Well lookie here, don't I just spoil you all? Two chapters in two days! After I finished chapter 3 last night I may have stayed up till 6 in the morning writing this chapter. Why, you say? Why indeed.

Because it's Sherlock, and I am crazy.

Enjoy some fluffy stuffs. Review and let me know how I'm doing! Maybe there's something you'd like to see? I'm not against suggestions ;-)

"God, isn't this wonderful?"

John frowned as Sherlock did an actual twirl. In the middle of the street. It was the campest thing he had ever seen the noirette do.

"That girl is dead, Sherlock. At least show a little respect."

"Why? She won't care."

John opened his mouth to argue, instead snapping it shut audibly. He continued to walk briskly whilst keeping his companion walking forward and trying to stop him from breaking out in a dance and booming 'I'm Singing in the Rain'.

They finally hailed a cab back to Scotland Yard, but he knew the body wouldn't be in the mortuary for a while yet and then it would be even longer as they bagged and tagged her.

So before Sherlock could unleash himself on the Yard for hours of torture, he steered him away towards the first café they came to. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he was hoping to coax the detective into conversation for at least an hour or two.

They found a seat towards the back. It was a nice little place, cosy. The walls were a warm red and there were black and white canvases on the wall depicting scenes of coffee cups and people drinking coffee. He could feel Sherlock buzzing next to him and had the urge to laugh. He ordered them two black coffees and a slice of carrot cake when the waitress approached, and he didn't miss the look she slipped Sherlock's way, either.

When she retreated to make their drinks, John turned to the detective. He had his hands in his black coat pockets and was hunched up like a coiled spring. John was only biding his time until it sprang open.

"She was totally giving you the look."

Sherlock blinked before turning his sharp eyes John's way.


"The waitress. She gave you the big eyes."

"John that sentence doesn't even resemble sense."

He smiled and shook his head just as the waitress returned, placing John's cup down without a second glance. However, when she slid Sherlock's coffee his way, she lingered, obviously waiting for some kind of attention. John nudged Sherlock's leg, but the detective's face was resolute. The girl gave a small pout before sauntering away.

"You don't have to be rude."

"What? John, be quiet. I'm thinking."

The doctor chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his coffee. As he let his mind wonder back to the girl from this morning, he couldn't help but feel like she was familiar. Her face was pretty, but plain. Nothing about her was particularly memorable, but he knew her from somewhere. Maybe she was a patient at his clinic? But then what would she be doing all the way out here?

Maybe she was brought here? If everything had been 'set' as Sherlock determined, then she was put in that exact place for a reason.

He worried the inside of his cheek, turning to the carrot cake slice before him. Just as he was about to bring a forkful to his lips, he felt something warm touch his cheek. He turned, shocked, when his vision was invaded and he was enveloped in a chemically laced scent. He felt the soft brush of lips against his own before the fork in his hand clattered on the table.

Everything around him seem to hush as his brain struggled to catch up to his situation.

Before he could blink, the invasion was over and he was just staring as Sherlock whipped out his phone and began texting. Part of him was sure he just imagined it.

But when he cast his eyes around the room to see if anyone saw, he caught the eye of the waitress who served them. She gave him a sharp, pointed glare before turning back to her work.

"What… what…"

"Calm down, John. Easiest solution to an irritating situation."

He could feel his hysteria building and he was one word away from a major freak out.

"I… what…?"

Sherlock finally seemed to notice John's panicked expression. When warm hands touched his shoulder, the doctor's head snapped towards him.

"John… are you, you alright?"

"You… you just…"

Sherlock smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "Calm down. Homosexuality is the best façade for unwanted attention. Here, drink your coffee."

The warm mug was gently slipped into his hands, and he took it, unsure of what to do and unsure of how to react. So he sipped the coffee, letting the warmth seep through him and somehow, he managed to reign in his emotions.

Sherlock kissed you. No big deal. Nothing to… to freak about. Just. Calm. Down.

"What did you dream about? Was it the war?"

The smooth, deep voice drew his attention and he glanced up. Sherlock was still tapping on his phone, but he was craned slightly, awaiting an answer.

"Er… what? The war? No. Yes! I mean yes. Horrible stuff."

He tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was making conversation to calm him down. But somehow, it worked. He thought back to his dream and found heat creeping up his neck. He turned from Sherlock's lips, instead picking up the fork and starting on the cake again.

Then he remembered.

"Why, why did you come in? You've never come in when I had a nightmare before."

His tone was curious with just a hint of his previous hysteria, but Sherlock looked up anyway. As their eyes locked, he could see the detective's thoughts racing. Something in his usual cold glance was different. Like a lick of colour of something.

"Because you called my name."

