Alrighty, so far so good :) Moriarty's being a nuisance, our favourite boys are getting stressed and I'm squeeing with delight at the fact Benedict Cumberbatch sings 'Come fly with me' on radio series 'Cabin Pressure'.

First 'Sherlock' series: 2010. Seond series: 2012. TWO FREAKING YEARS? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME BBC?

Sorry, I just screamed at you all, ignore me XD

...

Sherlock watched the colour drain out of John's face. The hand holding the photograph trembled slightly as John took in the message. Their eyes met, and Sherlock could see John looked as sick as he felt.

'Him?' John whispered.

Sherlock nodded grimly, 'I'm afraid so.'

'But...him him?'

'John I think you covered it with the first 'Him?'.'

John thrust the photograph back at him, which he took and shoved back into his trouser pocket. Myroft had told him Moriarty was still at large in other parts of the world, but surely he wouldn't so stupid as to come back? Sherlock had made it quite clear to the madman what would happen if he returned. (a threat of the 'Come near us again and I'll rip your lungs out' variety.) Now he was back, not only back, but openly teasing him. Sherlock, for one, was not bloody going to stand for it. Moriarty could piss off and leave him and John alone.

'Does Lestrade know?' John asked shakily, interuppting Sherlock's thoughts. He nodded.

'Mycroft too. My dear brother's annoyingly offered to give us "special" protection.'

'How nice of him.' John murmured. Sherlock took hold of John's fingers and gave them a light squeeze.

'Let's not get too worried-'

'Worried? He's just killed a child Sherlock! This man hired a serial killer just to get your attention! I don't wanna go through that again...'

'John it's alright.' Sherlock lied, squeezing John's hand harder, bringing his other hand to touch John's face. 'I won't let that happen.'

John didn't look too convinced.

...

Mycroft was not having a good day.

Couldn't this blasted country cope for five minutes without him holding it's hand? Not only was there a frightful scandal within parliament (Mycroft had had to pay an alpaca rearer nearly four million to hush it up) but other powerful countries were pressuring them all to switch to another powerful country's side, and his coffee was cold.

Sighing, the elder Holmes leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. Now he had his little brother's psychotic criminal stalker to deal with.

Maybe I should go on holiday, I hear Spain's nice this time of year...

The office door opened to reveal his assistant, who was going by the name 'Marianne' now, bringing him a file of delicate matters.

'Sir, can I say something?' she asked timidly, Mycroft looked up.

'Fire away dear.'

'You don't look well. Are you alright?'

Mycroft opened his mouth to deliver a well practiced 'Of course I'm alright, but thank you anyway' but found he couldn't. He'd have to find some new staff, wide brown eyes looking at him with concern was incredibly distracting. With a sigh he shrugged his shoulders in a non-commital fashion. She was not his therapist, and he certainly did not need to whinge about his problems, he had a country to run.

Suddenly Anth-Marianne, did something he never expected. She hugged him.

It was brief, but Mycroft was definetly enveloped in two arms that had a reassuring warmth and pressure to them. He was so shocked he almost said her real name. After a few seconds the pressure was gone, she picked up his cup of cold coffee.

'I'll go refill this for you.' she said simply and turned to go.

'Marianne.' Mycroft barked sharply, she turned back in surprise.

'Thanks.' he finished lamely. There was a flash of smile, and she was gone.

Humanity was rubbing off on him, no wonder Sherlock was in such a mess. It was baffling as to how a smile or a word could dull the brain so much. Sherlock was a smooth, cold thinking machine, now all it took was a word from John Watson and his little brother would become stupid. With Moriarty back, both men were in danger, that much was certain. If Sherlock had any hope of ending things with Moriarty, he'd have to keep his emotions in check.

...

John stared at the steam rising from his coffee mug. Sherlock sat opposite him, fingers flying over the keypad of his phone. The two of them were sat outside a coffee shop, it's decorated awning making little rustling sounds as the wind trickled through.

John heard Sherlock sigh and shift his weight in the plastic seat. 'You've got questions.' he said simply, once again showing that uncanny ability of reading John like a book.

'Er...yeah.' John admitted, like you can deny it to his face, 'Just one, if your crazy 'nemesis' is showing up again, why was your first course of action to drag us to a cafe?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a 'oh please' fashion; 'Why not?' he shrugged.

