"Make me immortal with a kiss." (Christopher Marlowe)

For Sherlolly29

Rain lashes down in sheets, drumming across car roofs, making black, hammered glass of the tarmac outside the warehouse. Orange, white, blue lights revolve through the relentless wet, making mockery of turned up collars and sodden police boots. Radios crackle across the night in multitudinous directions, distorted by the hissing and hammering of water, and the dull thud-thud of over-worked windscreen wipers.

"Get him in the back - quickly - if you don't mind, Anderson! One more minute of piss-wet through is one minute too bloody many!"

Gregory Lestrade stands beneath a billowing piece of nylon that had once been an anorak, his eyelashes separated by the soaking he was getting after six hours in pursuit on this vile stormy night in October; fists clenched, gripped uselessly around his woeful shelter.

But it was good. William Gould was rather peevishly shoved through mud, gravel and hissing rain by a rat-faced forensic assistant (obviously well past his bedtime) towards the flashing lights of the police car that would be taking him into custody, where he could perhaps explain why three of his siblings had lost their lives by way of (until recently) utterly unconnected illnesses.

Ducking out from a dimly-lit doorway, attended by a damp and disgruntled (but apparently receptive) Sally Donovan comes Sherlock Holmes, his large, pale hands sketching out some rudimentary explanation for his bringing us here, in a way he felt she might comprehend it. I frown at him through the deluge, gratified to catch his bright eyes and pale face (orange, white, blue) at that very moment. His hair is flattened, black and glossy to his head and his coat hangs heavy, weighed down with the barrage the night had given us, but he quirks the smallest of smiles, understanding my understanding of him.

We have known each other quite a long time, he and I.

Sherlock abandons his condescension of the good sergeant, loping over rippling puddles in three long strides before he is by my side.

"A bit not good, I suppose?" He smiles damply, buoyant and breathless from the night's proceedings, and the genius that brought us here after months of research and shockingly accurate deductive reasoning. Light and moisture bounce from the planes of his extraordinary face and I am once again left awestruck by his artistry, but I just grin a bit, shaking my head.

"Be nice to Sally," I say, "she's sharper than you think."

"She will thank me when the report has to be written up, John."

I am about to respond when a scuffle breaks out ahead, just at the door of the warehouse, and Sally is pushed to one side by a distraught, bedraggled woman making for Mr Gould, just as Anderson is protecting his head into the paddy waggon. I am instantly taut, ready to act (battle stations?) but Sherlock touches my arm.

"His wife," he says.

We both watch Mrs Gould - filthy, shocked beyond words and soaked to the skin - fling her arms around her husband who can barely respond thanks to cuffed hands and an irritated Anderson. Reaching up through sobbing breaths, she takes his blank, defeated face into her two hands and kisses him calmly upon his cheek, before letting go and allowing herself be pulled aside by a female constable. She then nods, turns and lets herself be led away whilst her husband (thief, liar, murderer) watches her briefly before disappearing finally behind a slammed car door.

"Extraordinary."

I turn to see Sherlock Holmes watching the glow of the red brake lights as his killer bumps along the rutted road to almost certain incarceration.

"What? The wife?"

"No, the kiss."

I look at him more keenly. His eyes are narrowed against the rain, and possible unwelcome thoughts.

"Sherlock, she was just kissing him goodbye."

"No... I think there was a little more to it than that," he breathes as we both watch glowing red lights fade into the nothingness of the night.

~x~

Science is nothing but a series of observations corralled into a significant arrangement that either proves or disproves a theory, which is why I hold it in the very highest regard. Unlike most of my acquaintance, Science has never disappointed me, only provided a very distinct yes or no answer within the branch diagram of diagnostics, allowing further progression in the correct direction and towards the correct destination. With it, there are no irritatingly hesitant prevarications or vacillations (just ring the doorbell and have done with it!); no tearful handwringing where lovers have proven unreliable, no vengeful acts of violence when a promise has been reneged upon. If the general populace determined their life-changing decisions via a more scientific methodology rather than a hysterical, hit-or-miss, eeny-meeny-miny-mo modus operandi, the world would benefit (although I fear my own gainful employment would be significantly compromised).

Thus, I have begun a new investigation which, for reasons of my own, must initially remain a private one. Beginning with fastidious observation and leading to collation of the most applicable data, I shall determine upon a greater understanding of the random flow of humanity that cross my path each day in the line of my work. Once I fully comprehend the prompts behind certain habits and social mores of my fellow man through scientific investigation, I shall be more able to fit facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts.

The stage is set, so let us begin.

~x~

Mary Watson juggles son, backpack, handbag, cake box and a book entitled Where the Wild Things Are, barely having a moment to consider how she would attempt to knock on the large, black door before it is wrenched open so suddenly, a waft of displaced air slightly lifts the blonde curls from her forehead.