His jaw hit the table the same time his mug did. John heard the clatter and frowned, drawing his attention away. The waitress came jogging over, cloth in hand as John picked up the now cracked mug. He used the distraction to even out his breathing. Every bone in his body wanted to run. To open that door and run until his lungs were burning. He couldn't stay here anymore.

As he turned to tell this to Sherlock, the detective snapped his mobile shut.

"The body's in the morgue. Come on."

Sherlock was up and handing a note to the waitress before John could do anything more than nod. He scrambled to follow, shooting the waitress an apologetic look. She just sneered.

But the doctor was far too jumbled to notice. Instead he kept his head low and swiftly followed his friend, praying that Sherlock didn't feel particularly deductive at that moment.

"Her name is Maggie Wulfon, twenty-five," peeped Molly, passing the clipboard to Sherlock. He snatched it away without a second glance, scanning over the brief notes.

"Was she registered as missing?"

Molly shrugged, her light brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. John felt a wave of pity towards the girl. She was clearly given a heads-up about Sherlock's presence given she was wearing make-up and her hair had been styled. She batted her mascaraed eyelashes at him in a desperate bid for his attention. John couldn't help but think back to the small kiss not an hour before. He felt himself flush with guilt.

Sherlock didn't miss a beat, throwing the doctor a quick glance before focusing on the small brunette.

"Can I see the body?" He gave her a tight smile. "Please?"

She smiled sheepishly, twirling her fingers within each other.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but the body's still being proce-"

"You've changed your hair."

She blinked. "What?"

"The colour. It's darker, and a little shorter. It suits you. Makes your eyes brighter."

He saw her cheeks flood with colour as she stammered to reply, clearly overwhelmed by Sherlock's compliment. The doctor frowned, annoyed at Sherlock's obvious manipulation. But little Molly was oblivious, agreeing to Sherlock's request and leading the way into the mortuary.

John followed, assaulted by the acrid smell of death and bleach. He walked around to the highlighted slab where the body lay.

She had been stripped but not yet cleaned as the blood was still crusted on her face and her hair still dry. As he studied her under the light, he took her in. Soft, kind features. Slender. When Sherlock shooed Molly away and pulled on a pair of gloves, John watched as the consulting detective began to examine her.

The sheet was pulled back and John grunted, averting his eyes out of habit.

"Come on, John. She hardly has modesty now."


The noirette didn't turn, instead taking a mini microscope from his pockets and running it closely over her skin. The doctor stood by, watching him work and running her face through his memory. By the time he concluded that he had never seen her before, Sherlock made some kind of triumphant cry.

John hurried around as he was gestured forward. Sherlock was studying her right hand, and more precisely, her middle finger.


John leant forward and peered through the microscope. It took him a couple of seconds to see the faint nick just in the lip of her nail.

"Sherlock, that could be anything-"

"It's a puncture wound, from a syringe. Smart to inject her under the nail, but this person was careless, they obviously weren't trained with a needle and didn't go far enough under the nail to completely cover it. I was right! She was drugged and then killed, placed in the park for us to find."

John blinked, astounded and dubious at the same time.

"That seems a little far-fetched, even to me, Sherlock." But the noirette was shaking his head, pulling off his gloves.

"I'm sure of it!"

John sighed as the man sauntered off through the door. He bent down and grabbed the sheet, drawing it out above her and covering her once again.

"At least you had a small mercy," he said, not sure how he felt about her being drugged before.

The doctor turned away, making a silent promise to find out who her killer was. She would get some justice, even if he didn't figure it out himself.

"We know she was drugged beforehand, whether it was a lethal dose or not the tests will show. But then the killer went through the effort of hitting her over the head. Why? If she was drugged and already dead, then that blow was an effect…"

Sherlock's words trailed off as he fell back into his thoughts. John just nodded, taking a deep draught of his beer.

The pub they had stopped in was small and close to Baker Street. He had somewhat convinced the detective to stop for a moment so they could eat. Well, so that John could eat. Sherlock only ordered coffee but he was determined to get him to eat something. Maybe a cake?

"And those clothes… they weren't her original ones."

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"The clothes. They were new. The end of the plastic tag was on the label of the jacket."

"Maybe it was just a new jacket."

"No. Everything was new. There was no trace of her smell on the clothes, and she was clearly wearing perfume, I could smell it on her skin. But there was only a faint whiff on her jumper. This is exciting, John! Why would someone drug her, strip her and change her clothes just to the bash her on the head and leave her in the park?"

John carried on with his burger before he felt eyes on him. There was a slight niggle on the back of his neck as Sherlock's piercing gaze penetrated him.

"Well I don't know. We don't even know where she lives. Let's just wait for Lestrade to call and we'll go to her house. I'm sure there are more answers there. Chip?"

Sherlock frowned, but John smiled when he saw a slender finger snake out and steal a chip.

