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Chapter Text

The Baker Street boys were doing - attempting - a bit of spring cleaning (John's idea, of course). The upstairs room was the first to be worked on; they had spent the morning there going through old papers and army memorabilia (which had some unexpected benefits, Sherlock now knew he had a huge military kink). After John finished tidying that floor, he went downstairs to check on Sherlock's progress in their room.  

The lower bedroom was fairly immaculate, unlike the rest of the flat (which the detective still kept chaotic). However, Mummy Holmes had recently sent over various boxes from her own cleaning of the Holmes Manor for Sherlock to weed through. Opening a box, Sherlock was hit with a wave of nostalgia as the scent of his childhood home permeated the room. He sneered at the memory and sentiment, an automatic response. The box was filled with various things of Sherlock from when he was a boy - a Paddington bear, a correspondence that he had written to a well-known author in which he critiqued her latest mystery novel, journals detailing early experiments. Sherlock flipped through all of the latter, smiling over his rudimentary notes and thoughts.

"How are you faring?" John asked, coming into the room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm just clearing up some old childhood things. It's not difficult."

Ignoring his annoyed tone, John sat down next to Sherlock on the ground. He looked at the same objects Sherlock had, asked questions. "His name was Edmund," he answered.

John laughed at the idea of a miniature Sherlock carrying a teddy, deducing people. "Are there any pictures of your young self in here?" John asked, reaching for the almost empty box.

"Most definitely not," Sherlock grabbed the box from him. "Those were destroyed long ago."

"Pity," John said, ruefully. "Maybe I'll ask Mycroft, just to confirm?"

"You wouldn't dare."

John laughed. "We'll see about that." He leaned forward, kissed the scowl that always appeared when speaking of the elder Holmes brother, away. "What's left in there?"

Sherlock fished out the remaining item, a battered piece of paper with Sherlock's writing. John squinted at the words. "Christ, I can barely read this. Have you always had such illegible handwriting?"

"Says the doctor."

"Touché," John conceded. "I'll go make us some tea." He left with another peck to Sherlock's head of curly hair. Sherlock watched him go, appreciating the view. John gave a grin over his shoulder and proceeded to emphasise his sway. Only after John had left did Sherlock finally go back to the paper in his hand.

It read: Ten Rules for my Future Mrs. Holmes Partner

Below, a younger Sherlock, he estimated around nine or ten years of age, had listed ten attributes for his perfect partner (he had realised he preferred the company of men over women fairly quickly). Getting comfortable, the detective sat back to read through the list.

When If I marry, my spouse must have these characteristics...

Chapter Text

One: Must Go on Cases with Me.

"Fetch me that, would you John?" as Sherlock's mobile beeped again from across the room. With a sigh, John left the book he was reading and handed his flatmate the phone. He knew better than to argue with Sherlock's requests.

"What is it, then? A case?" He asked, after Sherlock had time to read the text and reply.

"Apparently. Or just the Yard being complete idiots." Nevertheless, Sherlock stood and retrieved his coat, scarf.

"As per usual, right?" John followed him to the door, shrugging on his coat as well.

They headed out of 221, and Sherlock remembered to warn, "Could be dangerous."

John replied, with mischievous grin. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

-----

"Mmm," John commented, biting into his chicken parmo. "Perfect as always, Angelo. Molto bene." (He couldn't resist an opportunity to sound like the Tenth Doctor, could he?)

"Grazie, John. What about you Sherlock, are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said curtly, but added, "thank you," after John gave him a swift kick under the table. He continued to look back out the window, brooding. They had solved the case, the arsonist now in the custody of the aforementioned idiots. But Sherlock had something else on his mind and was deathly quiet. John didn't push him to talk. Good John. They continued their meal in companionable silence.

But, finally back in the flat, he broke his silence. "John?" He asked hesitantly. 

"Hmm?" John asked, in the middle of taking off his jumper.

Sherlock doesn't look at him. "You don't have to go on cases with me," he informed.

John shrugged and started to walk to the loo, to take a shower. "I know." He stoped in his tracks to rethink Sherlock's words. "Do you not want me to?" 

The detective's eyes widened. "Of course I do! I just thought I'd... ask."

