Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

actual description bc ao3 has a word limit :(

'If one were to ask Sherlock Holmes if he believed in vampires, or any mythical creature, for that matter, he would scoff, call you an idiot, and storm off with a wave of his dramatic coat. However, when a baffling case with little to know evidence becomes too much for Scotland Yard, Sherlock steps in. The stakes are high when the third victim in a chain of seemingly unrelated murders is found dead in his office. The police find evidence pointing to murder, his sister knows nothing except that Daylan Halls had no enemies and Sherlock is convinced it was something else. Defeated by the lack of evidence, Sherlock decides to drop the case. Little does he know, the man behind the murders is far from over with Sherlock – and more dangerous than anyone thought. And if he isn’t careful, the famous detective might as well end up as the fourth and final victim.

-!-

A week later and Doctor John Watson is struggling to cope with the fact that his best friend is dead. Not ‘temporally dead’ like four years ago, when the detective jumped from the roof of Saint Barts, but actually dead. Before Sherlock's untimely end, John felt as if he was almost fully recovered from the traumatising experience, only to have to relive it again, up close, personal, and real as the detective died in his arms.

The days leading up to the funeral are the worst in John’s life as he tries to fight the grief by throwing himself into his work, constantly fighting off the sadness attempting to drag him into a pit of despair. Suddenly, everything is at a standstill when Sherlock's body goes missing the day before his funeral. The scene of the crime is almost spotless, with no signs of a break-in; almost as if the body got up and walked away. With Scotland Yard completely swamped and no consulting detective to trace his own corpse, it is up to John and an unexpected ally to solve Sherlock Holmes’ last mystery.

The stakes are high, John's resolve is low, and Sherlock’s disappearance from the funeral home may lead to a mystery bigger than anyone expected – a mystery shrouded in a legend as old as time and hiding a secret that if exposed, will put London into immediate danger.

No pressure, right?

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

The Vampire Chase

[date undisclosed]

Sherlock Holmes has always been a logical type of person. From deductions to the thought process of serial killers, Sherlock uses logic to explain his ideas and connect the facts to fit the theories (as he often says). Sherlock also says that I am very fanciful (I’m still not sure if that is a complement or an insult). He notes that I prefer to find the positives in life, contrary to his cold, calculating, single-minded view of the world. He has also commented on this blog that I tend to romanticise our cases. I tell him that the readers (you) enjoy the adventure and would rather not read an article on the different types of tobacco ash. (Sherlock scoffed and ended the conversation by continuing his experiment of the effects of acid on sheep's hide.)

The notion that my friend viewed the world with a logical, calculating mind was one of the only things I knew of his mind. This knowledge helped me connect some other dots – such as the fact that Sherlock does not believe in a god or other deity watching over us.  This is also the reason that he has refused to acknowledge the works of fantasy fiction I tend to enjoy such as Fablehaven , The Hobbit , Superman , and other works. It also explained some of the ways he interacted with others. For example, Scotland Yard. Sherlock has a saying, ‘when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’. He mostly holds fast to this reasoning of his, but there are occasional exceptions. For example, when presented with something completely and utterly impossible, he attacks and will demolish any such view that he views as preposterous and idiotic.

As it was, it is incredibly difficult to change his views and beliefs. Once his mind is set on something, it is nearly impossible to tear him from it. I say ‘nearly’ because our most recent case proved to be the exception.

It started on a frigid January morning when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade came storming up the 17 steps to 221B with the first case of the new year...

Chapter Text

John Watson woke up to a snow-covered January morning. Momentarily confused, he sat up and unplugged his phone. It was 10:08 a.m. and he had slept in. Huffing at his failure to wake up earlier (old habits die hard), John climbed out of bed, scolding himself under his breath, and went on with his morning routine. When he eventually made it downstairs for breakfast at around 11:00 a.m., Sherlock was sprawled out across the couch, clad in a pair of loose fitting sweatpants and a tight shirt that hugged his torso in all the right plac – John paused and shook his head. He wasn’t gay and, if he were, he was not gay for his best friend. In fact, he was going out with a girl. A very attractive and sweet woman that definitely didn’t have bright blue eyes and curly black hair that looked so much like his flatmate’s thick locks… John mentally cleared his throat and turned his back on the motionless detective.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” he greeted, his voice slightly higher than normal as he made his way to the kitchen, refusing to spare even a glance towards his flatmate until he had had his morning tea and gotten his nonexistent feelings for the attractive detective under control.

Said attractive detective gave a sort of noncommittal grunt after John’s curt greeting and waved a hand in his general direction, then steepled his long, elegant fingers under his chin in his classic thinking pose.

“Alright then. Breakfast?” John asked, his resolve weakening as he looked over his shoulder to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. Another grunt and a neutral expression. John shrugged halfheartedly. “Fine. More for me, then,” Sherlock remained catatonic on the couch as the doctor heated up the kettle and busied himself with the eggs. Two for him and two for his silent flatmate who probably wouldn’t be eating them anytime soon. The kettle went off just as John finished cooking. Humming to himself, he dished up the eggs and went to answer the kettle’s call, the wonderful smell of frying eggs wafting through the flat. John ate his eggs in silence, then set his plate in the sink before wandering into the living room, his half-finished cup of tea now luke-warm in his hand. The ex-soldier sat down heavily in his worn out arm-chair and picked up the newspaper, absent-mindedly sipping from the mug and he skimmed through the sports section of The Sun .

15 minutes later, his tea had gone fully cold and he had finished the newspaper. He halfheartedly contemplated checking the blog for new cases, but a glance into the fridge led him to tying his shoes and shrugging on his heavy winter coat. “Sherlock,” he called out again. “I’m going to Tesco’s. We’re out of milk again.” pausing, he added. “Need anything?”

“Hmm. Arsenic trioxide would be beneficial.”

John paused, hand on the doorknob, processing what Sherlock had just asked for. “Arsenic trio- trisenox ?” he asked in disbelief, his medical background informing him of its name and uses. “For leukaemia?”

“Yes, John. Experiment.” He said, as if it explained everything. “I need to know how it affects cancerous and noncancerous cells up close. I once knew a person whose daughter died after intensive chemotherapy for acute promyelocytic leukaemia. I suspect she may have been poisoned via overdose, but I need to know for sure.” Sherlock explained, bringing his clasped hands to his chin. John let out an exasperated sigh and pinched his brow.

“Okay. And how long ago was this?”

