Chapter Four

And, before John Watson could stop himself, he was cupping Sherlock's sculpted face, the face of an angel, a fallen angel that John wanted to catch over and over again. 'You are so, so, beautiful.' He's ignoring the point. He's deliberately dodging my point.

'Only, because I've been lit up on the inside by somebody like you, my dear.'

'I need to kiss you. I want to kiss you.' I can be mad at him tomorrow. Later on. Later on …

'My dear, John Watson, do as you please …'

John blinked, hating himself for it, because he never wanted to look away from those beautiful blue eyes. The eyes staring back at John, shared the same admiration and love that John felt for Sherlock.

Sherlock had just instructed John to kiss him, so why wasn't he? What the hell is wrong with me? John pondered, hating himself for hesitating. 'I can't –' John stuttered. Those eyes were too much. 'I don't want to ruin this, Sherlock.'

'Then don't, my dear.'

For a moment, John wasn't quite sure what Sherlock meant. Although, his questions were soon quelled, by the sudden soft warmth of Sherlock's lips against his. It wasn't anything incredibly exciting to the onlooker, but it was passionate, simple and plain; something for the start of something; something meaningful. John could feel Sherlock opening his mouth slowly, step by step. John could tell Sherlock was nervous just as he was. Sherlock hesitantly let his hand slide around John's waist, pulling him closer. John moved his thumb across Sherlock's face, his lips pressing as close as they could to Sherlock's, deepening the kiss. John heard Sherlock gasp ever so slightly.

'Oh, God … I'm so sorry …'

Immediately, Sherlock backed off from the wall, and, in extension, John, who was pressed against the old wooden desk. John swore inwardly when he saw Mrs Hudson's small frame leaning against the door. She had a curious grin, and from what Sherlock could tell, she had been there for more than they wished her to have been.

John cleared his throat, still looking at his feet. 'Sherlock –' He didn't really know what to say. 'Sherlock was, ah, just fixing something.' Even with the thinking time, he didn't have anything good to say.

Mrs Hudson was finding it very hard to contain herself.

'Oh of course.' Mrs Hudson nodded in sarcastic earnest. 'I just didn't realise what need fixing was, um, so close.'

Sherlock's jaw twitched. John was staring at his feet as though the floor might open up and give him a way out. Hell would be better right now, John thought. The devil might show more mercy.

'Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock clearly wanted her out of here as much as John did. 'As our housekeeper, you should only be here if we need you.' He looked her dead in the eye. 'We do not at this moment, so what the bloody hell do you want?' Sherlock tried to be stern, but he couldn't help thinking about John; how he was right across the room, and especially how his lips felt.

Mrs Hudson, though still smirking, managed to say, 'Greg is downstairs waiting for you.'

'Greg? Who is Greg?'

'Greg Lestrade, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson said impatiently.

'Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hudson. That's not his name.' John rolled his eyes so hard he gave himself a headache. 'His name is Graham or something.'

'Oh for God's sake, Sherlock.' Sherlock looked at John incredulously.

And Lestrade couldn't just come up here himself?' Sherlock said, although, he really did prefer that it was Mrs Hudson who walked in, rather than Lestrade. There would be no end to the torment.

'I was on my way out, so I thought I'd let you know.' Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and turned to walk out. 'Sherlock Holmes, I am not your house keeper.'

Sherlock ignored Mrs Hudson, as he so often did. 'You didn't see anything, Mrs Hudson.'

John looked up when those words were said. Sherlock looked pale, showing no emotion. OH God. He's ashamed at what happened.

'Sure, Sherlock.' Mrs Hudson wasn't entirely serious. But then again, she never really was. And with that, she left the doctor and the consulting detective to do what they did best, solve the unsolved and leave everything else.

'Come, John.' Sherlock said, pulling on his black coat, not even bothering to look at his counterpart.

John had gone back to staring at his shoes, praying for Satan to open the floor.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to ignore Lestrade and kiss John again. He ached for him; he was the drug and the cure, so before he could stop himself, his finger was lifting John's face and was looking into his eyes. 'This, my dear, isn't finished.'

With that, the great Sherlock Holmes flicked up his collar and told John to get his coat.

'Oh 'ello … Sherlock.' The DI nodded at them. 'John.' Lestrade managed to swallow the last few bites of his chocolate donut.

Sherlock ignored him. It was partly the fact that he enjoyed frustrating such small brains, but also because he couldn't get the feel of John's lips out of his head.

'Hi Lestrade,' John said, surprising himself at how normal and grounded he sounded. 'What's the verdict?'

'Well, somebody's dead.'

'Anderson's theory, I suspect?' Sherlock muttered.

In any other situation, John would've told Sherlock to shut it, but he couldn't imagine himself ever being horrible to the man again.

Lestrade tried to stay professional. 'Yes, well, we all know what he's like.' He cleared his throat. 'Anyway, of course someone's –'

'Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. You are better than that. Don't drop to Anderson's level; you know very well that the hardest cases are when there isn't a body.'

Lestrade frowned, but nonetheless, he would take the compliment from Sherlock. Even John was surprised at Sherlock's casual drop of a compliment. The kiss must have put him in a better mood than he had though. Lestrade cleared his throat again. 'We have ourselves a suicide, Sherlock.'

'Your point being?' Sherlock was clearly impatient, as he always was when there were bodies to be seen and scenes to deduce.

'Just come see.' And with that, Lestrade turned and walked off, clearly expecting John and Sherlock to follow.

