A/N I seem to have forgotten to mention it the past couple of times, but, people, THIS STORY HAS PASSED A HUNDRED ALERTS. Not to mention 260 reviews and 80 faves. Thank you so, so much!

Thanks to total-animal-lover, innenlebenaussenwelt, NinjaGirlRebecca, Hummingbird1759, Motaku1235, Call me Mad, MapleleafCameo, and 666BloodyHell666

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXIII. Do Not Disturb

Lestrade is used to being able to burst into Baker Street without hindrance, dart up the stairs and to Sherlock's unfortunately familiar flat with the news of a strange case hot on his tongue. Mrs. Hudson's learned to open the door for him with a smile and a warm greeting, and Sherlock himself always snaps to attention the second that he sees the Detective Inspector's shape in the doorway.

But this time, the landlady seems a bit anxious as she unlocks the door for him. "You might want to knock, dear," she calls, holding a hand to her lips anxiously as he starts up the staircase without hesitation.

He dismisses her words with little thought—surely the update on Scotland Yard's latest serial killer is more important than any trivial issue that would cause her hesitation. Flinging the door open, he glances throughout the room, trying to locate Sherlock—

Oh.

Oh.

The detective is on the couch—usually not an unusual place for him to be positioned, only this time he's not alone. He and his assistant, John Watson, are snuggled up next to one another, John's fingers wound up in Sherlock's inky curls as they kiss in a series of slow, lazy motions. At the noise of Lestrade's entrance, however, Sherlock shoots straight up, his eyes fierce with irritation and something that might even be humiliation.

"Who the hell told you to come in?" he demands roughly, his voice a lot less sleek and professional than usual. He sounds absolutely ruffled, and Lestrade would've taken the opportunity to be amused if his own cheeks weren't too busy flushing vivid scarlet.

"I—Mrs. Hudson—I mean, there was a case, there's a new development…"

"A case?" Sherlock repeats intently, straightening up to his full height. Lestrade nods, and John rises quickly, stepping off the couch and pacing over the window without meeting the Detective Inspector's eyes. He runs a hand nervously over the back of his neck, probably the most embarrassed of all three of them, the poor sod.

"The same one as before. The, er, the… the murderer, there's another body discovered, and this time the killer carved initials into… into the body…"

"Stop stuttering," Sherlock snaps. "There's no time for your awkwardness right now."

"For my—for God's sake, I just got a hell of a shock, give me a break, will you?"

"It's your fault if you didn't see it coming," he retorts neatly, finally stepping off the couch and reaching over for his coat immediately. Lestrade tries and fails to ignore the slightly swollen state of the detective's lips, settling to focus on a nervous little shuffle of his feet. Catching sight of this, Sherlock scoffs in disgust.

"Really, for a married man, you possess the ability to be strikingly immature. Head up, Lestrade, tell me more about these initials."

"Er, well…" Swallowing, he forces himself to comply. "It was simple, really, just a couple of letters etched into the hipbone…"