A/N: And you thought I forgot about this...

12. Don't Stop Me now

When John returned the next morning, he very nearly dropped the bags of shopping in his hands.

The apartment was...tidy. No, it was utterly spotless. Even the walls were gleaming. John gaped, at a complete loss for words. He let his arms fall to his sides, the bags hanging limply from his fingers.

Sherlock appeared, coming out of the toilet and wiping his hands on a flannel. He barely glanced at John before swooping in and snatching the shopping away from him.

"Ah, John, good you're back. Tea's on. Yours is on the table." He gestured with one shopping-laden hand to John's RAMC mug, steaming quietly nearby. John picked it up numbly while Sherlock began sorting through the bags, moving parishables to the fridge and putting everything else in various cupboards.

"You bought biscuit dough." He commented, peering at a cardboard tube adorned with a freakishly cheerful humanoid, made of what looked like white plasticine and wearing a chef's touque. "Brand name, too. I've seen adverts for this in dozens of magazines."

"Er, yeah, well I figured I could handle the baking if I didn't have to actually mix the bloody things."

"Why?"

John shrugged. "You like them. I bought some honey, too. I...thought you might..."

Sherlock smiled at him pityingly. "John, please don't treat me like an invalid. I don't want to talk about last night. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to remember it, and I don't want you to remember it. I fully intend to delete it as soon as this case is over."

"So...so you're going to investigate then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, obviously. As if I could do anything else. This case was tailor-made for me. It's an engraved invitation."

"Do you think it's him then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Our friend has been silent for months now, there's no reason to assume he'd pop back up just because we've temporarily relocated."

"Sherlock...who else would do this?"

"John!" He sounded exasperated. "I can think of five people in this country alone who would come after me like this. Expand that to Canada, Mexico and Guam and the number quintuples."

"Guam?"

"Irrelevant. Now, how they knew about Bowers, that's a real question. Where did I slip up? Was it before Shawn? Obviously someone's been watching me, probably you as well, but I need to know how closely."

"Could be your internet records." John suggested.

Sherlock rounded on him, his gaze intent. "Say again?"

John flinched back. "Um...My-Mycroft. He said you bought Jimmy Bowers' records online. Maybe the killer hacked into your account?"

Sherlock turned away, his eyes focused on something John couldn't see. "Possible, I may have been lax in my usual encryption...possible too that our killer is exceptionally skilled with comput-wait, Mycroft?"

John cringed.

"You rang Mycroft? Why?"

"I was worried! I didn't want to rack up Mrs Hudson's phone bill!"

"And it never occured to you that I might be able to handle it myself?"

"Sherlock, you stabbed the wall! Look at you! You're helping with the shopping, you've cleaned the flat, you made me tea for heaven's sake!"

Sherlock looked around, his expression was very nearly guilty.

"I...I just wanted...I thought if I helped..."

"What, that I'd just forget what happened?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

"That you'd leave me be! I thought if I erased the evidence, kept you happy then you'd drop it and move on instead of pestering me! But if I'd known you'd run off and tattle to my brother of all people-"

"Stop being so childish!"

"Stop mothering me!"

"I'm trying to be your friend!"

"Then maybe it's best if you stop trying!"

John felt cold. It was as though liquid nitrogen had been pumped into his veins. Sherlock just stared at him, his eyes wide with panic. "John, I..."

"What, Sherlock? You what?" His first instinct was to turn around and storm out of the flat, but he quashed it. No, Sherlock wasn't getting out of it that easy, not this time, and John wasn't leaving him.

Sherlock floundered, lost inside his own head, and he turned away. "I...you shouldn't have done that." He picked absently at the edge of one of the bags on the table. "You know what he does to me. I'm not..."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock just say it! Just say it and mean it for once in your life!" John snarled.

Sherlock lowered his head. He was silent for a very long time, and John was just turning to stomp over to the sofa when Sherlock's voice, soft and fragile, said, "I'm sorry."

John turned round, stepped up to Sherlock and hugged him, tight and brief, and when he pulled away Sherlock was ramrod straight, looking shocked.

"What was that?"

"A hug. They're not just for nightmares and meltdowns."

"You never hug me. We don't hug."

"And you never apologise. See how that works?"

"And...if I apologise again, you'll hug me again?"

"Most likely."

