#1 Crime Scene

10 p.m. at May Fair Hotel, urgent.

Well, John Watson thought, back in the game then.

He opened the back door for the consulting detective, who was too excited to realise this little polite gesture at the moment, but John didn't mind. He was utterly floating two metres above the ground, and wasn't even sure that he was the same ex-army doctor, alway-composed John Watson, dangerously nearing towards forty; that he had been before the last few weeks. Or whenever.

Going to a crime scene, like this, was different and surprisingly new. The feeling was like going back to school after getting the most awesome Christmas present in the holidays; with the little difference that he couldn't just jump in front of Lestrade, shouting "I GOT HIM, I GOT HIM, FINALLY I GOT HIM." In the blissful state in which he was, he didn't realise the stupid, unintended smile on his face.

"What's so funny?"

Hearing that well-known low voice, he jerked his head towards the other man sitting next to him in the backseat of the cab. Sherlock Holmes winced at his blank expression.

"You're grinning like an idiot."

"I'm not." John claimed and felt his cheeks heating up suddenly. A little, hidden smile run through Sherlock's lips, then he turned his head away, looking out of the window.

The taxi ride didn'take too long; five minutes later the cab pulled off by the borders of the crime scene and flashing police cars in front of the hotel. Under the British and some other countries' flags, huge shiny gold letters advertised the name, MAY FAIR. John handed some cash to the cabbie, then followed Sherlock, who was already at the entrance of the building. John got through the 'Do not cross' cordon, bumping right into Sally Donovan.

"Oh. Hey." the sergeant greeted him with rather a questioningly raised eyebrow than a forced smile. "I haven't seen you two for a while."

"We got other things to do." John was fighting the ambiguous tone in his voice.

"Yeah, really? Wondering what other things could be there to do for Sherlock Holmes , when not flustering around some dead bodies with sheer delectation."


They jerked their heads towards the voice. Sherlock was standing at the entrance with Lestrade on his side, and both seemed to be waiting for John.

"Need to postpone this lovely talk. Gotta go in." he said, wincing at Donovan, who rolled her eyes and added mockingly;

"Freak's first. As always."

Lestrade and John greeted each other and shook hands hurriedly, then the three men stepped into the shiny, luxurious hall.

"The young lady, Charlotte Boury, at age 28, was found dead in one of the apartments this morning" -Lestrade explained, while they headed towards the elevator. "No wounds, no bruises; no sign of brutal murder, self-harm or suicide. She was a quite famous singer in Australia, by the way; and had a clean record. According to his brother she never had personality disorders or suicidal thoughts in her life"

"Right, and what's the point?" asked Sherlock when they stopped before the golden door of the elevator, waiting. "How is it a murder?"

"You'll see" Lestrade said and he sounded uncharacteristically mysterious. John and Sherlock shared a glance.

The elevator arrived and they stepped in. Lestrade pushed the button of the third floor, then turned to Sherlock, a little smile playing in the corner of his mouth. "This case is typically for you, I can't afford to think that you won't take it as a gift."

Sherlock shook his head, turning to the door.

"You shouldn't talk about it in this manner, Lestrade. There's a dead woman in that room." he said quietly with a fake stern expression on his face that made John want to laugh. They heard a pleasant tinkling sound, then a female voice claimed Third floor, and the door opened.

"I'm glad that you're back." Lestrade stated and now he didn't even bother with hiding the smile on his face.


Indeed, it was a case typically for Sherlock. That was John's first thought when he glimpsed the inscription on the mirror, written with blood. cHARLOTte. And the second was that this whole thing was sick and terrible. And unbelievably sad, because that woman was young, and by the sight of her stuffs in the room John could only imagine that she was a vivid, stunning creature.

"Ten minutes. Alone." Sherlock said as he lowered himself to examine the corpse of the blonde singer on the floor. When Lestrade looked at John and nodded towards the door, Sherlock added assertively: "John stays. Close the door behind you, Lestrade, and do not dare to disturb me for ten minutes."

"Only because you're asking it kindly." Lestrade's eyes met the ceiling and John gave him an apologetic look.

"He means please."

"Whatever." with that, the inspector left the apartmen.

John was standing in front of the closed door for a couple of minutes, watching Sherlock looking through the dead body, and rarely glancing at the bizzarely decorated mirror. Then he stood up, as if he had been done, and removed his black leather gloves.

"Anything yet?" John asked carefully. He didn't want to interrupt the detective in his mind palace.

