I may be a bit rusty in my writing (been about 2 months since my last fic), so that's a small thing to take note of. Other than that, follow-up to Breach of a rule, anyone? :D

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and its characters don't belong to me; I own nought.

"Hey, Molly," a male voice floated in the air as someone entered the quiet morgue, breaking the dead (no pun intended) silence.

Molly stopped her writing and turned in her seat to face the newcomer, at the same time tucking a stray tendril of brown hair behind her ear. "Oh; hi to you too, John," she reciprocated, adding a bright smile.

John returned the smile, taking stock of the mild fatigue in the petite woman's face. "Hard at work, I see," he commented as he came closer to her. "Though, I didn't know the Metropolitan had tips to help you with writing autopsy reports."

He chuckled at Molly's embarrassed expression and her quick-as-lightning reflexes on keeping the magazine in a drawer.

"You have seen nothing, John Watson," she mock-warned him in a low tone, but could not help joining in his contagious laughter a second later.

"And speaking of seeing," John said after the laughing subsidised, "have you seen Sherlock? Lestrade's been trying to get a hold of him so far, and I've texted him thrice. Weird; he hadn't pick either one up."

"Oh, no, no; haven't seen him," Molly rushed out, which made him immediately frown in suspicion.

"You sure? He should have been here since the afternoon, either doing one of his strange experiments or looking through that microscope. Are you really sure you haven't seen head or tail of that man?" he questioned while crossing his arms. He had the sneaking feeling she was withholding facts.

"No, no; nothing," she confirmed, shaking her head to emphasise her negative answer.

"Ah well. Maybe he got himself arrested again. But Lestrade would have known about it," he muttered, the last part mostly to himself.

"He gets himself arrested?" she questioned curiously.

"I don't even know how."

Molly giggled into her hand and picked up her pen on the desk to continue writing, when John immediately caught something unusual.

"Molly, on your neck. Quite…a red spot you've got there."

Her pen clattered to the tiled floor while her free hand instinctively flew up to the spot he had pointed out and she unconsciously began rubbing it. "Ahaha, it's…a rash. Allergy reaction, and all," she explained while laughing, albeit awkwardly.

"Really…" he drew out the word, his tone one of complete disbelief. "You'd think I would know how a rash looks like, wouldn't you?" He then deliberately leaned in to take a closer look. "Anyway, it looks recent. Hmm…"

He took note of how uncomfortable the pathologist was, but he was willing to bet it was not because of their close proximity.

Just then, the doors opened and another person waltzed in the room, acting as if he owned the place. "Molly, we didn't had time to do-"

Sherlock, once realising she was not alone, ground to a halt and took in the sight before him.

John straigtened up at his flatmate's abrupt entrance, silently relieved he was not somewhere in an alley climbing fire escape ladders. He raised an eyebrow at his dishevelled curly hair, though, which somehow looked even wilder than usual. He noticed that the unbuttoned part of the collar of the white button-down shirt the black-haired man was wearing was gaped wide open than usual, and the shirt itself was slightly wrinkled.

John turned his gaze upwards to see Sherlock staring hard at him. "What?" the blond questioned.

"What're you doing here?" came his gruff reply.

"I came here to say 'hi' to Molly, and to find you. Really, what happened to your phone? Lestrade called you and I texted, but no reply," John asked, tilting his head to the side. Molly quietly regarded the two men, especially Sherlock, who waved his hand dismissively and strode over to where his black trench coat and blue scarf were drapped over a chair. "Was busy experimenting," he gave as explanation.

John glanced at the wall clock in the morgue and saw that it was almost 11.30pm. Him, experimenting till late at night? Not his usual style, he mused.

He turned to face Sherlock and was about to ask him whether he was done with whatever he needed to do, because they still had to stop by Tesco for a moment to buy bread and milk (that man was forever complaining about the lack of milk stocked in the fridge), when something caught his eye, again.

Sherlock was wrapping his scarf around his neck, and when his body was slightly facing sideways to John, the latter managed to catch a tiny glimpse of a mark on his neck. Its colour contrasted against his pale skin, which would have been blindingly obvious if not concealed under the garment.

John stood thinking for a moment, hardly listening to the instructions the other man was giving to him. It was...red in colour, much like what he had seen on Molly...

"JOHN!"

Said man snapped out of his thoughts and stared blankly at his flatmate. Sherlock scowled back in annoyance. "Have you even heard what I've said?!"

"Well, you…hmm…" he replied, stalling for time.

"Oh, for God's sake…" Sherlock muttered under his breath, then turned to address Molly, who was staring at John. It went unnoticed that she was looking a little nervous. "Molly, get the body parts I requested ready for tomorrow; they are of high importance," he intoned in an authorative voice.

"What?" Molly snapped her head up to face his cool grey eyes and frowned. "You know all too well you need authorisation from now on."

