Ok ok I hate my brain. At 11:55 pm I really really wanted to sleep, then sat bolt upright going 'Is 'smelt' even the right term?' So, after an internal struggle for grammatical correctness, slumped back down and thought 'Screw it'. Any errors you see forthwith are entirely down to my ever increasing stupidity. I was also chugging this chapter out at around the rate of a sentence a day, work's getting kinda hectic.

Also, rewatching the very last scene of the first series, I wondered if anyone else found Andrew Scott's voice incredibly sexy too? Or is it just me?

...

Three days later, John idly thumbed the pages of his oft-read copy of Wuthering Heights, Sherlock had been spot on when he'd deduced it was John's favourite book. The pages were of a faded yellow and the binding was deteriorating before his very eyes. Valiantly John tried to keep the pages together, Sherlock eyes him from his usual spot on the sofa.

'Why don't you just get another copy?'

John shrugged, 'I've had this since I was fourteen, it's kinda...special you know?'

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow, 'So you'd rather not have it replaced?'

'No.'

Sherlock shifted posistion and fiddled in his pockets. Making little mumbles like 'where is the damn thing?' and 'I know it's here somewhere' he finally withdrew a small white business card.

'An acquaintance of mine dabbles in the bookbinding business.' He said mildly, standing up and handing it to John (about two pages fell out of the whilst John took it), John looked at the neat red typing, which read:

Arthur Ruard; Bookeeper and Bookbinding service.

John stared at the name. Ruard...where had he heard that name before? His memory stirred with the effort of trying to grasp the name's importance. He'd heard it before, he knew it...

'Ruard?'

'Lucky he owed me a favour, without his help I may never have found you.'

'Is this?-' he began, Sherlock nodded matter-of-factly.

John smiled and pocketed the card, 'Maybe I'll go now'. Hopefully he didn't seem too eager to meet a man who had been a vital part in saving his life. Sherlock didn't give any sign of having figured out John's motivations. Instead, he idly picked stray pieces of lint from John's jumper, John didn't mind, it was little domestic gestures like that that reminded him Sherlock wasn't totally a robot.

'I'll drop by if you do, I'm changing our locks today.'

John blinked in surprise, 'Beg pardon?'

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, but continued fiddling with the wool, 'You seem surprised?'

'Well yes Sherlock, you've just informed me that you're changing the locks!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as though John was being obtuse on purpose. 'It's simply a sensible course of action. Whoever put that body in your room-'

'We know who it was.'

'I don't want to risk them doing it again. I don't know how he got in, but I'd just feel more...comfortable.' He turned his eyes on John, wide and imploring, 'Don't make me beg John.'

Yeah, like I have any choice in the matter.

John relented 'All right, see ya around two then?'

Sherlock beamed and jumped up, grabbing at his coat and scarf. 'Excellent. Well, if you're off to Ruard's I'll stop by. Keep your old key just in case.'

John pulled himself from his chair, watching his boyfriend bounce around like a puppy that had just been told it was time for walkies. Sherlock almost ran out of the flat in his enthusiasm. John barely had time to grab his coat before following him.

'So, I'll see you around two then?'

'Er..I guess.' John blinked, watching Sherlock with a feeling torn between exasperation and amusement. He could be just like a child sometimes.

As the two men stepped out, Sherlock indulged in his magical cab-hailing powers and was gone in a matter of seconds. John had less luck, but managed to flag down a taxi in the end. Hastily reading out the address to a cantankerous old driver, John watched London sail past. It suddenly struck John that London was big. Big, old and immensly populated, Moriarty could be anywhere, anyone could be one of his 'people', even...

'Here you are.' snapped the driver, making John jump. Looking out the window John saw abulding with white and green awning, rippling innocently in the breeze. Handing the driver a handful of notes he got out, staring at the peaceful location. Inside the bookshop John could see a young blonde man pushing horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose as he bent over some sort of book. Could this be the man?

The man looked up as John pushed the door open.

'Can I help you?' he asked brightly. His voice had a French lilt. John entered, holding out his hand.

'Hi, I'm a friend of Sherlock Holmes, I'm-'

'You're Doctor Watson.' The young man said softly, fixing John with a strange stare. 'I know you.'

'Er...' John mumbled awkwardly, feeling his face grow hot. The young man walked around his desk and clasped John's hand in his, shaking it.

'I'm Arthur Ruard.'

So it was him, John had to admit, the guy seemed so young.

'Um...yeah, Sherlock talked about you.' he said, 'I heard about what you did...f-for me. I wanted to thank the man who helped save my life.'

This time it was Ruard who went a faint pinkish hue. 'You're welcome Doctor Watson.'

'John.'

'John.' Ruard smiled. Both men seemed to reach a silent mutual agreement of 'enough gushing' and John cleared his throat, retrieving the tattered copy of Wuthering Heights from his jacket pocket.

'Sherlock told me you did a bit of bookbinding?'

'Oui.' said Ruard, gently taking John's book from him. He then turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the cover and running his fingers over the spine.

'This needs quite a bit of work, seems everything has happened to it apart from fire. You've had it long?'

'Since I was a kid.' John admitted, it was true. For his favourite book John had abused it so, dropping it in a puddle when he was at Uni and so on.

