Summary: Chaos ensues when Sherlock shows up to a crime scene with a mark on his neck that looks suspiciously like a hickey.

A/N: I find it strange that whenever I actually sit down and try to think of a plot or something I can't do it, but when I get bored I can just write a whole fic in like two hours XD Anyways, hope you like this short little one-shot :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Sally Donovan is of course the first to notice and the first to point it out for all to hear. Anderson turns into a metaphorical fish and Lestrade tries in vain to keep everyone on task. And of course, John is totally not responsible. At all. The whole scene goes down like this.

"What is that?" Donovan remarks in horror. When everyone looks around, expecting to find the murder weapon or worse, another assailant waiting in the shadows, she simply points at the world's only consulting detective.

"What?" Lestrade asks, looking annoyed by her irrelevant outburst.

"No way. It can't be! Is that a…a hickey?" she says. This catches Anderson's attention and he looks up from where he is no doubt failing at observing all the necessary clues.

"On the freak? What are you talking about?" he says, raising an eyebrow. Sally doesn't seem to have any qualms, as much as she complains, about walking up to Sherlock and getting right in his personal space so she can point out the mark in question. He gives an exasperated sigh and inches away from her.

"Honestly Lestrade, can't you control your subordinates?" he says irritably, batting Donovan's hand away.

"Right, get back to work, both of you!" the Detective Inspector commands, although his order falls on deaf ears as now Anderson's interest seems to have been peaked as well. He starts to walk over, but that seems to be the last straw because Sherlock gives a huff and walks away to inspect the crime scene as he should have been in the first place. John follows closely behind to assist but can't help snickering at the way Anderson's mouth is opening and closing like a fish and Sally just stands there in disbelief.

"I told you they'd notice," he murmurs while they lean over the murder victim and isn't that a cheery place for this discussion?

"It surprises me. They wouldn't notice an oncoming taxi until they'd been run over by it, so why is this instance so different?" Sherlock wonders.

"Maybe because it's you sporting a love bite on his neck? If it were me or Lestrade they wouldn't have given it a second thought," he replies.

"Hmm, you may have a point. The imbeciles seem to think I am incapable of having an intimate relationship with anyone, so I suppose it would shock them to find out otherwise," Sherlock says as he inspects the victim's body, no doubt drawing his own conclusions about the case.

"They probably both need a shock blanket," John comments, smiling when Sherlock starts chuckling.

"I'm certain that can be arranged," he says, trying to regain his composure as Lestrade walks over.

"Anything yet?" Lestrade asks, unintentionally interrupting their conversation.

"So far I can deduce that the killer is a middle aged man with a limp, he smokes frequently throughout the day, and is of considerable wealth going by his footprints," Sherlock says. Lestrade doesn't bother looking baffled anymore and just writes notes down in his notepad.

"Alright. Well I think that-,"

"Oi! Freak, who gave you that anyway?" Anderson's voice cuts in.

"Took you long enough to ask. Couldn't remember how to use your words?" Sherlock replies.

"She must be a psychopath too, if she's dating you," Donovan says.

"You're assuming it's a girl, I bet you the freak's got himself a boyfriend," Anderson remarks.

"I think the world must be ending if Anderson's got something right," Sherlock says.

"Guys, we really should focus on this murder…," Lestrade starts, but the others are too absorbed in badgering Sherlock for answers.

"So who's the unlucky bloke? Got to have sympathy for anyone who actually wants to spend time with you," Sally says.

"It's obvious isn't it? Then again, knowing you lot…," he answers.

John and Lestrade stand off to the side watching the whole ordeal. Greg notices that John has been smiling the whole time, like he knows something that the other two don't. It doesn't take much for the inspector to piece things together because even he isn't that thick.

"It's you isn't it?" he says quietly.

"Told him he should've worn his scarf, but no, he was sure no one would notice," John answers.

"How long have you two been, erm….together?" Greg asks, not wanting to pry too much.

"Since the case with Irene Adler,"

"Okay," he answers, because sometimes you just have to go with it. He looks back at the crime scene where Sally and Anderson are standing there looking mortified and Sherlock looks very, very smug.

"Oh dear, I wonder what he said," Lestrade says, hoping it wasn't too bad, but, knowing Sherlock, is sure that it was exactly that.

"I think we'll be going now, Lestrade. John?" Sherlock says walking back over to them and smiling, which is an unusual sight for the others to see.

"Yeah," John says and follows him back the way they came.

"Oh, I think those two might need a few of those hideous orange blankets, by the way," Sherlock adds as an afterthought. Lestrade just rolls his eyes and goes back to work.

"What did you say to them?" John asks.

"Nothing that you need to worry about," he assures him.

"Are they going to be giving me funny looks every time I see them?" he asks, although he's not really that concerned anyway.

"Perhaps,"

"Did you mentally scar them or something?"

"Most definitely," Sherlock replies, grinning again.

"You're mad, you know," John tells him with a laugh.

"Yes, but you love me anyway," he says.

"I do," John says, pulling the other man closer and stretching up to kiss him. When they pull away Sherlock laughs and John asks what's so funny.

"You're short," he answers. John pokes him in the ribs.

"Shut up,"