I'm Back! Okay, so that was a little cheesy, but you get the gist. Sorry for not posting anything in a while. Things have been crazy with school and work and such. This story is not cannon with the series re-writes that 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked and I are CONTINUING. That's right. If you read and enjoyed It Takes A Bomb, get ready for more. We are continuing with A Scandal In Belgravia and will have that posted eventually. Eventually.

This is a story that came to the surface while I was in class one day and would not leave me alone. The fabulous starrysummernights has been helping me edit and revise this story, and I want to thank her sincerely once again for her help. This story would be pants without her tremendous help.

This story, Beautiful Secrets, is a gift from me and starrysummernights, and is dedicated to my best friend, 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked. If you're reading this, you ought to know that she is a wonderful story teller, the perfect Sherlock to my John, and an even better friend. 221bSPWL, thank you for all you've done for me and for your support. I hope you enjoy this lovely Johnlock tale. Love you! :)

The house that Sherlock and John were investigating in which the crime had taken place would have been more efficiently described as an estate. From the minute Sherlock and John set foot in the ornate foyer and followed Lestrade down the hallway and to the sitting room– where there was the body of a wealthy young woman, the owner of the house, lay prostrate in a pool of her own blood – each had experienced an entirely different feeling.

Sherlock seemed to brush off the intricacy of the home, the ornate fixtures, and the general lavishness as commonplace, whereas John walked in reverence and almost in awe of the décor. There were few places he'd been in that were more opulent than the home he currently found himself in and he couldn't help gaping just a bit at the sight of priceless paintings, hundred year old sculptures, and shining marble floors.

One look at Sherlock and his blasé expression, and John tried to reel in his dismay so as not to appear like a pauper country bumpkin.

He stood back and watched as Sherlock swooped over to the corpse and began his usual process of leaving everyone else in the dark while he charged ahead, deductions ablaze.

He worked for a few minutes, positively dancing around the corpse. He snapped out his magnifying glass and examined various parts of the dead woman, picking up her hands and narrowing his eyes.

"Tell me about her. Give me her history. What have you found out?" Sherlock demanded, straightening and glancing enquiringly at Lestrade.

"Her name is Nora Rank." Lestrade said informed, "She's the daughter of a famous conductor that lives out in Sydney. She checks out. No criminal records, no misdemeanors. She'd been top of her class in primary school all the way through uni. Apparently she was well-loved by her peers; at least the ones that discovered her and called us in."

"Check the house for a piano and a lessons registrar. I need names."

"There's a piano in the room across from here. Looks like it was the music room. She gave lessons?"

"Her hands. The joints at her knuckles are slightly swollen. The synovial fluid hasn't been released of carbon dioxide in quite some time, so we know she's probably been trying to break the habit."

"Habit?"

"Popping her knuckles." John interjected.

"Yes. So she didn't or was trying to stop popping her knuckles. Some people believe that popping leads to arthritis, when in fact it does not. The tips of her fingers: slightly calloused, but smooth. Her nails are also short and tidy. Regularly manicured; nails filed within an inch of their lives. Most girls don't do that as often as they paint them."

Donovan looked over to Sherlock with a small glare and handed Lestrade a registrar.

"At least the girls that do practice nail care." Sherlock amended. "So. She files her nails and keeps them tidy. Very tidy. Her fingers are calloused: she plays an instrument. The callouses aren't rough or thick, so a stringed instrument is out. She has an inhaler, with a frankly alarming prescription, sitting on her desk right there; so not enough lung capacity to handle a wind or brass instrument. That leaves something with just her hands. Piano it is, being one of the most common instruments to find in a house this size. I see Donovan found the registrar."

"Okay, so she played the piano. How do you know she gave lessons? That could've easily been a guest list or something." Lestrade shrugged.

"She lost her fiancée and has nothing left to do."

