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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 15-4-2010

            The thrumming sound of the violin below made John pause.  He stopped his work, reading his blog comments, and was silent for a moment.  It sounded louder and louder, building to a crescendo, until finally reaching a quiet whisper, barely audible from the upper floor.  John shook his head; he knew what his flat mate was doing, and he had no intention of interrupting him. 

John continued reading through the four pages of comments from his most recently written case, pleased with the amount of readership the blog had gained.  He smiled happily to himself while moving his cursor to click on a new Word document.  John had to start typing up the last case while it was still fresh in his mind or he might forget all the things his partner had said, all the ways to describe his nuance of voice, and the sheer brilliance of the man.  It had been weeks since it had happened, and John had his notes, but he had been working more than usual. He started to type, the usual thrill running through him when he used verbs to describe the action. 

            John’s fingers paused over the keys however when he heard a phone go off downstairs.  He could feel his heart start to pound, and his blood start to race.  He saved what he had written so far and shut his laptop, putting it away.  He ran over to his nightstand and checked that his gun clip was full; he clicked the clip in the gun and made sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back waistband of his jeans.  He waited impatiently for a moment.  He would not give his flat-mate the satisfaction of knowing how excited he was.  He knew whose ringtone that was: Sherlock had a special preset for Lestrade.    

“John, there’s been a murder!”  The downstairs occupant yelled from below. 

“On my way!”  John fisted the air; he had calmed himself down before reaching the main level of the flat however, so appeared to be completely in control of himself. 

“Come on!” 

            John followed the long black coat out of the flat and watched as its occupant hailed a taxi with his usual flourish of impatience. 

“Did detective inspector Lestrade say anything, Sherlock?”

“The address, but nothing more.” 

            John saw Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile; the way they always did when he got a new case.  John smiled as well and turned his head to see out the taxi window.  He knew that Sherlock would tell him everything either at the scene of the crime, or when they got home.  As much as he was pestered about his blog, he knew Sherlock secretly loved the attention. 

The night around them was beautiful and John never tired of it; the dark blue sky, the twinkling stars so far off in the distance.  Even the bright lights of London were striking. 

“We’re here John.”  One couldn’t help but notice the excited tremor that ran through Sherlock’s voice. 

            It had been weeks since their last case and Sherlock had grown restless in that time; restless, and hard to live with.  He had brought home a cadaver, just a few days ago, for some sort of experiment with maggots, but John had forbade it from entering the flat.  A head, or a few fingers in the tub, was different from a whole body. 

            Exiting the taxi Sherlock quickly brought John up to speed.  Lestrade had called and told Sherlock that it was a young woman, probably in her early-to-mid thirties, who had been stabbed to death.  John looked up at the decrepit old building; it looked like it would fall apart at any second.  What a horrible place to die, he thought.   

            They approached the crime scene tape and squad cars, expecting to see Lestrade outside waiting for them.  Instead the two were greeted by Sergeant Sally Donovan. 

“Freak,” she said as greeting. 

            Sherlock inclined his head so as to say he had heard her but was choosing to ignore her.  In fact he wasn’t even looking at her, but at the building where the body was.   

“Where’s Lestrade?”  John asked. 

“Upstairs, with one of his associates.”  When she said associate, she pointed at Sherlock.

“What do you mean ‘one of my associates’”?  Sherlock asked pointedly, looking at her now. 

“They got here ten minutes before you did and said they worked with you; marched right upstairs to examine the body.”

“They?”  John asked, wondering. 

“Well, she; there was just a woman.” 

            Sherlock suddenly grew more intense as he stared at Sally and started asking her questions feverishly. 

“What did she look like?  Where did she go?”

“Anderson let her in, I didn’t.  He said she was American; she’s upstairs, top floor, at the crime scene.  At least, I haven’t seen anyone come down.”  Her sentence trailed off as Sherlock ran to the old building.  She looked at John and muttered, “How can you handle him?” before walking away to talk to another officer. 

            John raced off after him, taking the worn stairs two at a time – of course worried they would break – trying to catch up to his friend.  He didn’t understand why Sherlock would have such a reaction to someone else being here unless…Sherlock had said he had plenty of enemies.  What if this was one of them?

            They reached the top landing simultaneously and saw that there was indeed a woman talking to detective inspector Lestrade.  If this was truly an enemy of Sherlock’s, John could say he picked great enemies.  John couldn’t help but to stare at her.  Even from the back, he thought she was gorgeous.  The woman was tall, and had olive skin if the back of her legs were anything to go by.  John noticed however that she did not seem dressed for a crime scene.  In her black lace dress and heels she stood out among the uniformed officers.    

Looking around he noticed plenty of the other boys stealing glances her way as well.  Well, it’d be hard not to get attention when you wear something as lacy as that, John thought. 

“I need you to talk to Lestrade.”  Sherlock’s whispering broke John’s hypnotic gaze. 

“Oh yes of course.” 

            Sherlock strode over to the woman and grabbing her by the arm, dragged her away to the other side of the building.  John thought he had looked angry, but there had been another emotion in those blue eyes that was hard to pick out.  He paid attention to the way the woman smiled, as if relieved to see him; she shook off Sherlock’s arm and walked with him, almost…equal.    

John held his hand out to Lestrade to shake.  The DI took it and then sighed.  

“How are things going up here?”  John asked conversationally. 

“Well, the boys are finishing up photographing the scene.”

“Ahh, yes, murder.”  John had almost forgotten the reason for the visit.  It seemed like the whole reason they were there was to figure out who this woman was now.  At least, John wanted to know who she was. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with one of my boys.” 

            John held up his hand in mock wave and stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself.  He found his gaze wandering over to where Sherlock and the girl stood. 

Sherlock appeared to whispering furiously to her but the girl kept shaking her head.  She pulled something out of her clutch and handed it to Sherlock.  John realized it was a letter when Sherlock opened it to read.  He saw the color drain from the detective’s face; he grabbed the woman’s arms in a vice-like grip and his lips moved fast, too fast for even a lip-reader to decipher their words, John thought. 