“Hmm… eight years, nine months, four days, two hours, and 53 seconds.” John dropped his hand and looked up, letting out a long breath.

“I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.” John finally opened the door after a beat of silence from his flatmate. The detective’s mouth was closed again, and a look of concentration had fallen over his features. John sighed and stomped down the stairs.

-!-

Two hours later, John returned laden with groceries. Unlocking the front door was a bit of a challenge with the many canvas shopping bags looped around his arms, but after dropping half of his burden, the door swung open easily.

“John?” Someone called out as the doctor crouched down to reclaim his load. John stood up quickly, turning around to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Greg!” John exclaimed. “Hullo, mate.”

“Hey. How are you?” Lestrade asked.

“Good. You?” John smiled.

“Good, thanks.” Lestrade looked down at the discarded bags. “Here, let me help.” Lestrade bent over and gathered the remaining bags, then stood up. John shot Lestrade a grateful look and began to climb the stairs. “Sherlock home?” The DI asked and it was then that John noticed how perturbed the older man seemed. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were wrinkled, and he kept glancing up the stairs as if he was desperate to leave but unable or unwilling to say so.

John gave Lestrade a quick once over then, after a moment of hesitation, asked, “...are you okay?”

Lestrade took a deep breath, switching the bags to one arm, running a hand through his greying hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. It’s just… I got a case for Sherlock. Grizzly one, this is. Suicide, but forensics found something unusual. Thought he might want to check it out.” John nodded, silent, allowing his friend to continue. “Bit unnerving, this one. She was so young… just out of upper 6th and almost the same age as my own daughter. Lily’s just gone out to Westminster after the Christmas holiday and…” the two had reached the door to the flat but John didn’t open it just yet, letting the DI finish. “If I had found my Lily dead…” he swore, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I get it. After Sherlock returned, I had frequent nightmares. Waking up to find him dead…” John trailed off, staring down at his shoes. “I understand.”

Lestrade nodded. “Thanks, John.”

John shrugged. “It’s fine. I understand your fears and I know that it might not fully go away, but you can make sure she’s safe. Hug Lily when she gets home and tell her that you love her. Take her out to dinner some time.”

Lestrade took another deep breath and clenched a hand into a fist. “I will. Thanks again, John.”

“Of course. And thanks for helping me with groceries.” Lestrade nodded, his haggard features softening in the pale light. “Ready to face the menace that is Sherlock Holmes?”

Lestrade’s expression morphed into one of hard determination. “Let’s do this.” 

John grinned and opened the door. “Sherlock!” he called. “I’m back. I brought a friend and enough food to last us another few weeks.” Sherlock, lying in the same position the doctor had left him in, but now fully dressed and alert, muttered an intelligible response. “I did not get your trisenox but I got a box of your favourite tea.”

Lestrade looked up from where he was clearing a space on the counter to set the groceries, “The stuff for cancer?”

“Yes, Giles. For an experiment.” Sherlock explained, swinging his legs off the couch and standing up effortlessly. Lestrade muttered something about that not being his name as Sherlock walked over the coffee table (literally) and approached the shorter men. Lestrade set his load down and turned to lead the detective back into the living room as the doctor unpacked the fruits of his labour – literally. “I am guessing that this isn’t a social call, Graham?”

“Still not my name…” Murmured Lestrade before clearing his throat under Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze. “Er, yeah, it’s not. Got something you might like.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John shoved some oatmeal into a cupboard above his head. “Although you believe I may be intrigued, you aren’t particularly fond of it yourself, whatever it is. Why?” John threw away the old, empty milk carton and replaced it with the new one. Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, but the detective cut him off. “Your hair isn’t styled, like it usually is. Instead, it’s messy, tousled even, a sign that you’ve been running a hand through it more often – something you are prone to do when stressed, anxious, or overwhelmed.” As if to prove Sherlock’s point, Greg ran a hand through his untidied hair, messing it up even more. “Your clothes are wrinkled and you haven’t shaved this morning. Either you didn’t go home last night or you had to leave in a rush this morning, but considering the bags under your eyes, it was the former. You’ve shifted your weight two- no, three times, in the last minute and a half, you’re playing with your wristwatch. ‘Fidgeting fingers’ as it can be called is a nervous habit found in most people in an uncomfortable or anxiety-inducing situation. Just a few minutes ago, I overheard you and John outside talking about your 18-year-old daughter, Lily, and my-” Sherlock grimaced, “-‘disappearance’. If the thing you keep mentioning triggered a reaction like that from John, then it relates to my faked suicide. Connect the dots, as John likes to say, and you’re here due to a young girl committing suicide in the last few days.” Sherlock paused, narrowing his eyes.

“But it can’t be your own daughter, because if she were dead, you would not be here. You would have been given time off of work to grieve and besides, while the unkempt appearances could point to grief, you show no sign of crying which is a natural human response to the death of a loved one. And John recommended some activities to make it known that you, her father, care about her, proving that your daughter is still alive.” John finished unloading and putting away everything and joined the two men in the living room, silently sinking into his chair. Lestrade looked around at the doctor with wide eyes. While accustomed to the younger man’s antics, the DI wasn’t used to the rapid deductions when they were centred around him. “Conclusion,” Sherlock continued, “there was a young girl of maybe 18 or 19 years of age who has recently committed suicide. The girl, being similar in age to Lily Lestrade has affected you immensely.” Sherlock paused, squinted again, then began to pace.

“But you wouldn’t come to me if it were a simple suicide, would you. No, it’s something bigger. What is it then? No sleep, agitation, something that interests me…” Sherlock had made a full circle around Lestrade, reminding John of a shark circling its prey. “What did the forensics team find, then, that caused you to ‘drop in’, Geoff?”

Lestrade, startled by Sherlock’s abrupt questioning, looked slightly perturbed as he contemplated how to respond. “Well, uh…”

“Yes?” Sherlock questioned, towering over the DI.

“Jenna Morgan was 19 years old. She was found by her mother five days ago, lying in her bathtub with slit wrists…” Greg started coolly, slipping into a more professional demeanor as he talked.

“Boring.” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes and throwing himself into his own armchair across from the ex-soldier. “Why did you come?” he asked again.

Lestrade looked between John and Sherlock, seemingly torn on how to continue before he sighed and looked back at the detective. “The cause of death was blood loss, but the cuts on her wrists were made after her death. Additionally, the bathtub was empty. No one had heard the bath run and there were only a few flecks of blood around the wrists and neck. There were no other markings or cuts or anything on her body aside from some bruising around her throat and forearms.” Sherlock looked up. “We think it was a murder staged like a suicide, but there’s no evidence aside from the bruises and the empty bathtub.”

