Yet another body lies on the ground, eyes closed and skin pale without the flush of life. John should be concerned that Sherlock-if it was anyone besides Sherlock- spends more of his time around the dead than the living. It didn't help that the only consulting detective in the world tends to hate everyone who he comes into contact with throughout the day. As it is, John doesn't revisit the thought. Sherlock only spends time with those he deems fit to share his intelligence. Even then, John sometimes gets ignored when his flatmate sulks on the couch.

What could John say. Sherlock is simply being Sherlock.

"A fifty-five year old artist who paints with his right hand. Medium of choice is dry pastels and uses oils on occasion, not physically active, suffers from asthma or VCD-maybe both- and stress. Careless and absent minded, has a dog, a cat, and a bird-most likely a parakeet- that lives with him. Ate breakfast this morning at Starbucks, had coffee and a bagel. Married, with no kids-late wife is unable to go through childbirth. Seeing someone else after her death, a girlfriend, perhaps-no...boyfriend… Killed by inhaling too much dust and or the fumes given off by the paint brush cleaner. You need to release the man you've locked up." Sherlock rattles off in his signature rapid style that completely disregards all the rules in the english language-as well as the ideal human lung capacity-, steps away from the body.

Of course Anderson and the rest of the New Scotland Yard can't follow him at all. Their brain capacity was overloaded quite a few years ago. Anderson-why is it always him?-steps forward, his features a mix of unbelievable puzzlement and deep rooted hate. His eyes are narrowed in an attempt to keep the surprise and awe-even though Anderson would never admit it- out of them.

"Painter?" He echoes Sherlock. In other words, he's lost them completely and Anderson can't see the connections. "VCD? Whatever the hell that is. And he wasn't murdered? Then why is he dead? Really, I could swear on my life that you are making this up." The forensics member of the team challenges, his chin jutting forward in a show of stubbornness. It is no secret that Sherlock and Anderson and hate each other with an amazing passion. John is almost positive that Anderson would have attacked his flatmate a long time ago if homicide isn't illegal.

"You shouldn't swear on topics that you are unfamiliar with, Anderson. It is bad form." Sherlock shoots back, using his good-god-I'm-surrounded-by-idiots voice that he reserves for those select few. A conversation with the forensics member has always required use of this tone, no matter the discussion.

"Sherlock," John warns, giving the consulting detective a glance that means he needs to play nice with the mortals. The ex-soldier leans against the wall with his arms folded, wearing his jacket paired with one of his pale blue sweaters that causes his own blue eyes to stand out. John always makes sure to keep out of everyone's way, Sherlock is his main concern.

Sherlock surpresses a groan, but checks his temper. John, ever the calming force in Sherlock's unorthodox world, has been the only known person to take control of the sociopath by just saying his name. Much to Lestrade's bewilderment, Mycroft's annoyance, and Mrs. Hudson's delight.

He turns back to Lestrade and Anderson, failing in his attempt to suppress an eyeroll. At least Sherlock likes Lestrade. The Detective Inspector doesn't mind being outsmarted by someone who isn't even on his own team. He doesn't mind that Sherlock acts like a spoiled toddler in a grown man's body. Lestrade puts up with Sherlock because the consulting detective has an amazing talent to be able to detangle complicated threads of crime with so much as a simple glance. Sherlock is the best out there in London-if not the world. And Lestrade wants to keep him on the side of the light-also away from the drugs.

"He has pigment under the nails of his right hand, his hands are stained with the slick residue that come from the oil paints themselves. If that is not obvious enough, he also smells like strong spirits. Not because he drinks, but because he uses them to clean his brushes. He has his career ahead of him, so why would he waste that away? The bags under his eyes and his thinning hair are signs of stress, but it is not stemmed from fear of being hunted, but rather lack of sleep. Keep your mouth closed, Anderson, and I'll keep explaining." Sherlock says, making his reasoning plain for those who can't keep up. Anderson obligingly shuts up so the consulting detective can continue. He does.

"As I was saying, he has been suffering from fatigue because he has been staying up late. By his own choice. He had a convention coming up and he wanted to complete more pieces to sell before then. I know because I found a pamphlet on his nightstand. I say is an asthmatic because there are multiple inhalers throughout his flat. Then his asthma is severe. VCD is a disorder that mimic asthma, but the wheeze is on the inhale and high pitched. Recently more people have been diagnosed with VCD when pulmonologist have discovered that they have not been responding to any inhaled medicine. You could ask John for confirmation. The pets should be self-explanatory because of the food in the pantry. He is absent minded because he has multiple calendars to remind himself of events, yet they do not share all the same information. The Starbucks is also simple. There is a receipt in the right-hand, front pocket of his jacket. He was married and then his wife passed away. The dresser picture and the ring before it prove that. It also proves that his in another relationship because he wouldn't be wearing his old wedding ring."