John grinned. Maybe his nagging about manners and the consideration of other people's feelings was rubbing off on the man. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a grunt in response, and let John shower. Once he came out twenty minutes later, and Sherlock had time to process some information, the brooder asked, "Why?"

John answered without hesitation. "I like going on them. And I like helping you. If I weren't with you, you probably would have gotten shot by now." He adds jokingly. 

Sherlock quickly replied honestly, before he could change his mind. "Thank you for caring."

And suddenly, John is leaning down to the man on the sofa, his flatmate, Sherlock. Blue eyes bore viridian. "John...?"

"I will always care for you, Sherlock," and then, what was that? No, surely, it wasn't. Lips, on Sherlock's forehead? Brain, reboot...

"Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - " John was gone before he could finish his thought, before Sherlock could respond.

Chapter Text

Two: Must Tolerate my Experiments.

Sherlock is a firm believer in empirical evidence. Any fact should be questioned, then tested and proved or disproved, accordingly. The system was reliable and helpful; many a case was solved by the information gleaned from the detective's vast array of experiments. 

So, Sherlock reasoned that the scientific method was the best way to analyse his relationship with John.

Hypothesis: Repetition of the events of 3 April 2010 approx. 12.04 am should not yield the same results. One-time occurrence.

Sherlock waited until their next midnight chase to enact his plan. Coursing with adrenalin and admiration for his blogger, (as well as his quick and sure trigger) he breathily asked, "Would you help me with an experiment?"

John leaned back on the wall, took off his shoes covered in Thames soaked mud. He glared at Sherlock until he did the same - mud was not welcome in 221B. "What experiment?"

"Do that... thing you did earlier." Sherlock maintained a professional composure during his request.

"That... thing?"

"The, ah, affection you showed me. After the Steigerwalt case." Sherlock explained irritably.

John didn't have to think long to remember. "Oh! ...oh." He turned away, embarrassed. Postulate: John did not enjoy it as much as Sherlock had. "No, Sherlock, I didn't mean it. I shouldn't. I'm sorry." Postulate confirmed.

Despite this, Sherlock was nothing if not thorough and decided to continue the experiment. "Please, I want you to." When John looked up at him, he suddenly realised that wasn't exactly a lie. 

"Close your eyes," the doctor whispered. Sherlock did. Softly, ever so gently and deliberately, John's lips met Sherlock's bowed forehead. Warmth radiated in his body, originating from that point, and, oh God, what was that feeling in his chest?

The moment John left, Sherlock shivered. "There." John's ears were red. Sherlock was grinning, stupidly, eyes still closed.

Postulate: Hypothesis disproved. Repetition yielded same better results. Not a one-time occurrence. Please, don't be a one-time occurrence.

Hands, hands, where are you? There, I feel you. Hold John, don't let him go. Keep him here. "John. Can I...?"

"Yes, Sherlock, please." And they were kissing correctly this time, lips upon lips, and Sherlock had never been more grateful for his analytical nature.

Chapter Text

Three: Must Not Be Bothered by the Violin.

John stormed into 221B, earning an eyebrow raise from Sherlock. He was about to ask what was wrong, when John practically ran up the stairs to his old room - he hadn't been up there in two weeks, at least - and slammed the door shut. The detective could hear the lock click into place. Sherlock gazed forlornly at his experiment, but decided it could wait. He followed the doctor's path up the stairs. "John?"

"I'll be out in a minute, just... go away." 

Unfortunately for John, and perhaps if he had been in a clearer state of mind he would have remembered, that that very phrase never worked on Sherlock, and actually tended to have the opposite effect. Sherlock knocked, "John, open the door." 

"Let me sulk in peace. I let you do it often enough." 

"That's entirely different, I tell you that why I'm sulking, that I'm bored - won't you just let me in? Please?" He added, maybe being polite would help?

"No!"

Ah, so a different plan of action, then. "Open this door right now!"

John opened up, just to say "Sherlock! Leave me be!" and shut the door in his face.

Sherlock blinked at the refusal, and gave a loud exasperated sigh. He stomped back downstairs. Fine, let him deal with his strop by himself. The detective went back to his experiment, but it was ruined; the small amount of Fr-221 decaying to nothing while he was arguing with John. Even more annoyed, he crossed the room, picked up his violin, placed angry strokes on the strings.

