So, here it is, as I promised you, the sequel to 'An eye for an eye'. It's not essential if you haven't read it, but it helps. Hopefully I won't suffer from 'sequelitis' and make it bad. If I ruin it in any way, feel free to slap me with a dead cod.

I was incredibly happy to discover our favourite boys are handcuffed together at some point during the second series; BRING ON THE BONDAGE JOKES!


'What's that?'

'It's a wonderful invention called food, we little people need it to survive. You're nearly falling down as it is. Go on.'

'I don't want it.'

'Just eat it you skinny lizard.'

Sherlock glared at John over the pile of rice the doctor had just dumped onto his plate. The latest case had really taken it out of them both, a missing little boy had Sherlock literally clutching at straws. John couldn't stand much more of this, his boyfriend's flesh was practically melting off of him. It had been the first really challenging case in six months, the first real case since John had been abducted by Terry Markin. He was now used to the brown eye patch over his missing eye, although he missed the ability to wink.

'John I'm fine.' Sherlock whined. John looked him dead in the face.

'Sherlock mate, please, I'm not asking you as your boyfriend, I'm asking you as your doctor. You need to eat something.'

Sherlock heaved his most melodromatic 'I'm so terribly put upon' sigh, and dragged the plate towards him. John watched him shovel forkfuls of rice into his mouth with barely concealed enthusiasm. Although it wasn't entirely beneficial to Sherlock's health that he hadn't been sleeping, John had to admit the slightly rumpled look still made Sherlock devastatingly good looking.

When at least three quarters of the rice had been demolished, Sherlock sat back and exhaled.

'So, are you going to the practice tomorrow?'

'Yeah, ' John replied, refilling Sherlock's coffee mug, 'It turns out I actually have to show my face to get paid.'

Sherlock's lips twisted upwards into a smirk. Then his features settled into a stressed expression, he ran his hands through his hair erratically, making it stand on end.

'I just can't crack this John. The boy's family-nothing gives me any sort of clarity. I'll get through it, I know I can! It's just so...urgh.' He finished, slapping the table pathetically.

'Hey, hey, easy...' John soothed, pushing Sherlock's curls off his forehead. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes as John continued smoothing down the wispy black hair.

'You'll get this, I know you will.' He said softly, pressing a small kiss to his boyfriend's temple. 'You've got the greatest brain in England, you just need to rest.'

Sherlock relented, allowing himself to be pulled towards the sofa and found his head nestled in John's lap, the good doctor still stroking his hair.

It was only when he heard Sherlock's soft snores did John allow himself to relax. It was a rare moment when John could muse and become immersed in his own thoughts and Sherlock wasn't able to see it.

Six months. Had it really only been six months? It was even harder to believe it had been nearly two since he'd met the sleeping man in his lap. The dreams, once haunted by gunfire and sounds of war were replaced with images of skulls and a grinning sculptor. Although it had certainly been a perk to wake, clammy and shivering, from a nightmare to find Sherlock's gangly limbs wrapped round him. Secretly, he was glad that life in Baker Street hadn't radically altered since he and Sherlock got together. Sherlock was still as acerbic, ungrateful and demanding as ever, but somewhere, hidden amongst it all, John knew about Sherlock's feelings. The hadn't actually 'gone the distance' yet. John still wasn't quite ready for that. He'd told Sherlock that what happned to him with Markin wouldn't go away for a while. Thankfully, Sherlock had understood that and not once pressed John or pushed him too far. For all his antagonism, Sherlock was an honourable boyfriend really.

The man in question made a small sngfl noise and shifted slightly in his sleep. John didn't want to move him, despite the fact his leg was threatening to fall asleep under the weight of Serlock's head. It felt good, all this stupid couple-y stuff, it seemed almost normal in Sherlock's madcap world. Luckily his parents, having already accepted Harry as homosexual, readily accepted it in John. His mother had a little moment of grief over the loss of any grandchildren but had quickly come around. What John hadn't forseen was Harry's dislike for Sherlock, and the fact she'd taken it upon herself to blacken his name at every opportunity. It hadn't been easy, but John had attempted to smooth over Harry's sentiments and restore Sherlok's character in his family's eyes. During one particularly acidic phone conversation Harry had spat that he and Sherlock wouldn't last. That Sherlock would take what he wanted and leave John stranded. That had hurt, mainly because it had hit John's own niggling doubt that what he had was too good to last. Deep down he still thought Sherlock was too good for him, and that their crazy existence would cause problems.