By nine, Sherlock was fuming.

They had rang Lestrade, but the Inspector had no new news. He had promptly sent Sherlock home, and John didn't know what was worse; waiting for a word from Lestrade or having to deal with Sherlock waiting for Lestrade.

After just twenty minutes, he already had a headache.

"Why don't you just… write out the facts we've got or something?"

Sherlock spun on his heel, an incredulous looks on his face. John shifted. Shit.

"Write… write it down?" The noirette basically hissed the words. "I don't need to write it down. I'm completely capable of remembering the facts or lack thereof!"

John blinked, completely startled. Sherlock was raging. He only ever saw this when the detective was either ridiculously sleep-deprived or completely dumbfounded. Which wasn't often. Not the stumped bit, anyway.

"I'm sure that more will come to light, just be patient Sherlock."

"Patient! This is the first case in over a month and now I've been stopped before its even started! God, I hate this!"

John flinched as he heard a loud thump. Looking up from the paper he was pretending to read, John saw the shattered remains of his laptop.


His voice carried so loudly over the tense room that Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. John was on his feet, his fists curled by his side.

"I can't believe you! You're such a fucking child, Sherlock! You cant even wait the few hours it'll take to find out where that poor girl lived! You just – you drive me blood crazy Sherlock! Its worse than living with a teenage girl!"

John didn't look up as he stomped towards the stairs. As he stopped in his doorway, he put all his anger into his voice.

"And you owe me a new laptop!"

He couldn't sleep that night from the anger. It had been one hell of a day.

Dead girl. A weird kiss. And now a broken bloody laptop… Harry had given it to him, but it was still worth a bit of money. There was no way he could afford a new one, and he knew that Sherlock's computer was in eight billion pieces, dissected on the kitchen table.

John rubbed his tired eyes, annoyed and frustrated.

Something was under the detective's skin or else he wouldn't have gotten so angry. With a grunt he turned to his side, taking comfort from the small window. He had the day off tomorrow so he would just catch up on sleep during the day – but that wasn't the point. He shouldn't have to catch up on anything, he should be allowed to sleep when he wanted to, damn it!

After a restless eternity, the sun finally broke the darkness and John heaved a sigh.

He decided that enough was enough, leaving the comfort of his blankets and wrapping himself in his thick robe. He managed to find a pair of socks as well, remembering that his slippers were the poor victims of Sherlock's experiments.

Another spike of anger coursed through him.

Was there nothing he could have that the bloody fool wouldn't break, burn or disassemble?

John stomped downstairs, his mood worsening with every step. By the time he hit the bottom, the doctor was ready to wring Sherlock's neck.

Although when he saw the sorry sight on the couch, John stopped dead in his tracks.

Sherlock had fallen asleep. He had snuggled up to the far corner with one leg tucked underneath him. His head had fallen to the side, casting his curls over his pale features, creating a stark contrast.

But what made John's shoulders slump, and his anger disperse, was the box sat on Sherlock's lap. He had his arms around it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

The picture on the front made John smile sadly.

It was a new laptop.

John walked steadily over to him, reaching out to shake his shoulder but stopped as his eyes swept over the sleeping figure. He had never seen the detective sleeping before. It was an unusual sight, and one he should probably study.

In sleep, Sherlock's features were soft, no tight-lipped grimace, no hardened eyes. He saw how young the man really was and it got him to thinking his age. He thought that Sherlock was about the same age as him, but looking at his peaceful face now, he began to doubt.

He stopped a hands reach away from the noirette.

Everything about Sherlock was harsh. His pale skin. His dark hair. His features were strong, defined, regal. He was tall but not lacking in muscle. Yet there were softer features to him as well, the doctor had seen them. When he smiled, it lit up his whole face. When he wasn't deducing, his eyes were a pale blue, calm like a summer sea. He really was a case and a half, Sherlock Holmes.

Without really knowing what he was doing, John found his finger slipping across the smooth skin of Sherlock's temple and brushing a stray curl from his eye. It revealed his pointed nose and smooth, cupid bow's lips. With a sigh, he leant back slightly, knowing he should probably wake him and make him get into bed.


The doctor was cut off by the sharp shrill of Sherlock's mobile. John leant back, about to turn away when he noticed Sherlock's eyes flicker open without so much as a pause. The phone was already in his hand and he brought it effortlessly to his ear.

"Yes? Good. Where? …fine."

He phone was snapped shut. Sherlock, keeping his bright eyes on the doctor, slowly rose to his feet. He held out the box to John, which he reluctantly took, staring at Sherlock with his mouth agape. The man simply smirked; a small tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Clothes, John. The girl's apartment's been found."

And with that, he walked away. John stood there like a paralyzed fish, astounded and speechless.

The bastard... was awake.