The last three weeks with John had been incredible - ever since the first kiss (and initial shyness and apprehension on both their parts) Sherlock had felt.... complete, for lack of better word. And wasn't that strange? While that was something he had not expect, and frankly was a bit scared of, he did his best to enjoy the new emotions and relax.

Sherlock had been reluctant to further their relationship, physically, and John was a good man to not push him. While Sherlock wasn't actually a virgin, it had been years since he was sexually active. They took things slow, only small affectionate passing brushes, some cuddling in front of the telly and in sleep, and as of late, snogging. The latter had proved much more enjoyable than Sherlock had remembered, but perhaps that was because of the partner. Still, whenever the kisses seemed too heated, Sherlock pulled back. John seemed not to care, reassuring the detective that this was enough for him, and Sherlock tried to believe him.

John was continuing to pace back and forth in his room, and discontent with his inability to help, Sherlock switched his playing to something smoother. The mellow melody was something of Sherlock's own creation, something inspired in part by the resurgence of emotions he had been experiencing lately. A D minor tune, accents of an arpeggio - there, a key change, representing the spark of their new relationship, and there, an intentionally placed sour note, to signify rows. Finally, he rounded back out into a nice phrase, which was their amicable, comfortable, and altogether wanted companionship.

An angry shout from Baker Street interrupted Sherlock's playing and he glanced out the window to see what was the matter. A drunkard, yelling at a mate of his. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned around to start playing again, but instead found John sitting on the sofa, staring at him.

"What?" Sherlock huffed.

John's eyes did not leave, despite Sherlock's rude tone. "What were you playing?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Nothing," and proceeded to put away the instrument. Take that, John. He could be unyielding with his emotions, as well. 

"No!" John exclaimed, almost leaving his seat, as if he we were going to stop Sherlock. "Continue... please?" He added, looking up through his eyelashes at the detective.

If there was anything in this world that Sherlock had no resistance for, if there was any force that he was not able to put up a front against, it was John's puppy eyes. He wondered if John knew this information and that's why he employed the tactic. Sherlock picked up the violin and continued where he left off, not taking his eyes off John.

The piece didn't have an end, per se, but when Sherlock had realised that John had risen from his seat to be closer to Sherlock, the detective deduced it would be a good time to stop. 

John reached out to Sherlock's arm, stroking the muscles that held the bow. "Did you write that?" The doctor brought his face to the arm, nuzzling his nose along the sinews. Sherlock could do nothing else except nod. "It's beautiful," John turned slightly, brushed his lips against Sherlock.

"It's for you," Sherlock told him. "I wrote it for you."

John stopped his administrations and leaned back to look steadily at Sherlock. "For me? I love it."

Sherlock smiled. "Good." He extended an arm to wrap around John, kissed the top of his head.

They stayed like that for a few moments, and Sherlock revelled in the fact that he had someone like this, someone he could hold so intimately without worrying that he would be gone the next day (at least, not as much, he could never stop the worrying completely). Thinking of this, Sherlock gathered up his courage, "Care to tell me what was wrong?"

John stiffened. "It was nothing."

Sherlock pushed him slightly away, to look at John's dark blue orbs. With some difficulty and concentration, he removed himself from the doctor's embrace and set his violin down. John attempted to place him in a hug again, but he pulled away from the touch.

John sighed. "Come on, don't be like this."

"Be like what, John? Tea?" He asked, sitting down. John knew that Sherlock wasn't asking, but telling, and he went to make them some Earl Grey.

The tea was poured, and served. John sat in his normal seat and took a deep breath. "It's... It's just nothing you need to concern yourself with." 

Sherlock glared at him. "Nothing I need to concern myself with? Why would I ask if I didn't want to know?"

John shrugged, looking exceedingly uncomfortable. "This isn't some relationship thing that you need to check off, it's fine. We don't have to.... we don't have to talk about it. All right?"

"You just don't want to talk about it! What is it, that you can't even talk to me about i-"

"Fine!" he interrupted. "I'll tell you. Just... let go of the poor mug, Sherlock." Sherlock looked down to see he had been gripping his tea extremely tightly and his knuckles were bone white. He relented to setting down the "poor" mug. "I was having flashbacks. " John looked at the floor, anywhere but Sherlock. "This bloke came into the clinic today. His twin brother Sean was in my unit."

