A/N: This takes place about three weeks after 'The Eighties Experiment' and it will probably be the last story in this series. I own nothing to do with Sherlock, or any of the bands/brands that may be mentioned in this work. Reviews are welcome :-)

Greg gasped as his back hit the wall and moaned as Sherlock's lips crashed against his eager mouth. The detective's hands had made short work of his belt and were tugging at the zip of his trousers. Greg batted the fumbling fingers away and deftly unzipped himself, grabbing Sherlock's arse cheeks with both hands and grinding their groins together. God he was so ready for this. He was so...

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked curiously, glancing across at Greg slumped in the passenger seat.

"Wha-?" Greg forced his eyes open, back to the present reality of the tedious car journey towards Durham. His head was lolling forward, making his neck ache, but at least he hadn't been drooling. Well, not literally…

"You were groaning. Then you said my name."

Greg blushed hugely grateful for his jacket that lay across his lap becoming very aware his jeans were pretty uncomfortable. He slid a hand beneath the coat and discreetly tried to adjust himself. Sherlock noticed of course, smirking at him. Couldn't he get anything past the detective?

"Not a nightmare then." He observed.

"Always a bloody nightmare where you're concerned," he muttered under his breath. "Just concentrate on the road dickhead. Don't want you crashing my car."

"It's a wreck anyway. Why didn't we take the train again?"

"Because the public purse insists Scotland Yard travel by the cheapest means possible Sherlock, and the cost of train fares for three people plus a hire car is far in excess of the mileage rate. Also it's just easier to chuck suitcases in the boot than it is to lug them on and off trains. I prefer my own space, my own music."

"If you can call that music."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in distaste at the Clash CD that was currently playing on the crackly car stereo. Greg noticed he had turned the volume down while he'd been sleeping, probably to better hear whatever Greg had been mumbling in his dream. Christ! It was Sherlock's fault he was so tired anyway, making him run halfway across London in the early hours to make an arrest that simply had to be made before their trip today. Donovan could have handled it perfectly well, but Sherlock had to be there to glory in being correct. Again!

Greg swapped out the CD replacing it with Duran Duran and studiously avoiding Sherlock's startled glance. He'd ordered it express delivery from the internet after their night out and played it almost constantly since. He resisted the temptation to skip straight to track eight on the grounds he couldn't predict Sherlock's reaction and he was driving Greg's car... They would get there eventually anyway. There were other lines in other songs that reminded him of Sherlock too - 'I'll be your homing angel I'll be in your head' from track three - 'sometimes you're needed badly so please come back again' from track five, 'it just took me out on a limb and I don't really know what I'm doing here' from track seven. You could make any lyric fit if you were sappy enough he supposed.

How many times had he been the one to pluck this man from the very jaws of destruction and drag him back to the relative safety of murder cases from Scotland Yard? He'd never considered himself Sherlock's guardian angel until he got all soppy over him. He really was a teenage girl in a grown man's body lately. If he started plastering his bedroom wall with Sherlock's innumerable custody mug shots then he'd know he was truly lost.

The third of their trio issued an almighty snore from the back seat loud enough to wake the dead; as it was, it jolted the sleeper awake. John yawned and stretched.

"Are we nearly there yet?" he asked in a whiny sing-song voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him in the rear view mirror making John chuckle.

"Sorry, couldn't resist. Used to drive our parents crazy when Harry and I would torment them with that."

"Just passed Doncaster. Another hour and a half maybe." Greg supplied helpfully.

John groaned. It felt like they'd been on the road for hours! Sherlock's argument that the A1 was a more interesting road to drive north on than the M1 was plain invalid. It was still an interminable stretch of bloody Tarmac as far as John was concerned. He wasn't the most patient traveler but he couldn't read to pass the time as the motion of the car made him queasy, so his only options were to sleep, or to gaze out at the endless monotonous fields. Being the shortest of the three men, and the most easy-going, he had drawn the short straw and ended up crushed in the back seat where he'd been since they left London four hours ago apart from a brief toilet stop.