Sherlock hummed. “Well, that certainly is interesting. A young girl that died of blood loss via suicide, but lacerations to the radial artery were made post-mortum. Bathtub never had any water, so how could there be no blood… bruising around the neck… John!” Sherlock exclaimed. John looked up, surprised.

“Yeah?”

“What do you make out of all this?” He asked.

“Well…” John started. “There’s no way for the blood to have been washed away with water, as the bathtub was empty, so definitely no suicide, especially with the bruises, proving that the victim fought against her assailant. Perhaps someone she didn’t know. And yet the absence of any other wounds show that it was instead someone she trusted – until she realised what the murderer was trying to do but by then it must have been too late. That narrows it down quite a bit, don’t you think? ” Sherlock gave the doctor a look that seemed almost impressed. “Maybe the culprit killed her then moved her inside, but-”

“Her room was on the second floor.” Lestrade supplied helpfully. John nodded thoughtfully, pretending to ignore the proud look on Sherlock's face melt into a disappointed scowl.

“So the killer would have had to make a ruckus that would have alerted the parents, or he-”

“Or she.” Sherlock interrupted, steepling his hands under his chin and glaring at his flatmate through narrowed eyes.

“Or she,” the doctor amended, “would have known the victim personally, such as a mother or a sibling. Maybe something like that one case, the Orient Express one at that Chinese place with Tyler Wong. Tyler or Tim, whatever his name was.”

Sherlock half-nodded, still frowning. “Perhaps. That could be one solution, but it’s completely wrong. Nice try.” He clapped his hands and stood up.

“What-”

“While that theory could fit, it is utterly and completely wrong.” The detective began pacing like a lion trapped in a cage, while John and Lestrade looked on, the former slightly aghast. “First, it is useless to theorise without the facts which both of you have done. If the murderer was a close family or friend, then why would there be signs of a struggle on the victims neck and shoulders? Yes, she could have only begun to struggle once she realised what was happening, but she died of blood loss, so the bruises wouldn’t be as prominent on her skin, unless they were inflicted a while before her death…” Sherlock trailed off mid-sentence, his gaze falling on the window of the empty flat across the street. “Lestrade, I need to see the body.”

Lestrade stood up, face grim. “You can’t.”

“What?” Sherlock hissed, his head whipping around so fast that John was surprised he didn’t get some form of whiplash. “I need to see the bruising! Depending on the size and coloration of the markings, they will lead me to the killer. Do you want me to catch you a murderer or not?” the detective all but yelled.

“I can’t let you see the-”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock was full on shouting at Lestrade when John stood up and quickly approached the angry detective, reaching up to rest a steady hand on his shoulder. Instead of backing down from the fight, Sherlock shrugged John’s hand off his shoulder and continued his row with the DI. “Why can’t-”

“The funeral is tomorrow!” The DI finally shouted, face red. Sherlock fell silent, his mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened marginally.

“What did you say?” Sherlock finally asked, his voice low.

Lestrade took a heaving breath. “Jenna Morgan’s funeral is tomorrow. She’s off-limits, Sherlock. I can show you the pictures from the crime scene, but that’s all I can do.”

Sherlock stumbled back into his chair, mouth opening and closing silently, like a goldfish. Lestrade was still heaving from the shouting match, John’s gaze flicking between the two of them. If he had to guess, this was the first time that his friend had been denied access to a body. Even in the morgue, a sweet smile or two and he was bent over a corpse, riding crop in hand. 

The silence that had fallen over the three men was broken when, suddenly, Lestrade’s mobile went off. He fumbled with his coat pockets, seemingly having forgotten which pocket he had left his phone in. Sherlock’s keen eyes followed every movement as Lestrade finally got a hold of the device.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He answered with a hint of trepidation in his words. A heavy male voice gave a muffled answer and the DI frowned. Sherlock did too, then there was another moment of silence broken by the man’s intelligible words. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

Lestrade hung up and slowly dropped his mobile into the inner pocket of his suit coat. Then, he looked up and met the detective’s prying gaze. “There’s been another one.”

Chapter Text

“Female, 39. Stabbed.” Lestrade informed the two inhabitants of 221b. The first inhabitant, Sherlock Holmes, sat up, his back rigid. 

“Does she have the same bruising pattern as the girl?” He asked impatiently.

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know, Dimmock didn’t give me details, he just said that a woman has been stabbed and I was needed on the scene.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Fine. On the off chance that she does have the same patterns as the girl, where is the crime scene?”

“989 Victoria Road. About fifteen minutes from here.” Lestrade answered. The detective sunk back into his chair, his face expressionless.

“John,” The doctor looked up. “It appears that we have a case.”

John grinned. “Thank the heavens- you’ve been a right menace all week! Get your coat.”

“Have not!” Sherlock argued, standing up. Lestrade also stood, an amused air about him as he listened to the two bickering.

John gave the detective a skeptical look. “The day after Christmas, you destroyed nearly every decoration around the flat, then took the tinsel off the tree and tried to burn it for one of your so-called experiments. After that, you went and broke the chemistry set Mycroft got you-”

“-It was plastic and better suited for the use of a four year old-”

“And then you smashed half of our dishes in the dining room, gathered all the items that couldn’t be washed, drew faces on them, and tried to solve the ‘crime scene’ you created.” John finally finished, zipping up his coat and pulling his gloves out of his pockets. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but seemingly thought better about it, brushing past John and rushing down the stairs, wrapping his scarf around his long neck in the process. John snorted from the landing. “Yup, that’s what I thought.”

DI Lestrade followed close behind, chuckling softly. “Did he really do all that?”

“Yeah. I have some serious shopping to do now that all our spare sheets and pillows have been defaced with a blue sharpie.” John answered with a sigh. “It’s worth it though - at least he’s not shooting holes in the wall. Mrs. Hudson threw a fit the last time he did that.”

Lestrade burst out laughing. “Blimey, mate!”

“John!” Sherlock called from the front door, clearly impatient.

“Coming.” John called down, closing the door to 221B and making his way down the seventeen steps. When the ex-soldier stepped out into the street, Sherlock had already hailed a cab and was holding the door open impatiently. Lestrade muttered something about Sherlocks ability to summon cabs, the detective returned with his usual, ‘don’t be daft’ snark, John rolled his eyes good-naturally, and they were on their way.