"And you wonder why I never apologise." He was smiling, though, and John rolled his eyes.

"So where do we start?" He asked, and he went into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. Sherlock followed.

"With Jimmy Bowers last known whereabouts. Someone had to see him leaving the theatre. At the very least, his bandmates will know something."

"So we talk to Jordan's Ford. Then what?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, they won't talk to us. Why should they? We're not affiliated with the police, we're not from round here, no. We'd get nothing."

"So what do we do?"

Sherlock smirked. "They won't talk to me. But they'll talk to Shawn."

John rolled his eyes. "No. No, no, absolutely not! Sherlock, you've got a case now, can't you drop that rediculous disguise?"

Sherlock looked affronted. "John, think about it! Maria is a long-standing Bowers fan. She's been seen at his concerts before, so if she shows up at his memorial do, they'll think nothing of it. And if she should bring her boyfriend along, who is also a fan, who happens to be an aspiring musician," and he gestured at his violin in its foam liner. "Shawn is already part of their circle, it'd be child's play to endear him to the group." His eyes lit up. "Maybe even as a replacement fiddler!"

"Wait, are you saying you want to replace Jimmy Bowers in Jordan's Ford? That's insane! You can't join a band three weeks before we leave the country!"

He waved a hand as if swatting the words away. "Oh, please, bands go through members like tissues. You've already seen how I can imitate Bowers' playing, not perfectly but still. John, it's perfect!"

"Yeah, almost too perfect. Did it ever occur to you that this is all part of the murderer's game? What if he knows about Shawn and he's trying to lure you into the open? You've never seen what a sniper rifle can do, Sherlock. You absolutely never see it coming. Trust me."

"We have no evidence to suggest this is Moriarty." Sherlock protested.

"Moriarty does not have a monopoly on snipers, Sherlock!"

"Irrelevant. I've been hoping to infiltrate the music scene since we got here. Now I can do that, and work a case. It's brilliant!"

"And what about Maria? I don't mind if I get pulled into the crossfire, but she's not a part of this."

"Oh, that. We've been planning our break-up since we started. I'll simply implement it after she's accompanied me to the memorial concert. As long as it's public and messy, it should do the job."

"You can't guarantee that."

"No, but I can guarantee that she goes to stay with her girlfriend for a few days afterward."

"And what will that do?"

"Her girlfriend lives in Memphis."

"Ah."

"I'll need to be seen, first." Sherlock muttered absently, pulling out his mobile. He began to type industriously, flicking through web pages and scrolling through text. "John, look in that leaflet Tony brought by, will you? See if there are any open mics on or around campus tonight."

John looked around and spotted a bright yellow newsletter on an endtable. He picked it up. "Um...there's a BASIC rally in the quad."

"Irrelevant." Sherlock interjected.

"Coffee house nearby is having its bi-monthly poetry jam." John winced just thinking about it.

"No, Shawn wouldn't be caught dead there."

"Hm...only other thing in here is some sort of drive for Amnesty International." He blinked. "And the GSA is holding a bake sale. Do people still do bake sales?"

"Tolerance and turn-overs, John." Sherlock smirked. "They go hand-in-hand." He waved his phone. "And there's an all-comers at a bar in Old City tonight. Help me with my hair, would you? Shawn needs to be there by two to sign up."

John rolled his eyes. "Where is your morbid lesbian girlfriend when I need her?" He quipped.

"She's dissecting blow fly larvae this morning." Sherlock responded. John's stomach lurched a bit, but he suppressed the urge to gag and stood up, making his way toward the bathroom with Sherlock right behind.

::

John was waging battle with the stubborn curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck when his phone went off. Not a text, a call. He picked it up, cradling it against his shoulder as he struggled to tame Sherlock's intransigent hair.

"John Watson." He grunted, trying to keep the hot metal of the straightening iron away from his fingers as well as Sherlock's neck.

"John, it's me." John froze, and his grip faltered. There was a sharp hiss and Sherlock gave a startled cry. John quickly jerked the iron back and set it on the sink.

"Sarah!" He said, and it was nearly a shout. Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at him.

"I'd hoped you'd call." Sarah said. "It's been a week and..."

"I know, Sarah. I'm...I'm so sorry. It's been more than insane here and..." He sighed. "I meant to call."

Sherlock was glaring at him now, tilting his head toward the iron and tapping his watch. John gave him A Look and he turned away, glowering.