He saw the girl nod her head and Sherlock visibly relaxed.  The detective sighed and ran a hand through his hair before looking down at his shoes for quite a few moments.  Then, very out of character for the man, he drew the woman in and kissed her on the forehead.

            John was still recovering from the surprise of seeing Sherlock get intimate with a human being, when Sherlock grabbed her hand and led her over to where John was standing. 

Expecting to be greeted John held out his hand, but the pair walked right past him.  John drew his hand back in, among mutterings of “right, OK”, and turned around.  Of course Sherlock would have gone straight to the body. 

            John saw that it was a woman, blond shoulder-length hair; she was lying on her back so he could also see that her black top was stained with blood and the floor around her had quite a pool of it.  One of her black heels was missing but…John saw it was on the other side of the room. 

“Single, probably in her early 30’s.  Why was she here though?”  John heard Sherlock muttering to himself. 

“She’s had jewelry stolen.” The woman muttered to herself.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, asking a question without needing to voice it.

            The woman knelt next to the body and showed Sherlock the dead woman’s right hand. 

“She had a ring on her right hand, evidenced by the tan line. Either it was worth something, or our killer is taking trophies.”

“Hm.” Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he investigated the pockets of the young woman’s jacket. “Ahh, passport in her coat pocket.”  Sherlock mused, pulling out said passport.  “It would seem she’s from Illinois.  Deborah Greene.”

John pondered that. “So, is he killing tourists, or did this tourist just get unlucky?” he asked aloud.

Sherlock tossed a glance over his shoulder at the soldier standing behind him. “Just unlucky John.”

John thought about asking how he knew but shook his head. His breath was better saved for other things.

            Sherlock handed the passport to a nearby officer and kneeled once again by the body.  He lifted her shirt up very carefully, and called John over. 

“John, what would you say did this?” 

            John snapped his latex gloves against his wrists and knelt down next to the body.  He ran his fingers carefully over the abdomen, tracing the stab wounds that had clearly caused the woman much pain.  He wasn’t a coroner and had never had to deal much with dead bodies before Sherlock, but he still knew injuries.  He was after all a doctor, and had been an army doctor as well.  Nothing prepares you for the grittiness of death so much as war. In war, once someone was gone you moved on to the next sorry bastard who needed your help. You didn’t try to ponder what had killed them; you knew.     

“Five stab wounds to the abdomen, carefully placed, however.  My guess would be the coroner finds they didn’t hit anything vital.  I’d say she bled out, and that’s why there’s so much blood pooled around her.” John sucked in a harsh breath. “And that could have taken, oh goodness, as long as forty-five minutes depending.  As for what…I’d say a butcher’s knife probably.”

“A butcher’s knife…” Sherlock said to himself, standing up.  Sherlock took pictures of the wound and proceeded to walk around and to take pictures of the surrounding area. 

            John and the mystery woman stood off to the side while he did so.  John turned to her, holding out his hand. 

“Hello, I’m John Watson.” 

“Yes, Sherlock’s told me all about you.  She said in a distinctive mid-American accent. 

“Funny, he’s never mentioned you.”  John narrowed his eyes at her answering smile.

“He’s not supposed to.”  She answered calmly, still smiling.  John could sense a storm under her composed self, as if it angered her that she was a secret.

“Could you two please be quiet, I’m working.”  Sherlock was back examining the body one last time.  If it bothered him that John was introducing himself to this woman, he couldn’t detect any hint of it in Sherlock’s body language.

            The woman held out her hand and shook John’s with a firm grip, ignoring Sherlock.  

“Emmaline.  Emmaline Holmes, though I prefer Emma.”

“So, you’re his sister then?  Funny he’s only told me about his brother.”  John felt more comfortable knowing their relation. 

“No, I’m not his sister; I’m his wife.” Her eyes danced as she made the declaration.

            John dropped her hand, startled.  Sherlock, have a wife?  A wife who he had just had some very unsavory thoughts about.  And this of course caused the color to rise up in John’s cheeks.  Emmaline noticed and smiled but didn’t say anything about it.   

They both watched in silence as Sherlock finished examining the body and spoke to Lestrade for a matter of a few minutes. 

“So, Emma is it, how old are you exactly?”

“Twenty-five; I’ll be twenty-six in a few months.” 

“So when did…when did you and Sherlock meet?”

            Emma smiled at John’s questioning.  One could easily tell that he felt uncomfortable. Sherlock was right; John was an open book.   

“We met when I was fifteen.  On a plane from New York to London; he told me all about a case he had been called in to solve, by one of Greg’s old friends, who had recommended him.  I asked him how he solved the crime, and he showed me, by deducing some things about my life and about the other passengers.  We stayed in touch, obviously.” 

“You’ve known him for ten years?”

“We haven’t been together since I was fifteen, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shuddered a little at the thought.   

            John’s next question died on his lips as Sherlock approached the two of them. 

“Is your car outside Emmaline?”

“Yes.”

“Good, we need to go to your flat now.”

            John noticed that Emma didn’t even ask; she just started to descend the stairs, pulling her car keys from her clutch.  Most people would have asked questions about ‘why’, and ‘for what reason’, but she seemed, to John anyway, to have a trust in him that he hadn’t seen elsewhere. Elsewhere, outside of himself. And if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure if even he trusted Sherlock enough to not question him a little. 

            The ride to Emma’s flat was a bit of a long one because they had to pass through much of London to get there.

“So, what did he deduce?”  John asked from the backseat. 

“Hmm?” Emm asked, tossing the question over her shoulder but keeping her eyes on the road.

“Sherlock on the plane, what could he tell about your life?”

“Oh; he knew my mom had died, and that I was going to stay with my grandparents.”

