Nights When Boredom Strikes

Not Everything Is Suicide

When they got out of the cab, they were not surprised to see Anderson make an I-give-up-with-even-trying-anymore gesture with his hands before turning and going to the crime scene. Lestrade spotted them and walked over, glancing at the collar of John shirt, eyes slightly widening when he saw the marks but it wasn't his business so he just got straight to the point as he walked them to the body. Male, mid twenties, fractured skull, cracked ribs, death by impact of the concrete from six story fall. Sherlock gathered all of this within a matter of seconds before Lestrade even began talking.

"Name's James Grey. We think it was a suicide but there was no note or anything, and we've already gotten in touch with some family and friends, he seemed to have a nice life. Nobody could figure out why he would do it." Lestrade explained, mostly to John because he knew he would listen to what was actually being said rather than ignore it altogether.

"My God, it's not suicide. Not everything that looks like suicide actually is suicide. If your team would actually look into things they might have figured it out themselves." Sherlock had entered full-on snarky consulting detective i-know-more-than-you-so-just-stop-speaking mode. 

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked and John could tell that Sherlock was irritated. 

"Obvious. He's on his back. People who jump go forward, not backwards. They don't just jump backwards off the building. Also, signs of a struggle evident on the knuckles and wrists. Recent by the looks of them. He was pushed, he didn't fall. It wasn't accidental, he was pushed for a reason. Call back up the family and friends. You were asking them the wrong questions. Ask about his personal relationships, about people who might have resented him for any reason, who might have had a reason to push him." John looked at Sherlock with a look of adoration and astonishment. 

"Brilliant!" He exclaimed, hushing mid-word realizing he was doing it out loud again. Sherlock flashed him a grin and Lestrade didn't even want to know what was behind that.

"Alright, I'll give them a ring. Do you need more time here?" Lestrade asked, pulling his cell out of his coat pocket. 

"No. Text me when or if you find anything of importance to this case. I can't really do anything if I don't have a lead." Sherlock had that tone where everything sounded like he was going to add the word 'obviously' after everything he said. John wouldn't doubt it if he actually did in his mind when he was thinking about how everyone around him was idiotic. 

"Okay, will do." 

Sherlock and John were led back out of the tape and hailed another cab to go back home for now. Well, I guess this case isn't going to keep Sherlock busy for all that long. Damn it. John should have known better than to hope for a complicated case anyway, considering they'd had a fairly perplexing one just the other day, two in one week just didn't happen. Sherlock entered mind palace mode for the next couple of hours until Lestrade finally texted something important.

Turns out Grey was having an affair with Samantha Norton, fiancee of Frederick Mason. According to Ms. Norton, Mason found out about the affair and wasn't too happy. She said he talked about killing him but figured it was jealousy talk. Mason may be our guy.-GL

If the tissue under Grey's fingernails matches the DNA of Frederick Mason, then he is obviously your guy. I honestly don't know why you needed to text me if you could handle it fairly easily yourselves. If the DNA doesn't match, then Frederick obviously got someone to do his dirty work, still not all that complicated. -SH

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he sent his text message and set his phone on the table next to the sofa he was stretched out on. 

"I take it Lestrade texted by the look on your face." John noted out loud. 

"Fabulous observation, John. I should give you a medal." Sherlock said, coated with sarcasm, turning to face the inside of the couch while curled in fetal position. John sighed and grabbed his laptop before sitting in his chair and checking his blog. He quickly wrote the newest entry, seeing as there wasn't very much to write. Just a guy who was murdered to where, to some at least, it looked like a suicide to some extent. Nothing that hadn't been done before, John was sure. Sherlock stirred on the couch before getting up and sitting on the arm of John's chair. Oh no, here we go. Already, really? I figured it would be a little while, I guess not. John sighed as Sherlock studied him intently from the side. John was a little afraid to ask, but he threw caution to the wind and went for it anyway. 

"What is it you want, Sherlock?" John braced himself for an extremely strange answer. When none came, John got up and began to make his way into the kitchen for some tea. About halfway there, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed John tightly around the wrist, not tight enough to the point of pain, but John definitely wasn't getting free. John, being caught off guard, was already drug half way upstairs before he could react. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?!" John was trying to pry Sherlock's fingers from his wrist, not making any progress. "Sherl-" He was cut off at the top of the stairs by Sherlock's mouth on his. His other wrist was taken into a death grip and he was pushed to the wall and his lips ambushed by Sherlock's until he shut up. Sherlock pulled away, leaving him breathless, while still holding his wrists.

He pushed the door to John's bedroom open with his shoulder, pulling John inside with him before closing it behind him with his back. He twisted them to where John was pressed against the door and held his hands down as he went for his neck. Everything was fuzzy, but John could make out a slightly confused Sherlock standing a few inches away as he locked the door. He grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him in, Sherlock being a bit resistant at first, but then quickly giving in and kissing him back. John returned from another one of his lost and found memories, eyes flashing open and breath quickening a bit faster than it had been before. 

"You alright?" Sherlock mumbled into the side of his neck, and in that moment he was more than alright. 

"Oh, most definitely alright." John hummed. Sherlock nipped at a sensitive spot on his throat and John's knees buckled a bit, eliciting a chuckle from Sherlock, which only made it worse He pulled them off the wall and all but pounced onto John on the bed, never releasing his wrists. "Um -- quick question -- was all that -- really necessary?" John breathed through the adrenaline rush he was experiencing. 

"I said we would finish this later. Jaguars often use the element of surprise when hunting their prey." Sherlock purred smoothly. John was definitely right about the jaguar comparison. He knew Sherlock was trying now, but he was really good at it. 

"So I am your prey now, is that it?" John asked, a smile playing on his lips. 

"Precisely." He growled, moving his lips to directly under John's ear and moving their way down.

"You say not everything is suicide, but with you, it surely feels like it." John stated as he arched his neck. 

"Not sure -- what you mean." Sherlock replied as he moved his mouth slowly to John's collar bone. John was losing focus quickly as he was otherwise preoccupied but he managed to pant out a reply. 

"Throwing caution to the wind, jumping off the ledge, and landing in whatever life throws our way." Sherlock laughed at John's metaphor, quickly moving into things that would make him not be able to think anymore, at least long enough to be distracted.