It was the third week of December and the lessons had finished a week before. It had also been two weeks since John had discovered his 'romantic' interest for Sherlock Holmes. But nothing had changed since then. No matter how hard John had tried to send a message to him, no matter how hard he had tried to speak to him after the lesson, John couldn't still manage to do it.

And Sherlock wasn't helping either.

After the day of the violin, he had returned to John's lessons, but that was all. He stayed in his place motionless, sometimes huffing and snorting in annoyance, some other times resting his head on the desk, eyes to the window, lost in his thoughts. He had always gone away as soon as the lessons had finished, had never sent a message to John, had never looked at him.

It was torture. There was no more fitting definition than that: torture. Like John was being slowly cut into pieces centimetre by centimetre, day by day. The only comforting thought that John had was that, at least, he could see the black curled head during his lessons and that he could always seek refuge in his dreams. For the dreams never ceased.

They weren't always warm and happy ones, obviously. In that situation it was a mixture of extremely pleasant dreams and sorrowful ones. Nevertheless, he was rather happy to have the possibility to meet Sherlock in his own imagination. It felt real, it felt good. Until he opened his eyes the following morning. Then it began the torturous path again.

If he only knew what to do! But he couldn't really come up with a solution. It was like he had every single piece to solve the problem in front of his eyes and, yet, he failed to do it. For it was impossible to solve. It was Sherlock Holmes, the greatest mind he had ever met and the most mysterious one. And John, to his extreme disappointment, lacked of the skills to understand him.

That was what John was thinking for the umpteenth time on a Saturday morning.

It was a very cold December morning, the sun was shining but a freezing wind was blowing violently through the city. The last autumn leaves whirled in the air like relics of a wreckage in the infinite ocean of the sky vault above. It was certainly a sight to admire and John was slowly sipping his hot tea in front of the window, thoughts racing in his head. The position wasn't the best, since the window had more than a draught passing through. Each of them hit John's chest and waist, making him feel the pleasant hotness of the tea on its way down to the stomach. He sighed.

For four week there would have been no lessons. For four weeks he wouldn't have seen Sherlock. That wasn't simply torture, that was worse than torture, that was an infernal punishment. He sighed one more time and drank the last drop of his tea, immediately feeling the lack of warmth that it had been giving to him. He moved away from the window. He needed to do some shopping and he hadn't the slightest will to.

His mobile phone buzzed and John shrugged his shoulders. God, if it were still his sister pleading him to go to her place for Christmas, he swore he would throw the phone out of the window. He picked it up angrily. As he noticed the sender, his heart stopped. Sherlock.

In a matter of seconds he passed from being nervous to being excited, from being happy to being sad, to panicking completely. He read it, mouth dry and head so dizzy he seemed drunk.

We have got a new case. Joining me? – SH.

With extremely shaking hands John managed to tap the answer.

Where to?

The time it took for Sherlock to answer seemed an eternity.

Just exit your flat. – SH.

He didn't wait a second more. He quickly grabbed his jacket from the chair and stormed off out of his living room, dashing down the stairs till the front door. He slammed it with a loud bang.

The freezing cold wind was a whip on his face. His cheeks burned red like they were on fire and he found it difficult to keep his eyes open due to the tears caused by the coldness. He shivered slightly.

The tall figure of Sherlock was standing right on the kerb in front of his door. It was the first time John was able to look at him from a short distance after having realised he was attracted to him. His heart almost made a flip in his chest and his sight, already blurry, went almost blank. His black curls swirled in the cold wind and he had his collar turned up around the neck to protect himself from the harsh wind. His usual alabaster cheeks had turned slightly pink, but, except those little details, he seemed completely unaffected by the cold outside. His eyes were wide open and of such a colour that was beyond any possible description. The watery aquamarine reflected the blue of the sky above and it looked like there were stars glittering into the young man's irises. John lost himself in the contemplation, unable to distract his attention from them.

Then Sherlock smirked, a smirk that John hadn't seen in ages, and John's knees almost gave out.

"Breakfast?", asked Sherlock nonchalantly.