"Look, John, we really do need to talk."

"Sarah, it's not the best time right now." He said, swatting Sherlock's hand away from the still burning iron. With a scolding frown, he yanked the plug out of the wall socket and glared at Sherlock, who huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I know." Sarah sounded resigned. "It never is, is it?" John felt something go slack inside, and he reached up to hold the phone properly and turned away from his flatmate, giving himself the illusion of privacy.

"Sarah..." but he had no idea what he was going to say.

"Are you my boyfriend, John?" She asked suddenly. John's whole body went tense.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, when you think about us, do you see yourself as my boyfriend? Or are you just this bloke I rather like and sometimes go out with? I'd like to say you're my boyfriend, and that this is a relationship, but it doesn't feel like that, does it?"

"I...I don't-"

"Because, John, I never see you. And I know why, and I understand. You and Sherlock, you do amazing things. I can't say I don't enjoy being a part of that, even just peripherally. But..." her voice got quiet, and very soft. "I'm lonely, John. And I don't think I should be lonely, if this is a relationship. If it's just sort of us having a bit of fun, then I can understand it. But if we're together, I mean, everyone's lonely now and then but I'm lonely all the time. Even when I'm with you I'm lonely."

John said nothing. Christ, what could he say? Sorry I'm a gargantuan tosser? Please forgive me for ruining your life on a daily basis? What did he have the right to say?

"I do care about you, John. I honestly do. And I like Sherlock, even if he snaps at me or rolls his eyes whenever I talk. I'm not unhappy with you, and I don't resent what you have with him. I really, honestly understand."

Still John said nothing. There was nothing at all in his head but regret and resignation.

"But I think it's time for me to be selfish now. There's no one else, you understand, but..." and John could see her, in his mind's eye, her teeth tugging absently at her lower lip the way she always did when she was unsure about something. "But I want to start looking. And probably you should, too. I don't think we're enough for each other, John." There was a long pause. "Please, say something."

John took a ragged breath, and he was aware of heat at his back, radiating from Sherlock's body as he hovered worriedly. "I...I am so, so sorry."

"I know. I'd rather you weren't, but that's you. It's not your fault, John. If I wanted this, really wanted it, I would've fought for you. But I didn't. I think that's telling, don't you?"

"I don't know. I think I did have something to do with it, though."

"Well, yes. That's unavoidable." There was a smile in her voice now, a sad one. "But, this doesn't have to be horrible, does it? You can come into work when you get back and we can look each other in the eye, can't we?"

John managed a small laugh, but it was more than a touch on the pathetic side. "Not at first, I don't think."

"But eventually?"

He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him and amended, "Yeah. I think. I hope so, anyway."

There was a prodding at his shoulder, and he swatted Sherlock away. "Sarah, look, there's sort of a situation here. We'll talk, if that's what you want, once I get back. But right now there's a dead violinist in the morgue and I think I just gave Sherlock a second degree burn, so I have to go."

She laughed at that, and something eased in his chest. "I figured you'd find something like that. Be careful, John. And watch out for him. He needs you."

"I know." John said, and he looked over his shoulder where Sherlock had started to pace and pull faces. "God help me."

They said their good-byes, so much more definite this time around, and hung up.

"Finally!" Sherlock hissed.

"Sherlock," John sighed, but Sherlock pre-empted him.

"Yes, I know, not good. I'll give you a hug or whatever you want later, but right now I think you were right about the second degree burn bit."

And for the first time John noticed the twisted expression on Sherlock's face, and the way he kept his chin tucked in an effort to lift the hair away from the back of his neck.

"Oh, bollocks! Sherlock, I'm sorry! Here, sit yourself down, I'll take a look at it."

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief and slumped onto the lidded toilet. John snatched up his med kit and guided Sherlock's head down so he could see the ugly red mark just beginning to blister.

"Christ you're a walking disaster area, you know that?" He muttered. Sherlock snorted.

"True, but you'd be lost without me."

"Too right. Now shut up and let me work."

"Whatever you say, doctor."

::

The truly jarring thing was that despite wearing Shawn's clothes and sporting Shawn's hairstyle, Sherlock was still acting like Sherlock. John kept expecting an American accent and a shy, heart-stopping smile whenever he spoke, but he got the clipped public school voice and blood-chilling wolf's grin instead. It was eerie.