"Stop at the next services; I need to pee."

"Again? Christ we only stopped two hours ago."

"My bladder is older than yours and I drank half a gallon of coffee, so yeah, again!"

Ten minutes in the Gents to remedy the pressing need in his trousers that stubbornly refused to subside sounded bloody marvelous to Greg. Take advantage of the memory of that dream before it faded. He flushed again just thinking about it and cast a furtive glance at Sherlock who for once was concentrating on the road ahead, mouth moving silently. Surprised Greg realized he was soundlessly singing along. Interesting that he knows this album.

"Actually I could do with a break. I can take over driving for a bit afterwards. We may as well get breakfast too; I'm starving."

Sherlock sighed dramatically but complied, swerving into a small service station a few minutes later. It was little more than a roadside restaurant with a newsstand and fuel but it had facilities. John made a dash for the Gents, Greg following more slowly with his jacket carried awkwardly in front of him.

"Should've left that in the car," Sherlock grinned, stalking off towards the restaurant. John emerged as Greg shouldered his way through the door looking significantly less strained now his bladder was relieved.

"I'll order breakfast, get you the works."

The toilets were mercifully empty as Greg bolted the door of the lone cubicle. Maybe wanking in a public toilet was a bit seedy but if it made the rest of the journey more bearable he'd bear the shame. He tried to pluck a favorite fantasy from the recesses of his brain to help things along - one that involved breasts and feminine curves preferably – and things were progressing nicely when he heard the door open. Crap! Ignoring the sound of peeing from the other side of the door he tried to concentrate on thoughts of lush lips doing obscene things until...

"Need a hand in there."

"I'm fine! Sod off Sherlock!"

A deep chuckle from the other side of the door banished any curvy thoughts, replacing them with the '5 interesting ways to use a plum and gold scarf on a consulting detective' fantasy that he'd been trying really hard not to think about since the night at Reflex that ended with a slow dance, gazing into each other's eyes, and a 'kiss-that-probably-wasn't-a-kiss' on his forehead. Since that night - since the end of the bloody song, in fact - Sherlock had slipped into some sort of cocky-git mode around Greg when they were alone that the DI was seriously considering punching out of him. It really didn't help that Sherlock-bloody-Holmes seemed to be invading his most private thoughts day and night without invitation. He really needed to find a woman and get laid soon!

"I'll be out in a minute."

"Only taken thirty years," Sherlock snorted.

"In the name of all that is holy, will you please piss off?"

The outer door squeaked and he let out a breath, his forehead resting against the door. Bloody Sherlock! Thirty seconds, a minute...

"You're still bloody there, aren't you?"

Another deep chuckle and this time the door banged shut, footsteps receding. That man has no sense of boundaries!

An hour later they were back on the road, replete following a full English breakfast and copious amounts of tea that Greg joked would require another loo stop before they reached their destination. Greg was driving, more than happy to be back behind the wheel if it meant no more embarrassing naps. John had moved up to the passenger seat and Sherlock was awkwardly folded into the back, his lanky legs stretched sideways, head resting against the window, pillowed on Greg's jacket.

"So what kind of man is this DI Waterstone? Is he likely to be accommodating?"

"She asked for you so I imagine she'll give you anything you ask for. Don't think she'll be a pushover though - you'll have to mind your manners and she'll expect you to keep her updated. I'll expect you to behave and not upset her. She's a friend, as well as a colleague."

"I'll be my most charming self."

"That's what I'm afraid of. We have a meeting with her at headquarters at ten tomorrow, then we'll visit the scene where the body was found. We'll have to rely on the autopsy report and the crime scene photos unfortunately - the body was released and cremated last week before the letter arrived. There's a copy on the file."

"Why would someone claim responsibility for a murder that had already been ruled suicide? The case was closed, no suspicious circumstances. They were in the clear, so why admit it?" John mused.

"No idea, but we're here to find out. Any theories Sherlock? Sherlock?"

John turned in his seat to see the detective sound asleep snuggled into the DI's coat.