25 minutes of the cabbie grumbling about traffic later, the three arrived at the scene of the crime. Tumbling out of the cab like clowns out of a circus car, Sherlock paid the fare and John got a good look around. They were standing in front of a small bungalow painted a light blue with white trimming. There was a small yard out front with an even smaller garden off to the side, near the one-car garage. The property was obviously well cared for, despite the winter chill having wilted some of the pruned flowers. By itself, the small house would have been a quaint little dwelling, if not for the array of police vehicles and officers, not to mention the brightly coloured ambulance and nosy neighbours surrounding the ‘crime scene - do not cross’ tape strung around the property.

Near the ambulance were two EMT personnel attending to a middle-aged man with dirty blond hair and tears drying on his cheeks. Looking at the crying man with an orange shock blanket draped across his shoulders made John’s heart clench - it wasn’t hard to deduce that this man was the victim's husband. Swallowing the lump in his throat (John had always been a bit more emotional than the uncaring, unfeeling detective), the doctor turned and headed into the house after his friend.

Guided by a helpful forensics officer, John made his way through the hustle and bustle of police and forensics and reached a large bedroom near the back of the bungalow. Sherlock was already bent double over the body with an officer spouting details. “-her name. She was found by her husband about an hour ago when he returned home after running some errands-”

Despite the fact that John was a medical doctor in Afghanistan and a companion of Sherlock Holmes, which added investigating some pretty gruesome crime scenes to his repertoire, John’s mind went blank. Just that morning, he, John Watson, had gone out and ran an errand to Tesco’s. Yes, he’d come home to his flatmate doing some crazy things (including traipsing around stark naked) however, the doctor couldn’t help but entertain the thought: what if he had found his friend dead, stabbed and bleeding his bed, the floor, or couch? If he was in the husband's place, would he have walked through the door, expecting a warm ‘welcome home’ and a loving kiss but was instead greeted by a corpse, silent and cold, laying on their bed, crashing onto the pavement, broken body falling limp? Suddenly, images of the fall flashed through John’s mind: Sherlock, falling, falling, falling, bleeding out on the hard pavement, his eyes open, unseeing, unobserving, so unlike the man he was when he was alive.

But it was all fake, it wasn’t real, Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was there, at the restaurant, a stupid moustache penciled right above his upper lip. And yet John had seen him fall. He had seen the detective jump, and he hit the ground with a sickening crunch and if John had walked into his room, Sherlock lying there, his great green-blue-grey eyes blank… John didn’t know what he would do. Cry, maybe. Scream and beg for the detective to wake up, yes. Cradle his head, run a hand through his soft, silky hair, matted and sticky with blood, whispering broken promises and regretful confessions, knowing that they would fall on deaf ears. Call the police and sit outside in an ambulance, tears falling down his cheeks, his limp returned and his hands shaking, his mind and body numb-

“John?”

John looked up to see Sherlock standing mere inches from his face. Eyes wide, he stared up into his friends multi-coloured eyes, green and blue and grey, until he felt a cold wall and a warm hand holding him up.

“John?” Sherlock asked again, a rare flash of emotion flitting across his face: concern. The detective’s voice lowered to a low rumble. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I- I’m fine, sorry. Where were we?” John asked, pushing himself off of the wall he had apparently fallen onto, shrugging his friend's hand off of his shoulder, praying that his racing pulse and uneven breaths didn’t give away his fear or the fact that he had been moments away from a panic attack, right in front of the whole of Scotland Yard and, heaven forbid, Sherlock Holmes himself.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, his words hissed out in a low tone. “I do not understand why this scene affects you so badly, but if you must leave, I will understand. I can do this on my own.”

John swallowed. If only the detective knew that John's reaction to the scene revolved around the man who didn’t know that the earth went around the sun. If only he knew that it so deeply reflected John’s innermost fears to the point that he was almost petrified at the thought of losing his flatmate, his friend , all over again. “No.” His voice came out weak and shaky. He cleared his throat. “No. It’s nothing, it’s fine, I’ll be fine. Promise.”

Sherlock studied him for a second before seemingly dismissing the doctor and quickly looked away, his attention drawn away by the woman lying on the bed, the handle of a kitchen knife protruding from her abdomen. The officer started speaking again as John warily approached the corpse and laid a gentle hand on her eyelids and, almost reverently, closed her eyes. Sherlock glanced up at him, confused, but John ignored the prying gaze until the consulting detective looked away.

The taller man continued to study the victim, analysing the bloodstains around the knife wounds and the neck, although no clear puncture wounds were visible. Eventually, Sherlock carefully pulled the collar of her shirt down and revealed a myriad of bruises ranging from barely formed red spots of colour to older, yellowing bruises. The red, oval bruises dotted the sternum and collarbones, reaching up to her suprasternal notch at the base of her throat. The others, small, yellowing bruises about the size of a pea and found in pairs, as if they were the result of a harsh bite, dotted a marginally small area lining both sides of her neck, right above the carotid arteries.

It was a weird pattern, John had to admit, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The only thing that came to mind was that the victim had repeatedly hit herself with a small, blunt object, over and over again without breaking the skin, or, perhaps, a vampire had gotten to her and drained her until her veins ran dry. John shook his head, lightly running a finger over the left carotid, marked with the odd assembly of bruises- the blood-sucking creatures of modern fiction didn’t exist and if they did, John was sure that they’d be a bit more careful about covering it up, or at least conscientious of the wounds they were creating. And if it were a fictitious vampire, why then, was the woman stabbed six times?

“The red bruises, over here, were made less than two days ago, but the yellowish bruising lining her carotid were made more than a week ago.” John muttered. Sherlock nodded, his curly black hair bouncing slightly. The doctor grabbed a pale hand and raised the woman’s arm. It was as light as an arm could be and slightly warm, but it was otherwise easy to move. “Rigour mortis hasn’t set in yet so she hasn’t been dead long. Body’s warm, so dead three hours, at most.”

“Yes. It appears to have been a small, blunt object that repeatedly hit her neck. That still doesn’t explain what the cause of death actually was .” John looked up, puzzled. He knew that Sherlock tended to look over the more simplistic details, but did he seriously miss the knife, literally sticking out of her stomach!?

“Sherlock-” John protested, “There’s a knife, and five stab wounds, in her stomach ! I’d reckon that to be a good start when figuring out what ‘the cause of death actually was’!” He snapped, guestering furiously to the handle, anger bubbling up and crashing over any remaining feelings of grief or sorrow.

