The Game is On

A Midsummer Night's Murder

"John, did you pick the soundtrack?"

"Yes I did, why?"

"Why did I let you do that?"

"Because you didn't want to."

"Right."

The two walked in, immediately swarmed by cameras and screaming fans.

"How long have they been waiting for this?"

"Much too long."

"Where's the bar?"

"The dance floor? That way."

"No, the--"

"I heard what you said, no."

Sherlock huffed innocently. John took his hand and led him to the dance floor, where numerous couples and friends danced to upbeat music.

"John, I don't know how to dance."

"Sure you do. You saw Jim do it, it isn't hard."

"We're leaving if they play a slow song..."

"No, we're not. We have to give Donovan something, or she'll watch us sleep."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, grinning. John was right, Donovan would stop at nothing to see them kiss, just once.

"John, can I tell you something?"

"Anything, Sherlock."

"I love you."

John stilled. Never, ever, had he thought words like that existed to Sherlock. He always knew the detective loved him, and that Sherlock would try to tell that to him. But not like this. Not so directly. Maybe more along the lines of "I care about you," or "I'll never be bored with you."

But not "I love you."

But, turns out the doctor was wrong. Sherlock did have feelings, just like everyone else.

He just hid them exceptionally well.

"I...I love you, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled.

"Can we go get a drink now?"

"Was that just a bribe?"

"At first, yes. But once I said it, I realized I meant it."

"Really?"

"Every word."

"Fine," John gave in, "Just one."

But as they headed toward the bar, a gunshot sounded and screams erupted through the crowd.

"Oh, bollocks."

The pair raced up, pushing through the throng of people. Many covered their mouths, cried, passed out, or collapsed of shock. But one girl in the front's nice white dress was covered in blood spatters, her friend laying on the ground with a gunshot wound through the head. Beside her lay, undoubtfully, the murderer. He held a gun in his hand, but had shot himself in the head after claiming the victim.

"You think Moriarty had something to do with this?"

"Really, John?! What in the bloody hell makes you think that?!" Sherlock yelled sarcastically, holding his forehead.

"Right. I'll text Lestrade."

"Why? He's here."

John, feeling like an idiot, turned to see Lestrade shoving his way through the crowd, followed angrily by Donovan and Anderson.

"Well, Sherlock, a deduction please?"

"Since when have you ever said that?"

"It's your day, I'm being nice. Deduce."

Sherlock knelt down, inspecting the victim's head, then stretching to inspect the murderer. Standing up, he steepled his hands under his chin, deep in thought.

"Well, the murderer shot himself through the mouth," Sherlock began.

"Just like--"

"Moriarty. He shot the woman through the back of the head, only to immediately shoot himself."

"Drama fest."

"What did you expect? Clearly the murderer had no relation with this girl--"

"How do you know?" Lestrade cut in.

"Because he committed suicide just after, no note, no words, just boom-boom. He was hired by Moriarty."

"Motive?"

"To crash our party. There isn't a motive, Jim just wants us to NOT have a perfect night."

"So what can we do?"

"Nothing except remove the bodies and clean up. Moriarty will show up, he wouldn't miss our reactions. When he does, I'll look into this further."

With that, Sherlock turned and pushed through the crowd again. He, followed closely by John, left the building and got in the cab marked "JUST MARRIED!"

The ride was in silence. Sherlock thought about the future, and John knew better than to interrupt him.

Halfway home, John grabbed Sherlock's hand. The detective looked at him, the corners of his mouth turned up subtly, and then went back to staring out the window.

Once pulled up out front 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was first to exit the car. As he left, he snuck one curt wave at the cabbie, saying:

"See you later, Jim."

John stopped. He looked back at the cab to see Jim Moriarty smiling back at him.

After a moment, he jogged up to Sherlock, who was already opening the door to their flat.

"Uh, Sherlock," he cleared his throat, "You said you'd look into it once you saw Moriarty."

"Not during the cab ride, John. He'll turn up later, I promise."

Now entering the stairwell, John kept pressing.

"How do you know?"

"We've had a few random murder cases popping up since Anon. Always at the worst times, when we were enjoying the couch watching the telly, sleeping, drinking tea, kissing..."

John slouched, pressing his lips together, "And?"

"Jim is just toying with us. He probably had something to do with Anon as well. He's crazy. I guarantee he will turn up again."