"Mary, if two farmers are arguing over a large barrel partly filled with cider, one proclaiming it more than half full and the other insisting it be less that half empty, how could the issue be solved without use of conventional measuring tools?"

She stands as Sholto pulls at the cake box, kicking the Wild Things with his pummelling feet and nods her head, remaining calm.

"Tilt it until it's just about to pour out. If it`s exactly half full, the cider should just cover all of the rim…"

He is smirking, arms folded across the mouse-coloured dressing gown and feet bare.

"Good, and…?"

Mary staggers a little, but strengthens her stance in defiance. Sholto has her shoulder bag between his teeth/gums.

"...and...that way, half the barrel is full of cider and the other half is air space…"

"And?"

"And, if the cider just covers the bottom rim, the barrel is more than half full…and if the bottom isn't fully covered, the barrel is less than half full. And, Sherlock…"

He waits.

"If you don't let me in and give me a hand with all … this… you are going to find meringue in your test tubes for the next week!"

Sherlock opens the door.

~x~

"My darling boy, come here and kiss me!"

Chubby arms reach up, toothless gums revealed in an infant smile as my landlady embraces Sholto Watson, kissing him noisily and moistly on the cheek (both), lips and nose, punctuating each with a vibrating and faintly disgusting sound which serves the dual purpose of repelling myself and amusing him beyond measure. Irrational madness.

"Now look at that! What a happy boy he is. No crying today is there?" More wet kisses. A glance across at the kitchen clock also indicates that unless the milk in the backpack Mary has left on the table is administered swiftly, Mrs Hudson will be proved wrong (yet again) in her summation. I stand, not wishing to be party to any more damage to my hearing than is absolutely necessary and bid my farewells.

"Lots to do, Sherlock?" Mary looks in blue-eyed innocence from beneath thick lashes and I know she is teasing, but she doesn't know about my latest project - no one does. I smile to myself, walking up the stairs. It seems that length and intensity are useful variables to be considered. Application and positioning were the main considerations, but the whole process appears more complex than first considered.

Fascinating.

~x~

For useful data I must cast my mind back to the halcyon days of `Three-Continents-Watson' and all that entailed (irritating at best, distracting at worst). Firstly, Sarah, sharer of Mrs Hudson's welcome platter and a near death experience in a wet tunnel near the Embankment. Affection, support, complicity - John showed little in the way of physical attraction, as illustrated by the kiss upon the cheek. Only later (after aforementioned unfortunate happenings) was there stronger affection and a degree of atonement with a kiss of relief and an embrace to show surrender. Such a shame that didn't work out, but the lack of significant endearing glances indicated affection could not be confused with survival. And what about Janette (Jeanette?), teacher, dog-owner and Christmas party guest. A kiss upon the lips, but (as I recall) without intensity, implying little passion and a gesture more pertaining to friendship (or not, as it turned out). I recall regretfully stumbling into a sitting room transformed by semi-darkness, misleading candlelight and muted jazz (appalling) to discover a sprawl of limbs and clothes in slight disarray. Removing his lips from the girl's collarbone (Helen? I want to say Harriet…) John indicated much with his words (and carelessly launched shoe in my direction) but more with that kiss - intimate, with an erotic intention which might or might not be realised. In this case, it was not.

Adding these recollections to my database, I determine upon the idea that John Watson (although fruitful in his endeavours) could only be a baseline, and not my sole source of input. Cases were currently a little latent (hence the study itself) therefore I considered my options in finding more test subjects.

"Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson's dulcet tones issue Corncrake-like from the stairwell, and I knew I should not be visiting Mr Chattergee's shop in the near future, regardless of how small my test group might potentially be; there are certain things I should not wish to observe, even in the name of science.

"Sherlock, can you not answer?" She is puffing heartily as she enters, leaning into the door frame. "I always think you haven't heard me."

I smile, closing the laptop, the word `unlikely' remaining unsaid yet hanging in the air.

"John texted - says he's tried getting in touch but you aren't answering your phone." Her eyes are wide at such unparalleled lack of communication from a man who texts with two thumbs, in the dark, without looking, and I feel a pang, a twinge of guilt. Not useful.

"Apologies," I gesture to the closed laptop. "An important investigation."

"I`m sure dear." Her folded arms and smudge of garam flour across her cuff and cheek indicates annoyance that is a little more than deserved, so I stand, appearing … helpful.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Molly's birthday party," she turns on her heel, message delivered and places to be. "Be there. Exact words, Sherlock." As her words fade down the stairs I smile, striding into my room to change; never before has a social event brought anything near to this degree of anticipation and excitement.

My test group has just multiplied exponentially.

~x~

A/N: Osculation? Along with snog, smooch, peck, canoodle, neck, pet - another word for kissing!

Oh dear me, what is going to happen at that party?

Lovely to be back everyone. x

Beautiful cover art by Allegator