Sherlock could deduce what happened to the man, but John told him anyway, "Ripped to shreds by an IED."

The detective, as sensitive as ever, asked "Not an entirely uncommon fate for a soldier."

"Doesn't make it any less horrible," John muttered, swallowing the words down with his drink. 

"Why him?" Why does the reminder of this man affect you like this? Who was he to you?

John took his time before answering. "It was my shift, my turn to lead the group to check the perimeter. But he offered to go instead, because I had been up the past forty-eight hours with some poor sod with an infected laceration. Sean said I could use the rest, that I looked tired. The bastard!" John had been vibrating with anger and remorse throughout the explanation, and finally snapped, his tea slamming to the ground and shattering. Liquid seeped on the floor, staining the rug.

"Shit, I'm sorry." He rushed to the kitchen to grab a flannel and clean up the mess.

Sherlock was unsure of what to do. "I... I understand that you are feeling guilt," he stammered, trying to make sense of this. Most of the people he surrounded himself with were never guilty about their actions, even if they hurt other people. And obviously John wouldn't hurt someone, unless he had to. Always the doctor. "But, it wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known, nor could you have done anything to stop an explosive."

John had finished cleaning, and had set the flannel aside. He sat on the floor, leaned back onto his chair. "I know. I just need... I just need to not think about it." He took a deep breath. "I need to remember I'm not there anymore, that I'm here." 

And the detective, while he would say he was a sociopath and didn't understand people, knew what to do. He picked up his weapon of choice and continued playing so John knew that this song was for him, for them, for this moment, and that's where he belonged.

Chapter Text

Four - Must Be Strong In The Sight Of Blood.

Sherlock's childhood was filled with entirely too much bowing to social conventions than he would have liked. The Holmes matron was popular amongst many elite social throngs, none of which Sherlock much cared about, but he often found himself at their gatherings anyway. As of which, Mrs Holmes insisted her sons learn proper etiquette, manners, and grace.

Sherlock was proud of the fact that he had rid himself of most of those habits by the time he reached adulthood.

However, he was still fairly graceful. He was well aware of the fact that his tall frame lent itself for somewhat clumsier affairs, (if his god-awful teenage years were anything to go by) so the detective developed poise by necessity, so as not to look like a gangly baby giraffe when he moved. Although that look was useful on occasions, his default posh walk was fairly more intimidating to the general public.

So, when Sherlock found himself face first on the icy pavement, he was more than a little shocked. He hoped that wasn't due to any concussion forming.

"Sherlock!" John called. Ah, so he had been seen.

Sherlock righted himself - slowly, although he still felt dizzy when he arose. "I'm fine." Hopefully his companion wouldn't fuss about this.

But of course the doctor would. "You're bleeding, let's get inside, yeah?"

While normally Sherlock would have again shrugged off the attention, (he wasn't fond of this particular brand of attentiveness) they had barely left their flat on the way to Tesco's, a place that Sherlock despised. Hence, he was fine with abandoning their endeavour.  Or, perhaps John's constant presence was affecting him, and he was actually starting to care about his health. What a scary thought.

John led him to the bathroom, where Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub whilst John fretted needlessly over him. "Sherlock, where we on our way to just now?"

He rolled his eyes at the mundane administrations. "The alien planet Tralfamadore. Or Tesco's," he corrected, seeing John's worried expression.

He continued the role examination. "Are you experiencing tunnel vision, or seeing double?"

Sherlock interrupted him before the doctor could go on to ask, how many fingers am I holding up?! "I'm perfectly fine, John, really."

Sherlock's adamant protests did not deter John however, who puttered around the flat looking for the first aid kit. "Jesus, where is that thing?" (Sherlock knew that it was in the kitchen, because he had commandeered it earlier to use some of the supplies inside for an experiment - but he didn't see the point in telling John that.)

Sherlock vaguely did notice that he could feel a liquid on the right side of his face - he touched it gently, and did in fact find that he was bleeding. Quite a lot, if John's reaction was accurate (it wasn't, he was such a worrier). When finally John came back with the medical bag he brought to and from work, Sherlock had started to apply pressure to his head wound with an old flannel, staining it a dark red.

John sighed. "I think you're going to need a few stitches," he diagnosed. He quickly cleaned Sherlock's wound a bit, and sterilised it. After that was ready, he started to dig through his bag.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, because while he realised the situation was more severe than he had originally thought, he was not going to let John do his job easily.

