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October 12th
Sherlock finishes another case for Lestrade and the NSY. He pinpoints all the areas that the police were too incompetent to find themselves. Donovan and Anderson belittle him; Sherlock sarcastically asks Anderson how his wife is faring. Lestrade sternly breaks them apart and asks Sherlock out to drinks. Like clockwork, to celebrate a case shut. It’s always offered, and it’s always declined.
Often with a glare at one of the other officers or with flair, like the swishing of his Belstaff coat. Sometimes, he simply lights a cigarette and ignores him. He’s not a light drunk; he simply does not see the point in losing his inhibitions around those he does not trust. He can count those he trusts on one hand: Mrs. Hudson. If he were being honest and reaching, he could include Angelo, Mycroft, and maybe Lestrade.
November 26th
It’s pouring down rain as Sherlock walks home from Tesco’s. He doesn’t feel like riding a cab after spending hours on the hit-and-run case. It should have been simple, but Sherlock has been in a mood all day. His brother keeps calling, likely to tell him something about Mummy or reminding him to quit cigarettes. He has been cutting down, but not to much avail. He reasons that it’s better than heroin.
A man who lives on the street, Alfredo, walks over with a ripped umbrella. He offers Sherlock the shelter from the rain, who accepts it wordlessly. Rather than make small talk when the men arrive at the flat, Sherlock leads Alfredo up the stairs. Alfredo wobbles out several hours later, leaving Sherlock in a somewhat better disposition.
January 27th
Your local MP – Beth Davenport – Junior Minister for Transport. A boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre. Sherlock thinks there might be a correlation. Lestrade raises an eyebrow but, since Sherlock doesn’t necessarily have proof, they’re not opening an investigation. Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens the flat door. His colleague, Mike Stamford, stands there with a proper young man.
“This is Brady. Your new flatmate.”
“American or Canadian?”
“I’m sorry?” He blinks.
“Canadian, then. Wipe your feet, make a cup of tea. You have five minutes.”
As Brady hurries off to make a cup of tea, Sherlock turns to the other man.
“Why do you insist on finding me a flatmate?”
“It could do you some good, Sherlock. Someone to get your mind off cigarettes and Mycroft and get you to stop playing violin at three in the morning.”
Sherlock slightly quirks his lips. “You enjoy my violin.”
“Not at three in the bloody morn—”
He’s cut off by a loud clatter, followed by an expensive piece of glass shattering. Brady’s voice carries out apologies, and Sherlock’s face grows red upon seeing several beakers on the floor. Without turning to face Mike, he growls.
“There’s about to be a homicide at 221B Baker Street.”
He winces. “That was important, was it?”
“Mike.”
Stamford nods and collects Brady, who stammers something about tea as he’s being led away. Sherlock slams the door after them. He masks up and goes about trying to collect broken shards of glass and leaking fumes. His phone lights up with a text, and Sherlock tosses what he has in his hands to check on it.
From: Alfredo [Attached file 1.2 GB] Evidence linking Sir Jeffrey Patterson, James Phillimore, and Beth Davenport
Flatmate and experiment forgotten, Sherlock texts Lestrade to meet him in the precinct, despite the late hour. They have another case.
January 28th
Sherlock texted Lestrade to be ready, as he’d had a breakthrough. However, the text didn’t go through. Upon arrival, he sees why. Press conference. Oh, how Sherlock despises those things. Ignorant people sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. He sneaks around the proceedings, catching a good earful and gander on who all is around. There is a small bout of contentment that Lestrade is leading this one.
“They were all found in places that had no reason to be.” Lestrade answers a question, and Sherlock nods. Good.
“But you can’t have serial suicides,” an ignorant prat cuts him off. Idiot.
He smirks a bit at Lestrade’s sassy comeback: “well, apparently you can.” Not entirely accurate, but bravo, detective inspector.
When another asks that there is nothing that links, them, Sherlock receives a text.
From: Alfredo All systems go. 👍
To: Alfredo You know I loathe those cartoons.