They were outside a bar called Tavoy's. John was standing still, Sherlock was pacing. "No, no it's no use. Dammit! Come on, Sherlock, you can do this!"

"I honestly never thought I'd hear you give yourself a pep talk."

"I've never had this much trouble assuming a persona before." Sherlock froze, then rounded on John. "It's you. I can't be Shawn because you're watching."

"What? That's rediculous!"

"Oh, come on, John, think. I'm too complacent with you. You're likely the only person in my life for whom I don't have to act. Even Mycroft gets a performance. You, on the other hand..." He frowned. "I knew trusting you would come back to haunt me."

"Okay, so..."

"So you have to leave. Go somewhere I can't see you. Once I'm Shawn, you can come back, but you're mucking with the transition and my head hurts enough as it is!"

John sighed. "Fine. Fine. But just so you know, you're the only man I've ever met who can make a compliment sound like an accusation."

"Who said it was a compliment?"

"I did. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go inside and pretend to like brown, foamy water maskerading as beer. I'll see you when you're ordinary." And he pushed the door open to go inside.

The beer really was weak. And pale. And smelly. John drank it anyway because tonight seemed like a really good night to get drunk. There was a shuffle of movement nearby, and someone sat on the stool beside his, so close he could feel body heat. He rolled his eyes and turned to tell the stranger to piss off, and froze.

It was Andrea. And she was smiling.

She was also wearing a very fitted black top and a grey skirt that didn't quite reach her knees. John's heart skipped a beat or two, and he managed to croak "...how?"

Sher smiled wider. "Sherlock texted me." She said. "Something about 'now's my chance' and I should 'get to you while your defenses are down'." She raised an eyebrow.

John groaned and let his head drop down onto his forearms. "That incredible git!" He snarled.

Andrea laughed, and John looked up, his face apologetic. "I...my girlfriend, well, this woman I was seeing...we broke up today." He explained. Andrea's eyes widened.

"Wow. Sherlock doesn't really put much stock in coping, does he?"

"No, he doesn't." John agreed, thinking back to Sherlock's first day at the Farm, and his reaction to Bowers' murder.

Andrea ordered a scotch and soda and sat for a moment, looking at her hands. "Do you want to talk about it?" She asked.

John let out a breath. "I..." he shook his head, his thoughts a jumble. "No. No, I don't. It's...crap. It's all just...crap."

She smiled sympathetically, only looking away to accept her drink from the bartender.

"Anyway there's a case." John went on. "Nothing else matters until it's done."

She nodded. "We missed him at the lab today."

"He won't be coming in. Not while he's working." He took another drink, and really, he should at least be buzzed by now. How did Americans manage to get drunk on shit like this?

Andrea looked down at her glass. "That's a shame. He really seems happy there." She paused. "So what are you doing here?"

John shrugged. "Working."

"Really? How? Where's Sherlock?"

John nodded his head toward the small stage against the far wall, where a couple of young men in black t-shirts were struggling with large cables and a standing microphone. "Give it a minute."

Andrea's eyes widened. "He's going to be in the open mic?" She asked. "Doing what? Can he sing?"

John paused and considered that for a moment. "You know, I haven't the slightest idea." Although, secretly he feared for the collective female population if Sherlock ever put that rediculously deep voice to music. He hoped fiercely that Sherlock couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, or else no bloke in this bar stood a chance in hell.

The stage was set, and the open mic began. It was...interesting. Okay, it was horrible. But Andrea was sitting beside him and his weak beer had been replaced with an astonishingly strong whiskey that was burning through his bloodstream in the best way. With fortifications like that, it really didn't matter how heinously bad the various singers and garage bands were. He and Andrea chatten amiably but shallowly until a lanky, dark-haired young man shuffled shyly to the stage.

Andrea followed John's gaze, and her eyes widened. "Is that...?"

"Nope. Not tonight it isn't." John said, and he was only a little smug. Sherlock was beautifully transformed. He gave every impression of being awkward and unsure in his own body, his eyes were lowered and shy, his mouth quirked almost constantly in the beginnings of a self-depricating smile, and he was holding his violin loosely by the neck, in a way Sherlock never would have done, but Shawn seemed to do as a matter of course.