'Oh, it's you,' Anderson said glumly as Sherlock arrived at the crime scene, the collar of his coat still turned up.

'Please do try to keep your mouth shut, Anderson. We've spoken about this before; you're voice lowers the IQ of the entire neighbourhood.' Sherlock stepped behind Anderson, just to check if John was there. It was then that he noticed how much he really did need John; how much he relied on him. John Watson, the blogging doctor, the man who had always been there for him, the one who had never judged him. John smiled sheepishly back, looking down at the floor, not so much praying for a hole this time. Sherlock turned back before Anderson or Lestrade could see him blush.

The four of them stopped in the main entrance; the dark flickering glow of an almost burnt out light cast shadows across the dark wooden floors. Before them was a large, rounding staircase. The building was rather beautiful, even with the impending suicide investigation contained within it.

'Well, this place is a bit dodgy.' John said, trying to distract himself from staring at Sherlock while he observed the place. 'Where are we going?' John asked

'Upstairs,' Lestrade directed.

Midway up the stairs, Sherlock stopped; his nose in the air. John couldn't help but smile a little. Sherlock just looked so cute with his nose all crinkled. Damn it, John.

'Don't worry, it's just the horrendous smell of … Anderson's unfortunate choice of aftershave.' John was in complete agreement.

'Hey – 'Anderson began in protest.

'Just leave it,' Lestrade silenced him, his voice clearly portraying the laughter as he forced back a snort.

Lestrade led them down several hallways before pushing the small door of a horrifically small and absent room open. There were no windows in the room and no other source of light, other than what was coming in from the hallway.

'Is this one of your silly little games of hide and seek Anderson? Where's the – '

'Sherlock,' John's voice broke through Sherlock's rant and silenced him. Sherlock let his gaze fall to John, and quickly past him to the reason of silence.

Slumped against the wall was a tiny little man. His eyes were open, but completely glazed over. His neck was clearly broken, which was evident by the way it hung awkwardly. Sherlock observed all of these things, his eyes moving quickly from place to place, taking into account everything. In the back of his mind, Sherlock noticed John's breathing and the way it changes when he watched Sherlock deduce. With the attempt to push John to the back of his mind and focus on the task, Sherlock noticed the victim's left palm rested a small, black tape recorders.

'It's a suicide, alright,' Anderson said. 'It looks as though he hit the wall hard and snapped his neck. If it had been cut in any way, it would be suspicious, but it's not. So...' He paused for affect. 'Suicide.'

John was standing very still and very tense, watching Sherlock narrow his eyes. 'Sherlock …?'

Sherlock hunched down, clicking play on the tape recorder.

'I have come to my end.' There were no tears in his voice, Sherlock and John both noticed. The tape continued. 'In all good things, there must always be an end. People are stupid when they say there is a happy ending, because there isn't. All roses die and nobody can smile forever. Every angel falls and so do I. I leave myself nothing to suit my role.'

'This man was murdered.'

'But he just – ' Anderson attempted to intervene.

'Think.' Sherlock looked at Lestrade accusingly. 'Think.' Sherlock stretched in frustration, avoiding John's gaze, knowing that it would only distract him. 'Are you all idiots? Did you trained detectives just completely miss the recent footprints left behind in the foyer?'

'What footprints?' Anderson asked, clearly bored and unbelieving.

'You are all blind!'

John took a step towards Sherlock, his foot knocking the rather large shoe on the man's foot. He looked down for a second, frowning. 'Hang on … these shoes are too big, and they're covered in mud.'

Sherlock beamed. 'YES JOHN!'

John blushed at the clear excitement. He had never been more grateful for dark lighting.

'Just hang on a second – '

'Lestrade, do you see any other shoes in this room?' Lestrade looked around quickly and shook his head when he returned. 'This is a bedroom. There are clothes in it, but not a single pair of shoes besides the ones the man is wearing.'

'No, we've cleared everything … there's nothing.' Lestrade added, hoping to aid in any way.

'Exactly!' Sherlock nearly grinned. 'What sort of man would have fresh mud on their shoes just before they commit suicide?'

'Maybe he went somewhere –' The everlasting stupidity of Phillip Anderson was astounding.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'The foyer, the stairs and the hallways to this room were all clean, there wasn't a single speck of dust or mud from this man's shoes. Odd, isn't it? And I don't think a man who is about to commit suicide would go on a sudden cleaning spree.'

'Somebody else has been here.' John said.

'And there's one footprint. Smack bang at the front door, where no one would even notice a thing. It has, so to say, been swept under the rug.'

'Just a second, so what you're saying here –' A person could practically see the cogs spinning in Lestrade's brain.

'He's saying that whoever came here, recently, hence the fresh mud, walked in with those shoes and put them on the victim's feet and walked back out after cleaning his mess.' John looked at Sherlock for approval. 'Oh. And the murderer walked out with the dead man's shoes and mistakenly missed one spot on the floor.'

Sherlock looked at John. 'God yes! John Watson you are brilliant!' Sherlock wanted so much to kiss the man and it took all of his will power not to. 'There's one more thing,' Sherlock smiled, and to John, that smile lit up the entire dark room.

'Oh, Sherlock. Do enlighten us.' Anderson remarked through his teeth.

'It can't be suicide.' Sherlock paused for affect, looking around. 'Because why would a dead man stick a needle in his own throat, draw blood and then get rid of the needle?'

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