From: Alfredo Emojis, Locke
Sherlock lets out a withering sigh and presses ‘send’ on his one-word text to everyone’s mobiles in the room. Wrong! The proceeds continue. When Lestrade again mentions the ‘linked suicides’ and the best people working on them, he sends the mass text again. At the mention of being ‘as safe as we want to be’, as Sherlock was sure he would state soon, the text is sent again. An additional text is sent strictly to Lestrade.
From +0205551874 You know where to find me. – SH
He’s moved away from the police station, gone to the morgue at St. Bart’s. molly flirts with him and he takes advantage of it. He’s attempted a relationship with one woman but couldn’t go farther than kissing before he grew uncomfortable. The women’s body is not something he enjoys being around. She’s got a new body for him. 67, natural causes. A doctor, most likely. She completes autopsies and, if there’s nothing amiss, the donated bodies are handed to Sherlock for… experimentation.
Molly watches out of morbid curiosity as Sherlock whips and flogs the corpse with a riding crop. He shows more emotion and enjoyment with the dead people than he does the living. After letting his frustrations out and stating information needed, Sherlock feels the tension change in the air. The air of flirtation. He interrupts her, calling her out on her lipstick and, when she asks him for coffee, he deliberately misinterprets her offer – asking for black with two sugars.
He’s working in the lab minutes later when Mike walks in with a strikingly handsome military man. In the back of his head, he knows this is going to be another flatmate request. Though, this one looks more promising that that last.
How to find more… it takes approximately 13.7 seconds for Mike to retrieve his mobile, and John has one in his back left pocket…
Without looking away from his table, he speaks up. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
Mike raises an eyebrow but wants nothing to do with Sherlock’s textcapades. He lies, claiming it’s in his coat. Sherlock knows it’s a lie and waits. Sure enough, the military man offers his. Sherlock looks up and thanks him.
He’s tanned, Sherlock notes silently, but not tanned above the wrist. Not sunbathing, then. Afghanistan or Iraq? He’s definitely military. The haircut says so. The conversation screams medical. Army doctor most likely. Limp’s bad when he walked in, but he doesn’t ask for a chair. Psychosomatic. Traumatic experience. Sherlock soundlessly wonders about the army doctor’s therapist.
How do you feel about the violin? These are the questions a potential flatmate should ask. ‘We’ve only just met’ he says. How charming. John says this man knows nothing about him; and he doesn’t even have a name or address, “and you want to be flatmates?”
“Problem?”
John stares back incredulously. But not put-off, Sherlock notes. He tells him to meet at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, offhandedly commenting the riding crop left in the mortuary as he walks out the door. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”
From SH: If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. - SH
January 29th
John arrives first, obviously having walked, as Sherlock climbs out of the cab and hands over some notes. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, opens the door and is positively giddy to see Sherlock. And why not? After all, he ensured her ex-husband would be executed. Sherlock was positive the flat would work well with them… and he may have been a bit presumptuous. What with John unintentionally calling his possessions rubbish.
Speaks his mind, check. Casually comments on Billy the Skull. Sees nothing wrong about Mrs. Hudson’s talk of Mrs. Turner’s married ones, check. Deflects my personal questions with another question, one within the same area… I might like him.
As Mrs. Hudson walks in with the paper, talking of the case Sherlock doesn’t have yet, something outside catches his eye. A panda car with an ‘01’ in the top right. Detective Inspector. Something’s changed, and he’ll be getting the case now. It’s Christmas in his mind palace, and all Sherlock needs is a suitable assistant. He bounds down the stairs and throws open the door. Just before, though, he thinks about the army doctor in his sitting room. Slamming the door shut, he quietly makes his way back up.
Mrs. Hudson coddles John, and Sherlock notes that John mentions nothing when Mrs. Hudson relates him and her late husband. John damns his leg, and Sherlock silently chuckles when Mrs. Hudson brushes off the apology by referring to her hip. His smirks grows wider as he hears John settle in. a newspaper, asking for tea and biscuits. Sherlock leans against the wall, seeing how his new flatmate eyes in on the serial suicides at hand.
