And have a coda, because my brain doesn't know when to stop.

"Look, John!" Sherlock yanked John down to join him and the corpse with three fingers hooked into the back of his trousers. "The dusting in his hair isn't plaster at all. It's flour!"

When John leaned forward to check, the hand slid further down into the gap between his back and his jeans. From behind them came the sound of a Detective Inspector clearing his throat. Then he was being hauled back to his feet, literally by the seat of his pants.

Sherlock rounded on Donovan. "Quickly, Donovan! The nearest bakery! Obviously you know where it is," he snapped over her spluttering. "You've loosened your belt by two notches in the past month and you're wearing your fat clothes." John's attempt to sidle away from the inevitable bloodspray was prevented by a leg hooked around his. Not around his ankle, mind you, or even his knee. Sherlock's long damn leg slid right between his thighs and cinched him indecently close. "Stop fidgeting, John. It's a terrible distraction."

At least Donovan was too shocked to commit murder. Lestrade clapped a hand over his mouth and made noises like a tea kettle about to go off.

John sighed, feeling the approach of his doom. "This bakery, does it do a lot of glazes?" Donovan's eyes tracked reluctantly towards him, eyebrows spasming. She nodded a little, clearly against her will. John scrubbed his hands over his face and hefted another sigh into his palms. "I need to develop an addiction to prescription painkillers."

The smirk Sherlock favored him with was more pornographic than the groping. "Now that you mention it, I'd like to see you high."

John wasn't sure which of them broke first, but when he grabbed at Sally's arm, she took off in a sprint for the bakery, with him right on her heels.