The detective didn’t even look up as John all but shouted. “No, John, I did not miss the stab wounds. In fact, I studied them intensely and found that they were made post-mortem, like Miss. Morgan’s slit wrists, meaning that Kyah Bailey over here was killed somehow, someplace else, and brought here, then ultimately stabbed. The motive is still unclear to me however, but it does appear that our murderer or stabber, if they had help, is a woman who knows not what she is doing. The wounds are not very deep and in fact, miss every single vital organ. And there’s only about a pint of blood around the body and no other external wounds, which, in regards to death via blood loss, leads to the conclusion that it is not possible for the victim to have died from the maiming. Therefore, the blood is pooled at the bottom of the body, which is ruled out by the fact that there is no discoloration or wetness on the back, or it has disappeared entirely which, although improbable, is not impossible."

John let out a huff, the anger dissipating, replaced instead by disbelief. “All that, from stab wounds? Incredible.” Sherlock seemed to not hear the doctor’s statement, but John could have sworn he’d seen the corners of the detective’s mouth perk up at the compliment. “Anything else?” Sherlock’s rare barely-a-smile faded slightly.

“Our murderer is female and shorter than average. She hasn’t killed before, it’s a sloppy job, but it seems that she knew the victim well and there was definitely a struggle right before she died, evident by the bruises on her chest.” Sherlock explained, closing his compact magnifying glass with a small click and standing up. “Come, John.” The doctor obeyed and Sherlock led the way out of the house to where Lestrade was busy herding press away from the bungalow.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock called. The DI turned and nodded. “Send me the photos of Jenna Morgan and I’ll text you what I have. I have a feeling that her bruises will match the ones on Kyah Baylie. If they do, I suspect that we may be dealing with a serial killer.”

“Will do, Sherlock. Thanks!” Lestrade shouted back, too distracted to fully register what the younger man had said. Sherlock said nothing and hailed a cab to take the two back to baker street. The long ride was filled with silence as John stared out the window and reflected on the fear that had struck him when he saw the body. After the fall, John broke. He didn’t know how to move on until he met Charlotte. She helped him get through the two years without his best friend and while John cared for her immensely, she made him realise that he had fallen in love with the only consulting detective in the world.

After accepting his feelings for the dead detective, John would spend hours at Sherlock’s grave, confessing everything that he had felt for the taller man from his romantic feelings to the regret etched deep in his soul for not being able to come to the conclusion earlier and attempt a relationship with his flatmate. After two years of Sherlock being dead, he had come back to life and John had punched him in the face, but eventually he let him back in. It had taken a while, but soon Sherlock had earned his forgiveness and trust and they fell into the same comradely they had before the Fall. That was four years ago and John had thought that he had gotten over the trauma, but apparently he had not.

The cab slowed to a stop outside of 221 Baker Street and John numbly tumbled out, making a beeline towards the door, leaving his flatmate to pay the fare. Having not locked the door after them before, John barreled through and ascended the two flights of stairs to their flat rather quickly. Sherlock entered the flat a moment later, slightly confused. “John?”

John sucked in a deep breath. “Yes?”

Sherlock paused in the doorway, his eyes as hard as steel as he seemingly stared into the doctor's soul. “You’re not fine.” He finally spoke. It wasn’t a question, nor a demand, but a sure and solid fact- a statement.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” John breathed, striding into the kitchen. He could go for a cup of tea.

“‘You can’t bottle up your emotions, John’.” Sherlock quoted softly.

“What are you, my therapist?”

Sherlock seemed to regard this question for a moment before speaking up again. “While I have no formal training, talking to someone about your problems or fears and concerns has been proven to be beneficial for the mental and physical health of both adolescents and adults.”

John let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Who said that?”

The detective gave a small smile. “I did.”

Outside, the dreary London sky was growing dark. The horizon was filled with a rainbow of colours: red, gold, pink, orange. It was stunning. John wished he could enjoy it, but the tears that had begun to gather in his eyes marred the image. A lone teardrop spilled and Sherlock moved forward to rest a hand on the doctor's shoulder, a frown creasing Sherlock’s pale forehead, his eyebrows pinching together. “You’re crying.”

“O-outstanding observation, you idiot.” John choked out, wiping the stray tear away with the back of his hand.

“What’s wrong, John?”

John didn’t respond verbally at first. Instead, he reached out to grasp Sherlock’s right hand on his own. The taller man gave him a quizzical look but didn’t say anything, relaxing his hand and letting John hold it. Desperately trying to keep the tears from falling, John pressed two shaking fingers to the pulse point of his friend's wrist. Sherlock let out a breathless ‘oh’ as he realised what the doctor was doing.

Feeling the steady thrum of the detective’s pulse seemed to calm most of John's nerves. Reassured and now relieved, he threw his arms around the tallers neck and pulled him into a tight embrace, resting his head on his friend's shoulder.

Reacting according to John’s teaching, Sherlock wound his arms around John’s waist and pulled him close. At this, the tears began to flow freely and John started sobbing. “I thought I was over it. I thought it was okay.” He cried into the detective’s shoulder. “But it’s not. It’s not okay. You were dead and I went shopping and I was the husband and I came home and you were- you were-”

“Shhh.” Sherlock whispered, rubbing soothing circles into John’s quivering shoulders. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. I’m here and I’m alive. You can hear me breathing, feel my heart beating. I’m safe with you and I’m not going to leave again any time soon. Okay?”

“O-okay…” John whimpered. The tears slowed and eventually stopped, but the blogger clung to the detective like his life depended on it, relishing the fact that his friend was alive and that John would never come home from the shops to find a dead detective because he knew that Sherlock would never allow it. As the tears turned to hiccups, John took a deep breath to calm his nerves and to take in the smell of burnt wood, tobacco, morgue chemicals, tea, and the new book scent that was so uniquely Sherlock .

“It’s going to be okay, John.” Sherlock whispered. And finally, finally , after years of subconscious fear that he could lose his lifeline at any moment, John started to believe it.

Chapter Text

A large crash was what woke John the next morning. Another, duller thump sounded and John groaned, pressing the palms of his hands into his forehead at the sound. His flatmate just couldn’t be relatively normal for one night.

Groggily, John swung his legs over the side of the bed, untangled himself from the sheets that seemed intent on ensnaring the doctor, and standing up. Thinking about ignoring his obnoxious flatmate for the moment, John dumped the sheets on the bed. Suddenly, there was a tentative shout of “John!” from the floor below. Sighing, John slipped on a robe and padded down the stairs to the main room.