"Sherlock…"

"Her desk. She has a few photos of herself and another young woman. These are romantic pictures, not merely friendship." Sherlock deduced, glancing at John with a small smile that was appreciatively returned, "There are three. The first one looks like an early picture. Holding hands, getting comfortable in their relationship, of being together. Second is a Christmas photo, going by the obvious ghastly antlers and wooly red jumpers. Then there's this last picture that has been turned down. Probably out of grief. It's the other girl on her knee with a ring box. Obvious what's going on there."

"Why grief?" Donovan interjected, "Couldn't they have, I dunno, broken up or something?"

"I remember the other girl's face. Saw it in the paper. Car crash – no survivors."

"Oh god…" John sighed, his sympathy for the newly dead woman surging.

"So this young woman, who has spent several years planning her life with her significant other, loses her in a fatal car crash and has to cope. She plays her piano. Sooner or later, she has to interact with people, so she cleans herself up and starts giving lessons."

"Brilliant." John breathed, somewhat sadly.

Sherlock glanced over to his lover, noticing the distant look in his blue eyes.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked quietly, frowning, wondering what had placed such a sad look on his face.

"What? Yeah. I'm fine." John tried to smile - tried being the operative word - and the genius wasn't entirely convinced, but dropped the subject for the moment. Even he knew that now, in front of Lestrade and the others, was not the time to seriously query John about such tricky things like emotions.

"All right. Anderson, dust the piano and doorknobs for prints. Any and all the prints you can get. We need anyone that has been in this house within the past twenty four hours that isn't on our team." Lestrade cut in, "John, think you could take a look at the body and see what happened?"

John quickly snapped out of his stupor and put on a pair of latex gloves. Ever so gently, he turned the body over and steeled himself against the heavy, metallic stench of blood. The sight was more grisly to be considered ordinary for their usual murder cases.

The young lady, blond and approximately 162 centimeters, had been ripped open by a dull blade. Her skin was carved in the shape of a large "X" that cut deep and wide enough for internal organs to gleam under the overhead lights. Her wrists had been sliced, deep enough for her to bleed out, which had been one of the major causes of death. On her once alabaster skin, dark circles draped under ringed eyes and deep gashes were made slashed along across her cheekbones.

John cringed and laid the woman back on her face. He shook his head.

"Bled out. She was sliced open with a dull instrument and left to die." He said solemnly, his voice strained.

Sherlock, looking at John, decided that it was time to have a chat with his blogger.

"If it makes any difference, Detective Inspector, I'd like to have a look around for further evidence. Come along, John." He said, motioning for John to follow him out the door as he walked.

John nodded at Lestrade and made his way out of the room with Sherlock. After a few moments of walking, they came to the largest of the hallways that which led to the stairwell. John made to continue walking, but very quickly found himself with a face full of Sherlock.

"Omph… Sherlock, what the…?"

Sherlock turned around and gently set his hands on either side of John's face.

"What's wrong? You got distracted when I mentioned Nora's fiancée had been killed."

John shook his head and took Sherlock's hands in his own.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. I'm fine." John gave a charming half smile and kissed Sherlock's palm.

"Don't make me deduce you." Sherlock playfully threatened. John rolled his eyes and, peeling himself out of Sherlock's grip, started to climb the stairs that which led to a forked hallway with several bedrooms and a sunroom that connected the halls at the end.

Sherlock followed closely behind, resting his hand on John's hip. After John had fallen down a stairwell eight weeks previous, Sherlock was a little leery of his own firecracker of a lover falling again. John had nearly dislocated his leg in the first fall and fractured his left arm. He didn't like it when John was injured. Not only did John's pain seem to elicit a sympathetic, physical response in himself, but John became as surly as a bear while he was recovering. Doctor's made the worst patients.

John looked back at Sherlock and gently patted the supporting hand.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Believe me. I don't see any water on these steps so I won't be tripping down them this time."

"Irrelevant." Sherlock sniffed as they continued their trek up the stairs.

Once they reached the top, John looked down the first hall and Sherlock looked through the other. With a knowing look, each of the men took their respective routes – ready for action if need be – and ventured into the rooms.