John questioned himself if the young man was aware of his state of mind. He was trying hard to not show it on his face. In his brain there was a perpetual mantra of 'it's a complete normal situation', 'there's nothing different' and 'nothing has changed'. Obviously he didn't believe a single word of it, yet he kept on repeating them.

He had already had breakfast, but couldn't refuse Sherlock's offer and nodded, not finding the right words to answer. They walked for five minutes until they reached a small café at the corner of the street. John had never gone there because he never had breakfast outside his flat. But why had Sherlock just invited him for breakfast? Weren't they supposed to be on a case? He drove those questions away. He had no time to answer.

They sat down at a table near the window. Sherlock ordered tea and coconut biscuits, which, actually, were John's favourite, and waited in silence; John still contemplating the young man, Sherlock looking at the people passing by in the street.

After two minutes of dead silence, John gathered the last rational part left in him (the most of it had exploded like a soap bubble due to his knee lightly stroking Sherlock's) and spoke.

"Aren't", he cleared his throat twice "we supposed to be on a case?"

Sherlock turned his head to him and smiled.

"Yes. But it's cold outside and I didn't want to discuss the detail of it while you were freezing to death.", he said in a grin.

John's mind started to process the information. Sherlock was worried that John was feeling cold, first thought. He had invited him to a café for that reason, second thought. He was behaving normally, third thought. Like nothing had happened. Like the kiss, the disappearance and the violin had never happened, fourth thought. Relief and bitterness struck him at the same time. He had to play himself along that it was all perfectly normal.

"So", he tried to smile, knowing he didn't manage it at all "what is it about, this time?"

"Lestrade has given me a case last week. There had been three homicides of prostitutes in the last two months in the area around Bexley. They have all been found dead in dark alleys with tongue and hands removed."

Sherlock was explaining it scientifically without any minimum amount of change in his voice, like he was reading the weather broadcast. John hadn't minded the other times, but now he found himself asking if a man that showed a total lack of empathy in explaining such devastating facts had ever felt some kind of emotion in his whole life. As always, he found that he hadn't got the faintest idea.

"That suggests", went on Sherlock, unaware of John's struggle "that the killer is the same for all the three homicides. And the fact that the victims are prostitutes suggests a male killer, obviously."

Their order arrived and John nodded, trying to focus on what Sherlock was saying.

"And that's all you've got?", he managed to answer teasingly.

"Don't be ridiculous! That was the start.", said the young man dipping a biscuit into the tea.

John followed the movement of Sherlock's hands to the small plate and back to his cup of tea.

"I had to work a bit to find who the possible assassin could be."

"Why?", asked John, still trying to distract himself from other thoughts.

"Prostitutes, John, prostitutes. They are easy targets. They have no bounds, they live on the streets. Every male Londoner could have been their killer. Well, every male Londoner except, maybe, you and Lestrade."

"And I suppose that's a compliment.", replied John, a bit surprised "But you didn't say 'except me'."

"Why should I say that?", frowned Sherlock, perplexed "It's rather common for people to assume that I'm the murderer."

John gave him an askance look.

"I've never assumed that you could be a murderer!", shouted John.

"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.", the young man calmly replied.

John didn't understand what was going on. What was Sherlock implying by saying those things? But Sherlock continued talking and John forgot about the umpteenth awkward conversation he had just had with the other man.

"Anyway: there were no evidences on the crime scenes. So I started from the most evident detail."

"That would mean…"

"The removed hands and tongues."

"What did you deduce about that?", asked John, already amazed one more time by the Sherlock's cleverness.

Sherlock evidently pleased by the question, gladly complied the request.

"Either the hands and the tongues were removed by an expert person. The cuts were perfect, which suggested a surgeon or, at least, a person who was medically trained. Despite that, I noticed that there were some flaws in the cuts, like his hands were shaking when he was doing that. An alcoholic then, chronic alcoholic, I believed."

"So we're looking for an alcoholic surgeon?"

"A specific one. I had to do some research and after a week I've finally got the name: Mark Benson."

"Why him?"

Sherlock grinned at his own cleverness.

"Three reasons. First: he's an alcoholic and he got his license revoked for his chronic habit. Second: he had been hauled up twice for harassment on two different girlfriends. Third: guess what?"