Emerging into the living room, John stopped dead in his tracks. The leather chair Sherlock adored lay on its side and the small bookshelf beside the left window had been tipped over. The contents of the shelves (consisting of John’s medical journals, fictitious novels, and some pictures from his army days) had spilled across the floor. Sitting near the fireplace with his legs folded at awkward angles, lay Sherlock, having apparently just fallen from his chair or some other large object. Namely: the shelf.

John trailed a hand down his face and sighed. “What have you done this time, Sherlock?”

The man in question refused to meet the ex-soldiers gaze as he tried to formulate an excuse. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Unless you tripped over your chair, grabbed my shelf on your way down then landed in the fireplace, then it really isn’t.”

“I… fell. The curtain rod was broken and it was bothering me. The angle of the sun matched with the decline of the rod made for a rather intrusive light pattern. As you can see, the rod is no more fixed than it is broken-” Looking around at the mess for a second time, John realised why the living room was so bright all of a sudden- the curtains were gone. A trail of brown fabric led to the rod, usually hanging above the window, split in half. John sighed.

“Sherlock. The blasted thing is literally snapped in half and laying on the floor, along with the contents of my bookshelf.”

“Well, er… yes. You see, I had grabbed hold of it before losing my balance. I tried to grip it to steady myself, but the action was fruitless and now, the bookshelf has fallen. As have I. On the bright side, however,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet and brushing off his slightly wrinkled suit coat, “I have learned a valuable lesson.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Which is…”

The taller man pursed his lips, refusing to meet John’s gaze. “The curtain rod is not a suitable mount to hold oneself up.”

The doctor snorted. Loudly. “No shit , Sherlock! Even a child knows better than to hand on a curtain rod. I know that, despite the fact that I am an idiotic, dull, normal human being! It’s common sense!” Sherlock stared at John during his outburst, mouth hanging slightly open. John threw his hands in the air. “Don’t tell me you deleted common sense, Sherlock! Oh, I get it. It’s ‘not important’. Like the bloody solar system ! Dammit, Sherlock. For heaven's sake.”

The younger man brushed off more nonexistent dust and fixed a steady gaze onto a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows , one of John’s. “For the record, I was preoccupied. And I don’t think you’re stupid, John. Less intelligent and slightly slower than me, yes, but not an idiot.”

The ex-soldier blinked. “Oh, really? The amount of times you have called me an idiot proves otherwise.”

Sherlock looked up at John, seemingly surprised. His grey eyes rapidly flitted over John’s terse form. “You’re upset.” the detective cleared his throat. “With me.”

John took a deep breath. “Outstanding deduction, Sherlock. No, that wasn’t a compliment, it was sarcasm, and yes, I am upset.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing slightly. John swallowed.

“Last night- yesterday- was hard. Because I could relate to the husband. I was scared, terrified even, that I would come home someday to find you dead.” John started slowly.

The taller man’s gaze hardened. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Caring is a disadvantage, John.”

“Well then I am losing whatever battle this,” John waved a hand towards his flatmate. “Is.”

“I… I don’t- Why are you losing, John?”

“Because I bloody care for you, you daft git! I sit here all day and make you tea. I follow you around at crime scenes, I make sure you eat and sleep. I care for you , Sherlock!” John shouted. “And I am upset because I realised that you could be dead. I know that we will all die someday, I should know that better than anyone after Afghanistan, but I had thought that it would be old age that got us, not suicide, however fake it was. Before the fall, I thought you were- invincible! Above death! Then you- you-” John’s voice broke. “You went and died. I begged you to come back, to provide me with a miracle, and you did . You bloody did. But now, with the husband, I realised that the next time someone as powerful as Moriarty comes along, there might not be a landing pad. There might not be a massive ploy to fool me. Maybe there will just be a gun and you. And I will come home and-”

“And… I would be…”

“Dead.” John swallowed hard, blinking the tears out of his eyes. “I realised that you could die. Like Harry Potter-” he pointed at the book on the floor and noticed that his hand was shaking. “the horcrux was killed and the Boy Who Lived lived again, but now there’s nothing that’s stopping him from dying. Nothing to stop him being dead.”

Sherlock was silent. John took a few deep, gulping breaths to calm the unpleasant miniature of grief, rage, and fear coiling in his gut. Sherlock looked up from the book again. “I… I understand. And I’m sorry. For… for everything. Breaking the curtain rod. Knocking over your shelf. Faking my death. I knew it would hurt you, but I didn’t realise…”

“Realise what?” John barked, the dwindling anger in his stomach raging up again. “That I cared? That a part of me died when you did? That even though it was four years ago, the memory of you jumping off that building is still etched in my mind?”

The detective took a shaky breath. “Precisely. I am sorry, John. Truly, I really am.”

John bowed his head, sucking in a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Silence fell over the flat once more, broken by the soft breathing of Sherlock, the deep, ragged breaths of John, and the radiator in Mrs. Hudson's flat kicking in to combat the winter chill. It had snowed last night and the flat was unusually cold. “You’re still upset.” Sherlock eventually noted.

“Well,” John laughed coolly, “you did wake me up at eight in the morning -the ass-crack of dawn, FYI- by making a mess of the flat. You’re cleaning that up by the way.” Sherlock huffed, but didn’t complain. John smiled tightly, the heat of fury not quite gone yet. “Tea?”

“Obviously.” Grunted Sherlock as he righted his chair and dumped the two halves of the metal rod -curtains attached- onto the cool leather.

“Good.” John filled the kettle with water and turned the stove on. Tea was done in less than four minutes and the flat was near spotless in under 60. A few hours later, Sherlock’s phone rang and after a brief conversation with Greg Lestrade, the two crime-solvers were on their way to a third bloodless crime-scene.

~

“Name?” Sherlock asked, thrusting his hand into a blue latex glove.

“Daylan Halls. 58 years old, lived alone, and was found by his sister-in-law, Eitlyn Halls half an hour ago. I wouldn’t have called you, but something came up. Namely the fact that Mr. Halls is, well, like the others. No blood anywhere, bruises around the neck and throat. This time, though, there’s something new – signs of a break-in. That’s how Eitlyn realised that something was wrong and called the police.” Lestrade explained, zipping up a blue forensic suit.

Sherlock hummed. “Where are we?”