"Everything." Sherlock looked at him and let himself a few seconds to enjoy his own complacency in the reflection of John's amazed expression. Then his features went back to neutral, even a bit disappointed. "The way she was murdered is atrocious and brutal, but unquestionably original nowadays. The only thing we need to find now is the most jealous person in her acquaintanceship; I suppose her lover's wife or girlfriend."

John frowned and stepped closer to him, watching the still-vulnerable-looking, well-dressed body on the floor.

"You're setting world record? It was only two minutes... So, how was she killed, actually?"

"I won't tell you."

John looked at him, confused. What is Mr. Show-off playing at?

"I will, but not now. I presume it would distract you."

"Sherlock, I've seen a bit too much cruelty in my life, therefore... Distract me from what, anyway?"

Before he could say anything else Sherlock was suddenly right in front of him, dropped his gloves on the floor and pulled him into a fast, rough kiss.

John let out a surprised gasp and he was completely unable to do anything, but leaning into the kiss, deepening his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. It was always like this, he thought while he was silently cursing himself. Sherlock and his kisses. He had experienced several types of kisses in his life, even one with a man, back in the army; which was, by the way, quite out of his personality and let's admit he had been too drunk and desperate to care; but none of them were like Sherlock's. He couldn't even understand how he could be dying for those perky, crude movements of those warm, surprisingly soft lips, but he was. It was non-romantic, always fast and heady and that made him hard every single time.

He gasped for air, when their lips parted. The world felt dizzy and hot around him, and he could think of nothing, but Sherlock's slightly blushed face, glittering blue eyes, and the silly smug smirk on his blessed lips. He was aware of that he looked completely out of control, and he might have been watching Sherlock, mesmerized, as if he had been some kind of god or a dark angel, not sure if from heaven or hell.

Sherlock grabbed his waist and pulled him against himself. His lips brushed forcefully against John's and this time he added slight thrusts with his hips, in the same rhythm of the kiss. John moaned into his mouth, and quickly reminded himself that Sherlock hadn't brought a gun with himself today, so what he felt was the undeniable hardness in the detective's groin. Just like lovesick schoolboys, he thought and inwardly smiled at the incredible situation, the incredible relationship and his incredible boyfriend.

In the next moment, he found Sherlock's fingers on his belt, opening it quickly.

"What the hell are you doing?" his voice was hoarse and he was already panting.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock's mouth moved to John's neck and he let out a sigh as those lips found the perfect spot to apply that stupid, intoxicating suction on, which drove John crazy.

"We can't do it here, idiot." he was already choking, as Sherlock tore his zip open, and slipped his hand inside to cup John's erection through one thin material.

"But you want to." Sherlock's voice was on a low tune that he used only for one reason.

"Don't fuckin dare to start that..."

"Start what, darling?" And there he was again. Massaging John through his briefs, while holding him tight and whispering into his ear on a voice that sould have been illegal to use. " You want it so bad, you don't need me to deduce how much. You should see yourself, you're already craving for my touch, my mouth on you, you desperately want to feel me around your..."

"Stop." Luckily John found the wall behind himself, and he leaned against it, desperate in his current state. His heart was pumping furiously in his chest, his knees were too weak and that aching sensation down in his groin took over his thinking. "For God's sake, it's a crime scene."

"Then what?"

He looked at Sherlock and shook his head in disbelief, while he was trying hard to catch his breath.

"Lestrade and policemen are out there... And there's a corpse in this room... And don't even try the dirty talk again, 'cause I swear I..."

"I wasn't doing the dirty talk." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a theatrical amazement, and the way his eyes rounded so innocently, so fake, made John want to punch him, because he was always acting damn so good all the time.

"Stop seducing me, you prat. We could have it at home; not right here in this bloody crime scene."

John couldn't believe his eyes; the next moment Sherlock was pouting, eyes larger than ever.

"But it was on my bucket list."

And with that statement, he dropped to his knees, hurriedly yanked John's briefs down, and before he could protest, Sherlock, without any warning, took John's cock into his mouth.

John let out a muffled cry, and he knew that this was the part when would give up. No teasing, no licking, no any kind of preparation, this idiot decided to suck him instantly, this dirty, this wantonly. And to top it all, he was bloody amazing at it. Seriously, where had he learnt to take it that deep in his mouth?

John made a fatal mistake as he looked down at his boyfriend; his black, uncombed curles, his unearthy, beautiful cheekbones, his closed eyes -now he wasn't acting, Sherlock really enjoyed this-, his mouth wrapped around his cock, and then John lost it completely. He grabbed Sherlock's head, who let out a surprised little whimper, and John pulled him closer on himself, well, let's admit, not so gently.