John's hands came up with a suture, which he prepped for the small home surgery. Sherlock regarded it warily.

It was a very noticeable and visible thing when John was nervous, especially when in regards to Sherlock's health. Here was a man that had invaded Afghanistan (rife with corpses, he assumed) and had shot a cabbie in cold blood, but could not stand when Sherlock was anything less than healthy, as if that was imperative. The sentimentality of John's actions made Sherlock feel queasy and roll his eyes - something John now saw.

"Don't resist it, Sherlock," John reprimanded. He pushed back Sherlock's hair to see the cut underneath, near his hairline. John breathed in sharply before piercing Sherlock's skin to start the stitching process. 

"Why do you care so much?" Sherlock answered.

"I don't want this to get infected," the other said.

The obvious answer. Not the true answer. Sherlock waited for him to continue, but after a few moments, added, "You know what I mean. Don't be obtuse."

This made John's hands still next to Sherlock's forehead. "I don't like seeing you hurt," he murmured, as if he were confessing a sin.

Regardless, Sherlock scoffed. "I am perfectly fine of taking care of myself." He would have left the room had it not been for the thread connecting him to John's hands, so he put on a pout and stayed.

John was silent despite this, working quickly and quietly. The ins and outs Sherlock felt against his skin was painful, but not altogether unmanageable. He breathed deeply, and closed his eyes, willing the operation to be over.

Finally John removed his hands, leaving five stitches in a row underneath Sherlock's curls. The detective started to go, but John put his hand on his shoulder to keep him on the tub's edge. John made eye contact with Sherlock, and Sherlock found himself very reluctant to move.

John softly, oh-so-softly, placed a kiss on Sherlock's slightly open lips. He looked frightened, and Sherlock wondered briefly if the cut was gorier than he had thought and if that would affect how people would look at him and would it perhaps scare people and where is the damn hand-mirror in their bathroom and --

His reverie was interrupted by John speaking. "I... I know you can take care of yourself, Sherlock." He said, while at the same time he cupped Sherlock's face with gentle fingers as if he was the most fragile, the most precious thing in the world. "But it is difficult for me to see you hurt... again."

Sherlock started to contradict this statement, because he did not get hurt that much or that easily, when-- oh. He is hit with a wave of understanding at what John means, and why this is being said.

When Sherlock had lain on the pavement after an elaborate illusion to fake his own death, he was not thinking about how John felt. In fact, he had made a conscious effort to block John's feelings from his mind, in favour of performing his role as believably as he could. He had needed for Moriarty's men to believe that he was dead, so that meant John must have also believed that he was dead. So that is what he had focused on. The ruse. Not the image John must surely be scarred with now - a flatmate and best friend covered in his own blood, pale and cold as death was present.

John breathed out, albeit shakily. "It was... very difficult for me to see you like that, and I do not want to be reminded of it."

Sherlock was at a loss for words. This, this, was not his area. The emotions he was feeling had no cause nor purpose or even a name, and Sherlock was overwhelmed with the realisation that he had hurt John, during his attempt to save his blogger. "I apologise," he said stiffly, for lack of better reply.

John shook his head, "I know, and it's okay. I realise why you did it, I know that you needed to. And I thank you for that. I wouldn't be living right now if it weren't for you." And Sherlock was momentarily glad then, because that was right - he had saved John's life and that was something that made him very happy. "But it is still hard for me, at times. I still have nightmares."

Sherlock knew this. He had been awoken on various nights by John's sudden quick breathing and thrashing and sometimes - often if they had had a row - quiet sobs that made Sherlock feel coldness in his chest. The rational (which was the majority) part of Sherlock's brain was telling him, you saved John's life! He should be happy! but a small portion spoke otherwise.

"I did not mean for you... I did not think you would be so strongly affected," Sherlock attempted.

Thankfully, John merely just smiled. "I know. Just promise..." John dropped his hand to hold Sherlock's, and looked at their now joined fingers. "Promise you won't do it again."

Sherlock knew that this was not a promise he could actually keep; he had no guarantee of the his future, of their future. If a similar threat were to arise again, there was not much doubt in his mind that he would repeat the past.