“Upstairs, first door on your right.” Lestrade pointed to a large, winding staircase. “His office.” Nodding, John followed the curly-haired detective up to the second floor. The banister of the half-moon staircase was a deep oak colour and polished until it reflected the high, ornate ceiling. The two emerged into a large, open hallway. Another staircase landing was on the other end, completing the stereotypical rich-person staircase plan. The hallway itself had an oak banister looking over the front entry hall where the police were milling around. The floor was draped with a rich brown carpet that muffled even John’s footsteps – clad as they were with the crinkly plastic dirt protectors. The walls were painted a pleasing off-white cream colour, matching the high-vaulted ceilings, old-fashioned lamps hanging periodically from the ceiling. The doors were stained similarly to the banister – a dark, aesthetically pleasing oak. Sherlock seemed to notice nothing but the carpets and the faint outlines of footprints trekking up and down the hallway. The door to the office was half-open and, as Lestrade had pointed out, had clear scuff marks around the handle, as if someone had indeed tried to pry the door open.

Sherlock pushed the door open further and slipped inside, John following. Daylan Halls was laying upright in his chair, facing away from the door. While the detective was distracted by something or another near the entrance, John wandered over to the man, stepping around an overturned filing cabinet bleeding out various papers around a smashed vase. Mr. Halls was limp, arms folded in front of him, fingers splayed as if he had been clutching something as he died. The buttons on his grey cardigan were unbuttoned, shirt thrown open to reveal a myriad of bruises and fierce red scratch marks, some viciously breaking the skin while others barely touched the skin. The victim's head was lolling to the side, revealing two clear bruises at the base of his neck. Dried perspiration shimmered in the pale light. The man's face was limp and relaxed, wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth showed signs of a life well lived. 

At least his eyes weren’t open this time.

John frowned. This man had lived a good life, but he seemed to give off an air of trepidation, even in death. The uncanny feeling weighing heavy in the air, the scratch marks on the door, the wounds on his chest, the scattered contents of the office, the way Halls’ hands were curled, the perspiration…

“Sherlock,” John called. “There’s scratch marks here.” The detective wandered over to the man and leaned over, a steady hand prodding at the open yet bloodless wounds. John watched in silence then, as Sherlock stood up, started, “Whoever did this, whoever killed him and trashed the office- this man was clearly terrified. He tried to lock the door, but the murderer broke through. There was a fight, I think.” The detective, gaze fixed on the man's bruised torso, nodded slowly.

“Yes. The footprints on the stairs were made hastily, meaning that Mr. Halls here was running. He locked the door behind him, thinking he was safe, but he wasn’t. There was a fight, as you said, that led to this man's death and our serial -or should I say spree- killers escape.”

The doctor sucked in a breath. “A spree killer? You don’t think–”

“Yes, John. A spree killer– don’t be daft. All three crime scenes have been the same – don’t give me that look, John, Lestrade emailed me pictures of Jenna’s body – unexplainable deaths marked with signature bruises around the torso, clear marks around the carotid, and no blood in sight. Three murders over the course of a week, each in completely different locations with identical markings and little to no cool off time? The textbook definition of a spree killer.” Sherlock paused and tapped his chin. “The only problem is that spree killers don’t usually leave a signature behind. This one, whoever they are, does.”

There was a long pause before John spoke up. “But why those bruises specifically? And it takes a few days for bruises of that extent to form, so the killer must have interacted with the victims beforehand. Why attack them like that then kill them a day later? It doesn’t make sense.”

The detective shrugged. “I have to admit that the motive for the bruises are indeed unfathomable.” 

“We can get some analysis, perhaps the killer left some fingerprints around or DNA evidence on the bruises. Daylan was holding something before he died – get someone to swab beneath his fingernails.” John ordered. Sherlock blinked and stepped into the hall with a few long strides.

“Lestrade!” he barked down the stairs. “Get a DNA reading on the bruises and under the fingernails and get me a fingerprint dusting of this entire room!”

Lestrade’s response was instantaneous, although slightly muffled and echoey amidst the wide, carpeted halls and high ceilings of the house. Sniffing with satisfaction, Sherlock entered the room once more and looked at John. “Do you know what killed him, Doctor?” he asked.

The doctor smiled grimly. “No idea, but whoever inflicted this damage was furious. What have you gathered so far, Mr. Holmes?”

The taller man tilted his head to the side. “Some sort of delayed blunt force trauma due to the initial bruises being inflicted a few days earlier. He can’t have been dead for more than 12 hours so… a fractured rib and a punctured lung inflicted by a small but heavy object that ultimately led to death.”

John nodded. “Makes sense. It's just that none of the other victims had bruises severe enough to suggest a broken rib. That and the mysterious ways they all died. No blood, anywhere. I can’t make heads or tails of the case. I guess we’ll just have to wait for forensics to get back to us.”

The lanky detective sighed, his head lowered. “If we must.”

“And we must.”

Huffing, Sherlock scanned the crime scene one last time, then led the way out with a swish of his long coat. John sighed, admiring the way the long coat accentuated his features, the high collar emphasising his stunningly high cheekbones, then remembered that he was standing amidst a crime scene and leaning over a dead body. Cheeks flaming, John touched the man's shoulder as if apologising for his wayward thoughts and rushed after his defeated detective.

John met up with his friend on the sidewalk outside the mansion. “I detest the unsolvable ones.” Sherlock started when John stopped next to the younger man.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock blinked, but continued staring into the distance. “What for? It’s not your fault that my intelligence isn’t enough sometimes.”

“Sherlock… you are the smartest man I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. If you can’t solve a case, it’s not your fault. Sometimes…” John shivered, the wind picking up speed and piercing his warm jacket, “sometimes there's not enough time. Sometimes, there aren’t enough clues or the facts lead us on a wild goose chase; a dead end. It’s not you. If anything, it’s the murderer's fault.” This seemed to get a fraction of a smile out of Sherlock. John grinned despite the chattering of his teeth. “Besides, who said that this was unsolved? We just need one more clue and you’ll have yourself a murderer by the end of tonight.” Sherlock hummed, looking away. It felt as if he wanted to say something more but couldn’t bring himself to do so. It was a painful prod to John’s chest knowing that the doctor couldn’t force the detective to say anything.

“Are you cold, John?” Sherlock asked, seemingly out of the blue. John shook his head, despite the fact that he was indeed cold and currently shivering. The detective frowned, then began to untie his scarf. “Here.”