Sherlock cautiously walked into the first room on the left side and found what was, apparently, Nora and her fiancée's previous room. It was a comfortable looking room with a large canopied bed and a writing desk and walk-in closet. It'd been neglected for a while, judging by the thick coat layer of dust on both the furniture and drapes.

Sherlock walked to the desk and looked over the papers laid atop it. Everything looked to be about a year old at most. There was, however, one place that which had been disrupted of the aging process.

Intrigued, and upon closer inspection, Sherlock found three things to be disturbed.

A letter was had been taken, going by the dust pattern.

A shattered picture frame with the photograph missing.

And, finally, a letter opener lay tossed atop the papers.

Theories started coming together immediately and Sherlock stored them in his mind palace for further consideration. His buzzing thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a familiar sound.

Sherlock exited the discarded bedroom and walked down the hall that which led to the sunroom, where the mysterious sound floated to his ears: someone was playing a few bars on a piano.

As he rounded the corner, he saw found John standing alone.

John, who was leaning slightly awkwardly by the stool of the piano, was running his fingers over the smooth, shining keys. The waning sunlight coming through the windows cast a golden glow on his hair and brought some missing youth to his lightly lined face.

Sherlock, captivated by the sight, held his breath and watched John for a few moments.

John looked down at the instrument and smiled at the nostalgic feeling of his fingers sliding across cool ceramic keys. After a few moments hesitation, he sat down, and placed his hands professionally on the keyboard, and started to play playing a melody he'd never thought he could play again.

After messing up a few times and repositioning his fingers, John finally remembered the pattern and the notes and his fingers glided gracefully across the instrument, emitting a beautiful melody that made his heart soar.

Sherlock looked on and listened in rapture as his blogger once more surprised him. Despite a few flat notes or a sharp that didn't belong, John executed the piece as if he'd performed it multiple times for a crowd. Sherlock watched John sway his body in time to the music, the muscles across his shoulders rippling as his arms moved along the expanse of the piano.

As John came to the crescendo, his mind blanked out and he suddenly forgot the notes that came next. After a few fumbled attempts, John ruefully shook his head and pushed off away from the piano.

When John saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, silently watching him, the genius wasn't sure exactly how high John jumped, but he watched as his blogger stumbled back, falling onto the stool and hitting his arm against the piano.

"Ah..f-"

"John..." Sherlock interrupted and rushed to his blogger, helping him up and brushing him free of dust.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" John snapped, feeling extremely self-conscious about Sherlock hearing him play, especially when he was so out of practice.

"Why didn't you tell me you could play?" Sherlock rejoined indignantly, "You were wonderful! Why haven't you said anything before?" His mind was already planning duets they could play, John's piano accompanying his violin. Where they would place a piano in 221B was a small detail, but not a major issue.

"Because, Sherlock. I have reasons." John replied as he took his detective's hand and led them away from the sunroom and the piano.

"John, where are you going? I'm not finished examining the rooms."

"Well, I am. You can stay if you like." John snapped, letting go of Sherlock's hand and moving down the stairs at an alarming pace.

"John, be careful!"

Sherlock's warning went completely ignored as John moved swiftly down the stairs - making it to the bottom without mishap. He kept walking, out of the great hall and out towards the street where Lestrade and Anderson were discussing the prints they'd found.

Sherlock stood still for a few moments, gazing after his lover, before quickly going back to his work.

What could be John's problem? He'd been surprised - absurdly so - when he saw Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock could understand a reaction like that to anyone else; but him? He and John were lovers and confidants. Why would John react so severely to Sherlock simply listening to him play? Honestly, if a man were to play an instrument in a secluded part of a home - that was not his own - with his detective lover so close by - within earshot! - wouldn't he expect someone to come looking in? Especially the aforementioned detective lover?

Sherlock shook his head and decided that this could wait. He needed to continue his search for motive or evidence.

After about fifteen minutes, John, who had been getting some much-needed air outside, looked up to see Sherlock storm out of from the house, his massive coat billowing behind him, as a very frustrated Lestrade followed suit.