He would do anything to protect John, after all.

However, the pain in John's eyes was not something Sherlock was comfortable with, and something he wished never to see again. In an act of romanticism, he wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, and placed his face in the crook of the doctor's neck. "I will not leave you," he spoke into John's flesh. It was not true, exactly, but it was a promise that Sherlock would try to keep so long as he was living.

John did not reply, but stroked comforting circles into the Sherlock's back.

Chapter Text

Five - Must Not Be an Idiot Too Much of an Idiot.

Sherlock's sleeping schedule was "unhealthy," (as John put it). Not that he much cared; his body was just a shell, a suit, certainly not a temple as some claimed. (Although, John had made Sherlock feel as if his body was the most gorgeous thing on earth, last night.) So, when Sherlock was awoken by a mobile ringing, with the sun shining on his face, waking at a normal time like a normal person, he was slightly confused.

And overall annoyed at the interruption. The mobile was coming from the other room - in the pocket of his trousers, if he remembered correctly, which were laying on the floor near the sofa. Sherlock made to go retrieve it, when he observed John sprawled over him like a blanket. A tan leg was intertwined with Sherlock's, and an arm was wrapped around his stomach gripping tightly, as if to say, please don't leave me. Instead of brushing away the sentiment and the arm, Sherlock lightly kissed his doctor's skin, and gently slid out from under it, a silent promise to return as quickly as possible.

Sherlock finally got to his phone, and unlocked it to see there were actually four missed calls - all from either NSY or Lestrade himself. Sherlock sighed, a dramatic sigh that he wished would have been in the DI's proximity so the cop could've known how put out Sherlock was to do a boring case. Gritting his teeth only slightly, he called Lestrade back.

"What is it, Lestrade? This better not be--"

Gabe (Grant?) interrupted him: "Sherlock we need you down here, now."

"You always need me, Lestrade. It's not my fault you hire such imbeciles." Regardless, Sherlock's skin was thrumming with the anticipation of a new case.

"There was a grand total of one robbery, three murders and two kidnapped children last night alone -and there seems to be no connection outside of the weapon used and that there were all with four blocks of Montague Street. Just... Just come quickly." Lestrade seemed desperate and very worried, but Sherlock was more excited than anything else. He told the DI that he'd be there within the half hour, and hung up.

---

Soon, Sherlock and John were walking into Lestrade's office, wide-awake despite 1/2 of them being awoken (very rudely according to him - apparently waking someone up by informing them of an exciting serial killer is just not on) not too long ago.

Lestrade noticed them come in and grimly handed the detective a file with all the information the forensics teams had found. There were plenty of pictures from every crime scene; while Sherlock preferred to actually physically be at the scene himself, the forensics photographers were getting better at documenting the useful information from the place of murder. 

Sherlock shook his head. "This robbery-" he took out of small pile of photographs, only coming from one scene- "is not related. It was an inside job. The night shift manager arranged the whole thing. He had left the register unlocked purposely, and put the 'closed' sign on so no one else may walk inside and see what was happening." Sherlock annotated his deductions by pointing at various clues in the photograph that led him to say what he did. 

John was smiling, "Amazing," he breathed, almost in reverence. 

"Obvious," Sherlock corrected, but it was only half-hearted; John's compliments always made Sherlock's heart soar, and the blogger knew it. 

Lestrade huffed impatiently. "All right, but the others? All the same perp?" 

Sherlock nodded. "But how are they connected..." He said, mostly to himself.

However, Lestrade answered. "We pulled up the backgrounds on all the victims. No connection, none that we could see, anyway," he added, in response to Sherlock's eye roll.

Sherlock glanced at the write-ups of each victim. Lestrade was right (he rarely was, but sometimes the DI used his brain) - there was no obvious connection. 

Only slightly frustrated, Sherlock found a seat on the floor, and spread out each bio before him, so he could compare them. Lestrade looked somewhat surprised by Sherlock's choice of seat, but John merely kneeled down and sat cross-legged beside him.

Lestrade let out a small sigh and said, "I'm going to go grab a coffee. Want anything?" Sherlock shot him a withering glare. "Right, let me know if you come up with anything." Then Lestrade left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

John whispered, "Have any ideas?"

Sherlock grunted. "Shut up, John. I'm thinking." It came out more harshly than he had meant, but given the circumstances, that seemed understandable.