It was crazy. Fucking his boyfriend in the mouth right in a crime scene was anything, but not normal. Especially, fucking the enigmatic, arrogant, superintelligent sociopath Sherlock Holmes in the mouth in a crime scene was clearly not normal - well, being in a relationship with him wasn't normal either, though. But John loved it. He was craving for it, craving for Sherlock, for this fucked-up, beautiful love story of theirs. It brought him back to life, made him feel younger by twenty years and filled him with a wondrous amount of happiness that he couldn't even though he could bear.

"Oh God... Sherlock!" he was too close now, and for his greatest disappointment Sherlock leaned back, letting his boyfriend's cock alone, while it was burning like hell, and desperately felt like it was just about to explode. Sherlock sat back on his heels. He looked ravishing as his cheeks were blushed, his pupils were dilated, his lips were amazingly red from his previous action. The expression on his face was now dark and full of sheer lust. He was panting too. Only looking at him nearly made John come.

"John, I want it."

John's eyes rounded in astonishment and he gave up on catching his breath.


Sherlock stood up and stumbled against his boyfriend. His lips brushed John's earlobe, and his voice was hoarse and shaky.

"I want you to fuck me right here, against this wall."

John moaned helplessly and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders to keep himself upright. His knees just went crushingly weak in response to those words.

"We don't have anything..." somehow he could put himself together to form that sentence. Sherlock hurriedly got out of his coat and let it fall onto the floor; then he put his hand into the pocket of his trousers and light flickered in John's eyes at the sight of the condom between Sherlock's long, pale fingers. The detective raised an eyebrow at him.

"You're unbelievable." John grinned and pushed Sherlock against the wall, feeling smug with the eager sigh which was caused by his rough movement. He took the condom, hastily tore the packing, and rolled onto himself, almost without thinking. "Though, you should lick it a bit more to get me wetter."

"No. I want it now."

"It might hurt you."

"I don't care."

Sherlock sounded desperate. His fly was already open, and John helped him to tug both his trousers and pants down, to his knees. He slid one fingers straight right into him, and was very surprised by the reaction.

"Fuck it, John, we don't have time for that!"

"Shh. Don't wanna be overheard, do you?" John leaned closer, pressing his cock against Sherlock arse, and shuddered at the though of what the sensation would be like just within a few seconds.

"Come on, now..." Sherlock whined, almost totally losing control, and at the moment John felt like he lived for those moments. He pushed himself into his boyfriend, slowly, sweetly and then both of them lost it. Totally.

John grabbed him by the waist, and started as slowly and gently as he could. Anyway, he couldn't, the sensation was too intense, too heady, too strong, too perfect, so he found himself pounding into Sherlock, so fast that he was almost taken aback by what he was capable of doing. Sherlock cried out, and John knew he had found the perfect angle.


That was his Sherlock. Trembling in the whole body, moaning, whining for more, being wonderfully beyond control, wanting John to fuck him harder and harder...

There was a knock on the door and both of them froze.

"Sherlock. Time's up. My team needs to get in too. We have to continue the investigation."

Lestrade's voice was dragging both of them back to earth, and in their current state it was a very unpleasant feeling. John swallowed hard, and put himself together just for a half second;

"He needs a few more minutes." he shouted, and in the next moment he gasped for air as Sherlock decided to rock his hips against him.

"Maximum five." Lestrade said out there, and that two words made them more than happy in that moment.

John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's erection, when his fingers met his boyfriend's ones.

"Don't even think about coming without me, love." he hissed into his ear with a grin, and Sherlock shivered beneath him. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly. His face was incredibly red and his eyes were closed. John placed a brief kiss at his sweaty temple, tightened the grip on his cock and then got lost utterly in the ride.

Sherlock cried out so loudly, that if Lestrade had been still in front of the door, he would have certainly overheard them. John hastily muffled Sherlock's mouth with his free palm, and bit his own lips. He wanted to scream Sherlock's name in the air so badly and he really needed a huge amount of self-control to keep himself away from that. His lower parts were burning now, and as he was watching Sherlock in his unconscious state, as he heard his muffled cries, and groans, and as his cock stiffened in his hand as much as it just could, he felt his orgasm capturing him and tearing him apart. Now he couldn't hold back his cries, he rocked himself against Sherlock desperately to the sweet long "Jooooohn!" that he was screaming beneath him and it was all perfect, so fuckin, fuckin perfect!

He rode out his orgasm slowly and nearly collapsed on Sherlock's back.

"Oh my God."

Both of them were panting hard, and were embarassingly flushed. Sherlock's knees gave up and he collapsed on the floor, his forehead hitting the wall, his trousers still around his knees. John let himself be overtaken by gravitation too, and dropped beside Sherlock, breathing still too heavily. He reached out an arm, and pulled Sherlock into a clumsy, tired embrace.

