Author's Note: Well, this is it. The end of Anything But Elementary. This epilogue went through so many rewrites, because I was never happy with it. And, in all honesty, I'm still not completely. But I think that that may just be because I'm sad that it's over. So, from the most sincerest bottom of my heart, thankyou to every brilliant and amazing person who read, favourited, alerted, or reviewed this story. Thankyou
Nothing could describe the terror that chilled its way through John's veins and turned them to ice when he awoke the next morning to find the other half of the bed empty and freezing cold. It was as though the world had slowed down and sped up all at the same time. Thoughts, theories and Oh, God, No's spiralled through his head as he sat bolt upright and looked frantically about himself, trying not to panic as all his previous insecurities seemed to come flooding back in a crash, ten times louder than before.
But, as the world caught up once again, faint clanging and banging sounds began to creep into the edges of his awareness. Relief eclipsed his as the familiar sound of Sherlock pottering around allowed his breathing to slow back to normal level and his pulse to stop hammering in his ears.
Berating himself, he slid out of the bed and, pulling on his abandoned jeans, wandered out of the room. His feet were like ice on the floor. However, instead of heading for the main living area of 221b – where he could now perfectly hear the sounds of Sherlock muttering to himself and science beakers jangling – as he usually did, he entered the bathroom, locked the door and turned the shower on.
It was just giving himself time to think, he told himself as he scrubbed excess amounts of shampoo into his hair. Just giving himself time to think and definitely not putting off speaking to Sherlock.
That was a lie…well, it was and it wasn't. It wasn't that John was avoiding him per se. it was more that now, in the light of day, all the things he'd wanted to say to Sherlock, all the things he'd felt he'd been unable to hold back, just seemed to be trapped at the back of his throat.
Last night, it had felt as though nothing else had existed and that nothing could stop what he wanted to say from tumbling off his tongue. When he had been so sure, so convinced, of the validity of Sherlock's admission because everything had felt right.
And now, clichéd, as it was, John was just so goddamn terrified that he had just made the whole thing up.
As he stepped out of the shower, he tried to concentrate on the things that assured him that he had not in fact simply dreamt the whole thing; he'd woken up in Sherlock's bed for a start. And there was no way in Hell that he had a good enough imagination to come up with the feeling of Sherlock's lips against his, the sensation of Sherlock pulled tight up against him, or the gut-churningly, smouldering look in Sherlock's eyes. No. Way.
There were just some things that were too indescribable to make up.
He dressed in silence. As he listened, he thought he could hear footsteps repeated over and over. Was…was Sherlock pacing? The thought made him smile quietly to himself – at least he wasn't the only one with 'nerves' (Not that either would ever admit that, he knew)
Finally, after fiddling with his collar for fifteen seconds too long, he grew impatient with himself and headed out of the room. As he did so, his thoughts argued with themselves in both confusing and annoying circles.
It was only when he rounded the corner of the doorway that his thoughts silenced themselves with a sudden deafening hush. Sherlock was standing in the window, his back to him and his fingers tapping on the glass pane as he watched the cars pass by.
Sherlock turned as he leant against the doorframe. John knew that he'd probably been tracking his progress as he'd moved about the flat. A quiet moment passed between them, eyes locked onto each other. Sherlock licked his lips, ducking his head in such a cautious almost shy way that John didn't even recognise the action on the man.
Then he smiled at him, something positively glinting in his blue eyes, and whatever awkwardness that John had cooked up dissipated with the single expression. He could feel Sherlock analysing him, an involuntary response from the man it seemed, and just raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock shrugged, plainly unrepentant, before tilting his head in a frown.
"Something wrong?" He asked, moving away from the window and across the room to sprawl himself in his usual position on the leather sofa. As he did so, John caught the minuscule contortion of pain that crossed the consulting detective's face as he hit the furniture too hard and jostled his tender shoulder.
The doctor in him started forward in concern, ordering Sherlock to sit up. Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied, shrugging off his jacket and moving his slender fingers to the buttons on his shirt.
John couldn't stop the wave of nausea that rolled in his stomach as he undid the numerous bandages and saw the mess of scars that was Sherlock's right shoulder. Not for any aesthetic reasons. But for that Moriarty had managed to mark Sherlock in a way that had only been an option because of John's own wound. As Sherlock looked back at him, he averted his eyes in an attempt to hide the responsibility he felt.