            John didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock had known; he knew by now that his friend’s science of deduction was an almost sure thing.  They drove for a few more minutes and John looked out the window, surprised at where they were.  He and Sherlock lived in Westminster, and it appeared that Emma lived in Camden, in a very posh apartment building.   

“What do you do exactly?” 

“My grandparents left me money when they died, but I’m a doctor.”  Emma trotted up the stairs and opened the door, moving aside as Sherlock raced up the stairs and into the building. 

            John smiled and followed Sherlock up, Emma right behind, both of them at a more leisurely pace.  

“What kind of doctor?”  John continued his inquiry as they walked up the flights of stairs. 

“Psychology.”

“Oh that’s lovely; where do you work?”

“So many questions doctor.” she teased.

            John paused on the stairs for a moment.  “How do you know I’m a doctor?”

Emma paused to turn around and look down at John.  “Sherlock’s told me all about you remember?”  She smiled at his confusion.  “I might have been a secret from you, but you were not a secret from me.”  She explained. 

“Oh, right, yes.”  John stared for a moment.  “Why were you a secret from me?”

“Because my husband is delusional and thinks I can’t take care of myself.”  She replied.  “And I work at Bethlem Royal Hospital.” 

“The hospital for the mentally ill?”  John asked, wanting to clarify.

“That’s the one.” 

“Emmaline, key.”  Sherlock huffed impatiently from a flight above them.  

            Emma rolled her eyes and hurried up the stairs to her door. 

“Where’s your key?” she asked as she opened it for Sherlock, and he walked carefully inside.  Emma walked around the flat turning on lamps and overhead lights as she went. 

“It’s at home; I bring the key to the flat when I’m coming and only then.”  Sherlock murmured, running his hand down the length of her bookcase.

“Sherlock, what are we doing?”  John asked, not quite sure what they supposed to be doing here.

“Shh.” 

            John rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.  He too decided to look around, even if it was for a different purpose than Sherlock’s. Looking around beat standing around awkwardly in the middle of a stranger’s flat. Emmaline’s flat was furnished in neutral warm colors that made John feel right at home.  She had a large bay window with a seat that looked out over the city.  Her walls were painted light beige and black-and-white photography adorned her walls. 

“Who did these?”  John asked. 

            Sherlock looked up at his inquiry and saw what his friend was staring at.

“I did.”  He looked back down at the floor, tracing something invisible with his eye. 

            John looked back at the photos, taking a closer look at them.  Most of them were photos of crime scenes, broken glasses, or the caution tape; nothing that would alarm anyone.  A few were of Lestrade, and the police force, some were of Emmaline.  There was even one of Mycroft hanging, where he sat by a Christmas tree in Emma’s flat.  So clearly, he had spent the holiday here at some point.  There was one photo, set aside from the rest, of a smiling Emma and Sherlock, arms wrapped around one another, taken near the same tree. They were nestled happily in each other’s arms, smiling at each other, not even looking at the camera. John allowed himself a small smile of his own to see his friend so happy.   

He worked his way around the apartment and took a quick peek inside the bathroom.  It’s walls were painted grey with little red balloons painted on the wall across from the counter, reaching up, up to the ceiling, almost as if it was flying up to the sky.  He walked back out into the living room where Sherlock was now on eye level with the floor and examining the rug.   

“Would you like some tea?”  Emma poked her head out of the kitchen to ask the two gentlemen. 

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”  John continued his search of the flat, moving on to the bookshelf.  He could see she was an avid reader, and enjoyed many of the classics.  Many of the books had worn spines, suggesting she had read them more than once. Jane Eyre, Lord of the Rings, Lolita, Dracula, Picture of Dorian Gray, The End of the Affair…John nodded to himself as his eyes roved over the titles. Many he hadn’t read himself, and probably wouldn’t. They were doomed to be on his ‘to read’ list. But life with Sherlock was active, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.    

            He worked his way around to the kitchen, noticing Sherlock had now lifted up the window seat and was perusing its contents.  They could be here hours before he was done searching everywhere. 

“Do you have the faintest idea of what he’s looking for?”  John asked Emma, as she handed him a cup of tea.

“Probably looking for someone who might have broken in.  I noticed the doorjamb open yesterday but I thought it must have been him.”   

“Does he often break into your flat?”

“Only when he’s been waiting a while outside.  Or wants to show how clever he is.”  Mostly to avoid people he thinks are following him, she thought.  She smiled faintly as she went to take Sherlock a cup. “He forgets his key a lot.” Emma set Sherlock’s tea down on a table near him.

            Left on his own for a moment John took the time to admire exposed brick work over the refrigerator and stove that looked like restoration work.  He noticed a small photo frame near the pantry and got up to examine it.  It was a black-and-white photo of Sherlock, taken from the side.  He looked at least three years younger than he was now. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was looking down, a soft smile on his lips. He looked…almost happy.

“Are you hungry John?”  Emmaline came back into the kitchen. 

“Famished actually.”  John put his empty cup of tea on the counter and turned from the photo.   

“Does Sherlock often forget to feed you?”

“Only when he’s too busy to remember that people normally eat.” He answered seriously.

            Emma grinned and set about looking for something in the pantry.  John went back to his seat at the island and waited patiently.  She moved on to the fridge and brought out a plate.  She set it on the counter before John.

“Do you like bread pudding?”

“My mother used to make it for me.”

“I’ll hope that’s a yes.”  She smiled, removing the plastic wrap from the plate. 

            Emma handed him a spoon and poured him some more tea before returning to the living room to check on Sherlock.  John quickly devoured the slice of pudding that had tasted almost as good as he remembered his mother’s to taste.   

“Emma, what are these?” He heard Sherlock asking.

            John went out to the main room, wanting to know what was going on.  Sherlock was pointing to faint scratch marks in the wall next to her front door. 

“They aren’t mine; I haven’t had anyone over except for you last week.”  She held up her hands in evidence that her nails were unscathed. 