Not quite modest if this ‘very good’ response is anything to go by. Check. Pupils dilate at the thought of accompanying me to a crime scene. A violent death. The instantaneous switch from ‘far too much’ to ‘oh, God, yes’ when offered more. Oh, yes. Check. I wonder how he does in the field.
He doesn’t break the silence but instead stares. Not directly at me, but at my phone. Clever man. On the ride to the crime scene, a good half an hour or more, Sherlock explains his deductions. How he knew the other was wounded in war. All he can see in the borrowed mobile that explains who John’s brother is and the relationship between the two. After the long-winded explanations, Sherlock assures John he was right.
“The police don’t consult amateurs.”
Sherlock stares out the window as he speaks, certain he’s just lost what could have possibly been the best flatmate. But he’s not going to stop being who he is. What he is.
“That… was amazing,” he says instead.
Sherlock was awaiting some for of ‘piss off’, but John compliments him and smiles. John tells him the one thing he got wrong in his deductions – Harry is his sister, not brother – which bothers Sherlock, because there’s always something.
Handles his own with Sally, check. Goes along with my words. ‘you need to wear one of these’ Not contradicting me when I claim, ‘he’s with me’. There are so many connotations to that statement. Assistant, boyfriend, doctor, blogger. Check.
The newest victim is Jennifer Wilson, Lestrade explains, accepting John as Sherlock’s ‘colleague’. Dressed in all pink, the killer made a big mistake. Sherlock’s gaze glues onto the victim, hearing waves of idiotic questions in the air. Must be Lestrade. He never stops to think of every angle, just the most obvious ones. ‘Rache’. It could be German for revenge. But she’s not German. Her bag is missing, pink by the looks of things. She’s from out of town, only here for one night.
More likely, missing a letter. Perhaps an ‘l’ for ‘Rachel’. The name of her killer or a passcode. Her back is wet, but the umbrella in her possession is not. Her ring has been removed recently. More than once. She must have been naughty. Married ten plus years, unhappily obviously. A serial adulterer in a string of serial suicides. Much more exciting. Time for Watson’s light. How does he handle the field?
“Dr. Watson, what do you think?” Cutting off Lestrade.
The inspector starts on a rant about breaking the rules just to let Sherlock in here, but Sherlock isn’t bothered by this, “because you need me.”
There’s a flick of recognition and resignation in his eyes as he glances toward John then Sherlock when he answers, “Yes, I do.”
Lestrade allows it. John moves closer to the victim, and the inspector keeps everyone out so Sherlock and his colleague can work. After crouching low and studying her body, John comes up with a conclusion.
“Asphyxiation… probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs.”
He glances to Lestrade at the last bit, and Sherlock presses him.
“You know what it was, you’ve read the papers.”
“Well, she’s one of the suicides. The fourth…?”
Lestrade needs some information now, and Sherlock remains low on the ground, eyes drifting from Wilson to Watson as he speaks.
“Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes.” As he stands, so does John. “I’m guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night from the size of her suitcase.” Lestrade momentarily interrupts, wondering about the nonexistent suitcase, but Sherlock barrels through. “She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married.”
He stops to let the other two digest the information. John hangs on every word, but Lestrade shakes his head, believing him to be showing off for John. When he voices his opinion that Sherlock is making things up, Sherlock moves back toward the body.
“Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside is shinier than the outside, so it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work, look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or who does she remove her ring for? Not one lover, she’d never sustain the fiction of being single for that long time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”
Though the explanation is for Lestrade’s benefit, it’s John’s voice that comes first. “Brilliant.”
Works well in the field, check.
After another explanation of where she must possibly be from, another compliment from John. Unable to help himself, Sherlock is gravitated toward the praise.
“Do you know you do that out loud?”
“Sorry,” the change is immediate. “I’ll shut up.”
The consulting detective feels a pang for removing his wonderment and bright smile. “No, it’s… fine.”