"You feel guilty," Sherlock noted as John pulled his medical bag from under the sofa, his voice odd. "You shouldn't,"
"Can't hide anything from you, can I?" John muttered, pulling out fresh bandages.
"Of course not," Sherlock's arrogance was somewhat marred while his deep voice was tinged with an edge of concern. John began binding Sherlock's shoulder, biting his bottom lip as he did so. "John…?" Sherlock prodded when it became apparent that he wasn't about to say anything.
"He shot you, Sherlock," John bit out, tying the knot on the bandage with a touch more violence than he'd originally intended. "In the shoulder,"
"And that's his fault, not yours. Don't be stupid" Although the words were curt, loaded with all the signals of Don't be an idiot that Sherlock could easily give off, Sherlock shot John a loaded look with such honest sincerity in his blue eyes that John felt speechless. He twisted the dirty dressings between his hands, breaking Sherlock's gaze and making for the kitchen to bin them. He only made it about a step before Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him.
"It's not being stupid," John argued in response to the questioning look in Sherlock's gaze. "If I'd gotten there quicker, or-"
"You were tied up, John," Sherlock unfolded himself from the sofa, stopping just an inch or so away from John. Much closer than John'd expected him to. "Enlighten me as to how you were supposed to get there any quicker than you did,"
John breathed a sigh out through his nose. "Point taken,"
Sherlock leant his forehead against John's, the smallest of smiles on his face. "Good," Their lips brushed together in an all too brief kiss. John felt his eyebrows rise without his consent, shocked by the forwardness. But then again, he reasoned, Sherlock definitely wasn't a man who did things by halves.
"Now; talk," Sherlock breathed against him, his gravelly voice much more intense than only seconds before as his hands slid to John's waist.
"Oh, now you're letting me talk?" John chuckled. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, stepping back to fix him with a look. A look that just said Stop stalling...No jokes…Not now…Please.
A splash of guilt made itself known in his thoughts, rippling outwards until it stained everything. Sherlock had already admitted everything, confessed, played his hand…And John was just evading it. Feeling ashamed, he nodded, half to Sherlock and half to himself.
He looked at Sherlock for a few seconds, trying to decide what to say next. He didn't know what to say. How do you explain something that you don't fully understand yourself, something that seems entirely incomprehensible and yet brilliant at the same time? And how do you explain it to the man who had, apparently until last night, might as well have been on a separate planet to the concept of emotions?
But as Sherlock looked at him, looked at him in that way only Sherlock had that made him as if every part of him was peeled away, he could see the same look in his eyes from last night. And everything that had bothered him was…gone.
Because this was Sherlock.
"I don't know what this is, Sherlock," John felt Sherlock's hands tighten momentarily on his waist and moved his own hands to rest on top. He bit his lip as their eyes met, and then he just couldn't stop the words. "I don't know. And even when I do know, I doubt I'll even be able to put it into words because there's too much of it. And I've never felt anything even remotely like it before…but I think, I know, that this is a great thing," The flow of words, rushed and emotive, came to a stop like a wind-up toy that had run out of steam.
Then Sherlock was leaning towards him again, and John was closing his eyes, and everything that mattered existed in just the fierce pressure of Sherlock's lips against his and the desperate twisting of John's hands in Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's hand found its way to the back of John's neck, and they swayed ever-so-slightly from the force of Sherlock's kiss. John felt like he would have been knocked backwards if they weren't holding onto each other so tight.
After a long moment, Sherlock pulled back, but this time, he paused before breaking contact, letting his lips linger against John's for just a few more seconds. John opened his eyes – when had he closed them? – and saw Sherlock stare at him with such pure elation that it was almost childlike in its clarity. Their foreheads rested together again, neither willing to move even another inch away.
"Your pupils have dilated," Sherlock noted after a few seconds, although the forced nonchalant tone of his voice was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was breathing rather heavily. "That's…interesting,"
"Shut up, Sherlock,"
Sherlock laughed weakly, looking as though the relief in his eyes had weakened him so much that he could be pushed over with a single shove. "So, what do we do now, then?" He asked, looking slightly nervous.
John inhaled deeply. "We do what we always do. We argue, we laugh, you steal my laptop and I take it back, you hide body parts around the place and I yell at you for it, we watch crap telly, and I make us mugs of tea," He smiled. "We forget to pay the rent."
