Sherlock sprinted down the street, finally catching up with the Detective Inspector.
"Lestrade!"
He huffed trying to catch his breath quickly.
The Detective Inspector spun around,caught of guard by the sight of the impeccably dressed Sherlock double over, taking deep breaths of air.
He was equally as surprised to see an even more remarkably dressed John Watson sprinting towards the two of them.
"Sherlock? John? What in the name of-"
"The case."
Sherlock huffed, righting himself.
John caught up to them then, leaning against Sherlock as he tried to catch his own breath.
"Gees John! You alright?"
Lestrade stepped forward, wrapping a hand around John's shoulder, helping him stand straight up.
"Yea. I'm- I ,uhh...Just out of... breath."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to wrench his blogger away from the Detective Inspector.
Instead he opted for snapping at the former doctor.
"It's most likely due to the significant lack of physical activity in the previous few years. That, no doubt, was brought on by your completely irrational psychological trauma stemming from my obviously feigned death. The case Lestrade."
Both Greg and the former doctor looked up at him, astonished and more than slightly angered at his remark.
"A simple strangling. Third one this week. I thought that you might enjoy something small to get you back into the swing of things but it's clear to me now that you are nowhere near ready to be back out in the field."
Lestrade's comment bit at the detective, his features softening, hurt pooling behind his eyes.
John saw this and sighed.
"Greg, give'im the case. He's just being a dick because he's bored."
Lestrade examined the former doctor's features carefully,brow furrowed as he searched for any sort of resentment at the comment that he had relieved from Sherlock.
Finding none, he shook his head, turning his full attention to the detective.
"Alright. I have a car coming for us."
He pointed in front of him,face scrunched in fury.
"But anymore remarks like that to John or anyone else at the sight and I'll see to it that you're never allowed at another crime scene in this hemisphere what your brother says be damned."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded in agreement regardless.
As the car pulled up to the curb for them, Sherlock was the first to crawl in, Lestrade behind him and John on the other side much to the displeasure of the consulting detective.
John smirked at the ever increasing tension in the car, his head turned to peer out the window.
The DI fidgeted in his seat.
He could feel Sherlock tensing beside him, the way that the cold-as-iceman was boiling over with barely repressed anger.
It was something that he had felt before, during the three years that the detective had been presumed dead.
Back when he had been forced to relay to Sherlock that his blogger had moved on and was planning on moving away.
He bit his lip nervously, praying that they were getting closer to the crime scene.
Never, in his life, had he been so glad to see the flashing of siren lights.
Sherlock was the first to get out of the car, his long legs striding purposefully towards the yellow tape.
He dashed under, letting the strip of plastic snap back into place right in front of the detective inspector.
Petty, yes, but worth it.
When John arrived at the line, however, Sherlock held the tape up, letting the former doctor pass under before walking after him.
The short walk to the body was filled with murmurs and shocked stares.
Of all of them, none was as dramatic as Anderson, who nearly collapsed against the side of the cruiser he had been standing by.
John had to smirk at that, though the detective kept his composure and didn't even grace the others at the scene with his attention.
The pair stopped at the stoop of row house, the body laying crumpled on the steps.
Even from a distance the see purple marks on the skin were visible.
"Well it appears that you were correct about the strangulation, like that wasn't obvious."
He stepped close, John not far behind.
"Rigorous Mortus has not fully set it, so dead less than twenty four hours."
The consulting Detective bent over the body of the dead man.
"Thirty five years old, not married. No children or long term partner. Judging by the state of his clothing he was just leaving this house, obviously trying to get out before the resident awoke, judging by the estimated time of death. A one night stand."
Sherlock glanced around him, ignoring the shocked looks on the faces around him, nor did he see the tears that were pooling in his bloggers eyes.
"Resident is male, around the age of thirty two. Not the murderer, obviously, though I suspect you idiots have him in custody anyway."
He noticed a few shoe prints, barely visible despite the moderate sunshine, on the corner of the stoop.
"Your murdered sat and waited for the victim to leave the house, stood here for approximately thirty minutes. Premeditated then."
He took another gaze around this time, cataloging each and every detail of this environment, while simultaneously remaining oblivious the fact that John had slipped away.
"You're looking for a man, approximately 1.8 meters in height, and 14 stone. Average build."
The detective's attention caught n a mark across the back of the victims hand.
"John what do you think."
No answer, just the awkward shuffling and whispered murmurs of the yarders.
Sherlock glanced up, standing from his crouch when he didn't immediately see his blogger.
When he didn't see him at all, he panicked, the fear that etched itself on his features visible for each set of eyes to behold.
Open your eyes.
Observe!
Lestrade was still there, staring at him intensely, some of the forensics team were glancing over their shoulders-down the street- while the others where still staring at him, open mouthed.
Oh.
He did just come back from the dead, didn't he?
But where was John?
He made his way from the corpse, striding purposefully to Lestrade
"Sherlock, don't tell me that that's all that you've got for me."
The detective straightened his back, appalled.
