group of people whose sign is to wear those piercings. I don't know what that is yet but Lestrade may have something on his books or I can always ask the Baker Street Irregulars again. The Moonblood Cult apparently operates from only one place, which I find hard to believe, but anyway I have a shortlist of thirteen suitable building for headquarters. In the morning we'll pick up Lestrade and go and check them out, okay?"

I nodded.

I lay awake that night thinking about Sherlock; about his weird attitude towards me since I'd kissed him. I had enjoyed that kiss. It was adorable in that he'd obviously never done anything like it before. He had been so tentatively gentle, taking my bottom lip between both of his, leaving his teeth there for what might have been conventionally considered too long. I still had a thumping headache from alcohol but the thought of Sherlock's hand in my hair and mouth on mine made it worse because my blood sped up in its excited pumping around my body. I feel guilty for feeling happy since it was so recently that Harry died. Ella would have a field day with the rampant emotions that were whizzing all around my body. I hoped so badly that it wasn't the first and last kiss I would share with the world's only consulting detective; my best friend.

I was dropping off into tentative sleep when my phone started ringing from my jeans pocket which was flung across the back of the chair on the other side of the room. I dragged myself out of bed and immediately started to shiver in the cold air, even the carpet was cold under my bare feet. The phone stopped ringing by the time I reached it but I noticed the caller had left a message. A glance at my watch told me it was 2.46am. I groaned involuntarily; anyone who phoned me at this time of night would want to me to go somewhere as quickly as possible with Sherlock which meant we would have to talk awkwardly professionally and try not to touch each other because of the sudden intimacy I'd set up between us which we'd knocked down by being embarrassed. I couldn't say I regretted it but I regretted not explaining what I'd done when I'd done it. The phone showed that whoever had called had left a message. Brilliant. Another sleepless night, then.

Sherlock

The kiss. The kiss. The kiss was all that I could think about, the way it filled my head and played back in slow motion over and over and over again was very unnerving; I can normally cut of certain thoughts but this was just all-consuming I don't know what. There was no name for what I was feeling. I found myself trembling all over uncontrollably and feeling alternately hot and cold and hot and cold. It was very strange. As I lay in bed with no control over my physical or mental wellbeing John entered my room for the third time that night, causing me to sit bolt upright. He threw his phone at me.

There was an indistinct answer phone message playing muffled through the speakers. The caller ID said Greg Lestrade. I held the phone to my ear and climbed out of bed, rifling through the combined mess of partially completed experiments and discarded clothes on my floor to try and find something suitable to wear. I guessed we were going out somewhere. I tuned my ears into the phone and heard the message.

"John," Said Lestrade's voice, sounding considerably strained, "I've tried Sherlock's phone and he's not picking up, so please could you-" He stopped abruptly and all I could hear was the sound of laboured breathing, "Please could you help me? I'm not sure where I am; some warehouse, erm, not too far from Scotland Yard, erm, sorry I can't be more specific, you see the thing is- we, um, I, haven't got much time, so yes, erm, as you soon as you can please, very much appreciated." Here there was a distant roar of general disgruntled-ness from someone other than Lestrade, a whimper of combined pain and fear from Lestrade himself and a cacophony of unhealthy sounding clatters as the plastic of the phone hit concrete and somewhere further away flesh hit flesh. Then there was white noise.

This was brilliant. John and I caught a taxi as I explored all the possible warehouses Lestrade could be in and cross-matched them with the ones that could be the headquarters of the Moonblood Cult. I was positive there was at least some sort of correlation between the two. There were three possible warehouses but I directed the cabbie towards the one which was on top of a hill because I knew there would be a better phone reception there; Lestrade's message had been of good quality.