Sherlock grinned with him, before a frown pulled the corners of his mouth downwards. "John, I don't think I'll be very good at…this. At being with someone. At not…scaring someone off or-"
John cut him off quickly before he could start babbling. "If you were going to scare me off, don't you think you'd have done it already?"
"True," Sherlock acknowledged, a small smile knocking the frown away marginally.
John smirked. "I mean, with the heads in the fridge…"
"…And your complete refusal to buy food…"
"I've got it, Joh-"
"…And the violin in the middle of the night,"
"Well," It was amazing. Amazing how, with one word spoken just an octave lower in Sherlock's gravelly and immorally seductive voice, Sherlock could immediately turn the tables of a conversation. "I suppose I'll have to find something else to do in the middle of the night, won't I?"
John could feel the tips of his ears tinting red as his cheeks spilled with warmth. But he wasn't blushing. No, he never blushed. No way.
Sherlock grinned, entirely too pleased with himself, and licked his lips.
"While you make a certainly…intriguing suggestion," John spoke, forcing his voice to remain calm despite the smirk playing sinfully about on Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's grin increased at his words. "It's currently nine in the morning,"
It was almost a month until Lestrade called again with another case, having said that he didn't want Sherlock back working until he was properly healed, it was a close call, and he needs to be at his best. It was almost driving him out of his mind. He'd spent most of the time amongst his experiments, reading, or avoiding crappy daytime TV. Well, that and…well,…John.
He hadn't known what to expect, least of all from himself, but he was certain that what was happening wasn't it. Maybe he'd expected everything to be awkward, ungainly as a fawn in spring, punctuated only when they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. But it wasn't. It was nice. Easy, even. After the first day or so - when every second was filled with eager hands slid under clothes and hungry kisses - it was almost the same as before; easy silences, amusing conversation, stares that lasted for far too long, and mugs and mugs of tea…and also the times when they couldn't keep their hands off each other. But that was an addition that Sherlock couldn't be more pleased about.
He'd never thought that he'd even want to be the sort of person to spontaneously wrap an arm around someone's waist and press a kiss to the crook of their neck. Nor the type of person who was content to spend time with their feet in someone's lap, just alternating between watching his laptop and watching them. But, it turned out that apparently, with John, he was.
However, John had his job (Which he surprisingly hadn't been fired from) and so couldn't always be there to offer a break in the monotony. So he was entirely glad when his phone, silent for over two weeks, beeped loudly at three in the morning.
His eyes flickered open at the noise, zoning in on the device. He extended a long arm, wincing as the movement jolted the wound in his shoulder, and drank in the message telling him the location of a crime and that he was needed. Finally. He pushed the covers off, the blurriness of sleep falling away as he unfolded himself from the bed and began pulling on clothes. Excitement started to bubble in his veins again - it'd been too long.
"Sherlock?" A groggy sleep-muffled voice caught him as he was buttoning up his shirt. "What are you doing?" The lump of covers that was John shuffled, until the tousled head of the ex-army-medic poked out from under the duvets.
Smirking, he pulled on his jacket before jumping onto their bed with all of the exuberance that a case could bring him. (Their Bed. He sometimes marvelled at how quickly the boundaries between mine and ours had shifted and bled away) John blinked once or twice in shock but, as always, simply took it in stride as Sherlock's legs locked him in place around his hips.
"There's a case," He couldn't escape the thrill that the simple words brought him.
John moved his eyes to the clock on the wall. "It's three in the morning,"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's a murder," He grinned, pressing his forehead to John's.
"It's still three in the morning,"
"It's a good murder,"
"Is there such a thing?"
Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. "It might be dangerous," He breathed the final word onto John's lips, brushing their mouths together the barest amount in a way that he'd discovered made John's eyes dilate in that interesting way once again.
John groaned in defeat. "Is it ever not?"
As he spoke, both hesitated. The pause was so brief that any onlooker would have slipped by it without notice, but it was loaded with texts from pink phones, bullet wounds in shoulders, fake John Watsons, and messages written in blood. In that pause the ghost of Moriarty lingered.
Acting without thinking, Sherlock traced a finger down the side of John's face. John caught his hand, interlacing their fingers together.
"Come on," Sherlock finally spoke, though the words were scrabbled together ever-so slightly. "Murder. Body. Police are stumped, as always. And it's time to go,"
Instead of making to move, John caught his high cheekbones between his palms and kissed him. The kiss carried its own subtext, abundantly clear. Sherlock fumbled for a second, his charm curiously absent, before John pulled back.