"What should I guess? I know nothing about the case!", John found himself smiling bright.

John was finally nice and comfortable. Even if Sherlock didn't know about his love interest for him, his way of talking and the fact that was making John aware of his discoveries made John feel a lot relieved about their relationship. There was no coldness in Sherlock's way of talking to John now. In front of his eyes there was just the young man he had met the first time: arrogant, full of himself and…gorgeous. John could've listened to him for all the years to come.

"You're no fun at all.", teased the young man.

"Sherlock, I'm not a mind reader, for god's sake!"

"Yeah, I suspected that.", he grinned "Well, third then. He's partially lost the use of his tongue due to brain ischemia. The conclusion is that he cuts the hands for he knows that he can't use them anymore as a surgeon and the tongue for the aforementioned reason. He's angry and the only way he can vent his anger is by killing. But he could never kill a normal person, hence he murders prostitutes, the society's scum, in his opinion."

"Wow.", was all John muttered, agape.

No wonder he had been so intrigued by the young man, no wonder why he had fallen in love with him. How could one not fall in love with that mass of brain under those black curls?

John tried to regain his composure, Sherlock smirking at John's lousy compliment.

"What are we going to do, then?", asked John.

"We are going to catch him, John!", he grinned, overly excited at the thought.

"But…Lestrade?"

"No time for him now! I'll call him when we will have found the suspect."

Obviously there was no point in discussing with an excited Sherlock. John somehow remembered that the last time Sherlock hadn't called Scotland Yard, he had ended on John's armchair with ten stitches on his chest; but, as soon as the man stood up and paid, John found that he couldn't help but following him around as usual, oblivious of the fact that he also had Lestrade's number and that, therefore, he could have called him.

John got into the taxi Sherlock had hailed. It had already happened to him to be with Sherlock in a taxi, but now he was weirdly conscious of the presence of the young man beside him. He forced himself to turn his head away, yet he still stared at him from the corner of his eyes. Sherlock was gracefully sitting, hands on his lap and head turned to the window of the cab. What John saw was a mass of black hair backlit by the warm light of the winter sun. It looked like there were strings of gold in it and John had to resist the strong urge to stretch out his hand to softly caress the young man's head. He eventually closed his eyes, trying to focus on the case, on the chase, on whatever else that could drift his thoughts away from Sherlock. There was adrenaline running through his veins and that made everything worse. Had he not been John H. Watson, an honourable man, he would have probably sexually assaulted Sherlock. He slapped himself mentally: what the hell of a thought had that been?

"Stop that.", said Sherlock distractedly.

John's heart jumped higher than ever and he swallowed nervously. Stop doing what?

"Stop what?", he muttered tentatively.

"You're nervously tapping your fingers on the car-handle…", and Sherlock pointed at John's hand "It's annoying."

John hadn't noticed he was doing that, but he was relieved that Sherlock hadn't guessed what was going on in his mind, since he knew that the young man could do it in a snap.

Some thirty minutes later they got off in front of a pub that had surely seen better times in its past. Now the sign was melancholically hanging from his place and some letters were missing, so that an absent-minded customer would have read T e W te H rse.

Sherlock stopped before entering the pub.

"Is this the place?", asked John.

"Yes. He spends most of his useless time drinking here. The pub is open from ten a.m. to two a.m., so I'm sure he's in here at the moment."

And he picked up his phone.

"Calling Lestrade.", he replied at John's questioning look.

Luckily, thought John.

"Lestrade? I've got your killer. Me and John are in front of the pub where he's drinking. We're going in to avoid that he manages to escape."

John clearly heard the voice of the DI shouting a 'don't ever try to do that', but Sherlock closed the call immediately and entered the small pub. John followed.

The inside was even worse than the outside. Despite a well-known no smoking in public places law, the small room was literally packed with smoke, to the point that John found it difficult to breathe without coughing hard. Sherlock, as always, seemed unaffected, but he was a smoker, John reminded to himself. Some customers turned to them, because, to be completely honest, they looked like fish out of water. Sherlock's elegance contrasted neatly with the customers' appearance, the most elegant of whom was wearing a shirt so ragged that John could easily see the bare skin under it. Yet Sherlock didn't seem to care and literally dragged John by the arm to a table in the darkest part of the room.