'Well, I could do it today?' Ruard offered, John smiled again.

'Brillaint. How much?' he asked, fiddling around his pockets for his wallet. To his surprise Ruard waved his hand.

'No, for you and Monsieur Holmes, I do it for free.'

John paused, his wallet held aloft, 'It's no trouble-'

Ruard gave him a 'shut up' look and placed the book on his desk, he motioned for John to take one of the seats that littered the place and turned to him.

'Tea?'

'Please.'

One the two men were sipping at the steaming mugs, John cleared his throat;

'So...you know Sherlock?'

'Hmm? Yes.' Ruard replied, 'he helped me out of a sticky situation a while back.'

John raised an eyebrow, 'Really?'

'Better believe it John, and let me tell you, Monsieur Holmes knows how to handle a kettle...'

...

Sherlock saw the two men through the window, and studied them for a few seconds before going in. Both were laughing fit to burst, Ruard clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles. Though both were blonde, Sherlock could clearly tell by the slightly darker shade John was the other. In his pocket, the tips of his fingers felt the cold hard edge of the new keys, there were two, one for him, one for John.

John's shoulders were shaking with laughter, and as he turned his head slightly Sherlock could see John's cheeks were red. The sight of John in such mirth sent a bizarre thrill through Sherlock, it was a beautiful sight. If Sherlock had his way, he could watch John's face crumple up with laughter forever.

The two men's laughter was muffled through the door, but became steadily clearer as Sherlock entered.

'And then...' Ruard cried, tears running down his face and breath hitching, 'And then, I swear to God, he runs in, wearing nothing but a floral apron and waving a fork about...yelling 'Get to the ducklings!' '

Sherlock froze, Ruard was describing to John the case that Sherlock had solved and, in doing so, saved Ruard's life. Well, the events described were true (and he was sure as Hell not planning to tell John at any point, trying to keep some air of dignity) but Ruard was certainly making light of the matter.

'It was serious then, but now I look back on it, Mon Dieu que vous n'avez jamais rien vu de si drôle comme un détective conseil nue moitié brandissant des couverts!'

'Not as funny as you tripping over a rug into a suit of armour.' Sherlock cut in. John whipped round and smiled.

'Arthur's been telling me some stuff about that case you were on.' He said, seeming to regain some sort of self-control now Sherlock was in the room. Sherlock would have happily walked up to him and kiss that smile if Ruard had not been in the room.

'I'll tell you how it actually happened one day.'

'No, you'll cut out all the fun bits.' Ruard interjected. Sherlock shot him his best stop-destroying-my-enigmatic-persona look. He reached into his pocket and tossed one of the silver keys to John, who caught it. Once again, Sherlock was impressed at John's hand-eye co-ordination despite only having one eye.

'That one's yours, look after it.' He said. John pocketed it, stood up and gave Sherlock a brief hug.

'Thanks' he whispered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock felt his eyes close briefly of their own accord.

Oh great, I'm getting all touch-feely in a public place...

The moment was spoiled somewhat by Sherlock's phone, once again, going off.

'Who's that?' John asked mildly.

'Lestrade, he says there are developments on the body.'

John nodded, 'I'll head on home then.'

'You're not coming?'

'No.' John said, folding his arms, 'I'm not going near that thing again.'

Sherlock could see it was pointless arguing with him. 'Fine.' He said, 'I'll see you later.'

John smirked at him, then turned to Ruard;

'When will the book be done?'

'I'll get started on it this evening.' Ruard answered. 'See you in about two days.'

'Alright, fine. Nice meeting you.' John grinned. Sherlock held the door open for him and, after a quick goodbye, John walked off, chuckling about something that sounded remarkably like ducklings.

...

'Well?' Sherlock snapped impatiently.

Lestrade fiddled with his tie for the umpteempth time, 'I didn't want to tell you this over the phone-'

'Well I'm here now, so just tell me!' Sherlock really was starting to get pissed off, Lestrade had danced around the subject for all of seven minutes, the black body bag lying neatly on the table between them. Luckily the smell had abated somewhat due to the sterile environment of the lab.

Lestarde cleared his throat; 'Alright, the body's six months old...'

'I could have told you that. Anything important?, or did we just pop down here to state the obvious?'

Lestrade frowned at him, clearly not comfortable with whatever information he had for Sherlock.

'Well, we've identified him.'

'Brilliant!' Sherlock enthused 'Give me a name.'

Lestrade took a deep breath and looked Sherlock full in the eyes.

'It's Terry Markin.'

Sherlock's smile vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

...

The key fitted nicely into the lock, and with a soft click the door opened. John pushed it open and shrugged off his coat. It wasn't until he'd shut the door and turned to actually look at the flat that he saw, with a dreadful clarity, that he wasn't alone.

Sprawled upon the sofa like he owned the place was a slightly built man with dark hair and an impeccable suit. The man smiled, cold and unsettling.

'Hello Johnny.'

...

Phew. The chapter really hated me, there was a lot of talk. Well done to the Reviewer who saw the little twist coming :)

Next time: Jim indulges in a little banter, and offers the boys a rather interesting little proposition...