The soft, blue fabric of Sherlocks cashmere scarf was suddenly engulfing John's neck before he had a chance to decline the offer. “I-” Before he could utter a word, Sherlock had tied the scarf and suddenly John felt himself melting into the warmth it provided and the overwhelming scent of Sherlock clinging to the delicate threads. “Oh. This is nice. Thank you, Sherlock.”

A small, barely-made smile creeped onto the detective's face. “I wouldn't survive if my blogger had caught a cold, would I?”

“I suppose not. Who would make you tea and clean up after your messes and force you to take care of yourself?” John teased shamelessly. Sherlock huffed.

“Mrs. Hudson would. She loves me too much to let me starve. Lestrade would take me in if I asked. So would Molly. Oh! I could ask your sister!” the detective deadpanned with a face suggesting the utmost serious consideration of asking his friends to take care of him. John smacked Sherlocks arm and laughed.

“Never! Clara would think you're trying to make a move on Harry and kick you out within the hour!” John proclaimed.

“Hmm… alright then – Stamford! Mike Stamford. How about that, John?”

A cab slowed to a stop and the two climbed in, still arguing. “He was my friend first, you git. Can't go moving in with your ex-flatmates best mate! And who said this hypothetical cold would kill me? I survived Afghanistan, I’ll survive a petty cold if it’s the last thing I do.” Sherlock gave a low chuckle and leaned forward to talk with the cabbie.

“221b Baker Street.” Sherlock instructed, still chortling. The cabbie nodded and they were off. “Okay, Stamfords out. Perhaps I could get a flatshare with Murray. And no, this cold does not kill you, it just makes you insufferable and boring,”

John faked an offended gasp. “First, that’s very rude. Shame on you, Sherlock Holmes, and two, Murray’s married and has three kids. I don’t think a flat share is going to work out. You’ll have to find a bedsit or a cottage or something out in the country. I’ll visit you when I’m not sick. Sound good?”

Sherlock grinned and leaned back into his seat. “Sounds perfect. I’ll need a few hundred pollinating bees and weekly cases above an eight and it'll be heaven. Just make sure you bring your own milk when you join me.”

The banter continued until the two were warm inside the walls of Baker Street and Sherlock had dreamed up an entire world filled with cottages and bees and violin concertos. When it began to get dark, John pulled out a bottle of very expensive red wine (a gift from a client) with the very inexpensive Italian take-out they had delivered. By midnight, the pair were tipsy and giggly. John told Sherlock how he had always wanted to live in Scotland one-day and after a bought of laughter and teasing (‘i wouldn’t have taken you as a scotsman, John Hamish Watson’), the detective confessed how he had a dream of raising bees in the countryside after his criminal-chasing days were over.

Soon, a bottle or two of the gift wine was empty and John Watson was quite drunk. Sherlock Holmes was slightly less drunk but still somewhat incoherent. Around two a.m., John had initiated a game of charades and at the current moment, Sherlock was squinting at him, his foggy mind struggling to make sense of it all. John made a vague gesture to himself and Sherlock shouted out, drunkenly pointing to the blogger. “Doctor? No… no.. er.. Army-army doctor?”

John shook his head, struggling to hold in his laughter. Sherlock took a sip of wine and grinned.

“Blogger!!!”

“YES! Yes, mate!” John giggled. “You-you’re turn, Sherlly…”

Sherlock tried to stand up, but immediately lost his balance and fell backwards onto the couch. John stared at him for a second than the two locked eyes and they both succumbed to a bout of laughter. Suddenly, John had an idea and frowned.

“S-sherlock. We should, uh, we should… sleep.”

Sherlock looked up, confused. “Sleep? Why?”

“‘Cause… um because it’s good for us. And because your.. Your birthday…” there was a pause. “Your birth-thingy is today! We-we should celebrate. But we can't.. We can’t celebrate if-if we dont… I dunno. Forgot…”

“Sleep?” Sherlock supplied helpfully.

John put a hand to his forehead and stumbled to the couch next to the detective. “Yeah… yeah. That.”

“Then come and sleep. On the couch.” Sherlock mumbled, his head lolling back and hitting the wall. He winced and his head shot back up.

John collapsed onto the couch next to the detective, his head dropping onto the latter’s shoulder. “The couch? With you, Sherly? You want to sleep with me?”

“Ob-obv’usly.” Sherlock said, his face flushed at the implications, even more so with the alcohol. John didn’t seem to notice so Sherlock dismissed the thought altogether and, with much grumbling, pulled his arm out from under John and wrapped it around the smaller man.

John hummed in delight, his blue eyes clouding over with sleep. “Mm.. Ta. Tha’s a good idea. ‘M tired.”

“Oui.” Sherlock laid his head against the wall and focused on the back of John’s head. “C’est une bonne idée.”

“Sherl… no french.” The doctor groaned, health-heartedly hitting the detective’s chest.

The taller man sighed. “D’accord. Bonne nuit.”

“…fine. Bonne nuit. What’ver tha’ means.” With that, John Watson was out like a light. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, stayed awake. He quietly stared at his flatmate’s sleeping form, a feeling of longing stabbing him through his heart.

He wasn’t very familiar with this feeling, this ‘attraction’, but he had to admit… It felt nice. Plus, if John were to even dream about reciprocating Sherlock’s feelings, the younger man would rub it all over Mycroft’s face – within reason, of course. He wouldn’t want to ruin their newfound relationship if the ex-soldier even agreed to one. But this was all wishful thinking. He didn’t indulge in heart-over-mind activities hardly ever so he built up the walls around the room in his mind palace concealing his love for John. It was a small room yet it seemed to be bigger than the palace itself, flooded with a warm, soft red colour. It smelt like the doctor too: laundry detergent and cinnamon.

With a sigh, Sherlock closed the newly-reinforced steel door. He watched as a bright yellow light formed a sign of the same colour: 

SENTIMENT = REJECTION

DO NOT OPEN

A small, watery smile left Sherlocks lips. Then he turned and strode back into the living room.

Gasping awake, Sherlock turned to his flatmate. John was still passed out. The detective forced his feelings to stay where he had left them, silently resigning himself to a life of secrecy; of pretending everything was normal, that he never was and never will be in love with John Hamish Watson.

A bare foot slipped off of the coffee table supporting it and Sherlock fell off the couch, just a little bit. He grunted, manoeuvring himself into a better position: one long arm supporting the doctor and the detective’s cheek resting on John’s head, his golden hair tickling his nose. John frowned at the jostleting but didn’t wake. Sherlock smiled, then promptly passed out. Everything was calm.