He spent several unnecessary moments struggling to adjust the height of the microphone, and when it was level with his mouth the bar filled with the sound of his laboured and uneasy breathing. He licked his lips, quite a lot like John tended to do, and smiled tightly, as if apologisin in advance.

"Holy mother of...I can't believe that's him." Andrea breathed. John was right there with her.

"Um." Sherlock said, his eyes shifting. "Hi. My name is Shawn Harris, um." There was a new twang to his voice now. He'd altered his American accent to sound native to Tennessee. Oddly, it suited him. His voice had sounded strangely higher with the stifled vowels and soft consonents, but the southern accent was much richer and lower. John heard Andrea take a sharp breath, along with several other women in the room. He cursed inwardly. Fuck singing, Sherlock talking gave him an unfair advantage over the rest of the male population, and he didn't even use it!

"I'm sure most of you know by now we've just lost one of the greatest men Knoxville has ever seen." He drew a ragged, nervous breath. He was standing too close to the mic, one hand clutching the stem as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. It was a beautifully organic motion, and it humanised him.

"Jimmy Bowers was an inspiration to me, and I thought tonight I'd show my appreciation for all he did by...by playing one of his songs. It's, um, a personal favourite of mine. From the earlier stuff, 'cause I can't sing to save my life." He huffed a suppressed chuckle at that, and there were encouraging laughs from the audience, who were hanging on his every word.

"So, I hope you folks don't mind an instrumental, and I hope I can do it justice. So if you'll bear with me, this is 'Last Night I Lay Dreaming' from Jimmy Bowers' debut album, Chasing the Smoke. Here goes."

"Oh, wow." Andrea whispered. "He and Maria play that song all the time at the lab."

John raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything because Sherlock, no, Shawn had just raised the violin to his shoulder and poised the bow over the strings. He arranged his fingers on the frets, and with a slow pull he produced one long, low, mournful note that filled the air around him and seeped into every corner of the room.

A hush fell over the crowd, and Sherlock played. For John, it was as though Shawn melted away and Sherlock rose from somewhere deep inside. He saw the shoulders square, the spine straighten. He saw the timid, unsure expression fall away, leaving something calm and sharp and very, very old in its place. His eyes were closed, but John knew if they were open he'd be able to see the diamond-edged scalpel-sharp intelligence glittering out at him from clear across the room.

The song was low, and rich, and sad. At times, it almost seemed to wail as Sherlock dragged the bow over the strings with more force than finesse. At other times, it seemed to weep as Sherlock's fingers skittered over the frets, and he just barely touched the bow to the quivering metal, delicate as the wings of a moth. The pace was always sedate, and yet Sherlock's fingers never stopped moving. The rapid shifting in pressure from one note to the next seemed to make the sounds blend together into the musical equivalent of a whistful sigh. The stage lighting glittered off of his face, and John drew a sharp gasp at the realisation that those were tears running down Sherlock's face. He wondered briefly if it was Sherlock crying, or Shawn. It was, he decided, probably a bit of both.

The song came to an end, and Sherlock deflated, the Shawn persona crashing over him until it seemed it had always been there. John joined in the uproarious applause, and Shawn grinned shyly into the stage lights, bowing his head almost apologetically. His muttered "Thank you. Thank you" was barely audible above the clapping and cheering, and he didn't linger to bask in it. He simply gathered up his violin and bow and clambered off the stage, disappearing out the back. John tracked his movements, noted the unsteadiness of his steps, the looseness of his limbs, the way his arm shot out to brace against the wall for a moment.

"I have to go check on him." John said to Andrea, who nodded, her eyes still wet with tears.

"Tell him he was incredible." She said as John slid from his barstool.

"He knows that." John smirked, and he hurried off to find his friend.

::

Sherlock was slumped against the grimy brick wall behind the bar, breathing deeply and clutching his head with one hand, his stomach with the other.

"Shawn?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock shook his head. "Couldn't. Hurts." His voice was British, but his body was still loose and uncertain and awkward. He was breathing hard, and he kept blinking his eyes.

John moved on automatic, pressing Sherlock's shoulders against the wall so he could peer into the hooded eyes. They were bloodshot, the pupils dialated. John could feel Sherlock trembling under his hands.

"Sherlock, tell me you didn't take anything."

"I didn't. I promised. God it hurts. My head."

"How long?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know. Five minutes. Ten. Don't know."