“Emmaline, pack a bag.”  Sherlock was staring uneasily at the marks. 

“I keep a packed bag in the trunk, just in case.” She told him as she reached for her discarded coat.

“Wait, what’s going on Sherlock?”  John felt very behind. 

“Someone broke in and left a note here for Emmaline.  It’ll be safer if she comes to live with us for now.  I’m afraid she’s no longer safer on her own.”  Sherlock’s voice sounded sad. 

Emma knew that it was because they had been separated for three years in the hope that it would keep her hidden from whoever Sherlock was afraid of.  It seemed that his plan had not worked. As sad as she was that her husband was upset, Emma didn’t see their reuniting as a bad thing.

“What note?”

            Sherlock handed it to him before departing the flat and running down the flights of stairs.  Emma followed him, stopping only to grab her purse. John opened the letter and read:

My dear Emmaline,

It is pointless trying to hide any more

I know who you are and who you are connected to

I hope that you enjoy the present I left for the three of you

John turned the note over but there was no more.  It wasn’t even signed.  John raced after the other two and hurried into the backseat of Emma’s car.

“What does it mean, ‘present’?” he asked, as they pulled out into the chilly London air.

“It obviously means the body.”  Sherlock answered the, to him, silly question.  “Whoever left that note for Emmaline also killed Deborah Greene.”

            They pulled up to 221B Baker Street and Emma parked the car.  Sherlock grabbed her case from the trunk and John hurried ahead of him to unlock the door to their building.   

“I’ll clear out a drawer and make some room in the closet.”  Sherlock said, taking the stairs two at a time until he was in their flat

“I’ll just be in my room.”  John pointed upstairs and departed the main floor.  Emma smiled and waved; Sherlock didn’t even notice, having departed into his room.  John backed out the door before walking upstairs into his bedroom. 

            He pulled his laptop back out, and opened the previously closed Word document.  He needed to finish this last case and start jotting down notes about this new one.  He didn’t want to forget anything.  This was by far the most interesting thing that had happened since he had met Sherlock. Well, maybe not as interesting as having a bomb strapped to his chest, but that wasn’t fun. Finding out Sherlock was living a secret double life was fun.  

He heard music come on downstairs, probably the CD player – it didn’t sound like the violin – and went back to his writing.  He occasionally heard a murmur of conversation from downstairs, but he couldn’t make anything out. Just as well since he was trying to concentrate.    

            When he finished with his writing he put his laptop away and decided to go downstairs, to see if they needed help with anything.  He trotted down the stairs and opened the door to the main level but stopped in his tracks.  Sherlock and Emma were dancing: they were swaying back and forth with their eyes closed, holding each other.  John smiled upon seeing the pair so deeply absorbed; normally Sherlock would have heard the opening door.  As it was he was busy burying his face in her hair. 

            John shut the door, affording the couple their much-needed privacy, and went back upstairs to change into his pajamas.  It was late and sleep was sounding better by the second.  He stooped down to pick up his gun from his discarded jeans and decided to clean it before sleeping.  He hadn’t done so lately and a clean gun was a good gun.  He sat down at his desk and set to his work, making sure every piece shone.  When he was satisfied he made sure the safety was on and took the clip back out. 

He set them side-by-side in his nightstand drawer and curled up against his pillow; pulling his blanket up to his chin, he snuggled down into the comfort of his hard mattress.  John reached a hand out and pulled the string of his bed-side lamp.  The light went out and the room turned dark. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 17-4-2010

            John came downstairs and saw Emma putting away clothes from the cracked door of Sherlock’s bedroom.  Yesterday John had gone back to her flat with her to get the rest of her things.  He rubbed his tired eyes; Sherlock had kept him up most of the night with his incessant playing of the violin. He had stopped at some point in the early morning and John had gratefully rolled over to get what sleep he could in the blissful silence.  He walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee; his tired body needed it if he was going to work today. 

He mechanically reached out for the empty pot, but he brought his fingers back and yelped when they contacted something hot. He saw that someone had already made coffee.  And he smelled something…there was breakfast cooking.  John walked back out into the main room.  Somebody had straightened up and organized everything.  Even Sherlock’s desk was neat.  Books were on the bookshelves, and the floor had been vacuumed. 

He walked over to the desk, amazed to see it looking so clean.  There was a letter on the corner, addressed to ‘Mr. Holmes’.  He picked it up and flipped the paper open.  The paper was snatched from his hands by Sherlock, on his way to the kitchen.  John hadn’t even gotten a line in, but he could tell it had been from Emma. 

Sherlock perused the letter before smiling and putting it in the sink and setting a match to it. 

“What are you doing?”  John yelled, alarmed at the tiny flames.

            Sherlock turned the tap on and extinguished the flame.

“It said ‘burn after reading’.  I was merely following instructions.” 

            Sherlock grabbed a cup from the top pantry and poured himself a cup of coffee.  “Those are always my favorite letters.”  Sherlock blew on the cup before taking a sip.

“What?”  John asked, peering into the sink. 

“Letters that tell me to burn them; those are the very best kind.” He took another sip of coffee.  “Emmaline and I began writing them to each other after we got separate homes; it helped make our time apart more bearable.”

            John sighed and shook his head.  Sherlock was a wonder. 

“Oh look, English Breakfast.”  Sherlock looked at the stove and turned the stove-top off.  

“What?”  John asked.

“I think she used up everything in the refrigerator.”  Sherlock murmured to himself. 

            He grabbed himself a plate and filled it up with the offerings left out on the stove.  Sherlock sniffed the air; he then bent over and looked in the oven. 

“Bread.  She’s making…,” he sniffed the air again, “banana, is that nut, banana nut bread?” 

            He shook his head and walked out to his arm chair to sit and eat.  John stood in the kitchen, still amazed at his flat mate.  He grabbed himself a cup and a plate and sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock to eat.  The oven went off and Emma ran out from the bedroom to grab the bread. 