From: Sherlock: Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. – SH
John receives the text while being ‘intimidated’ by a dramatic unknown in the middle of a warehouse. Luckily, he doesn’t scare easy and has no qualms at checking his messages in the middle of a supposed threatening conversation.
From Sherlock: If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH
After the strange examination at the crime scene, the dodgy detectives, the man in the shadows, and the awkward ride back, John finds himself staring at a new brand of his flatmate: Sherlock with a nicotine patch. Three patches apparently, helps him think.
Breathing’s boring. It’s a three-patch problem. If John is going to live here, he needs to understand how many patches work with certain problems. Should be better than grabbing a cigarette for those ‘danger nights’ Brother Dearest thinks is so clever.
He’s aggravated, yes, to think I’ve brought him halfway across London to send a text on his phone to a number at my desk. But he’s jittery about something else. Need to know so he can get on with the case.
“Just met a friend of yours.”
“A friend?” Breathing shortens. The only ‘friend’ left would be Angelo, but he wouldn’t make John so on-edge.
“An enemy.”
“Oh.” That’s different. Better, really. “Which one?”
Five second pause. “Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?”
Sounds familiar. Sherlock’s eyes find John’s without sitting up. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
Loyalty, check. “Pity, we could have split the fee.”
He turns his attention back to the ceiling above him, trying to work out the case. John, however, isn’t done.
“Who is he?”
“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met and not my problem right now.” Now, will you please send the text!? “On my desk, the number!”
Apparently. Finally sends off the text but stares at the case like it’s something he should have seen before. Sherlock rolls his eyes, interlocking his fingers.
“Oh, perhaps I should mention – I didn’t kill her.”
“I never said you did.”
Wow, that was instantaneous. Have I found someone who doesn’t go along with the psychopath theme? “Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”
“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”
Ouch. “Now and then, yes.”
He seems a bit bothered by that statement, more so than… nevermind. Not important.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” John asks after a small tete-te-tete.
“Because you’re an idiot.” Oh, great, that look. “No, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is.”
Once the killer calls back, Sherlock readies himself. Four people are dead, there isn’t time to call the police.
“So why are you talking to me?”
To test your willingness to be my associate and flatmate. “Mrs. Hudson took my skull.”
Pouty face. “So, I’m basically filling in for a skull?”
Repressed smirk. “Relax, you’re doing fine.” Pause… why isn’t he moving? “Well… you could just sit there and… watch telly.”
“You want me to come with you?” Sharp, crisp, clear.
“I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud.” Depends on the company greatly. “The skull just attracts attention, so…”
There's the natural grin I was aiming for.
Northumberland is just a five-minute walk from the flat. Sherlock slowly escalades his strides, and John moves swiftly next to him. keeping pace.
“Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”
Unfortunately, they’re getting nowhere. Speaking of friends… They arrive at Angelo’s Italian Bistro. Angelo is a good friend, and Sherlock doesn’t need to pay. Of course, he rarely eats anyway, and never on a case. But his flatmate should. And without the need to pay. Billy shows them to Sherlock’s regular booth table by the window.
“On the house for you, and for your date.”
Date, huh? Sounds… interesting. “Do you want to eat?”
“I’m not his date.”
Not yet. And Angelo doesn’t seem to notice. Praising me as though John was in the closet. Most likely he’s bisexual, though. And off Angelo goes to get a candle. And the topic quickly forms into archenemies in real life. If there weren’t, wouldn’t life be dull?
“So, who did I meet?”
I knew that question would come back. Maybe I can redirect it. “What do real people have, then, in their… ‘real lives’?”
“Friends?” He tries around a mouthful of food. “People they know, people they like, people they don’t like…” Looks down at his plate. “Girlfriends, boyfriends.”
Ah, here we go. “As I was saying, dull.”
“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”
Isn’t that a laugh? Last time I was intimate with a girl would be twelve years ago. I was tutoring her in Italian. She kissed me when she dropped me off as I didn’t have a car. It felt… wrong. I’d kissed before. Never girls. I told her as such, and I believe I claimed I’d have better luck giving CPR to a rabid dog. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”
Longer pause here. I can tell he’s staring at me. Cogwheels turning. “Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way.”