Sherlock supposed that a less 'not-good' sensation for him to be feeling was meant to be something along the lines of trepidation, or anxiety. And yet excitement was bubbling up and down his spine. This was the first crime-scene that Lestrade had 'allowed' him to have at. (He had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had pulled some strings at the top of Scotland Yard so that he could have his 'convalescence') As much as he had been…distracted…for the last few weeks, he really needed the work.
There was also a part of him, the part of him that was insanely shallow, was intensely curious about what the…protocol was going to be for this. In 221b they were pretty much the same as usual. Well, aside from the obvious new additions that came from being together. (They'd already managed to give themselves away to Mrs Hudson when she'd just walked in once). But this was The Work. This was the place where he was Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective and John, his John, was Doctor John Watson, his colleague. He didn't know what to do. He'd never had any experience with such a thing. So he was more than happy for John to take the lead on how to act.
He wasn't expecting anything, he wasn't that selfish or unprofessional (Well, maybe he was), but he was curious…simply curious.
John caught his eye as they ducked under the Do Not Cross Police Tape in front of the house Lestrade had directed to them, and Sherlock grinned widely at him in a strange mix of barely restrained excitement and his response to John's own quiet smile. The entire atmosphere was intoxicating, just the anticipation of the case was enough to set his nerves buzzing.
"Look at you," John commented lightly, looking determinedly ahead but sneaking an amused glance at him from the corner of his eyes.
He frowned. "What?"
"Grinning like a child at Christmas," John raised an eyebrow. "With a dead body under the tree,"
"Stop exaggerating, John," He rolled his eyes. He knew that, in reality, he probably looked entirely too delighted to be appropriate for a crime-scene, but regardless he wasn't going to give John the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
John just nudged a pointed elbow into his side, and they grinned stupidly at each other for a second or so. Sherlock had never felt so idiotic, to be pointlessly grinning at someone just because they made him smile, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.
Somewhere, his ears recognised the very distinct clack, clack of sensible and ugly shoes approaching them, and he carefully composed his expression into a calm mask as Sally Donovan approached them with a fairly confrontational expression on her face. Then again, she always looked confrontational when it came to him.
"You're back then?" She asked, placing her hand on her hip and shifting her weight to one side in a way that suggested she was planning on staying there a while. Briefly, he wondered whether it'd be easier or not to simply ignore her and walk around, but decided it would be more trouble than the satisfaction it would bring was worth.
"Clearly, Sally," He only just stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but ensured that his voice was polite enough to irritate her. He supposed that she was under the impression that they were even once again; he'd saved her, but he'd also been the reason for her capture.
"And you, too?" She directed the next question to John, who looked both confused and as though he'd been expecting it. "You've not realised that he's going to get you killed,"
John bristled beside him, but remained silent. Instead, Sherlock intervened. "Unless you've got anything productive to say, Sally-"
She cut him off. "You do realise that, right? I mean, you almost died a month ago-"
"So did he. So did you," John broke in, face set in an expression of pure determination that made Sherlock's chest clench. "And that was Moriarty's fault, not Sherlock's,"
Donovan glared at him, looking as though John'd done her a personal injustice by bringing up her ordeal. (And, knowing John, he was probably already feeling guilty for it by now.) Then, her icy gaze moved to Sherlock's face. "You've entirely brain-washed him, haven't you?"
He opened his mouth to respond with something, but again John leapt in. "No, he has not 'brain-washed' me. And, Sally, no-one ever appointed you to interfere in my life. I barely know you. But I do know Sherlock, and he's a much better man than you give him credit for,"
Donovan floundered for a second or so, but John had clearly had enough of her. "Goodbye, Donovan," Without seeming to think about it, his hand slipped into Sherlock's and he pulled him away. Sherlock vaguely heard Donovan mutter furiously behind them about ungrateful and idiot and then an incredulous holding hands, but was too shell-shocked to even comprehend it as he focused on John's hand clasped tightly around his and the reality of what John had just done.
"Sorry," John mumbled after a few seconds of fast-paced walking and then he stopped just inside the gate to the front-garden of the house. "I shouldn't…I shouldn't," He gestured vaguely with their still entangled hands, and sighed. He attempted to withdraw his hand from Sherlock's. However, it was only an attempt, because Sherlock adamantly held on. John gave him a semi-curious look, and Sherlock simply raised their entwined hands to his mouth and pressed a light kiss to the back of John's hand.
