John shut his bedroom door and pressed his forehead against it. His body felt as it had just been shocked with a live wire. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to slow down his heart rate. Well, tonight was not what I expected. He stepped away from the door and walked over to his bed. He dropped heavily onto the mattress, his body exhausted from all the emotions he had endured that night. I feel so happy, so free. And Sherlock...he likes me. And I like him. Bloody hell, I am so confused. What do we do now? Should I pursue this? Should I wait?
He laid on his bed and listened to the sound of the violin being played downstairs. He could just barely make out the tune, but he knew it was his song. He smiled and rolled on to his back, straining to hear every note of the music. He allowed himself to silence his thoughts so he could focus. He closed his eyes and let each note envelop him, lulling him in to a deep sleep.
When John awoke the next morning, all he could hear was rain pounding on the roof. He looked at the alarm clock on his beside table. It was only 8 a.m. John groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He climbed out of bed and walked groggily to the door and headed downstairs.
When he reached the living room, he realized the flat was quieter than usual. "Sherlock?" he shouted, his only reply a clap of thunder. He headed in to the kitchen and saw a note on the table next to a CD. John picked up the note and tried to read the messy handwriting.
"John. It is currently 6:45 a.m. I have been called away on a case and did not want to wake you. I should be back by noon. I made your CD. Enjoy. -SH"
John smiled and grabbed the CD off the table. Sherlock had scribbled "For John" across the case. John walked over to the stereo and put the disc in. The violin music blared from the speakers louder than he had expected, and he fumbled turning it down. When he finally got it to a manageable level, he wandered back in to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. John put the water on the stove and looked back at the note he left sitting on the table. I wonder how Sherlock is doing? he thought.
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Sherlock got out of the cab and stretched his legs. It had taken over an hour to get to the crime scene located in the outskirts of Bristol. Sherlock's coat blew behind him as he quickly walked up the grassy hill up where he could see the task force milling about. Lestrade was busy talking to his fellow officers when Sherlock finally reached him. The inspector turned and looked at Sherlock.
"Give me one minute," Lestrade said before turning back to his colleagues.
Sherlock sighed and looked around. He could vaguely see the crime scene in the valley below him. He figured they would be walking a fair distance. He looked back at the inspector and began to analyze him, which he did on the many occassions he became bored. Wrinkled shirt, pants not ironed. Roughly two days facial hair growth. Dark bags forming under his eyes. That was as far as Sherlock got before Lestrade faced him again.
"Right, off we go," he said, his voice a tad more gravelley than normal. As they walked down the slope, Lestrade tried to start a conversation.
"I'm surprised John didn't come," he said, eyeing Sherlock.
"I didn't ask him to," Sherlock said calmly.
"Did you two have a falling out?" Lestrade asked.
"Quite the opposite actually," Sherock replied. He smiled when he thought about the events from the night before. He tried to cover his smile with a quick look of unamusement, but Lestrade caught him before he could.
"Sherlock, did you tell him?" Lestrade asked quietly, trying to ensure no one would hear. Sherlock nodded and he heard Lestrade inhale sharply.
"Did he react well?"
"He was surprised, no doubt. But he informed me the feeling was reciprocated. However, he is unsure of how to proceed given the fact that he just recently succumbed to his true emotions," he said. The words sounded odd to Sherlock. He never had to talk about his life situations, solely because he never really had any to discuss. He felt uncomfortable, so he quickly shifted the attention back to Lestrade.
"You and your wife had another row, didn't you?"
Lestrade scoffed and shook his head. "How could you tell?"
"Your shirt is wrinkled and your pants aren't pleated. She usually does that for you since you obviously aren't the kind of man who knows how to work an iron," he started. "Secondly, the scruff on your face says you haven't shaved recently, and everyone knows your wife likes you clean shaven. The bags under your eyes indicate you didn't sleep well. Also since you are favoring your right leg, I assume you slept on your couch You've mentioned the cushions bother your hips when you nap, so prolonged time spent on the couch would cause severe pain in the area that had the most contact, namely your right side." Sherlock finished his explanation as they reached the bottom of the hill. He looked over at Lestrade who was staring at him in shock.
"Seriously, you need to teach me how you do that," he said with admiration. Sherlock smirked and turned away.
"It's not something that can be taught, Gavin."
"...It's Greg," Lestrade said with irritation. "I have known you for 3 years, how do you still not know my name?"
"I prefer Gavin."
"Well it's staying Greg whether you like it or not."
Sherlock completely ignored him as he looked at the crime scene in front of him. A man no older than 40 was face down on the ground, his limbs splayed out in all directions. His t-shirt and shorts were stained with grass and there was a mass of blood pooled under his chest. Sherlock put on his gloves and crouched beside the victim. He pulled out his magnifying glass and looked over the entire body. He lifted the man's arms and inspected them, then moved to his legs.
Lestrade, still perturbed about earlier. flipped open his notebook and began to read.
"His name is Jack Rogers. He lived about 3 miles away. His wife said he left around 5 this morning for his daily jog. Other runners found him around 6. He was stabbed in his heart. Only wound on the body.
Sherlock nodded and continued to peruse the corpse for clues. He picked up one of the man's hands and looked at it closer.
"Why do you insist on touching everything?" he heard someone whine behind him. Sherlock didn't even have to look up to know the voice came from Anderson, one of the forensics workers, and one of Sherlock's biggest annoyances.
"Anderson, why do you insist on speaking when you know no one is listening?" he remarked, still prodding the body.
"Where is your friend, the doctor?" Anderson asked.
"He is at home. He needed rest. Yesterday was very...emotionally taxing for him," Sherlock said without offering further explanation. He heard Lestrade snicker behind him, but decided to ignore it.
He stood up from the body and turned to face Anderson. He smirked before looking at Lestrade.
"Mr. Rogers here was cheating on his wife."
"And how the hell do you know that?" Anderson asked, glaring in his direction.
"You people are incredible, I swear. Look at his ring finger. His ring is dingy on the outside but polished on the inside. Probably from where he worked it off his fingers before slipping in to bed with his mistresses."
"Don't a lot of men take off their wedding rings at work? Machine workers and such," Lestrade offered up.
Sherlock shook his head and pointed. "His finger nails are prestine and his hands have no developed calluses. He does type a lot, however. His hands are showing early stages of carpal tunal. He was an office worker."
"Lastly, and this is my favorite part, is the kill tactic. Notice he had no defensive wounds anywhere, so he must have known the attacker. Judging by the angle of the wound, I'm going to assume it was inflicted by someone shorter than him. It also appears it was created by a kitchen knife. Being stabbed through the heart usually indicates the murderer wanted the victim to feel the same pain they were feeling. In this case, heartbreak."
Sherlock took off his gloves and put them in his coat pocket. "Go talk to the wife again. Explain to her what I just told you. Odds are, she will confess within the first minute."
Sherlock pulled out his phone and began typing. Lestrade was once again staring in shock.
"That was brilliant."
"John, you really should stop doing that aloud," Sherlock chuckled absentmindely and continued to type.
He realized his mistake right after it came out of his mouth.
"I meant to say Greg," he stammered, his face burning with embarassment. Lestrade smirked and shook his head.
"Sure sure, whatever you say."
Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and looked at inspector.
"If we are done here, I will be heading home." Lestrade nodded and smiled and walked with Sherlock back to the cab.