“I know it’s fine.”
“So, you’ve got a boyfriend, then?”
So insistent. “No. Do me a favor, John.”
“Another text to a killer?”
“Table this conversation until the case is wrapped up and ask me again.”
One… two… three… fou “Okay, then. it’s all fine. Good.”
“Thank you.”
Minutes of silence pass, only broken by John’s fork hitting the bottom of his plate. A taxi stops outside. Sherlock watches, but no one steps in and no one steps out. Five minutes. Nine minutes. At the ten-minute mark, he points it out to John. Equally suspicious. And Sherlock is wearing his Belstaff and racing out of the booth in record time. John grabs his jacket and tags along. Utilizing the taxi path memorized in his mind, Sherlock sets off on an alternative route of racing through buildings and jumping between rooftops and fire escapes.
With Sherlock's hectic assurances, John is right behind him. that’s a thing in an of itself. Sherlock is clearly faster than John but slows enough to make sure John is keeping pace. They catch the cab, but the passenger is obviously not who they’re looking for. And, out of breath, the men turn away. And, of all things, after the chase and Lestrade’s badge that Sherlock flashed, John starts giggling.
“What?”
“Nothing, just… ‘Welcome to London.’”
A small laugh shared, and then they’re hightailing it back to Baker Street.
“That was the most… ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done.” John reports, sagging against the wall once they’re back in their flat.
Sherlock joins him. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”
A bigger laugh shared. Followed by Sherlock proving his point – and Angelo as well – that John’s limp is psychosomatic. Didn’t need that cane while traipsing about buildings and the streets of London, afterall. As though the night won’t stop there… John rather unfortunately discovers Sherlock’s darkened past of recreational drug use through Lestrade and his fake drugs bust.
This could be another test for John. Obviously, I’m following the cabbie. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t risk my life for the knowledge of why. The test for John is… watch the GPS. See how it leaves. Connect the dots. Find me before it’s too late.
“Time to choose,” the cabbie says.
My choice: Pill A or Pill B. My choice: Pick a pill or Wait for John. My choice… he’s got a gun. No doubt it’s loaded. 50:50 chance. If I choose the gun, I won’t be labeled as a junkie when I die. If I choose the gun, I’ll be the only one to have chosen the gun. There’s still a chance that John or Lestrade even has tracked me down. If I… Sherlock’s train of thought drifts off when the cabbie places it atop the table. … that’s not a real gun.
“Play the game,” the cabbie says.
He knows exactly what to say. How to say it and when to say it. Turning it all into a risky game of life and death. Asking Sherlock if he’s truly clever. Whether he’s willing to bet his life. He’s done that for years. With drugs, by living on the street, on picking fights. Sherlock takes the bottle nearest to the cabbie and contemplates once more.
I could leave. Nothing’s stopping me. Who would care? I’d be another case for Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson. And the rest of the lot who can’t stand me. Mycroft may weep for an hour or so. Confide in Mummy. Mrs. Hudson will need another tenant. Angelo will find another customer. John… John is so good in the field. The best flatmate I have seen. But we hardly know one another. Missing a flatmate that he’s known for two days before we’ve even slept in the flat. That would be nothing. The man’s fought in Afghanistan after all.
“… this is what you’re really addicted to.” The cabbie sneers. “You’ll do anything… anything at all, to stop being bored.”
Perhaps he’s right. It’s not like Scotland Yard pays me. It’s the thrill of a good case. This would be a fine point to end it all.
Sherlock removes the pill, positive that it’s the safe one. Ready to risk his life. His hand begins to shake, memories of his past flooding in, that he’s abnormal and isn’t cut out for modern society. Playground taunts. The pill is mere inches away when a gunshot fires, and the cabbie drops dead at Sherlock’s feet. Forgetting about the pill, the taunts, temporarily the shooter… he cares only for the sponsor. The fan. Who sent the cabbie to kill.
Moriarty.
Less than half an hour later, Sherlock is sat on the back edge of an ambulance, blanket draped over his shoulders. Protocol.