"Okay." John breathed. "Okay. Sit down, we'll wait it out." And he helped Sherlock slide down the wall until they were both on the filthy pavement, Sherlock sitting and John kneeling, his hands still on Sherlock's shoulders.

"I love that song, John." Sherlock admitted. "I couldn't play it like him."

"You were extraordinary." John assured him. "Getting any better?"

Sherlock lolled his head from side to side, a no. "I hate him. He's so...feeble."

"Who?"

"Shawn. Blocks everything. I hate him."

"Then stop being him! Be you. You're incredible. Shawn's a tosser."

"Shawn is useful. I just...I just need to find a balance. He takes up too much space. I can't work when I'm him."

"Or play." John supplied.

"What?"

"I saw you. Really you. Up there. That wasn't Shawn playing."

Sherlock smiled at that. "Clever you." He muttered. His breathing was evening out, and his eyes were clearing. "You're right. I couldn't keep Shawn in my head and play at the same time. I thought I could. Shawn's an idiot."

"I bet he's rubbish at the violin, too." John said, and Sherlock giggled. John joined him, and soon they were laughing from their bellies, crouched on the dirty pavement beside the door, their voices mingling with the night.

At some point, John's legs began to cramp and he shifted himself so he was sitting beside Sherlock. "Feeling better?"

Sherlock smiled a tired smile. "Much. Thank you doctor."

John leaned his head back against the wall. He was quiet for a time, then, "This is gonna get bad, isn't it?"

"It already is."

"I never asked. I never wanted to. At the end, when I stepped out in that parka," he licked his lips. "Was it still fun? For you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked at John. "Why are you asking that?"

John shrugged. "It's just, sometimes I can't tell. If you're happy or not."

Sherlock fell silent, then he said, "No. When I saw you at first, it wasn't fun. At all. And then you showed me the bomb, and it was worse."

John nodded, but Sherlock wasn't done.

"Then Moriarty came out, and it was fun again." He looked down. "I'm sorry."

John nodded. "I understand." He really, really wished that he didn't.

"If it helps, I didn't want it to be. I didn't want to enjoy seeing you in danger. And I didn't, really. I hated it. I wanted to save you, like you keep saving me." He looked at his hands. "But Jim was so interesting. And brilliant. I wasn't happy, but it was exciting. As long as I didn't look at you, it was fun. But every time I saw you, everything went cold. It was like being two people. I hated it."

"Are you having fun now?"

Sherlock managed a smile. "I really am two people now, aren't I?" He sighed. "Yes. I am. And I hate myself for it. I could be putting you in danger again. It could be Moriarty, it really could." He tilted his head up and gazed at the black sky, the stars obscured by the city lights. "But I can't want to stop. I need to know. I need to figure it out. No matter what happens."

"I know." Said John with a sigh, and he put a hand on Sherlock's knee. He looked up as well, watching the invisible stars beside Sherlock.

"Ready yet?"

Sherlock nodded beside him. "Yes. He's gone. I'm okay now."

"Will it get easier?"

"I hope so. Shawn is exhausting, but he's useful."

"So what do we do now?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and fiddled with it for a bit. "Bowers' memorial is two days from now, according to the band's website. I have to rehearse. Ah!" He beamed. "And the bouncer just sent me his video of my performance. I need to put that online. Come on John, work to do." He stood, and John rose with him.

"Let me just say good bye to Andrea. I sort of abandoned her after your set."

Sherlock smirked. "John?"

"Yes?"

"If you don't ask her out by the time we solve this case, I will hack into your blog and post that picture of you I found in your foot locker."

"You wouldn't!"

"What in our history together gives you any doubt?" Sherlock blinked innocently.

John smiled. "You are far too invested in this."

Sherlock shrugged. "I think she'd make you happy. You're more fun when you're happy."

John shook his head. "You know what would make me really happy?" He asked.

Sherlock tilted his head. "What?"

"A fridge full of nothing but food, and getting through an entireIndiana Jones film without any snide commentary."

Sherlock looked stricken. "But, John, skin simply doesn't melt like-"

John held up his hand. "Save it! I'm going in to say good-bye to Andrea, then we're going back to the flat. I'm thinking The Last Crusade tonight."

"You're cruel to me, I hope you know it."

John grinned as he walked away, his hands in his coat pockets. "I learned from the best." He called without looking back.