“Thank you for breakfast.”  John called after her. 

“Oh, I enjoy cooking!”  Emma smiled from around the corner and put the bread on the counter to cool.  “Sherlock don’t touch it.”  Every time she baked bread at her flat he would try to cut it before it was ready and ruin it; he was impatient in all regards.

“She does a marvelous job at it too.”  Sherlock praised.   

            Emma smiled before disappearing into the bedroom once again. “It helps when your husband frequently forgets to eat. Meals have to be delicious enough to entice him into forgetting his ‘transport rule.’” She called.

“Anything new with the case?”  John asked Sherlock, gathering egg on his fork for a bite.

“No; I’m hoping for a nice murder soon.”

            John coughed and beat his chest, forcing the egg down his throat.

“I really wish you’d stop talking like that.”

“Like what John?”

“Like you want someone to get killed.” He said, exasperated.

“Another murder is the only way we’ll solve the case.” Sherlock reasoned, before shoving another bite in his mouth.

            John sighed and gave up.  That was the way Sherlock’s brain worked; wishing for a murder so he could solve the crime; wishing for a murder so he’d stop being bored on weekends. 

John finished his breakfast and took his plate to the sink to wash it.

“Do you work today?”  He heard Sherlock ask from the front room.  He was about to reply in the negative when he heard Emma say ‘yes’. 

            John walked back into the front room where Emma kissed Sherlock’s cheek.  She walked over to John and shook his hand. 

“I’ll be back at 5:00 so no getting into trouble before then.” She said sternly.

            She waved before walking out the door.  Right after she departed Sherlock’s phone went off. 

“Can you get that for me John?”

            John sighed but followed the ringing to Sherlock’s bedroom.  He muffled a laugh when he saw Sherlock’s clothes laid out for him on the bed like a child.  He grabbed his phone and saw the text.

“It’s Lestrade.  He says the autopsy reports come back for Miss Greene.”

“Well then!  Hurry and get dressed John!”  Sherlock yelled, bursting into the room. 

            John left the room as Sherlock threw off his robe and started to unbutton his pajamas.  He raced upstairs and pulled clothes from his own closet.  Dressed, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and again put his gun in the waistband of his pants. 

            Sherlock was tying his scarf when John got back downstairs.  Throwing on his coat, Sherlock led the way downstairs and hailed a taxi.  The first few moments were passed in silence, but John couldn’t keep quiet.

“So…Emma.”

“What about her?”

“I think the fact that there even is a her, at all, should be discussed.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You told me you were married to your work, that you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Well I wasn’t looking for anything John.”  Sherlock looked at him like it should be obvious why. 

“You could’ve told me you know.  Why keep it a secret?”

“I have many enemies John.  Enemies who would do anything to get at me; so far they’ve used strangers to get me to solve cases or to do other things.  They know using my brother is useless; besides, he’s in a position of such power.  You’re constantly with me and look what happened at the pool with Moriarty.”  Sherlock looked right at John as he said that. “My enemies would of course use her to get to me if they could.  That’s why we don’t live together, and I’m careful when I visit her.”

“How long have you been married to her?”

“Oh goodness, six years.”  Sherlock said, leaning his head back against the seat in thought.  

“Six years?”  John did the math in his head.  “She was only nineteen?”  John couldn’t imagine anyone getting married so young, especially to someone as difficult as Sherlock.  

“Yes I suppose she was.  She didn’t make it clear that she fancied me though ‘till she was what…seventeen?  Yes, right before her eighteenth birthday.”  Sherlock smiled in remembrance. 

“She was seventeen, when, when…”

“John calm down!  We lived together so I suppose she thought the time was right to tell me.”  Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.  “And that’s all she did was tell me; your blushing gives everything away John.  Do you really think I’m that deplorable?  She was only seventeen.” 

“Lived together?”  The more John learned about their story, the more strange it got.  John knew the age of consent was sixteen in Europe, but to him it was still young, and the fact that Sherlock had fallen in love with what he considered a child…it made John look at his friend differently.    

“After her grandparents died.  She only lived with me for six months; I made her find somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“Why all these questions John?”  Sherlock asked, suddenly exasperated.  “Why does it matter?”

“Because this is a big secret!  If you can keep a wife from me, what other secrets have you been keeping Sherlock?  Do I even know you?”

            Sherlock stared at John for a moment before turning his head to stare out the window.  As soon as the taxi stopped Sherlock exited the car and entered the building.  John sighed and paid the cabbie.  He hurried after Sherlock; sometimes he was a difficult man to live with. 

“Ahh Sherlock, there you are.” Lestrade ushered the pair into his office. “Here’s the report.”  Lestrade handed it to Sherlock who sat down and began reading. 

“Just like you thought John, butcher’s knife.  And…yes, she did bleed out.  So someone who likes to inflict pain.  I wonder if he stayed to watch…” Sherlock mused aloud.  

“We’ve notified Deborah’s family and they’ve confirmed the body’s identity.”  Lestrade continued.  “Coroner thinks Deborah Greene was dead maybe an hour-and-a-half before we arrived on the scene. 

“Yes, how did you know about it so quickly?”  John asked, looking at the detective inspector. 

“We got an anonymous call about the body.” Lestrade shrugged.

“What?”  Sherlock shouted, standing up from his chair.  “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

“Well, no, it happens all the time.  People that come across the body, but don’t want their names in official reports, so they just call it in instead of reporting it to the office.  It’s pretty common Sherlock.”

“Not with this one.  I want a copy of that tape.” 

            Lestrade left the office to get a copy of the 999 call that had led them to the body. 

“You think something’s up Sherlock?”

“Of course there is John!  This killer wanted us to find the body quickly.  Why else would he call 999?  Why else would he leave that note for Emmaline, telling her to come to the scene of the crime?  He’s playing with us.  He wants his work to be known.” Sherlock threw the file down on Lestrade’s desk with a huff. “And he wants us to know that he knows all about us – knows about our lives.” 