Sherlock recites like he's practiced this speech in front of a mirror, without a hint of emotion. He pulls out an iphone from his pocket, lifting it to show John-and Anderson and Lestrade, he supposes. John is the only one who Sherlock is really talking to. John is smart-but not as smart as Sherlock. Only Moriarty has that honor- and that makes it worth explaining every detail despite the evidence being right in below their very noses. And the way John's eyes fill with admiration when he explains things that are elusive to the ex-soldier and current doctor. That gives Sherlock an unlabeled feeling in the center of his stomach that almost feel like unconditional happiness.

And for John's blogs, too. Even though Sherlock won't admit it, he likes the idea of people being able to read about his successes. According to John, they both have quite the collection of fans.

Back to the oration.

"I say boyfriend because the first conversation that shows up in the inbox is to a 'Trevor' and that is typically a boy's name. And the last message was from last night, requesting to meet up for dinner tonight. Also, there is a picture of the two men together. He was killed by asphyxiation, told by the pained expression and the blue tinge to his lips and skin. The murder is both the pastel dust and the lack of proper air flow. The rash around his neck is due to heat, not strangulation. Coincidence. Release the friend, for he has done nothing against this man. Case closed."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow, stunned. Anderson glares, beyond furious that he's been proven an idiot-yet again Not that it was hard, at all. John smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looks amused and proud of his flatmate. Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile of his own. Perfect. He pleased John-when had that become a priority?- and managed to piss off Anderson with one go.

The Detective Inspector praises Sherlock for another job well done, giving him a friendly pat on the back. After All, the consulting detective has managed to keep New Scotland Yard's name out of the dirt more than anyone could count. Now, with as much tact as possible, he tries to prevent Sherlock from weaseling out of completing his paperwork this time around.

John laughs quietly at the outraged expression on his flatmate's face and the pleading look on Greg's. Anderson sulks around the body, not even bothering to confirm Sherlock's explanation. He gave up a long time ago. Other members of the police force bustle about, keeping the crime scene from being contaminated. A few people cover the body of the late artist with a white sheet.

A soft cough pulls the ex-soldier from the crime scene. A man in uniform stands at the door, a white envelope held between his gloved fingers. His ramrod straight posture, broad shoulders, and air of discipline adds to the serious expression on the visitor's chiseled features and stern appearance. Brown eyes, sharp and watchful, peer beneath the dark blue beret on his head. The cap badge attached to it is all too familiar. The man is an active member of the Royal Army Medical Corp.

John recovers from his shock and steps forward until he faces the soldier. The height difference is something to be laughed at, but John gives off a similar aura of strength and determination. Just being around another member of the military has already brought back memories and habits.

"I have a letter for Captain John Watson." The soldier announces, his voice strong. John nods affirmative, reaching out his hand. Giving him a respectful nod, the soldier turns on his heel and vacates the crime scene. He pulls no second glance from the working members of New Scotland Yard.

John, too preoccupied in reading his letter, fails to notice that Sherlock asks for him. The consulting detective has managed to escape paperwork again and wants to leave, lest Anderson finds something else about his personality to gripe about. Sherlock adjusts his scarf and scans the room for his blogger. He spots John near the door, looking over something.

"John?" Sherlock calls, slipping into his coat with fluid movements. "I know you want to stay and chat but we need to go before I get stuck with the paperwork." He says, muttering the last bit under his breath. Sherlock's excuse is 'paperwork is boring.' Lestrade fixes the consulting detective with a glare, but then turns his attention to the doctor. Unlike his usual self, John doesn't acknowledge his flatmate's call.

"John?" Sherlock repeats, his voice colored with concern. With slow, cautious strides, the consulting detective walks over to his friend. Pale eyes note the letter held in John's shaking hands-left hand, Sherlock corrects himself. John then folds the paper, looking up at Sherlock with an unsettled expression.

"John? What's happened?" Sherlock demands, the urgency in his usually arrogant voice attracting more than just Lestrade's attention. It is just his luck that Donovan has entered the room as well, her mood souring at the sight of 'The Freak'.

"Are you alright, John?" The Detective Inspector inquires gently, fearing the worst from the letter. Neither he or Sherlock had seen the soldier delivering it. John swallows, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Blue eyes meet brown when the doctor has control of his emotions again.

"I am off to Afghanistan," he admits, his voice quieter than usual. "I've been enlisted." John's hands clench around the letter, shaking with apprehension.

I left you readers at such a cliff hanger. How was that for my first Sherlock Fanfic? And hurray for the first chapter of anything typed up on my brand spankin' new laptop!