Authors Note: Sorry this one is a bit late and just a tiny bit shorter than usual. I stopped before it got going into too much, but I hope you enjoy! Note: I've used *** to show a change in time/flashback, hopefully it's still easy to follow.

John's P.O.V

When morning light clawed at his eyes the next day, John noted the lack of panic he felt when he tried to breathe in and dark curls tickled against his nose with the movement.

Waking up beside Sherlock Holmes is not scary, he realized.

Might have been yesterday but that was yesterday. That was yesterday's lifetime and this was today. In the time between those two universes, John had almost lost this maniac beside him. Possibly forever.

That was much scarier than waking up in a posh bed. So, John didn't panic.

Instead he turned his head to fully take in the man lying next to him, sighing at the sight.

I almost lost you yesterday and then I never would have known this he thought to himself, running a gentle hand through mad and unruly curls.

Because Sherlock was still asleep and John was silently thanking whoever was responsible because he was absolutely certain that he could die happy now after seeing Sherlock Holmes asleep in his bed.

It was the only time the doctor might have described the other man as looking peaceful.

The always unmanageable curls were mussed with sleep and sticking out even more for it. The ivory skin looked warm against the white sheets. Sherlock's face, for once, was free of expression but not in its usual forced way. Just in a relaxed way, one that smoothed out all the lines until one was forced to notice how young the detective really looked.

So young John thought and it didn't matter that other people would try to convince him that the other man's being a few months shy of thirty one made that statement untrue. Other people just hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes like this, not like John had.

That thought made the doctor happy and sent him back to the night before at the same time.

The kiss hurt. The irony wasn't lost on John Watson and for a long while he let the hurt do what it was meant to. Then he pulled away from his insane genius and stared at the eyes which looked a little less terrified than they had a few minutes ago.

"That's enough of that," he said softly, pushing himself off the floor and dusting off before lending a hand to pull Sherlock with him. The detective obliged but long fingers were quick to clutch onto woolly jumper again in two fistfuls. So John steered them into the other man's bedroom without a second thought beyond the fact that he didn't want to be alone at the moment either.

Warm kisses touched his neck several times, as if Sherlock were trying out gentle to see if it fit him. John thought he might never get use to how warm the detective could be, in spite of how cold the man could make himself appear. He was so warm that John half understood why it might burn him down.

It only took a few relatively silent minutes to pull off the layers of clothes between the two of them. Sherlock was quick to push John back on to the bed, moving his trail of kisses over the newly exposed flesh. It was different still from what they'd done before. Tender maybe. Sherlock's lips mapped out strange parts of his body. Landed on each of John's finger tips, just above his belly button, spent several semi-uncomfortable for John minutes over the ragged scar on his shoulder. Semi-uncomfortable until he swore he heard Sherlock whisper thank you to a bullet wound before moving up to capture John's mouth again. The doctor didn't question out loud why the other man did this and perhaps that had been important.

With mad scientist nails pressed into the skin on his sides, John reached a careful hand into the space between them, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's length. He stroked up and down, setting a firm pace but never tearing his eyes away from the black holes of Sherlock's. The good doctor's own breath hitched when one slender set of fingers mirrored his own actions, sending pleasurable waves from the friction through his body. John gripped on the small of Sherlock's back tightly, cursing softly. The other man pulled away from the eye contact at last, burying a head of curls into John's neck. The doctor felt the body over top of him contract before tumbling over the edge and was quick to follow suit, letting the blank white take over his vision. Until John Watson was sure that he hadn't actually fallen apart into a million undone pieces, when his world came back into focus and everything was Sherlock Holmes.

There was the breath of a contented sigh against the still sweaty skin of John's neck, a nose nudging it's way further into the space there.

"Please, God, let me live," Sherlock mumbled happily while John had been busy tracing small circles on too soft skin which he had silently vowed to never allow the sun to burn.

"What's that?"

"Please, God, let me live. I think I can understand it now, why you might choose those in your very last few seconds," the detective explained in the same contented tone before quickly falling asleep.

It was only when John had laid awake much later than that, watching the precious ins and outs of lungs he was trying to convince himself would continue to work even if he closed his eyes, that John's mind acknowledged the words which had been spoken to the space where John's neck met his shoulder by the cracked detective as he came.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

"You're staring," came from just under the edge of the duvet in a sleep raspy voice.

"I know."

"You said that was rude, that people don't like being looked at all the time," Sherlock accused, voice firmer this time as the bright pale green eyes came into focus more.

"Do you mind?" John countered lazily, mind busy trying to figure out if Sherlock kept these crisp sheets for the sake of making himself look somehow soft and made of something other than angles. It didn't seem like a crazy idea in the early morning haze.

"It's alright," the detective admitted as he scooted closer to John to fill the space sleep had put between them and draped a lazy long arm over John's chest.

Now. Now the doctor was absolutely certain he could die happy.

