Hello one and all! Here's a fluffy one-shot, written purely as a coping mechanism for my never-ending Reichenbach feels. As usual, reviews to me are the equivalent of Sherlock's purple shirt to John (it's very much appreciated).

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING. *surreptitiously goes off and cries in a corner*

In the timespan that John Watson had been playing right-hand man to Sherlock Holmes and his investigative whims, the good doctor had come to learn that the lifeless body of a murder victim would always be left behind by the killer in one of three very distinct ways.

The first way—as well as the most frequent way—was passionate. Whether the culprit was a lover scorned or a mortal enemy keen on exacting revenge, the dead giveaway of a crime of passion would be the brutally violent wounds left on the corpse. Severe bruising or deep, angry gashes strewn about the body were an indicator of an emotionally charged crime, and it would always be these crimes that made Sherlock the most uncomfortable. After all, as the consulting detective never failed to remind anyone who'd bother to listen, emotions were not his forte (to which John would always respond with an eye roll, because that wasn't true).

The second way was purely accidental, the result of the culprit being startled that his violent actions had, in fact, culminated into the death of the person on the receiving end of said violent actions. The body would always be either hidden in an absurd place or masked as a suicide – anything to divert someone from thinking that a murder had transpired. Sherlock would find these cases to be the dullest, proving the perpetual stupidity of the human race, or at least, the non-Sherlockian population of the human race (to which John would also respond with an eye roll).

The last way was artistic. Murder for murder's sake. It was the preferred method for people like serial killers or say, consulting criminals, and it was what Sherlock lived for. The body would essentially be on display like a sculpture or statue, and the crime scene would transform into a gallery, with Sherlock Holmes the singular sightseer. Every single detail mattered, from the angle that the victim's neck was tilted at to the color of the shoes resting on the victim's motionless feet. The puzzle that this type of murder provided was synonymous to sustenance for the consulting detective, providing him with a reason to carry on living (John would also roll his eyes at this fact as well, but it was more out of an inexplicable jealousy than it was annoyance).

This was an artistic murder.

The victim was a woman in her mid-twenties, by the looks of it. Her willowy body was draped almost delicately along the linoleum floor of her flat's kitchen, where she had been discovered by her sister, who had promptly called in the murder to Scotland Yard barely thirty minutes ago. Cause of death hadn't been identified yet, and to make things more difficult, there were no visible wounds. However, it would have been an otherwise unremarkable crime scene had it not been for the fact that every single spice stored in the woman's kitchen cupboard had been liberally sprinkled all over her body, almost as if the murderer had wanted to flavour the corpse.

As outlandish and disturbing as it was, John didn't even have to look at the victim's body in order to tell what kind of a case it was—the energy crackling in Sherlock's eyes as he took in every inch of the crime scene was more than enough evidence that this was a case worth the consulting detective's hard-to-earn attention. It couldn't have come at a more opportune moment; they had been case-less for practically a week, and it had gotten to the point where even the stolen eyeballs or appendages from the morgue couldn't curb Sherlock's all-consuming boredom.

"Five minutes," Lestrade had said brusquely before letting them under the yellow caution tape, "and then I'm sending Anderson up." Sherlock's nose had comically wrinkled in disgust at the mention of the obnoxious forensic scientist, and John had impressively stifled the frankly embarrassing giggle that was about to escape his mouth.

Three of the five allotted minutes had flown by with Sherlock swooping around – there was really no other way to describe how the man went about a crime scene, with his coat billowing out like a cape behind him and his unruly curls haphazardly bouncing around his face – and leaving John to stand idly by as his passively awestruck audience. The captivated feeling he got from watching his flatmate deduce never got old, even though he had just been blatantly pushed aside and forgotten for a dead body. John could only stand there transfixed, with what could only be called a stupidly vacant expression plastered all over his face, as Sherlock inquisitively ran his gloved fingers over the victim and bit his bottom lip, plunging deeper in thought. It wasn't human, the speed and dexterity with which his brain worked, and while this had scared just about every human being Sherlock encountered far, far away, it had only provided John another reason for him to stay. He could come to terms with the impromptu 3 A.M. violin concertos and the human heads in the fridge because this – the displays of extraordinary intelligence, and the fact that it was for John's eyes only – was completely, utterly worth it.

As the fourth minute came to a close, John was shaken out of his reverie when he swore he had heard Sherlock mutter something under his breath.

"Come again?" John asked, watching as his flatmate began running his fingers through his hair in agitation – never a good sign.

"I need more time," Sherlock spoke frantically, his steps around the room taking on a manic edge as he was struggling to glean as much as he could from his scant surroundings.

This was unusual. Sherlock usually couldn't wait to start vocalizing his observations for John to hear, and he most definitely never asked Lestrade for more time at a crime scene. It indicated weakness, and weakness was something that was absolutely forbidden from being associated with Sherlock Holmes (this just meant more exasperated eye-rolling from John).

"More time, John, more time!"

The doctor sighed, exasperated. "Well, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?" he retorted, not at all liking the tone Sherlock's voice was taking, the 'I'm dumbing this down for you since I have such a massive intellect and you obviously don't' tone usually reserved exclusively for Donavan and Anderson. The next precious seconds were spent with the two men glaring at each other, grey trained on blue, with an intensity so severe that the dead body wedged between them wasn't the most fear-inducing thing in the room anymore.