Who could the shooter be? I doubt it’s Moriarty killing off their assassin. The bullet was from a handgun. Kill shot from that distance with a handgun is a crack shot. Marskman. More than that, a fighter. Clean shot. Hands hadn’t shaken at all, so clearly acclimatized to violence. Didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, so strong moral principle.
“Any news on the shooter?” Sherlock asks when Lestrade joins him.
“Cleared off before we got here. Buy a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. But we’ve got nothing to go on.” A lilt in his voice like he’s waiting for Sherlock to prove him wrong with some sort of explanation only he can see.
We are looking for a man probably with a history of military service and… nerves of steel… Once more, Sherlock’s train of thought is brought to a halt. This time, by noticing his flatmate standing behind the yellow tape, not showing a single sign of worriment.
“Yes, you’re correct. Nothing to go on.”
“Sorry?”
“Must be the shock,” he nods. “Can’t think straight.”
Sherlock stands, walking toward John with the blanket still around his shoulders. Lestrade steps up to stop him, asking where he’s going.
“I just need to… talk about the…” he catches John’s gaze, “the rent.”
“I’ve still got questions.”
“You know where I live!” Sherlock almost growls. “Look, I’ve got a blanket. I’m in shock. And I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.”
Lestrade nods, sighing, letting him go. Sherlock nods, knowing he’ll be back at the precinct tomorrow. He drops the blanket into an open window of a police car, ducking under the tape to join John. John starts stuttering a bit, claiming he knows little, only what Donovan’s told him. Sherlock halts the attempt with a genuine statement:
“Good shot.”
John tries to play it off, “Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window.”
He must think I’ll turn him in. “Well, you’d know. You should probably get the powder burns off your fingers before Lestrade brings us in tomorrow.”
And they joke at the crime scene. Sherlock’s not in shock, and John’s alright despite having just killed a man.
“But he wasn’t a very nice man,” John points out. “Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.”
As they walk away from the crime scene and the flashing lights, they giggle. Can’t help it. It’s an absurd case. They should be in shock or fearful, but they giggle. John calls him an idiot, but he says it so fondly. Sherlock can’t help but to smile.
“Dinner?”
“Starving.”
Sherlock begins walking again, leading John to a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street that stays open till two. As they move out of earshot of the police, John’s kidnapper steps out of an unmarked government vehicle. And John learns the man is Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft. Quite the feud. When John catches up to Sherlock, he brings up nothing that just happened.
“So, dim sum.”
They carry on, talking of Chinese and gunshots, not risking another taxicab. Before they grace Baker Street, however, Sherlock turns and blocks John against a dimly lit wall with no CCTV in an alleyway.
“Sherlock? Are you alright?”
“I’ve a problem, John.”
“Yeah? Is it to do with all this tonight?”
He nods a bit. “Tonight, today. Yesterday.”
“It’s me, then?”
“Ask me again, John.”
“Ask you?”
“Back at the restaurant. Before we knew it was a cabbie. Before even our chase around London. I asked you to table our conversation until the case is wrapped up and ask me again.”
Sherlock stands in front of John, watching as the cogs turn in the shorter man’s mind, recalling all that was spoken. His eyes light up cautiously, and Sherlock knows he’s found the right question.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Sherlock sighs, hoping he’s read the signs correctly this time. “I think I’m falling for you.”
John looks away but nods, breaking into a small smile. “And that’s a problem?”
“You were… quite insistent that you were not my date at Angelo’s.”
“Well, I barely knew you then. Such a problem, Sherlock. There must be a solution.”
Sherlock hesitantly lowers his face to John’s, and the soldier reaches a hand to the back of the consultant’s neck, pulling him forward. Their lips meet slowly but hungrily; Sherlock deduces it may be adrenaline, but he doesn’t mind. When John pulls away, his bottom lip is swollen, his face his red, but he’s smiling.
“I’m okay for a date.”
“Chinese, then?” Sherlock smiles as well, letting up from the wall.
“Come on.”