John leaned to press a kiss to the detective's forehead quickly, a tiny voice in his head telling him to brace himself for the scolding such a small display of sentiment would earn him. Instead, when he settled back down, it was to the sight of a pouting Sherlock. "What is it?"

"You didn't wake me up," Sherlock whined in a way John wasn't aware one could do after the age of three.

"Was I supposed to?," the doctor was unable to stop confusion from drawing itself over his features, trying to remember when he'd agreed to do that.

"Of course you were John, I've a very interesting case to get on with and here you are letting me waste away. Can't leave it to the Yard to figure out, can we?," the other man questioned with mirth in his eyes, shaking his head at John.

"They should be properly out of their depths by now," Sherlock added with an honest to god grin, pressing his own lips to John's cheek so that the doctor could actually feel the corners of that mouth pulling upwards before the detective promptly launched himself out of bed. Presumably to find the perfect battle suit for the day.

"And you're going to show up to point out exactly what level their stupidity has reached today?," John asked, quirking his brow so his expression matched what he had no doubt was a word for word quote from the detective himself.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, it's my business to know what other people don't know," the other man said with a sniff. Still, John smiled at how pleased Sherlock couldn't help looking at the idea of starting his day out doing precisely as John had guessed.

Sherlock's P.O.V

"In your own time. But quite quickly."

John scowled at him but it hardly mattered.

God, people are stupid.

How can they stand it? All that uselessness has to wear a person down eventually. Press on their tiny skulls until the hollow containers implode.

"How do you people get up in the morning, is it sheer force of will?," he grumbled crossly, feeling his skin itch watching Lestrade flip through pages of the report painfully slowly. A toddle could outpace the man as far as reading went. It was a trial on Sherlock's nerves.

"Yeah, first thought in my head this morning was that I really hope I get to ruin Sherlock Holmes' day today," the DI answered dully – which caused a scowl to fully form on the detective's face.

"Just get on with it, some of us are trying to stop a murderer," Sherlock clipped, working furiously to not be overly offended by every breath the grey haired man took which wasn't used to give him all the available data.

"Sherlock," John warned with a sigh.

Ignoring the growing irrational concern that John Watson was going to wear out his lungs too soon if he kept breathing like that, Sherlock merely intensified his glare at the stupid sitting across from him.

"Look, there's not a lot to tell. Kingston Benjamin Moran, thirty two and single. Live in his current apartment for 14 months. He was born in London, went to Eton and then decided to join the force. Been living in London ever since. Money came from a trust fund set up before his parents died while he was in school. All his mates we could interview said he had been acting strange and skittish lately, more distant. No steady girlfriend in months. Chief of his division said he's been calling in sick or passing off cases when he was on the clock. I tracked down his brother, but they weren't close. Brother was in the army, been away for quite a few years and I'm sure John can tell you calling back home isn't all that easy," Lestrade listed off for him, looking to more exasperated each second that Sherlock did not share in said exasperation.

"If we didn't have you telling us different, I'd be damn close to calling this one a suicide and letting it go," the DI finished.

"It's not surprising that the man's friends and family are idiots, most everyone is. However, you need to get me access to any cases he had in the last few months and you should cross reference any shootings with the gun used on Mr. Moran. Odds are we're looking at a revenge killing. Family member of a criminal perhaps, more likely a family member of a victim that thinks their dearly beloved didn't get proper treatment," Sherlock contemplated out loud, though his hands gestured out a list of each point he made without any active thought put into it. Uncontrollable things. The last few days had taught him that at least.

"What makes you think the killer is connected to a victim in one of Moran's cases?," John asked, obviously struggling to keep up. Sherlock vowed to always find John needing further clarification endearing, a clear sign that a curious mind existed in the wonderful man. He would not think about how the skull never asked him such tedious questions.

"We're looking for connections John. This man wasn't killed randomly on the street, or for money as we can tell from the perfectly intact flat and bank accounts. So, barring a mentally ill man plotting murder for no reason, revenge and crimes of passion are the best bet for motives. Love is a powerful motivator," Sherlock said with a smile, savouring the knowledge that John was supressing an eye roll so that Sherlock would keep going. Delicious.

"But Moran's been isolating himself, cutting people off. No close friends, no girlfriend, doesn't see his brother. Who would kill the man so methodically when there was no one in his life to care so much? So, not love for him- love for someone else. Could be someone he helped convict, but Moran only ever did regular police work. Run of the mill criminals, unlikely that one of them had the means to pull this kind of stunt. Even more unlikely that they would use the note to draw our attention to it after the fact. Family of a wronged victim though, there's a grudge that runs much deeper. Feels they weren't given due course, that Moran slipped up somewhere. Have to make him pay for that. Explains why he was killed like that, staged suicide with a gun to his head. Wants us to know that Moran ought to have felt guilty, unable to live with what he did. So, we'll check the old cases won't we," the detective concluded with a smug smirk, having reduced both of the other men in the room to wide eyed guppies once again.

"Fantastic," John told him with that dazed smile he got whenever Sherlock was being particularly clever. It was a small, delightful thing which Sherlock allowed himself to bask in for a full twenty three seconds.

