Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Nine

Any hope of finishing up the murder case in a timely manner was dashed within a few hours by a call from Lestrade. There had been a second murder that closely resembled that of their current case, enough so that even The Yard suspected there was a connection. Instead of a prostitute, this time it was a young runaway turned junkie who had been strangled and then positioned in a back alley with an old book of poetry that she'd clearly never read.

This was why John found himself spending the evening standing under an umbrella in the pouring rain at the mouth of a filthy alley, while Sherlock paced back and forth like a caged tiger and mumbled under his breath. John had given up trying to chase him with the umbrella, and resigned himself to a cab ride home later with a man who would soon resemble more of a drowned cat than a tiger.

"He might be at this a while longer," John remarked to Lestrade, who was now standing a few paces away huddled underneath a plastic raincoat. The body had already been removed from the scene nearly an hour ago, but Sherlock seemed determined to scour every inch of that alley until he was satisfied.

"Well, he can have at it all night if it suits him," Lestrade grumbled as he turned away, looking down at his phone as it buzzed with a text alert. "I've got to go try to explain this to a family who's still hoping their little girl's going to pop in any day now. I could use a lead— hell, anything. What was that book again? German, wasn't it?"

"French, I think," John said, peering under his coat where he had the book that was encased in a sealed evidence bag tucked against his chest. Lestrade had slipped it to him earlier on the condition that it would find its way back to the Yard within 24 hours without so much as an extra fingerprint. "Rimbaud?" John was certain that he'd butchered the pronunciation horribly. "Some sort of poetry."

"So we've got an angry poet on a murderous rampage. Perfect." Lestrade heaved a sigh as he looked over to where Sherlock had crouched down, peering at something under his magnifying lens. "I don't suppose he's got a brilliant theory that'll break the case in the next fifteen minutes or so?"

"Not that he's sharing—he's been on Silent Mode for a bit," John replied with an apologetic shrug. There was no use dragging revelations out of Sherlock until he was good and ready, and then there would be no shutting him up.

"Well that's convenient." Lestrade shook his head as he turned to leave. "Text me as soon as you know anything. And I mean anything."

"Right."

Although he knew that he wasn't directly responsible, John couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at having been a source of distraction that might have kept Sherlock from potentially catching this murderer before he could kill again. Even so, he still couldn't bring himself to regret a single moment of what had occurred between them earlier. Just the thought of it, and the promise of what he intended to happen later once all of this was sorted, was enough to keep John warm in a torrential downpour. No, he only regretted that it hadn't happened much sooner.

In all of his wildest dreams, and there had been a few, John had scarcely imagined Sherlock to be capable of something like that. It wasn't Sherlock's passion or the intensity that surprised him— contrary to the image Sherlock projected to the rest of the world, John knew the man to be the opposite of cold and calculating when it came to matters he deemed important. Sherlock was always vibrating with restless energy, even if it was just in his eyes while the rest of his face seemed etched in stone. It wasn't difficult to predict that when all of that energy was focused in one place, on one person, the resulting explosion would be bloody incredible.

What had surprised John was how willingly Sherlock gave himself over to it— to John, to the carnal impulses John had always thought disgusted him. He'd always thought Sherlock would hate everything about sex, both the messiness and the vulnerability it brought. Instead Sherlock had gloried in it, had looked up at John with the most beautiful surrender in his eyes that nearly cleaved John's heart in two. It was both completely wonderful and completely terrifying, all at once.

John was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed it when Sherlock strode past him toward the street, leaving John to belatedly catch up.

"Do you have the book?" Sherlock asked as he scouted the street for a cab, as always taking for granted that John was right behind him without so much as sparing a glance. Even with his collar turned up, Sherlock appeared to be drenched to the skin and his hair was plastered to his face as he squinted against the driving rain. He had to be positively freezing, but that brilliant mind was rushing too many places at once to be bothered with something as dull as hypothermia.

"Safe as houses." John gave his coat a pat where the book was still nestled. "Home, then? Or to Bart's?"

"Home. I need to examine that book," Sherlock said as a cab threaded through traffic to pull over at the kerb in front of them.

"You've got a theory." It wasn't a question, because John knew it was true from the way Sherlock's expression had sharpened minutely. John couldn't really explain it, but he could always tell when Sherlock's focus ceased being scattered and finally coalesced into a single concept or idea. There was a certain look in his eyes, a certain way he held himself—straight and still, like a hound pointing out a scent.

"I've narrowed it down to three." Sherlock ducked inside the cab, leaving John to shake out his umbrella before following him inside.