John watched her continue reprimanding the lean figure in front of her, and stop midway when said figure leaned in to murmur some things into her ear. John was enthralled by the un-subtle change in colour on her face - from normal peach to crimson in mere seconds. Sherlock withdrew with a smug smirk on his face while Molly stared wide-eyed back at him.

"So," he said brightly, grinning, "will there be a problem, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly could only gape at the genius, utterly lost for words. Her face scrunched up in disapproval, but soon she gave in and shook her head submissively. Sherlock turned the brightness of his grin up a notch -almost blinding, by John's standards- and shrugged on his coat.

"Work here's done," he declared to John, striding over to the door.

John glanced at Molly, who pressed her palms tightly to her heated cheeks, and gave her a sympathetic smile. "John, get a move on; my pathologist still has duties to fulfill, and it won't do her any good for you to stand there and distract her," bellowed Sherlock from outside.

John sighed at his commanding attitude. "Shouldn't keep Your Majesty waiting for too long, now, should we," he mumbled sarcastically to Molly, who giggled good-humouredly. "Must be off then. Have a good night, Molly!"

"Oh," he halted in his steps and threw her a knowing look over his shoulder. "I'm sure you did, earlier on."

He winked at her full-blown fire-truck red face and made to follow his flatmate home.

As soon as both men entered their flat -more like Sherlock strode across the threshold in his usual arrogant demeanor while John came stumbling through- Sherlock immediately threw himself facedown on the sofa while John, after dropping the bags from their shopping trip on the counter (why the hell was he carrying all the bags again?!), sank in his armchair, breathing slightly heavier than normal. "Tell me again why we didn't catch a cab to Tesco or even home?" he hissed at the form on the black leather sofa while rubbing the back of his tired calves.

"It's obvious you need the exercise, John, seeing as you have gained an amazing 3 half pounds over the past week alone, and that you're about to ask that Jennifer or Mary (or Louise) out tomorrow evening. Look at that - I'm helping you out," Sherlock mumbled against the material of the sofa, then proceeded to flip himself over. He was still clad in his coat and scarf.

"'Help'? I'm the one carrying those bags, you git; and making me walk -rather, run- for the past half hour is not 'helping me'. Didn't you realise how monstrously long your legs are compared to mine?!"

"Might have thought about it once," he answered cheekily.

John was about to give him a piece of his mind, but decided on another approach when he remembered what he had learnt just less than two hours ago. "Sooo…" he dragged out the word, "you've got a red spot on your neck."

Sherlock raised his head and looked over to where the blond was seated, frowning slightly. John knew him well enough to recognise that he had surprised the detective, who was really hard to surprise in the first place.

"You're not the only one who has eyes and can 'observe the minute details'," he continued in response to the figure's silence, adding a small shrug for good measure.

John was on a roll and, without giving a toss about the other occupant in the flat, went on cataloging his observations. "Seems like it was recent, because I certainly don't remember you having such a mark yesterday or earlier today. The colour was not all faint, so it must have appeared merely hours ago. 3, 4 hours? Quite 'fresh', I guess; that's what you'd have said to describe it. From what little I could see of it, the blood gathered in one spot, not in little dots, so it's not a rash, or allergy reaction.

"Oh, yes; almost forgot - Molly had one, as well," he added as a mock afterthought, tapping a finger on his lap and assuming a thinking expression. "It was red as well. Very red."

Sherlock took the opportunity to roll his body violently sideways and face the back of the sofa. John snorted at the movement.

"Hmm. From all the evidence, I conclude that…" he went on, not wanting to stop, and fully intending on embarrassing the usually stoic man, "…you had dinner?"

If Sherlock was drinking water at that moment, he would have choked on his drink.

"None of your business!" he hissed in response, but it came out muffled due to his position. John made to laugh, reveling in his flatmate's discomfort.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before the blogger decided to call it a night and stood up, stretching his sore muscles. Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and, not wanting John to think he was the winner in whatever thing they had been playing, tugged his scarf out, exposing his pale neck and the red spot on the left side. John smothered a laugh while Sherlock did his best to ignore him. He'll pay for this, he thought grimly.

He walked over to his friend and stopped in front of him, towering over the man in the process. "For all it's worth, John - it's called 'marking what belongs to me'."

John barked out a laugh, the words sounding childish to his ears, causing the taller man's lips to curl slightly upwards. Trust Sherlock to give a more complicated term than 'lovebite'.

"You dare to lay a finger on what's mine again and I won't be as lenient as that last time," he warned. John merely rolled his eyes while smirking.

The blond added in his two pence worth just as the raven-haired moved away. "Looks like you're not the only one who 'marks' what's yours!"

He saw him reaching his hand up to the redish spot on his neck, and could not resist another bout of laughter.

John shook his head, still smiling mirthfully, as he head to his room. Sherlock, Sherlock.

Possessive!Sherlock is hot and sexy - yes, I soo totally agree with ya'll ;D It's not at all like what the suggestions that have been given to me, but all in all, I hope it's a fun read. Penny for your thoughts? :DDD