Starlight. Starlight indeed.

"Have the files sent to Baker Street by your least annoying officers. If I so much as smell Anderson coming round the corner, I'm off the case and you'll be left to drown in your own ineptitude," he told Lestrade solemnly, as if the detective truly regretted to inform the DI of this. Not true of course.

He relished any opportunity to see the other man squirm, hopelessly stuck between a rock and one Sherlock Holmes.

"We need to get to Bart's John," no point in waiting around watching Lestrade wait around for any results.

And he was not taking part in any hideous small talk.

"Now?," the doctor questioned but stood up any way with a look of apology to the DI slumped over his desk.

"Yes, now. Molly's waiting," Sherlock informed him with a quick twirl of his coat as he walked out the door.

The Cheshire cat grin pulled at the muscles of his lips again as the detective fought to not be too pleased with the idea of a long afternoon spent in a morgue with John.

A failed effort, but Sherlock was willing to overlook it. He couldn't help that John looked adorable when trying to guess which body part he was going to have to try and convince Sherlock he didn't absolutely need for the sake of science or a case.

John's P.O.V

Thumbs.

Had he been alone, John might have pinched himself. Since Sherlock was still glaring at him and Molly was still looking like a deer caught in headlights, John settled for merely blinking. Several times, just to be absolutely sure he wasn't hallucinating from some poison the detective hadn't warned him about. But no. Nothing in the lab at Bart's changed despite multiple attempts by John's eyelids. Not one thing.

So this was real life.

This was really his life, to be clear.

John Hamish Watson did indeed live in a world where thumbs were considered a good compromise.

"Sherlock – no."

John, you're being incredibly unreasonable."

*** Sherlock had wanted arms. Had been quick to tell poor sweet Molly just that the second they finished going over the evidence of Moran's shirt to find that the residue was as inconclusive as Sherlock had predicted. The detective had insisted that arms were necessary to test how the gun needed to be held as well as what type of hands would have been needed to do the holding if they ever wanted to limit the pool of possible suspects. So arms, necessary and obvious apparently.

John had been quick to turn down this idea. This somehow let Sherlock think they were bargaining for what could and could not be kept in the fridge back at Baker Street.

"Hands then John, you can't deny me that. They're so much smaller but I should be able to get accurate results if I can get en-,"

"No- absolutely not. More hands than arms isn't better Sherlock. Why can't you just read the articles on gun powder, it's not like they get published for fun you know."

John may as well have said that they should stop by the river on the way home to drown a bag of kittens. He could have said that he fancied Sherlock in one of those grey tracksuits people at the gym always wore. It would have done just as well to announce right then and there that he never wanted to drink another drop of tea, so long as he may live. Those would have been fine alternatives to saying that Sherlock should put a little faith in the conclusions reached by a brain that wasn't his.

Judging by the bewildered and slightly horrified look the doctor received at the suggestion.

Then they'd reached thumbs. ***

"It's not unreasonable, plenty of people don't want thumbs in with the vegetables," John protested adamantly.

"Well those people obviously aren't as dedicated to the important work," the detective retorted with a decisive nod of his head, saying the word work the way a saint might proclaim the word of the holy spirit.

"The work doesn't always require body parts you know, not every case needs it," a weaker argument made by a man who didn't see victory coming his way.

"Only the good ones," Sherlock agreed with an airy sigh, as if this was a burden that John shared with him and hoped would one day change too.

He did not stop the extravagant eye roll this time and the other man looked properly put out.

""It's just a bit of thumbs John, it's really not that bad. You won't even notice. What if I only use them for the gun powder tests? You can throw them out like you do all my best experiments after the case," was the bargain Sherlock made, pouting quite heavily by the end of it at his own mention of all the precious data lost simply because John couldn't stand the smell of decomposition for a wee bit longer.

The detective did have the good sense to turn up the puppy dog look to go along with the pouting though, an effort not missed by the doctor.

"Alright fine," followed by an enormous Watson sigh.

"But you should really start saving those looks Sherlock, they aren't going to get you out of everything," John added, forcing himself not to grin right along with the mad man who had perked up quite nicely when John had finally allowed a dash of corpse to reside in the flat again.

"Brilliant John- don't just stand there Molly, wrap up your freshest quick before he gets around to changing his mind," Sherlock was quick to scold the mousey girl who jumped at his words in half a second before hurrying to follow orders. John watched the other man grin so excitedly that it was easy to picture the detective rubbing his hands together while cackling madly about how he was going to get you my pretty. A sight that both melted John's heart and made him seriously question the sanity level of anyone living in 221B.

"Try not to look so pleased with yourself, it's not decent. People will think you were raised by wolves," John reminded him in the best serious definitely not amused tone he could muster.

Which does nothing but make Sherlock beam even more brightly at him.

"Not wolves John. Mycroft scared them away before the adoption papers could go through unfortunately.

Authors Note: The case continues next week! Do let me know what you think, I love the feedback!