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, and though John's heart jumped, he was sure that he misheard it. Sherlock's lips twirled into a smile, while his eyes were wtill closed, and he said;

"You heard it right. I said I love you."

John grabbed Sherlock's chin and forced his face into a passionate, truly, madly, deeply loving kiss.

"I love you too, you can't imagine..."

Sherlock snorted while he giggled.

"I can, and I don't think that I'de be able to walk again, due to your incontrollable cock."

"Ruining the moment, that's so Sherlock." John shook his head, but dared to smile, knowing that Sherlock wasn't looking. "Get up now; seriously, it's actually..."

Was a crime scene. He swallowed, and suddenly he felt austere guilt building in his chest, as he remembered where they had just shagged, exactly. Charlotte Boury was lying dead just like ten minutes before, the terrible sign of the murderer was still on the mirror, and a few hours earlier someone was taking a nice young lady's life in this very same room.

"Don't feel uneasy about it. That's just a corpse." Sherlock said while they were making hopeless attempts to clean and putting themselves together a bit. "Just like body parts at home, in my experiments."

"Which is also not normal." John stated while he wrapped the used condom into a tissue. "But this was more like desecration."

"Then get over it."

"Thanks for the useful advice." When John was ready with himself, he stooped to lift Sherlock's coat up and his look remained on the wall. "Oh, no."

"What?" Sherlock followed his gaze. "Oh." What the expression on his face meant was impossible to read for John. Sherlock put his coat on and picked up his gloves from the floor. He smiled at John as if they were on a lovely, morning stroll in the park. "Ready to go?"

John gaped at him in disbelief.

"You can't leave that here."


"Because... You came on that freakin wall, for heaven's sake. Shouldn't you do something about it?!"

Sherlock shrugged and his right hand was already on the doorknob.

"What should I do about it? It clearly doesn't affect the further investigation, so if it bothers someone, Anderson's always there to wipe it off."

"You're mean." John rolled his eyes.

"And you're in love with me." Sherlock pointed at him, then gave a terrible, wide grin before he opened the door. And hate you also, John thought.


Lestrade was looking at them strangely, and John couldn't keep his thought away from that he knew it. He certainly heard it, and damn it, he's a detective inspector, he will realise the trace that they left in that room.

"Impalement?" Lestrade asked and frowned his eyebrows, while they were walking out of the hotel. "How is that possible when there was no sign on her body..."

"Think of the middle ages, Lestrade." Sherlock said, while he was already looking for a cab. "Besides, the keyword is jealousy."

"What? But..." Lestrade looked annoyed; Sherlock was clearly about to end this conversation for this evening, so he turned to John instead. "With what exactly? We haven't found anything in the room that would serve that purpose."

"Sorry, I don't know, and I really don't want to know." John, who just understood the point of the murder, felt his stomach turn in disgust. Their little act there seemed more like a blasphemy then.

"He didn't tell you either?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, very knowingly. "Then what on earth were you doing there in 15 minutes?"

John felt his face heating, and suddenly Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Sorry for stealing your conversation partner, but we need to do some research tonight, connecting to the case." and that was Sherlock's goodbye.

"Good night, Greg." John said, and forced a smile on his face, as he tugged his arm out of Sherlock's strong grip irritatedly.

"Connecting to the case. Sure." Lestrade mumbled.


John opened the door for Sherlock, and he climbed after him into the cab. Sherlock decided to sit next to the opposite window, so John sat on the middle backseat.

"221 B, Baker Street." he informed the driver, and when the motor buzzed he turned to Sherlock. For a moment he was taken aback by the way Sherlock looked. There was nothing special about him this time, but John found him perfectly beautiful, and he claimed himself the luckiest man on earth, because he knew Sherlock. Not like other people, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly; he knew him entirely. Every side of this gorgeous, crazy, often unearthy, but undeniably human, unbelievable man. And this man was his. Only his.

Sherlock looked back at him questioningly, and John realised that he might have been staring at him dumbly for long seconds.

"Lestrade knows it." he said after he gave himself a mental shake.

"Does it bother you?"

"I don't know." John yawned, and he flopped his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew that it surprised him, and maybe the cabbie would look at them disapprovingly if he noticed, and this goofy schoolboy love again; but he was too exhausted to care. He closed his eyes and inhaled Sherlock's typical scent slowly. "If Mycroft knew it, it would certainly bother me more."

Sherlock smirked, and then, surprisingly, he placed a soft kiss on John's forehead.

"Too bad. Mycroft's house is also on my bucket list."

e n d.