            Lestrade came in with a copy of the tape and inserted the disc into his computer.  He turned the volume up and pushed ‘play’. 

“I’ve found a body.  She’s in Islington at 969 Aberdeen Lane.  Did you get that?  I found a body.  She’s…she’s dead.” 

“That’s it?”  Sherlock asked. 

“That’s it.”  Lestrade confirmed. 

“And you didn’t think it was suspicious?”  Sherlock asked. 

“Why would we?”

“His voice didn’t quiver.”  John said. 

“What?” asked Lestrade. 

“Most people, when they see a body, their voice quivers when they speak.  His didn’t; he was too calm.” John explained.

“That’s the kind of thinking I need!”  Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at John with a smirk.  “I’ll need a copy of this to take with me.”

“Here take this one.”  Lestrade put the disc in a case and handed it to Sherlock. 

“Thank you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

            Sherlock looked deep in thought as he left.  John followed him and hailed a taxi.  As soon as he closed the door his phone went off; John answered it.  It was the hospital where he worked. He told the driver the address; he had been called in to work. 

“What’s the meaning of this John?”  Sherlock looked up when he noticed the new direction the cab was going in. 

“I’ve been called in to work.  Don’t worry; he’ll still take you home.”

“Be good today.”  John said a little while later, from the curb. 

            He waved goodbye to the taxi as it drove off to the flat.  John turned and walked into the hospital. 

ᶓ

“I’ve just got to pop in for a moment, OK?” 

John got out of the cab and ran up to the flat.  He entered and walked up the stairs to the front room.  Sherlock was playing the violin and Emma was reading a book. 

“Hey, Sarah is downstairs, and we were wondering if you’d like to join us out tonight?”

            Sherlock and Emma answered at the same time.

“No thank you, I’m busy.”

“Yes, we’d love to!” 

            Emma looked over at Sherlock.

“Why not?”  She asked. 

“I’m busy working.  I’m making connections and thinking.”

“You haven’t got anything without another murder and you know it.” 

            Sherlock sighed and put the violin down. 

“There’s a new jazz bar that’s opened up a few streets over.”  John pointed at the door.  “She’s waiting.” 

            Emma grabbed Sherlock’s coat and held it out to him. 

“Very well, this one time.”  He stood up and put his coat on before grabbing his scarf.  John headed out before the two of them and got in the cab.  Emma got in the back and Sherlock took the only vacant seat in the front of the taxi. 

            The cabbie dropped them off at a place called ‘Jazz 101’ that had a ‘GRAND OPENING’ sign in its front window.  Sherlock tossed the cabbie a few bills as he got out and opened the door for Emmaline. 

“What a gentlemen.”  She looped his arm through his and they went inside. 

            Sarah scooted over and got out, and John right after her. 

“So who’s that with your friend?”

“Apparently he’s married,” he took her arm and led her inside.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“Found out two days ago when she moved in.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Married for six years.”

“What?”  Sarah was incredulous.  “How can he have been married for that long and not have told you about it?”

            John just shook his head, not wanting to get into it.  Sarah rubbed his arm and offered him a soft smile. 

“Over here!”  Emma called and waved from a table in the back. 

            John and Sarah walked over.  John took Sarah’s coat and hung it on the back of her chair before pulling it out for her.  He took the seat next to her. 

            John took a quick look around.  It was dark in the club, but every table had a candle in a glass vase and there were what appeared to be gas lamps at intervals along the walls.  Near where they were sitting was a stage with a jazz band and singer, and in front of the stage, a dance floor.  John also noticed the way Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the room, taking everything in quickly.  He probably already knew three exits and how to kill the chef with the palm fronds.  John smirked to himself.  Sarah asked him what was so funny but he just held up his hand and shook his head. 

Almost as soon as they were all settled a waiter came over and offered them menus.   

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”  Sherlock tried to wave his away. 

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”  John leaned across the table. 

“I don’t eat when I’m working.”  He replied coolly. 

“Sherlock, have something, please.”  Emma chimed in from beside him. 

            Sherlock sighed and looked up at the waiter.

“A cup of tea then.”

            The waiter nodded and walked away, giving the others time to peruse their menus. 

“Honestly, I have no idea why you dragged me out.”  Sherlock looked down at his nails. 

“If you’re going to be morose you can find a taxi to take you home, by yourself.”  Emma said without looking up from her menu. 

            John smiled at the brusque nature with which she handled him.  He hadn’t met anyone yet who handled Sherlock that way, not even Mrs. Hudson.  The song switched over to a snazzy love song.  The singer was quite talented.  John noticed she was dressed as a flapper from the 20’s.  He pointed it out to Sarah who thought it was also interesting.  The waiter came back with Sherlock’s tea and took other drink orders.  The group of friends wasn’t hungry just yet, but ordered appetizers to share.  They were planning to work up their hunger by dancing.    

“Come on.”  Emma stood up and reached for Sherlock’s hand. The song had changed to a slower melody; John noticed the small smile that played on Sherlock’s lips before he stood up. 

“Would you like to dance?”  John asked, turning to Sarah. 

“Yes.”

            John led Sarah out onto the dance floor and wrapped his arms around her, nestling his chin on her shoulder.  She did the same and they swayed back and forth, comfortable in each other arms.  John opened his eyes and saw Emma and Sherlock in a darkened corner, dancing.  John was glad at least that Sherlock wasn’t sitting home alone by himself while John went out.  He closed his eyes again comfortable to be held by his girlfriend, who tonight, smelled deliciously of…wood and flowers.  John inhaled the scent again and smiled against her neck. 

            The song ended and everyone clapped appreciatively, as it had certainly been the best of the night so far.  John and Sarah went back to the table and started sipping on their drinks, talking.  John glanced around and saw Emma and Sherlock still dancing, though more out in the open now.  He noticed the protective way Sherlock had his arms around her waist and felt like he was intruding on something private, especially when she stood on her tip-toes to whisper something in his ear, and he leaned down to whisper back. 

