When I awake the next morning Anderson is gone. I am once again alone. The chiming of my phone stops me from grabbing a syringe. I answer the phone in a rage filled tone. "What?"

Lestrade answers me. "Jesus, I think you just took my hearing level down a few decibels."

I smile. "Why, Lestrade your vocabulary is improving. Maybe we should have a spelling contest."

"Sod, off Sherlock and get down here. We have another body with a missing toe. I'm texting you the address now," Lestrade orders.

I arrive at the murder scene and am surprised when Anderson falls in step with me. "Did you sleep alright?" He whispers just before we duck under the yellow police tape.

Not sure of what to say I just reply, "Fine, and you?"

Anderson smirks as he says, "I would have slept better if you'd have allowed me to suck…"

My face reddens as I slither under the yellow slick ribbon. For a moment I think of the case that you and I first worked on together. Anderson stands before me in the same blue, garb you wore that night. The soft color brings out his eyes. He is not all together unattractive but he is not you. I miss you John. I am so immersed in my own thoughts that I don't see a dip in the pavement. I hit the ground hard.

"Bloody, cobblestones," I curse aloud as I attempt to stand up.

Anderson is by my side in an instant. He helps me up and leads me over to a low stone wall. He sucks in a breath of air as he inspects the results of my fall. My trousers are torn and bloody knees poke out of each leg.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're hurt," Anderson says as he gets up and then grabs a kit by his side. I don't flinch as he cleans my wounds. I hold my legs apart a little farther than necessary to give up access to both knees. His breath comes in short gasps as he stares at my crotch. Though my actions were meant to tease, I end up feeling the heat as well. Anderson continues to stare and then in a quick movement he cups me. Then he jerks his hand away. "Jesus, Sherlock I'm sorry," he stammers.

I bite down on my lower lip, appalled when a slight moan escapes. It isn't the ringtone on my phone. Anderson' breath is coming in shorter gasps now as he relishes the dissipating humidity my sweat has left on his palm. My eyes grow wide for it appears as if he is going to orgasm right before my eyes. I lick my lips and wobble to my feet, then sit back down as Donavan approaches.

"Well, what are you two doing?" Donavan askes as she looks from me to Anderson. She then raises an eyebrow as she observes my knees. "Well, judging from the state of your knees it looks as if you've been scrubbing Anderson's floors." Then like the cat that got the canary she stalks off.

Anderson and I look at each other and then laugh. He then holds out his hand to help me up. I take it aware that Donavan is still watching us. When Anderson is convinced that I can stand he asks for my phone.

"What do you need my phone for?" I ask as we limp closer to Donavan.

"Just give it to me," Anderson demands.

My groin jumps a little at his commanding tone and then I hand over my phone without comment. Anderson takes my phone, has me unlock the screen and then sends a text. Afterwards he hands me the phone and then walks away. I look at the text. It is to John. I stare at the blue bubble where the message resides. It reads: When are you coming home?

There is no 'love Sherlock' just a simple question. Anderson is at the doorway to the flat. He turns to look at me. Though his expression is neutral, his eyes are full of pain. I have seen that expression many times. I have felt that expression many times, every time I look at you, dearest John. What a bastard cupid is.

Once inside the flat, Anderson and I go about our work in silence. "The victim is male, in his 30's and appears to have choked on a piece of the roast beef he was eating," Anderson states aloud as he encircles the body like a hound treeing its prey.

I watch him in appreciation for a moment or two and then start on a circular pattern of my own. Together we go around the corpse in concentric circles. Then we both start to speak at once.

I stop and stare at your lips, making sure you aren't going to speak. Then I become engrossed by the hairs of your beard, the way they cling to your lips like twigs cling to a thatched roof. I wonder if they are soft. I decide then and there I prefer Anderson with a beard. I clear my throat in order to focus my thoughts. Then I sniff the corpse as I examine it more thoroughly. I frown as I stand up, wincing as I crash my bloodied knee against the table leg.

"I detect no poison, blunt trauma to head or neck, the larynx is engorged with roast beef but not crushed." I state as Anderson watches me.

His pupils dilate, they are black as he says, "I guess he should have chewed his meat better so that he could swallow such a large mouthful."

I can't take the pressure, so I begin to pace. "The fly in the ointment, the fly in the ointment," I say aloud several times. Then I begin to pound the sides of my temples. Anderson reaches out and stills my agitated hands. Soon the rest of the team will enter the room. I can hear their approach. Just before they enter the room Anderson whispers into my ear, "Sherlock, let me take you to a gay bar."

I swallow and then the noise of the investigation team swirls around me. Confused and conflicted, I give a quick report to Lestrade and then make my way outside. I squint as the morning sun pounds against my sensitive eyes in an unrelenting stream of light. I hate the sun and the whole bloody solar system.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade asks in concern as he leads me to the shade.

"I'm fine," I mutter and then stumble into a cab and back to Baker Street. I need a fix.

Once I get back to the flat, I push past a concerned Mrs. Hudson and make my way upstairs. I only have two balloons left. With shaky hands I heat up the bag, fill a syringe and plunge the needle in. I use a little more the usual so that I can sleep the day away. A few moments later my eyes close and my mind stills. It is sheer bliss.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" A voice calls out to me and attempts to rouse me by shaking my shoulder.

I open my eyes and there stands Anderson. He has on a black button down silk shirt, tight black jeans, black leather boots and a black matching jacket. I am ashamed to admit that he looks hot. "You look ridiculous. Are you going on a date?" I ask in the most patronizing voice I can manage.

Anderson reaches out and pulls me to my feet. "Yes and so are you. We're going to a gay bar, remember?"

I like the way his hands rest on my hips as he says, "Come on, Sherlock, you look fine. We've got a dinner reservation so come on."

I stare at Anderson and then smile. I am going to make this the date from hell. I start first by grinding my pelvis into his back as we ride on his motorcycle through the rain soaked streets of London. Everything is wet, just the way I like it.