"You do realize that this could take a ridiculous amount of time if we do it your way?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"We don't know for sure who it could have been! I'm trying, Sherlock, but you do not need to try to undermine and strip me of my authority. I can always take you off the case."

Sherlock whirled around and glared hard at the older man.

"You do that, Inspector, and you will get nowhere," he growled. "You need me and I would not stop investigating even if you took me off the case."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and puffed up out his chest, "Then I could have you arrested for obtaining evidence and intruding on a classified investigation!"

"Then there's no telling how long I would be in prison, and you would be stripped of your rank. Besides, you would need me again." Sherlock challenged.

John decided that this nonsense was quite had gone on long enough.

"All right, gents, let's be calm about this. Lestrade, thanks for calling us in. We'll go home and wait for your call. Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared, fists clenched, as he stalked petulantly behind John. Once they were in the clear and in a cab home, John turned his face to the window and watched nothing as they rode through London, back to Baker Street. Sherlock looked over to John and looked over his body, deducing.

John was unnecessarily tense and would not make eye contact with him. There was something, something was buried deep about the whole piano incident thing. Even though he was irritated with Lestrade, and frankly angry that John wouldn't just tell him what was wrong, Sherlock softened himself and decided that his ire over his row with Lestrade could wait. Figuring out John's secret was much more important at this point in time.

With a smooth slide, Sherlock scooted closer and gently rested his hand on John's knee.

John jerked his knee away and crossed his arms, still not looking at Sherlock.

Damn.

Once they arrived at got to Baker Street, John launched himself out of the cab and left Sherlock to pay the fare. Sherlock sighed after he entered the flat and pounded up the stairs after his disgruntled blogger.

"John, John wait!" Sherlock called after him.

John stopped and shook his head, "Not right now, Sherlock. Just...not right now. Okay?"

Sherlock knew that tone. That was John's "I am begging you to please drop it" tone. He conceded. If there was one thing the detective most decidedly did not need on his hands, it was an unnecessarily upset John.

Sherlock let John finish his climb up the stairs and make his way to the kitchen, undoubtedly to make tea. That was what John did when in quandary - make tea.

John looked stared down at the tea steeping in his mug and watched the color swirl at the bottom.

He really shouldn't have been so cross with Sherlock. It was, after all, natural curiosity that led him there. He heard John playing the bloody piano, for god's sake! Of course, he'd come in and listen.

John closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He needed to apologize. He didn't need to explain. Just apologize for acting like such a dick.

Once John finished preparing his tea, he walked into the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock, but to find no one present.

"Great, Watson. You've scared him off. He's probably experimenting on your favorite jumper now as payback." John growled silently and sat himself in his armchair, moodily sipping his tea.

About twenty minutes later, John felt long fingers run over his shoulders and begin to knead the tension out of his muscles. John closed his eyes, sighing deeply, and leaned his head back against the seat, letting Sherlock massage him back to normal.

This was new, and it was nice. John had to think about it later when he had the chance. Maybe Sherlock would like one eventually as well.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock hovering over him with a small, triumphant smile planted on his face.

"Sherlock..." John started to get up, but was quickly pushed back down as Sherlock walked around and sat on his knees – between John's legs – on the floor.

The lanky genius rested his arms across his blogger's lap and laid his head across them. John smiled and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. That was what Sherlock was doing, after all; giving John permission to muss his hair. After a couple of minutes of this, John gently tilted Sherlock's head up and pressed his forehead against his partner's.

"I'm sorry for my behavior earlier. It really was uncalled for. Forgive me?" John spoke quietly in hopes that Sherlock would reply just as intimately.

John was rewarded with a tender kiss and soft caress.

"What made you react that way?" Sherlock asked softly.

So much for hopes of avoiding questioning.

John shook his head and sat back, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll explain…just not today. Maybe later."

Sherlock frowned and stood before departing to the kitchen to sulk...er...experiment.