“Who has Freak got to dance with him?” 

            John looked up to see Sally and a man standing near their table.  The man’s hand was resting on her waist so John assumed they were on a date.  Of all the people to chance meeting them there John hated that it had to be Sally.  She was by far the worst about verbalizing her hate for Sherlock. 

“Oh, that’s, that’s his, uh, wife.”  John finally got out after a long pause.  It still felt strange to say since he was just getting used to it himself. 

“Freak’s married?  There’s no way.”  Sally’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise before her eyebrows shot up.  “There’s no way.  You’d think he’d brag about it.”  She turned to look at her date for agreement and he just nodded his head.  

            Sally and her date waited for the song to end and for Sherlock and Emma to come back to the table so she could introduce herself. 

“Hello.  I’m Sally Donovan.”  She smiled and held her hand out. 

“Oh, hello!  Emmaline Holmes.  Are you a friend of Sherlock’s?”

            Sally stifled a small laugh.  “Sherlock?  Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”  She stopped smiling and looked at the younger woman.  “I’m going to give you the same advice I gave him.  Get out while you can.”  Having said her peace, Sally took her date and walked to her table, on the other side of the restaurant.    

            John watched her walk away before turning to look at Sherlock.  He would always swear that her words left a sting in him.  Sherlock looked after her and John thought he saw his eyes water, just a little bit, before he composed himself.  Emma took his hand and held it tight. 

John turned back to his drink.  The couple resumed their seats and Emma laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  She whispered something in his ear and he looked down at his lap and smiled.

“No, thank you.”  He said, turning to look at her.

“What?”  Sarah asked, looking between the two of them. 

“She offered to have Sally killed.”  Sherlock said, serious. 

“Oh.”  Sarah looked down and brought her drink to her lips. 

            Emma, Sherlock, and John laughed.

“But, I’m serious here, someone owes me a favor.” Emma told him, looking at Sherlock up through her lashes.

Sherlock just smiled in response.

ᶓ

“Hey, uh, I’m spending the night at Sarah’s tonight OK?” 

“Alright John; you don’t have to ask permission.”  Sherlock looked over at his friend and winked.  John blushed but sent up a silent prayer that Sherlock had deduced something in Sarah’s manner that spelled good luck for him.  

            Sherlock and Emma got out of the cab at 221B Baker Street and waved. 

“So, did you want to watch a film when we get there?”  John turned to Sarah. 

“I was hoping we could just go to bed; I’m exhausted John.  I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

            They got out of the cab and walked up to Sarah’s flat.  She unlocked the door and headed straight for the bathroom to wash up before bed.  John walked into the bedroom where he kept pajamas, in case he slept over.  He quickly changed and folded his clothes, setting them on the coffee table. 

“I’m going to sleep now.”  He knocked on the bathroom door.

“OK.”  He heard the shower running.  John sighed and settled into the couch. 

            A few minutes later Sarah came out of the bathroom and went into the bedroom.  John lay on the couch silently debating in his head.  He made up his mind and waited another five minutes before getting up.  He walked silently over to the bedroom door and knocked, talking quietly to himself, the silent pep-talk.   

“Sarah?”

“Yes?”  He heard her voice call loudly, almost as if she had been expecting him. 

“I was just, I was wondering, if I could sleep in here?”

            There were a few moments of silence and then the door opened. 

“Oh, good.  I thought you would say no, and then wouldn’t that be awkward.” 

            His words were interrupted as Sarah grabbed him and pulled him into the room, her mouth already searching for his in the dark.   

ᶓ

“Sherlock, do you want something?” Emmaline was in the kitchen getting a piece of bread. 

“No, I’m fine.” Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and walked over to the CD player.  He shuffled through a few CD’s before finding the one he had been looking for and put it on. 

Emmaline walked out of the kitchen, smoothing a stray line of butter from her lip. “What’s this?”  She asked, surprised. 

“You don’t like it?”

“No, Van Morrison is good.  What’s the occasion?”

            Sherlock walked closer and drew her in his arms and began dancing with her. 

“It wasn’t enough to dance earlier tonight?”  She asked.

“I’ll never get enough of holding you.”  He put his hands on either side of her hips and held onto her firmly.   

            Emmaline smiled and wound her arms up around his back and held onto his shoulders. 

“About what that woman said at the jazz club,”

“Never mind her.”

“She was rude, Sherlock.  And wrong.”

“Hmm?”

            Sherlock ran his nose up and down the length of her soft cheek.

“You’ve got Greg, and John, and you’ve got me.”  Emmaline’s breath faltered slightly at the sensation. 

“Yes, so I do.”

            Emmaline pulled her head back to look at him.  He stopped the swaying so he could look at her.  God, she had wanted to say something.  She lost her sentence as soon as she looked into his blue eyes and fumbled for a moment, trying to remember what she had been going to say.   

“I’m being serious Sherlock.”

“Shh.  Shh my darling Emmaline.” 

            He put a finger on her lips and smiled when color touched her cheeks.  He kissed her forehead and resumed the dancing. 

“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?”  Emmaline whispered in his ear. 

            In answer he bent down and softly touched his lips to hers.  It was a chaste kiss and lasted but a moment. 

“You tease.”  Emmaline whispered against his mouth.   

“All in good time dear.” 

            This was the side of him reserved specifically for her; the side only she knew existed.  She took in a deep breath when she felt his fingers brush her spine, running up and down its length.  Reflexively she stood on her toes and brought her body closer to Sherlock’s.   

“We’re a little jumpy tonight Emmaline.”  He whispered in her ear. 