"He just gave you a description of the murders, cause and time of death of the victim, confirmation that you do, in fact, have a serial killer on your hands, and proved the innocence of the man you have in custody. What else do you need?"
Lestrade umped, the sudden outburst from the unseen entity startling him, and apperently Sherlock as well.
John stepped out from behind forensic's truck, his eyes red rimmed, but his cheeks were free of tears.
"Honestly, it's like he never left. Now, for that mark on the victims hand, Sherlock, I have no idea what it is. Lestrade, would you send the crimescened photos and the files on the other two victims to the flat please?"
The DI simply nodded, dumbfounded by the sudden authority of the former doctor.
"Alright then. Are you done here Sherlock?"
The man held up a hand, asking for a moment.
He strode over to Anderson, who-by this point- had attempted to hide from sight.
"Anderson."
The man turned around, shock poorly disguised.
"Heh, well would you look at that. The infamous Sherlock Holmes arises from the dead to-"
"Arisen."
Anderson squinted at the detective.
"What?"
"The proper way to phrase that would be that 'The infamous Sherlock Holmes as arisen from the dead.'"
His face simply contorted with confusion as he replayed the sentence over again.
"Why don't you take a few eons to think on that."
Sherlock pulled John away , both men bursting into giggles as soon as the were out of earshot.
"Sherlock, you do realize that both sentences were grammatically correct, don't you?"
The consulting detective nodded, the grin that split his features feeling foreign.
"Why were you crying?"
John sighed.
"Why did you run out of the flat?"
The detective hesitated, a light bush tinting his cheeks while his smile fell.
"You said that you were 40, when you are 38."
The former doctor nodded, crossing his arms.
"Yes, I did, that doesn't explain anything."
Sherlock threw his hands up.
"Yes it does! John! You said that you were 40 when you are 38! You intentionally shortened your life by two years! I've already been forced to lose three years with you, why on earth would I not get upset over you trying to steal two more from me?"
The former doctor stood frozen him mouth suddenly dry.
"Sher- you really, I-"
He shook his head, glancing around him for somewhere, anywhere private.
This was not a conversation that they should be having in public.
John gripped the detective's hand and tugged him up the street, yanking him into the dimly lit corridor of an alleyway.
"Is that why you were upset?"
The detective nodded, running his hand through his mop of curls.
"Sherlock, just because I've rounded up my age doesn't mean I'm shortening anything. Hell you're the scientist, you should know."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I dabble in Chemistry John, I'm hardly a scientist. And it's the principle of it. I simply don't care for the idea that I have less time with you than I already do."
The doctors eyes softened and Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the man before him.
The thin and musty sunlight that filtered down through the alley left his his impossibly dark blue eyes and gray-blonde hair glittering.
He must have been staring, because John gently placed his hand on the detective's cheek.
"Sherlock are you okay?"
He managed a nod, before stooping his head down and crashing his lips against the doctor's.
The kiss was anything but chaste, heavy lips and heated movements forcing the detective against the wall, the brick shearing at the delicate silk shirt.
Neither man cared as they pressed infinitely closer to each other, Sherlock widening his stance so that the the former doctor could step between his legs.
He wormed is hands under John's blazer, tugging clumsily at his shirt in an effort to get his hands on skin.
Managing it to slide his fingers over the curve f John's back, one hand slipping down to grab the man's ass.
John, for his part, was doing a fantastic ob of ruining any semblance of order fund with Sherlock's hair.
He raked his fingers through the silken curls, admiring the sensation that he had gone far too long without.
Each pull at a curl drew a moan from the detective, a moan that John was quick to swallow.
It wasn't until John's mouth left Sherlock's and made its way to the detectives jawline that he remembered his original question.
"John."
The former doctor hummed against the skin that joined Sherlock's neck to his jaw.
"John why were you crying?"
The doctor dropped his head into Sherlock's shoulder with a sigh, his hands falling down to wrap lightly around the detective's middle.
"Because, well, because you were you, you know? You just- you were deducing things and rattling off information at a crime scene just like you always did. It was just, Christ I don't know, like a confirmation. The final nail in the proverbial coffin on the thought that this is a dream. You were standing there like you belonged, because you do. But, it was just a bit overwhelming you know? I finally have what I've wanted, I have no idea how to handle it."
Sherlock pulled his hands from the back of the doctor;s trousers and wrapped them tightly around his back, his palms lightly squeezing the warm flesh.
"I'm sorry you know. Truly sorry. It never occurred to me that this might be too much for you."
John chuckled into the detective's shoulder, before leaning up to kiss the underside of his chin.
"You are a brilliant moron. But you're my brilliant moron."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, a mischievous smirk affixing itself to his features.
Before the former doctor could stop him, Sherlock grab John's ass, earning a decidedly high pitched squeak from the doctor.
He bent his head down, and practically growled in John's ear.
"Let me make it up to you then."
John took a deep breath, nodding before stepping back, away from the detective.
He ran a hand in an attempt to tame his hair, straightened his blazer and nodded.