He didn't need to say the word thankyou for John to understand entirely what he meant, but he did so anyway, the word barely loud enough for Sherlock's own ears to hear. But John apparently heard because he smiled softly, seeming to understand all the meanings Sherlock had loaded behind the single word.
"C'mon," John gestured with his head. "Lestrade'll be waiting,"
Sherlock grinned and headed up the garden path, their hands falling apart but John following close behind him.
"Ah, Lestrade," He greeted the detective inspector as he spotted him just inside the door, more than content to be polite when he was this enthusiastic to be working again. "You called,"
The detective inspector stepped out onto the front step and seemed to appraise them both as they joined him, silently checking their well-being. Sherlock again resisted the urge to roll his eyes – he was in perfect health now – but gave an impatient sigh. If Lestrade understood what it meant, he didn't acknowledge it, because he was then asking after their health. How perfectly dull!
"Fine," John was replying however, seemingly enjoying talking to Lestrade. "I've been back at the surgery for a few weeks, and Sherlock's been all but going mad without any cases,"
Sherlock did in fact roll his eyes at that. Why did they continually speak about him as though he wasn't there?
"I don't envy you trying to entertain him for a month,"
And then there was an almost wicked smirk on John's lips, one that Sherlock had been treated to many times over the last month. "I've managed,"
Before the prickle of heat on Sherlock's cheeks could grow into a full-grown flush, and before Lestrade even had a chance to understand and comment, Sherlock cut in with a pointed "As lovely a chat as this is, I thought you'd called me here for a murder?"
Smart man that he was, Lestrade took the hint. Sherlock knew there'd been a reason he'd liked the man. He refocused his mind, decidedly away from John and his smirks, and towards the intoxicating high that the case would undoubtedly bring him. God, he'd missed this!
"Young female. 20 years old," Lestrade began to reel off. "I.D around the house identifies her as an Olivia Maitland. Roommate found her when she came home an hour ago. Killed by an attack to the back of the head. Forensics estimate Time of Death to be roughly four hours ago. And there are scuff marks leading from the door to where the body found, sitting up on her sofa. No murder weapon found as of yet,"
Sitting up? Interesting. Killer moved her.
Back of the head. She turned her back on the killer after she answered the door. She'd trusted her murderer.
No murder weapon. Killer had brought their own. This was a planned murder.
"I take it that there's no CCTV anywhere around here?" He asked, scanning for cameras even as he did so.
"Would I have called you in if there was?"
There were several disparaging remarks that Sherlock could make from that, but the Work was more important, so he simply ignored them and gestured to the front door. "Shall we?"
Lestrade nodded, signalling for him and John to go first. Grinning, he grabbed John by the top of arm and dragged him in the direction of the front door. John put up the expected half-hearted fight, but soon enough just allowed himself to be pulled along. Good boy.
As they passed through the doorway, he scanned it quickly. Chain on door still intact – she'd definitely trusted them. No footprints – they hadn't walked in anything, so more than likely the killer drove. As Lestrade said, scuff-marks – she'd been killed here and dragged to the sitting room. Anything else…? No mess – the killer was calm, confident. Probably not his first kill.
He moved on, brushing past CSI's in their blue suits until he arrived at the living room. He released John as they entered, moving away and towards the body, pulling off his gloves and sliding on the rubbery white ones he so disliked.
Facts; What are they?
Brown hair, dyed blonde.
Dressed in clothes, black skirt and red top, not pyjamas.
Text books lain neatly across coffee table.
Selection of pens laid out on coffee table.
Mug of liquid, probably previously warm, next to books.
Pair of slippers half under the sofa.
Stepping forward, he began examining her, tilting his head to one side without even realising the action. Silence fell as he moved around the room, examining everything from the strands of the girl's hair to the rows of photographs on her walls.
Oh! Oh, very interesting.
"She didn't dye her hair," He finally spoke, the sound cutting the silence in half.
"What?" Lestrade asked, looking anything but impressed. Sherlock rolled his eyes – so impatient.
"She didn't dye her hair," He repeated, more firmly. God, it felt good to be back doing this again. And, from the smothered look of excitement in John's eyes, he wasn't the only one who thought so. His eyes focused hungrily for a few seconds on the expression on John's face, before he berated himself for being do easily distracted. He snapped back to the case.
