Soldier holding his Detective

Untitled Part 6

A/N** I have marked some details on blood/ death with (***) it makes no difference to the story if you skip it. Anyway, enjoy!

That night Sherlock sat in the bed beside John. The bedside lamp was on next to Sherlock. John was laying on his back, his face next to Sherlock's hip. Sherlock had brought the case files into bed with him so he could be near John. "Sherlock?" He was looking up at him through the limited light the lamp provided. John gave a kiss to his hip which earned him a distracted hum. Sherlock's knees were drawn to his chest to support the files, the cover draped over him. John stroked his foot - the only part of him he could reach without straining - then placed another kiss on his hip. "Sherlock, are you going to sleep tonight?"

It seemed as if John had finally got through to Sherlock. The files were placed on the table and Sherlock shifted so he was face to face with John. "Sorry, John. It's this case, I know I'm missing something." John gives him a kiss, his hand finding Sherlock's under the covers. "I know, love. There's something off. And I know what you're like for a puzzle. You need to sleep though, and eat for that matter, but first sleep." John turns in the bed so he's on his right side. He had already taken his pain medication, but he still couldn't put too much pressure on the left. Sherlock shifted closer. Their legs wrapping together and their foreheads pressed. John fell asleep there. In the warmth of Sherlock's embrace.

It had been a gruelling few days since the last death. The killer seemed to just... Stop. Went completely off the radar. It was driving Sherlock crazy. The living room had been covered in documents. Red lines crossing through the room, connecting the separate crimes scenes. Clearly showing the links between them.

John was sitting on his chair reading one of Sherlock's books. He had picked it up from the bookcase, desperate to have a break from the case. Sherlock on the other hand, was lying on the floor facing the ceiling. He had found a tennis ball and was throwing it up and catching it. John was enjoying the momentary quiet it provided. The ball landed on John's lap. He looked up from the book to see the grinning detective on the floor. John threw the ball back. They started playing a game of catch, smiles radiating from them. John's aim was slightly off - having to use his non-dominant hand to play.

This was how Greg found them. Playing catch and giggling like small children. "Alright, Greg?" John sat up a bit more at the sight of him and Sherlock looked up from his place on the floor. Greg ducked under the strings and stepped into the room. "We've got a murder. No, not him, but murder nonetheless. Coming? I'll give you a lift." Sherlock had sprung from his position on the floor. Gliding past Greg and the strings, he grabbed his coat. John looked up at him and saw him holding out his jacket. "Come on, John. Murder! We don't have all day." John stood and followed them out. Taking his jacket and cane from Sherlock's hands.

They were once again stood outside. What is it with people killing outside? Seriously, it's winter. At least go somewhere with heating. Sherlock looked over at John, he strode back to his side and wrapped his scarf around John's neck. He turned up his collar and went back to the body. That man. John stepped forward. If he was there, he might as well help. Sherlock moved to the side slightly to allow John to join him on the floor. Leaning heavily on his cane, John lowered himself to the floor. Greg took his cane as he went to place it beside him on the floor, "Thanks."

(***)

John took a close look at the young man. He had severe bruising. Obvious signs of abuse before his death. His clothes had slight tears in them. His trousers had been unbuttoned and his shirt had ridden up to reveal his midriff. His once pale white skin had been littered black and blue. Finger prints, burned into his skin. It made John feel sick. All the markings on the body had been made by hand - well and a knife, obviously. If they were lucky they could get some DNA from a thorough search. His lips had been badly bitten. The skin pierced, although, it looked self inflicted. With each new discovery John felt more sick. He turned his attention to the knife wounds. They were scattered over his body. John could see the order. His finger hovering over the wounds, he pointed at each in order. Finally, landing on the slash across the man's neck. It was a mess.

(***)

Something didn't sit right. Deep in his gut. He reached for his cane and stood again. Looking down at the body. His eyes narrowing in concentration. Sherlock looked up at him. John's eyes flicked towards his, Sherlock stood and came to stand at John's side. Something. Something. What is it? He turned to look around the surrounding area. "John? What is it?" He could hear Sherlock's voice, but he paid it no mind. Hiding. Something is hidden. Or is it? I don't know. Do I? He saw the onlookers. The crowd that always seems to form at the slightest mention of a murder. There.

A man in a hoodie stood slightly separated from the rest of the crowd. His hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. His face was covered by the hood. John couldn't see who he was, but it was him. The same man from the last scene. He turns back to Sherlock. Their eyes met, the questions he had of the unknown man slipped from his mind. It fell into place. "It's the same killer. The stabbings, the pattern. It's not a lot, but it's the same method. Just a different weapon. He was more merciful with him. The others, he left. This one, he stayed." He looked at Sherlock. Hoping he was right.

Sherlock spun on his heels, his hands raising in the air and clasping as he paced, "Oh! John! You're a genius! How could I be so blind?" He grabbed John's face and kissed his forehead. He swept past and spoke at lightning speed at Greg. John watched him, a warmth spreading through his chest, but also a sting running through his shoulder. He ignored it and carried on looking at his boyfriend. He was in his element. Sherlock turned to face John. His nose and cheeks had a pink tinge from the cold. Puffs of air could be seen passing his radiant grin. Then it stopped. His face dropping like a stone. Sherlock turns back to Greg and says, "We're going home. John's shoulder hurts and he wont tell me. He thinks I don't know." He sent a knowing smile over his shoulder and John huffed at his ridiculous man. How can he always tell what's on my mind?

On the way to the flat, Sherlock and John stopped off to grab some take-away. They sat on the sofa together eating the food. The case files covering the coffee table as they ate off their laps. Neither man put off their food from the bloodied pictures. "Sherlock? Pass that one." John pointed to a picture that was at the other end of the table. Sherlock passed it and took another bite of his food. Something. In the background was the man.

"Sherlock?" He gave a hum over his food and turned to face John. "When was this one?" Sherlock placed his plate on top of the other images and took the picture from John. "This was the second killing. Why?" John places his plate next to Sherlock's and leans closer. Pointing to the hooded man, "That man has been at the last two scenes. Just watching us." Sherlock hands the picture to John and begins looking through all the images they have. In the background of each scene stood the same man. Off somewhere in the distance. Sherlock took out his phone and took a picture of the man in each one. He sent off a text to Lestrade with the images.

Find out who this is. -SH