'Oh I see,' John teased, 'This is you freaking out.'

'Excuse me I am not freaking out. I am merely showing that we will not be intimidated.'

'We?' John blurted, 'Speak for yourself, I'm terrified of the bugger-'

'Which is exactly what he wants.' Sherlock interjected smoothly, sipping at his cup of espresso, 'I for one don't want to give him the satisfaction. It's all a game with him remember? The message was just taunting us.'

'Couldn't he just go na na na na naaaaa? Why murder a child?'

'Why strap you to a bomb? I don't know how his depraved mind works.'

John took that to mean the end of the conversation. Everything about Sherlock was sharper than usual, like he was a fox on the alert for the sound of dogs. Although John himself hadn't been totally calm about it either, he'd been jumpy ever since they left Baker Street, half expecting to find Moriarty just behind his shoulder.

Let him come, I want to give him a piece of my mind.

'John?' Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts, John glanced at him as he felt smooth fingers stroke the back of his hand. It wasn't often Sherlock did such a blatant display of affection in public, and though it wasn't entirely unwelcome, John felt rattled.

'Be careful okay?' Sherlock said.

'I'm always careful, you know me.' He smiled back, Sherlock didn't seem amused. If anything, his slight frown increased.

'Please John, I'm not joking. I know I'm an unfeeling bastard at times, but I'll be most put out if Moriarty did you in.'

John laughed, causing a small smile to play across Sherlock's face. 'You know what? I don't think I'd be too happy either.'

Too right you won't.

'Shall we get back?' Sherlock asked, and for a split second, John swore he could see an honest-to-God glint of mischief in those silver eyes.

'Yeah why not?'

...

It was a wonder Sherlock managed to open the door at all with his hands eagerly finding their way inside John's shirt. John, for his part, only managed to keep them from falling through the door through sheer force of will. Not that Sherlock minded, succumbing to the law of gravity would have seriously hindered him in his task of taking John's clothes off. John steered them both onto the sofa, doing something with his tongue Sherlock was surprised was even physically possible. A few of the scars on John's torso had healed in the months they'd been together, so they'd been able to get over most of John's insecurities about his appearance. The word 'WORTHLESS' was still there. Sherlock had long since learned to be blind when it came to John's scars, but he could never quite get John to take off the eye-patch. Despite Sherlock's numerous insistances that the patch made him look particularly rugged and sexy, John would not get rid of it, not even for him.

John's hands ran through his hair, Sherlock vaguely wondered how John would react if he ever shaved his head.

Then, to the massive disappointment of both of them, the phone rang.

The two men broke apart, Sherlock lying in a undignified heap on top of John, who let out a throaty chuckle.

'I hate technology.' He breathed. Sherlock grunted in response and heaved himself off of the sofa with supreme effort. The phone cut through the flat with a shrill ring, tearing the still air in two.

'Alright, alright I'm coming!' Sherlock growled, John smirked.

'Are you now?'

Sherlock picked up a cushion from John's chair and threw it at the laughing man. Picking up the phone he endeavoured to rebutton his shirt at the same time, not the easiest of tasks in hindsight.

'Sherlock Holmes.' He said, wathing John pull himself into a sitting posistion.

'Sherlock? It's me.'

'Lestrade.' Sherlock informed the room in general. John's smile transformed into a slightly worried frown. Jering his thumb in the direction of his room John mouthed 'I'll go change' and gestured at his rumpled appearance (all Sherlock's handiwork). Sherlock nodded and switched his attention back to the phone.

'What's wrong?'

'Just checking to see you're ok. Some of our CCTV team think they saw a man fitting Moriarty's description around your area of London.'

Sherlock's grip on the phone tightened. 'Are you sure?'

'It's not concrete, but I just wanted to let you know. And Sherlock-'

Whatever Lestrade had to say was cut off as a blood curdling yell ripped through the flat. It had come from John's room.

'John?' Sherlock called, dropping the phone to the floor. It took less than fifteen steps for Sherlock to run upstairs to his boyfriend's bedroom.

'John?' He called again, pushing the door open. What met his eyes made him freeze for an instant.