The temporary but awkward silence of the room was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps from afar.

"Boorish and clunky. Anderson's coming," Sherlock snapped, resuming his frenzied strides going in every conceivable direction. With a dramatically sharp intake of breath, he lamented, "I need more time!"

Before the last syllable uttered by the detective could reach John's increasingly aggravated ears, Sherlock suddenly froze, an expression of realization on his face, his eyes wide and mouth tightened in a circle of pleased surprise.

And before John could even process the swift change in his flatmate's facial expression, he found himself being backed up against the tiled wall behind him, the root cause of said unexpected movement being none other than two very pale (and surprisingly warm, but it wasn't as though John had intentionally taken note of that) hands placed firmly on his shoulders. Hands that belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Hands that, normally, had absolutely no business anywhere within a three feet radius of John.

So why the hell wasn't he doing anything to move away?

It was a stark contrast of sensations assaulting his skin all at once – the coolness of the unyielding wall on his back and a warmth spreading through his chest that may or may not have been caused by the eerily predatory gleam in Sherlock's eyes. John tried to ignore the invading fuzzy sensations tampering with any rational thoughts left in his mind and instead furrowed his eyebrows into what he hoped was an intimidating scowl (it really wasn't).

"Sherlock, just what the hell –"

"Do shut up, John," Sherlock breathed. "I'm getting us more time." With that, he delicately placed a hand on John's chin, tilting the shorter man's head up towards his own, and brought his lips onto John's.

When John looked back on this moment later in his life, it would dawn on him that this was indubitably the least romantic lead-in to a kiss that he'd ever experienced. But at that moment, at that particularly bizarre crime scene, with an absurdly dim-witted forensic scientist as the sole witness, it was absolutely perfect.

It started softly and slowly at first, just a friendly whisper shared between two pairs of lips. Sherlock was uncharacteristically shy with his movements, his mouth barely coming into contact with John's – if John's eyes had been shut tight as opposed to practically bulging out (as they were actually doing), he wouldn't have even noticed a thing. But as John realized that he'd been waiting for this to happen for a long time, he let his eyelids close and eased into the detective's embrace.

Tentative became comfortable. And comfortable rapidly became passionate. Sherlock's tongue was doing something rather heavenly inside John's mouth, and John entangled his fingers in the taller man's dark curls in response –

"For fuck's sake!"

The shocked nasally voice abruptly shattered the blissful haze that was settling between the detective and doctor. It suddenly registered in John's dopamine-laden mind that they were at a crime scene of all places, a dead body just a couple of steps away from them, and summoning all of his willpower, he wriggled out of Sherlock's surprisingly strong grip.

He was greeted by an expression of pure, unadulterated horror on Anderson's face.

"Sally was right," the forensic scientist spluttered, face steadily turning redder by the second, gesturing towards Sherlock. "You do get off on all of this. And apparently, so do you!" he added accusingly, glaring at John as if the doctor had personally offended him.

John opened his mouth to protest (because, really, he didn't get off on crime scenes; that was strictly Sherlock's area), but before anything could come out, he was left alone with Sherlock once more, Anderson having turned on his heel and bolting out before he could be subjected to any more inappropriate crime scene conduct.

"You git, that was how you planned on getting more time?" John turned to face Sherlock, whose eyes were positively blazing with mirth.

"It worked, didn't it? We scared off Anderson. I say we have five more minutes before Lestrade and Sally come here to see this for themselves."

John soon found himself pressed up against the wall again, Sherlock's lips running along his jaw and fingertips skimming the nape of his neck. As much as it pained John to do so, he wrenched himself away from the detective, keeping a good distance between them and letting the breath return to his lungs before he let himself say anything.

"What happened to needing more time for the case, Sherlock? Last time I checked, you didn't solve it yet."

"Oh, don't be daft," Sherlock said, his low voice making John shiver in a way the doctor classified as more than a bit not good. "The neighbor did it – I had the case solved within the first three minutes of coming here."

Of course he bloody did. John felt his cheeks flame in frustration and – was that excitement? God, something was seriously wrong with him.

"So this was all a ruse then, was it? To get me to, uh, kiss you?"

"It worked, didn't it?" the detective repeated, a rare smile playing at his lips.

"You insufferable arse," John quipped, unthinkingly returning Sherlock's infectious smile. "Couldn't this at least have waited until we got back to the flat? You know, with this being a crime scene and all?"

"That would have been boring. Plus we got to see Anderson surpass himself with his utter stupidity."

"That we did," John chuckled, Sherlock joining in the laughter soon afterward. This time it was John who pulled the detective in, throwing his arms around Sherlock's scarf-clad neck while settling his lips perfectly in between the other man's.

They were so engrossed in each other that neither of them noticed the two new sets of footsteps approaching them. They also didn't notice how the footsteps came to an immediate stop, the result of a mixture of both shock and amusement.

Shock: "Dear God, Anderson wasn't bluffing!"

Amusement: "You owe me ten quid, Sergeant."