The sudden contact with Sherlock's hand made John lose his breath. He let himself go in that small gesture, even forgetting the smoke.

Sherlock asked for a beer to a very tattered bartender, who gave them an askance look but said nothing. When the beer arrived, John was assailed by a doubt.

"Why are we sitting here? Isn't he in?"

Sherlock looked at him.

"Yes, he's in. There were only very old photos of him, he's changed a lot due to the alcohol and his actual life. I'm rather sure that he's the one who's playing darts. But I need confirmation."

Then he abruptly stood up and reached the man before John could utter a word. God, it was so wrong. John followed soon after, hissing in a whisper:

"We should wait for Lestrade!"

But Sherlock didn't listen and went straight to the presumed murderer.

"Mark Benson?", the young man asked "I…"

Before Sherlock could end the sentence, the suspect had already tried to punch him. Sherlock avoided the hit, but the man took advantage of the situation and immediately ran into the street. Sherlock and John rushed out. He was just few metres away and they were catching up, when he grabbed a young woman by the shoulders and took out a gun from his pocket, shooting in the air.

"Leave me alone or I'll kill her!", the man shouted.

And ran away, tugging the poor girl with him.

Sherlock and John looked helplessly at the scene. Had Sherlock not wanted to rush it, they would've avoided that for sure. John felt the too well-known feeling of rage growing inside his body. Now it didn't matter any of the sentiments that he had for the young man, now it didn't matter anything. That goddamn Sherlock had just not only risked his life, but had just given a poor hostage to a psychopathic murderer. He turned to him, eyes burning with fury, for he was furious. And a furious John Watson was something that rarely happened.

"For the fuck's sake, Sherlock!", he shouted "See what have you just done? Couldn't you fucking wait for Lestrade? But no! I'm the brilliant Sherlock Holmes and I can do this alone! Are you always such an idiot?"

Sherlock looked at him with inquiring eyes.

"I'm not fucking joking, Sherlock! You've just delivered a young lady in the hands of a psychopath!"

"He won't kill her.", answered Sherlock coldly "As I said, he only kills prostitutes. And…"

"I don't fucking care if, in your goddamn opinion, he only kills prostitutes! What if you got it wrong? What if he actually kills her? What if she were one of your friends?"

"I don't have friends.", grunted Sherlock, still calm.

John couldn't believe his eyes and his ears. The man beside him was not only arrogant, selfish and impossible. He was inhuman. He didn't care about anything, anyone. John's rage doubled. How had he been so stupid to think that the young man had considered him, John Watson, a nobody, important? He was so angry. For the man was an emotionless shell, for he loved that emotionless shell, for the emotionless shell would have never loved him back. He shouted louder.

"And I see why! There's a fucking woman in the hands of a killer! For god's sake! And you don't fucking care!"

"Will caring about her help save her?", the young man stated.

That was more than John could stand. He looked at Sherlock angrily, his whole body shaking for the rage running through it, hands clenched in fists so hard that it hurt.

"You're a bloody machine, Sherlock!", he yelled a lot louder "Not a human! A machine!"

And he turned away, leaving Sherlock in the middle of the road. He saw Lestrade's arrival, but he kept on walking, drained of all his strengths, tears at the corner of his eyes. He had been such a fool. He was nobody to Sherlock. The young man had just stated that he didn't have any friends. He had just shown that he, Sherlock Holmes, didn't care about human lives. He had been such a fool. The signs of affection he had seemed to show to him were just nothing. A machine. He was just a machine.

He arrived home exhausted, hollow, defeated.

He threw himself on the bed and fell asleep seconds later from exhaustion. When he woke up in the late afternoon, he was still a twisted mass of feelings. He unconsciously took out his mobile from his trousers, as to distract himself. There was one new message.

We have caught the killer. The woman is alive, if you wanted to know. – SH.

John grunted and switched his mobile off. Why, oh why, of all the people had he fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes? He buried his face into the pillow and desperately tried to fight back the warm tears that were already flowing down on his cheeks.