What was the connection between these? It was so rare that anyone would choose to murder - especially a string of murders - just randomly. If the only motivation for their crime was because they just wanted to kill, the weapon would most likely be a gun of some sort. Cold, distant, easy to use. As it was, the murders (and the kidnappings that would soon be murders, Sherlock predicted) were done with a dagger, according to forensices. So, there was underlying reason for killing these people specifically.

John was speaking, "They all live nearby. Maybe it's a neighbour thing?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This one," he pointed to the bio of an Orlando Tish, "had been away for sometime. His business causes him to be out of the country for long periods of time."

John nodded as if he could follow Sherlock's train of thought with that deduction. Sherlock doubted it, but let it slide.

The document on Bianca Festermeier looked out of place. She was not like the others, she wasn't a mother, or even a daughter (well, she was a daughter, obviously. But she was an orphan. So, a daughter with no parents. Practically like being alone, then). This ruled out a hypothesis of Sherlock's that the killer was targeting those with families.

Sherlock sharply exhaled in confusion as his mind raced. Vaguely he heard John chuckle. "Desdemona? I'd hate to have that name. Poor girl..."

Sherlock ignored his comment and went back to the task at hand. Think, think!

He was interrupted once more by Lestrade coming back into his office, drink in hand. He did not ask after Sherlock's progress, but proceeded to wait until the detective had come up with something.

As it turned out, it was the detective's companion and newfound lover who realized it: "Wait a minute, I recognize that name." He slid Sherlock's mobile out of his greatcoat and attempted to Google something - slowly enough to drive Sherlock near madness.

Finally, John looked up. "Right, yeah, there was a Desdemona in this play I saw with a girlfriend once. Othello. Shakespeare," he clarified to Sherlock's bewildered face.

Lestrade seemed to come to life at this. "Oh! And this Kate," he pointed at the paperwork for a Katerina Potts, "like that one with Elizabeth Taylor!"

John nodded excitedly, as he always did when he felt like he was actually contributing to the solving if a case.

Eventually, the three of them confirmed that each of the victims - Bianca, Desdemona, Kate, Orlando, and Lavinia - were all named after Shakespearean characters. Even the street was Bard-related. John and Lestrade had gaped slightly when Sherlock had offered this fact, but the detective merely sniffed and said, "I am somewhat cultured."

Lestrade clapped his hands together once, "Well, we know how they're connected, who's this killer, then? Can we stop them from finishing off the kidnapped ones?"

"I think so," Sherlock said honestly, negating his previous assessment. "We're looking for a scholar, of lover of theatre and literature. But also someone who wants more excitement in their life."

Lestrade nodded as he thought about possibilities. "I have a friend in a local drama school. Let's go talk to her and see if she knows anything about Shakespeare that might help us."

Not likely she would, Sherlock thought, but he was also fairly out of his area of expertise here, so he went with it. 

--- 

As John and Sherlock sat in the back of a cab after they left a particularly violent Lady Mac's flat (she was arrested, but only after she dramatically tried to stab herself in the heart), the detective felt his hand being gradually coaxed open. John smiled as he slipped his warm hand into Sherlock's and squeezed gently.

"You were brilliant," John praised. "How you ruled out the fact it couldn't be a teacher? Fantastic." How was John not tired of Sherlock's deductive nature by now? How was it that he still could find things to compliment Sherlock on? How could it be that Sherlock was so strongly affected by what John thought of him?

Sherlock brought up their joined hands and lightly kissed John's knuckles. "You were brilliant as well. I never would have realized that is was Shakespeare."

John blushed, both in his cheeks and in the tips in his ears. "Sure you would've. You have seventeenth century plays stored somewhere up in that Mind Palace, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock could not argue with this. "Probably. But I would not have made that connection until much later. Perhaps too late," he murmured. They had just barely gotten to the killer's hiding spot in time, before the unfortunately-named children were also killed. If had just been Sherlock on the case, those children surely would not have survived. "You saved them," he said.

John grinned, because ultimately he was a doctor and felt the need to help people.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's reaction. "Don't get too full of yourself. You're still an idiot," he muttered.

This just made John smile wider. "But a brilliant idiot."

Sherlock looked down at their hands and thought, my brilliant idiot.