"Look at her," He gestured to the body. "Look around her. Look how neat she is; Pens lined up, mug on a mat, text books sorted by subject and alphabet. This girl was almost bordering on obsessive. But look at her hair. The dye is uneven, not at all in line with the rest of the room. Ergo, someone dyed it for her. That dye is far too fresh, still stinks to the high heavens; the killer dyed her hair,"
"He dyed her hair?" John asked as Lestrade just frowned.
Sherlock simply nodded before returning to his analysis. "He also dressed her. Look at her clothes. It's the middle of the night, why would she be wearing clothes? She was wearing pyjamas before she answered the door, her slippers are still here. The killer took them off her and re-dressed her. But those aren't her clothes. Short black skirt and a bright red top? This girl didn't wear those kinds of clothes, look at the pictures of her on the wall. Killer brought the clothes with them. What does that say?"
The question had been spoken to himself, but John answered anyway. "Pretending she's someone else,"
"Of course," He muttered to himself, sparing John a quick impressed grin before returning his attention to Olivia Maitland. "So he's working his way up to killing her,"
"Who is this 'her'?" Lestrade asked, sounding as impatient as ever. Some things never changed. "Matter of fact, who's he?"
"Someone she knew. Otherwise she wouldn't have turned her back on him. Someone she was very close to. Check her friends, see if anyone matches the description of this girl after she'd been dressed up. He probably won't go for her first, but he'll go for someone else he knows. Question is who," Oh, excellent - a Serial Killer; nothing more intriguing. "Killer more than likely already has a criminal record, this is much too tidy for a first-time, so check for that, too," They probably wouldn't do that until after the forensics report came in; he'd go and take a look himself…no need to tell Lestrade that, though.
Lestrade nodded, turning away as he began to mutter into his two-way radio, instructing his team to begin collecting the data that Sherlock needed. Around them, sound started up again as everyone began to get on with their jobs once more.
He turned back to John, only to find the other man already looking at him with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "Having fun?"
Sherlock smirked. "Of course,"
"Normal people don't have fun at crime-scenes," John smiled back, a slight teasing edge to his voice. "Much less, murder scenes,"
Rather than drawing himself up to his full, and rather impressive, height, Sherlock stepped closer to John. "And I take it, you're not having fun?" He asked pointedly, already knowing the answer.
"Not the point,"
"How convenient," He muttered quietly, a smirk quirking his lips. Later, he'd use the excuse that he was unable to stop himself. But, in truth, he knew exactly what he was doing as he pressed a swift kiss to John's lips. John responded for a second, but then pulled back to raise pointed eyebrows at him, half amused, half confused.
"That's my 'apology'," He explained. Then, realising that elaboration was required, he continued. "I'm sending you Scotland Yard. I need her friends' records. If you can't get them there, I need you to text me so I can get them myself,"
John narrowed his eyes. "You need a better apology than that,"
He raised an eyebrow. "Promise?"
Someone choked near them, probably Lestrade, and he spared the D.I a look. Lestrade looked entirely shell-shocked, and Sherlock could all but hear the questions that were doubtlessly building up behind his wide-eyes and eyebrows-raised expression, but he ignored them as John simply rolled his eyes, the faintest of pink tinges on his neck. "Where are you going, then?"
"Hospital. I need to speak with her roommate. She's been taken in for shock,"
"Okay. Any idea how long you'll be?"
"As long as it takes," He answered somewhat dismissively, before allowing the full extent of his excitement to shine through as he smirked at John. He felt like electricity was bubbling through his veins, tingling his fingertips and building up pressure in his chest. He thought he saw John's pupils dilate once again, but the other man blinked before he could fully check. Damn.
Focus, he chastised himself, before the exhilaration took ahold once again. The game was on!
"There're always criminals out there, John, and they get more interesting by the day," He grinned widely, barely able to contain his glee.
John's answering smile was more subdued. "They won't be as interesting as Moriarty, though, will they?" He spoke as if he feared that Sherlock was going to agree with him, and the odd sound in his voice was something that Sherlock never wanted to hear again.
"Well, John," So, Sherlock grinned. Grinned in that cat-like way of his, the grin that he knew always made John struggle to snatch breath. "That'd be boring, now wouldn't it?"