            She didn’t answer; just wound her arms around his neck.  He bent down again but this time kissed the side of her neck.  Up, up, until he reached her chin.  She nudged his face with hers so that their lips met again.  She wanted to taste his soul, the core of his being.  She pressed all her fervent wishes and urges into her lips, imprinting her love on his mouth.

            Emmaline brought her hands up to cup his face and tentatively traced his mouth with her tongue.  Sherlock hitched in a breath before smiling against her cheek.  He gently nipped her earlobe before kissing the underside of her jaw and her chin.  Impatient, she grabbed his hips and held on while he slowly kissed the corners of her mouth. 

“Sherlock…”  He heard the impatience, the need, in her voice and it pleased him.  Oh god he was glad that he was not above this human emotion.  Other things the officers spoke about, and he did not understand, but this, love, sex, he very much understood.   

 His hand fisted in the fabric of her shirt, and she pressed herself more firmly against him.  Her hot mouth teased a few centimeters above his before he broached the distance, circling his arms around her body, effectively trapping him to her.   

“Emmaline.”  He whispered her name in her ear.

            He had never felt a love like this and he wanted to trap it like he had Emmaline.  Not stifle it, but make sure that it would always be his.  He looked into her eyes before bending down to touch her soft, full lips once again.  He would never get enough of this woman who had spent so much of her life with him. 

He would never forget the first time they had made love, shortly after her eighteenth birthday.  He could almost taste the chocolate cake that had been on her lips seven years ago.  Now her lips tasted deliciously of bananas and butter.  Her curves had become fuller since then as well; he knew she was self-conscious about them but he loved them.  They in no way betrayed that she was deadly: a runner, a boxer, and a practitioner of Judo. 

            He buried his face in her curtain of brown hair, inhaling deeply.  It smelled of oranges, the same as it always did.  The delicious scent drove him crazy, just as it had the first time he had smelled it. 

God, it had been too long since their last time together.  Long enough for her to cut her hair shorter, and to get a promotion at work.  He broke from his reverie, feeling Emma’s mouth on his collarbone. 

“Are you trying to give me a love-bite?”  He asked, voice sultry.

“Not trying.”  She replied with a hint of glee.    

            Sure enough, there was a red mark on his collarbone. 

“Just you wait.”  He whispered in her ear, reaching out with his tongue to flick her earlobe.   

            She reached for the first button on his shirt and didn’t stop until it was discarded on the floor.  He picked her up and she circled her legs around his waist.  His hands came to rest on the nice curve of her bottom and she moaned against his jaw at his touch.   

He carried her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed.  For a moment he just stood above her, staring down at her form.  Her rumpled hair, wrinkled red blouse, black skirt hitched up to her thighs.  Her lips were fuller, swollen from the kissing, and beautifully red.   

“Sherlock.” 

            She grabbed his hand and drew him down onto the bed with her where their lips quickly met again, in quick short kisses that betrayed their passion.  She pressed her hands flat against his back and he arched lower against her.  She wrapped a leg around one of his and ran her foot up and down the length of his calf. 

“Damn woman.”  Sherlock ground out between his teeth. 

“Those all the words you have?”  She breathed out heavily. 

  Instead of responding he unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt; he then grabbed the bottom of her blouse and worked it off over her head.  She tossed it off the bed; Emmaline rolled over onto him and started planting feather-light kisses down his neck, his chest, his abdomen.  She traced the planes of his chest and lightly scratched at his hips, her mouth hovering inches above his stomach.     

“Who’s a tease?”  He asked, gently taking her chin in his hand and bringing her lips back to his. 

These were no longer the gentle kisses of only a few minutes ago; they were fever-ridden, passion-inducing kisses that trilled and made their mouths hum with pleasure even after they had moved apart.   

            He rolled back over onto her and laid on her the same careful ministrations she had just performed.  Kissing up and down her abdomen, he placed his hands right under her breasts and traced his thumbs along her ribs.  She ran her hands through his wild mane of hair, curling her fingers against his scalp.  He brought his mouth to the soft flesh under her collarbone and left his own love-bite. 

“Try hiding that at work.” 

Sherlock moved to sit at the foot of the bed and kissed her ankle up to her calf.  Light, feathery kisses, just long enough to tease.  He teased his fingers along her thigh before gently tracing his lips from the inside curve of her knee to the hem of her skirt.  Emmaline started to touch his face and his shoulders, indicating it was her turn, so he moved up the bed once again, this time lying next to her.   

            She ran her fingers down his arms, feeling the hard muscle underneath; she intertwined their fingers and kissed each one.  She wound her hands over his shoulders again and brought herself up against him to kiss his neck, and the underline of his jaw.  She tangled their legs together, and in the sheets.  She brushed her lips lightly over his but moved on to kiss his nose, his forehead, his eyelids.  Every shuddering breath he took made her quiver with pleasure.   

            He reached out and kissed her cheek, lightly brushing his lips over until they reached her lips.  She slid her hand down until it rested on his hip and she pulled it against her so they were flush together.  More urgently than before he pushed her back against the pillows and rolled on top of her.  He placed his hands on either side of her, and trapped her between his arms. 

He whispered her name in between hot kisses and she smiled against his lips.  She pulled herself up to kiss his cheek, but her lips were soon back on his with the hot need that only a fevered passion such as theirs could ignite.  She felt like his hands were on fire as they gripped her thighs and inched ever higher.     

            At the same time, she ran her hands down his abdomen and reached his belt, and he reached a hand around to the zipper on her skirt.  Their lips almost touching, both were breathing heavily.  Sherlock brought his lips back to Emmaline’s and laid her back against the pillows. 

She undid his belt with sure movements and soon his trousers were on the floor with her skirt.  Sherlock reached down to whisper in his lover’s ear. 

“Remember when I said I’d get you back for the love bite?  I hope you’re in for a long night darling Emmaline.”  Sherlock smiled viciously but instead of the response he had expected, Emmaline took hold of him, her lips teasingly wetting her mouth. 

“I’m all yours.”  She replied seductively.