"Oh…yes!" Sherlock shouted, clapping his hands together and smiling triumphantly. "Of course he would do that, he can't help but gain back the confidence he feels that he's lost from the castration so–oh yes! It all makes so much sense!"
"Sherlock! What makes sense?" Lestrade said, raising his voice in the hopes of shaking Sherlock from his excited daze.
"Collins is going to the place where it all happened. To him it's symbolic justice."
"Which is where…?" John asked, looking at Lestrade, equally bewildered by Sherlock's epiphany.
"Oh for God's sake. Have none of you been paying attention? The Tube!"
Lestrade's eyes widened and he immediately whipped his mobile from his pocket.
"I need a team at the South Kensington Tube station immediately. Yeah. It's urgent. We've got a embezzling murderer hiding out there, waiting for his next victim. Go. Hurry. I'll meet you there." He turned to Sherlock. "Any further tips on where to look?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Believe me. Not an original mind. Nor a discreet one. Probably just sitting on the benches, not even bothering to hide, waiting for his victim. Much too confident that he won't be found to consider hiding somewhere not in sight of the entrance."
"D'you hear that?" Lestrade asked whoever was on the other line. He nodded. "Good. I'll be there in about five." He hung up. "Alright, boys. Let's go." He said, gesturing to Sherlock and John as he put his phone back in his pocket.
"We'll be right behind you. Ten minutes at the latest." Sherlock said quickly, clasping his hands together and assuming the look that he always did when he was in deep thought.
"Got it." And with that Lestrade fled the room, but John was confused. Why weren't they going with Lestrade now?
"Sherlock? What's going on? Why aren't we going with Lestrade?" He asked, but to no avail, for Sherlock merely walked over to the door and looked outside into the hallway. When he appeared to be satisfied with that, he shut the door.
John's eyebrows rose in shock when Sherlock turned around with such passionate hunger gripping his countenance that John felt as though he were being undressed by Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock took a few steps towards him, and John instinctively took a few backwards.
"What's going on?" He repeated, this time a bit more forceful, but then the carnal look in Sherlock's eyes dropped so quickly that John questioned whether or not he had imagined the look in the first place.
Sherlock walked towards him again and this time John moved out of his way, with Sherlock walking directly to a table that held a few beakers and papers, and John chiding himself for mistaking Sherlock's interest in the contents of the table for lust. Sherlock shuffled through them, pushing some of the equipment to the further end of the table, apparently searching for something.
John approached the table and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you need me to do?"
Sherlock spun on his heel and turned to face John, sitting on the table as he did so. He pressed his palms together again and looked intensely at the floor for a few moments. Then he clucked his tongue and gripped the table with his hands.
"John, I haven't been completely honest with you."
Silence hung in the air for a few seconds. John pursed his lips and crossed his arms. "Well, that's new." He said sarcastically. "Suddenly grown a conscience, have you?"
"Not quite." And then there it was again–lust. Lust as he smiled devilishly. John didn't have much time to think about it before Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and let himself fall down onto the table, bringing John with him (and on top of him). John brought his hands out instinctively to break his fall as he felt his feet slip out from under him, pressing his hips into Sherlock's–
Alright. Definitely lust. No question about it.
To say that John was shocked was an understatement. But to say that his proximity to Sherlock's slightly blushing cheeks and that being trapped by the detective did not tickle his fancy would be untrue. And he was positively dazzled by Sherlock's face. So excited, so aroused. He looked so much younger–not physically younger, but more like a flushed, hormonal teenager. It was a look of unadulterated passion, an expression that John had not seen since his own teenage years.
It was a breathtaking look for him.
Then he regained a bit of his senses when he heard one of the beakers (presumably pushed off the table by their fall) crash to the floor and shatter.
"Sherlock, can you not do this here?" John straightened himself up to glance nervously at the door. "Someone will see."
But Sherlock grabbed John by the lapels and pulled his attention and body back to the detective.
He threw his head back, exposing his smooth and pale neck as he practically whined, and in a much higher tone than usual asked, "Is that an order, Captain?" Purring the last word.
John wasn't the blushing type. He was usually quick to pick up on flirtation, and equally as quick to respond to it, but this was different. They were in the middle of a case! Literally in the middle of a crime scene! Had Sherlock gone mad? Sherlock, who had his legs wrapped around him and his blogger pressed to his chest, certainly did not look mad, in fact, he looked rather pleased with himself and the situation. But still, John couldn't help the heat he felt capture his face.
"Sherlock! For god's sake! We're at a crime scene!"
"Why is that relevant, Captain?"
"Stop calling me that! Seriously! Bloody hell, Sherlock! Lestrade's gonna–"
This time, Sherlock gripped onto John's shirt with one hand and the back of the man's neck with the other, causing their lips to crash together rather violently, and the initial resistance that Sherlock had felt from John melted after a mere two seconds of contact with Sherlock's enthusiastic lips. Sherlock committed the time to memory to test in future arguments, meanwhile running his hands first down John's neck and then working on the buttons of his shirt. John broke the kiss when he felt this, and they both greeted each other with glassy, warm eyes.
John gulped, breathing a little harder than usual. "You told Lestrade ten minutes."
"Yes. Yes I did."
"Then shouldn't we get going?" John posed, although he knew what both of them really wanted to do. (And due to their proximity to each other's hips, he knew that Sherlock knew this fact as well).
"I suppose so, yes."
Neither spoke for a few seconds.
"I've got a better idea of what to do. We could stay here. Wrap up any evidence." John said quickly.
"Yes, definitely." Sherlock agreed. The case was over to him–Collins had been dull and predictable down to the very last detail. Despite having pretended to act surprised and enthralled for John and Lestrade, he had actually been bored for quite a while, only playing up the finale to hurry Lestrade from the room. So that he could finally have John to himself again.
This case had gone on too long for his taste. Too much dull Collins and worried Lestrade and not enough John for his taste.
"And you know," John said, stroking one of Sherlock's cheeks, and putting on the look that he knew told Sherlock that he was in charge. "I bet Lestrade would love to arrest the bloke himself without you there." He leaned forward and nibbled Sherlock's earlobe playfully. "Buzzing in his ear the whole time."
Sherlock moaned in agreement. John had obviously abandoned his apprehension, of which he was very glad.
"Any other ideas…" He smiled. "Captain?"
"Oh, I've got a few, Corporal." And John smiled back, one hand cradling the back of Sherlock's neck as he pulled him in for another kiss, and the other hand lighting Sherlock's abdomen afire as it drifted down to his belt buckle.