But, when the world's most amazing man lies next to you in the dark, whispering words of comfort, you couln't help but think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.


The practice wasn't especially busy. A few elderly people were coughing obnoxiously in the corner, as if competing as to who was sicker. One harassed looking woman was struggling to keep her three fidgeting children under control and a hooded teenager whose head was bobbing in time to a tinny pop tune issuing from their headphones. None of the patients acknowledged him as he passed but he got a smile and a 'good morning' from Sarah. Things between them had been a little awkward at first, which was understandable, seeing as her boyfriend revealed himself to be homosexual (well Sherlocksexual anyway). She'd recently found love in a new man called Colin, a man of Irish descent who reminded John of a cross between a sci-fi professor and some sort of demented leprechaun.

Once in his office John plonked himself into a chair and pressed the buzzer for his first patient:

'Mary Morstan to Room Five with Dr Watson please. That's Mary Morstan to Room Five.'

Mary Morstan was a cheerful little soul. Eight years old with strawberry blonde hair and sky blue eyes the size of pound coins. She practically bounced into the room, dragging her exasperated mother, Cecilia, by the hand. John could see a small smear of chocolate on her jeans. Little Mary had asthma, this was just a routine checkup. John checked her breathing and heartbeat through the stethoscope, all good here.

'Are you a pirate?' Mary piped up suddenly, poining at the eye-patch. John smiled slightly. You had to admire the innocent frankness of children. Her mother, however, gasped in shock.

'Mary!' She admonished, John waved his hand airily.

'It's alright, she's only asking what you were wondering about anyway.'

The woman opened her mouth warily, then closed it guiltily. John smiled at Mary and shook his head. He did however, face her in the eye and leaned in conspiratorially;

'My eye was stolen by a very bad man.'

The little girl shivered, looking positively delighted with the ghoulish fascination everyone had for the macabre. John felt a little paternal style twang in his chest as she seemed to hang onto his every word.

'Why?' she whispered, her eyes wide with wonder. John paused, memories teetering on the edge of his tongue. The dark, the cold, the pain...there was no way he could inflict that upon a child. He scrabbled for a story to tell her, one that wouldn't freak out her mother mostly.

''t like me very much.' He settled for, the mother glanced at him, very obviously not fooled.

'I like you.' Mary said soberly. John smiled at her, receiving a wide grin in return.

'Thank you Mary, I like you too.'

The appointment was quick, and for some small reason, John was a little disappointed to let the sunny little girl go.


When John finally opened the door into 221B he found Sherlock in the usual posistion of 'flopped with practised carelessness' on the sofa. But in his suit. Odd.

'Hey, I'm home.' John said unnesesarily. Sherlock stretched his arms out languidly.

'We found him' he said. He could only mean the missing boy. John felt a little trickle of relief the child had been found. But...why wasn't Sherlock more triumphant? Relieved? Glad?

'You did? Congratulations.' he tried, smiling. Sherlock glanced at him coldly then swept himself off the sofa.

'This was with him.'

John took the small photo Sherlock pulled from his pocket. What he saw made his blood run cold. It had been taken at a crime scene and the missing boy lay just off the centre, quite obviously dead. Judging by the milky glaze to his eyes he'd been dead awhile. His mouth hung slightly open and his limbs were limply strewn at odd angles. A dark scarlet line across his throat signified how the poor little mite had met his end. John felt sick, clammy that someone could do this. But what really made his stomach turn was a spidery message scrawled messily on the floor next to the boy, written in blood:



What in the name of Cthulu have I done?

Oh, just to clear something up; I do not HATE Sarah. I really quite like the character, seriously. She was just inconvienient for my ship.

And no, John is not gonna go all paedo, he just likes kids okay? Phew, glad we sorted that out.

Hopefully I see you lovely peeps soon x

Next chapter: Skeletons in the closet, literally. Well, Baker Street is a magnet for the dramatic...