John was on the floor, along with a rotting corpse.

At a glance, Sherlock guessed the body as that of a male in his mid fifties, and had fallen on John (had been hidden in the warbrobe possibly).

An overwhelming stench filled the entire room, causing Sherlock to gag and clamp his hand over his mouth and nose for a second to steady himself. The corpse itself was a gruesome spectre. Moist slack flesh was falling away from the bones, the mouth slack and eyes disintergrating down the cheeks. The skin was of a ghastly pale pallour. Patches of bone were exposed due to the skin being chewed away by rodents and were mottled grey. Long greasy streaks were staining John's clothing as the juices of putrification seeped from orifices and gashes in the skin. John's hands were scrabbling to push it off himself, his face etched with horror.

Sherlock was at his side in an instant, pulling the body off and kneeling next the recoiling John.

'John! It's alright! It's me!' He said hurriedly, wrapping his hands around his boyfriend, who continued to gape at the hideous sight. Both men were breathing harshly, and Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat thump against his own.

For a terribly long moment, neither of them moved, staring at the rotted heap on the floor. Sherlock drew a large breath, despite his nose telling him it was a most unwise thing to do.

'Any other ex-boyfriends I should know about?' he asked casually, straightening his collar.

John craned his neck to look at him, an incredulous look plastered over his face, then emited a shaky laugh.

'N-no, I think that's the last one.'

Sherlock sighed and pressed his forehead into John's arm, who sagged against him, closing his eyes.

'Lestrade.' Sherlock snapped suddenly. John lanced at him, confused.

'Huh?'

'Lestrade. I left him on the phone.' He explained, scrabbling to his feet. The corpse's eyes stared at the ceiling blankly and Sherlock found himself fighting his gag reflex, a novel experience. Pausing briefly to help John up, Sherlock bounded back to the phone where Lestrade's voice was still issuing, panicked from the phone.

'Sherlock? SHERLOCK WHAT'S HAPPENING?'

'It's alright, still alive.' Sherlock said curtly, sweeping the phone to his ear. The relieved sigh was thunderous from the reciever.

'Thank God. John?'

'Also alive.'

'What the fuck just happened?'

Sherlock glanced to John who was emerging, ashen faced and nauseous, from his room. The stench of the body was now rapidly filling the entire flat.

'Lestrade we have a problem.'

...

Hours later, John sat in the bath, rippling the surface of the water with the tips of his fingers. Lestrade and the forensics team had eagerly inspected the nightmare that fell from his wardrobe, packing it away in a bodybag. It would take a little time for the DNA tests to reveal the identity of the poor sod.

Those few seconds burned in the forefront of John's mind. He remembered opening the wardrobe door to look for a cleaner shirt then that...that thing tumbling out and landing squarely on top of him. It had taken a few seconds to register what exactly had occured, but when he did, John had found his brain hadn't been able to do anything but scream. He thought he could still feel it on his skin. He needed the water to try and wash it away. What had hit him most was the smell, he knew that smell. He had smelt it in Afghanistan, when he saw a mass open grave. It had a funny way of burning at the back of the throat, stining and pungent.

John heaved a sigh and splashed a handful of water over his head.

The bathroom door squeaked open, John didn't even bother looking up as Sherlock padded his way to the side of the bath and perch himself on the edge.

'Are you alright?' came the familiar deep purr. John glanced at him.

'Of course I'm alright. How about you?'

Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face; it seemed a mixture of pity and relief. It was not a facial expression John was accustomed to seeing.

'Sherlock?'

Suddenly two arms encircled John's damp shoulders and pulled him to Sherlock's side, his wet hair soaking a shirt that probably cost more than John's entire wardrobe.

'Sherlock your shirt-'

'Gets wet in the wash anyway.' Sherlock interjected. 'I'm sorry.'

John nearly choked. 'What? What for? You didn't stuff a body in my wardrobe.'

Sherlock did an odd little huff-laugh thing. 'Poor John, will you never have a normal week?'

'Living with you? Never.'

The water was stone cold before either of them moved again.

...

I really must apologise to John. The more I love a character, the more I will abuse them.

Next chapter: Who was the body in the wardrobe? And John meets Ruard, Sherlock is embarrased.

See ya next time x