"Look at her, really look at her." Sherlock's lips are so close to my ear that they send shivers down my spine.

I look at her; she's face down in the water with a small amount of bruising around her neck. She could have been strangled but I suppose that would be too simple for Sherlock. But I saw it anyway, "She's been strangled."

"Wrong. Look again," his fingers trail up my spine.

"I am looking Sherlock," my patience is too low for this nonsense so I spin on my heel to face Sherlock. I gaze up into his face; curls of jet black hair tumble delicately down his forehead to his grey-blue eyes that are simultaneously soft and cold in an eerie and slightly unsettling way.

He's so close that I can just about feel his breath on my face, "I know, it's okay" that's different, he actually sounds… nice. And then his hand, with its long slender fingers, cups around my cheek and his thumb caresses the skin beneath it. I blink to bring his pale face back into focus. "Sherlock," I manage to mumble through the lump that has quickly blocked my throat.

"Shhhh," his lips twitch a little and then they are all that I can see. All that exists is his lips and mine. And they're getting closer and closer and time is ticking in slow motion. He's so close I can feel his breath and almost feel his lips.

And then I wake with a start with the morning news blaring through the alarm clock radio. I involuntarily let out a frustrated moan and drag myself out of my cocoon of comfort and warmth into the uncomfortable tepidness warmth of the room. I slip on a pair of clean trousers but the only shirt in the room has been there for a few weeks now, I decide to go bare chested into the wilderness of the probably trashed apartment.

Sherlock was already awake; or had probably never gone to sleep, they were in the middle of a case after all. His feet hit the floorboards heavily as he paced the kitchen restlessly, still completely oblivious to the fact that I have a crush on him. "I asked for your laptop an hour ago."

"You usually just get it yourself," this was strange, Sherlock being polite and Sherlock being nice in the dream. Perhaps it wasn't a dream but I was sure he'd remember his first kiss from a man.

"Yes, well, it was over there," Sherlock cast a finger in the direction of the lounge room.

I had given up questioning Sherlock's laziness or the fact that he never used his own laptop when he could just mine. I merely sighed heavily, know he'd ignore it, and pushed past him to the fridge. I scan it twice, "I guess I'm having black coffee again."

"You should really buy some milk," I hear Sherlock's flat voice from over my shoulder.

"I have been asking you to get some for the past two weeks," I sigh as I push past him again, avoiding eye contact and physical contact and take hold of the kettle. I turn again to scold him for not getting milk once again but he's gone. To get my laptop I suppose.

I continue to assemble a breakfast and finally join him in the living room where he sits in the middle of the couch, my laptop balanced on one knee and his on the other. Again, I don't question it.

I fall back in my chair and take my first sip of the too bitter coffee while I keep my eyes trained on him. I don't think I've seen the body in my dream before, so it couldn't have been real. I let myself relax into the knowledge that I had not kissed Sherlock and nobody knew of my true sexuality or my crippling crush on my flatmate.

"There's been another body found," Sherlock says, but he doesn't take his eyes of the screens before him, "We need to get a closer look."

"I haven't eaten-" But he's already on his feet and slipping on his coat.

"Do hurry John," and he leaves me alone in the room.

I scoff down the last of my toast and take a final swig of my coffee, I let myself wince at the bitterness this time, and join him on the street. He waves his hand in the air and then, almost like magic, a cab pulls to the curb. We climb in. "Trafalgar Square," he tells the driver.

"It's been closed off to the public for today, some major emergency," he says tapping the wheel with his thumb.

"Take us anyway," Sherlock hisses.

I decide that it's time for me to intervene before the cabbie burst into tears under Sherlock's pressure. "Just take us as close as you can."

"John," Sherlock whines but he sits back into his seat when the cabbie nods and accelerates.

A couple of minutes and the cab driver pulls up to the curb again, "They're not gonna let you in," he warns.

"Thank you very much for your service," Sherlock says sarcastically, tossing him a few coins from his pocket and pushing himself out of the cab. "Come along John."

I hesitate and throw some extra coins to the cabbie, "sorry" I mouth before I climb out, "Sherlock, wait," He's already half way down the street from me and walking at a fast pace. I'll never catch up with those long legs. "Sherlock!"

I arrive at the temporary fence puffing and panting and my face probably more red than a tomato. "Sherlock," I gasp again.

He's standing looking down at me from the other side of the fence with a steady breath. He pushes a section of the fence to allow room for me to squeeze through, knowing him he probably jumped it. Although with those legs he could probably just about step over it. "Hurry up, everyone else is here."

We walk slowly over towards the group of police in the centre of the square. Lestrade is the first person I see and then Anderson, Sherlock won't be too happy about that. "Morning, Greg," I mutter, still trying to catch my breath.

"No time for chatting, John." Sherlock waves me over to the edge of the fountain. When I pass the group of police I get a clear view of a familiar scene. Sherlock is squatting next to a woman who is lying face down into the pavement. He's observing every inch of her with his magnifying glass; from her clothes to her finely painted fingernails. Apparently he's looked at her for long enough because he stands and strides behind me. "Your turn," his voice is soft now. "Look at her."

I look down at the woman; her hair is tied in a ponytail but it's come loose and fallen to the side of her head messily, she's wearing a thick woollen jumper and looks like any regular woman except for one thing, she has bruises around her neck. Bruises. An image flashes back into my head from the depth of my memory; I've seen this woman before. In my dream. I know it's not right but I say, "She's been strangled," anyway.

"Wrong. Look again," he's reciting my dream word for word. I feel him step closer to me and press his hand to my spine.

I shiver involuntarily at his touch so I force myself to jump forward, "I am looking." And then I do it, I turn to face him, like in my dream, and his face is so close to mine that I could reach up and kiss him. But I resist the urge and bite my lip instead.

"You're looking but you're no observing," he spins me around to face the woman again. I left myself sigh of relief. As much as I wanted that kiss, I wasn't ready for it and I didn't want to come out to everybody I know at the same time. I look at the woman again. I open my mind and crouch down to her. Her clothes are wet. I touch her back and then slide my hand under her belly. She's not damp from dew or rain; for one it hasn't rained in a few days and two, if it were dew, it would only be on the upper side of her body. I look to the left of her, she's on the very edge of the fountain, "she could have drowned, I guess."

"Guessing is not good," Sherlock says as he joins me on the ground, "but you're right." I feel my heart flutter and I lean towards Sherlock slightly. "She was attacked. Look at her hair, there's at least 11 pins in there, she would never leave her hair in a mess."

"Alcohol?" I suggest.

"Possibly, but I'd say someone grabbed her by her hair, look at how far the hair tie has been pulled down. And the strangle marks and the bruise on her eye are clear giveaways but not the cause of death." He stands and walks a few paces away, "John stand here and face the fountain," I do as I'm told without a word. "She was standing or walking somewhere by the fountain, the attacker came from behind and grabbed her by the hair," He grabs onto my shoulder and starts dragging me towards the fountain, "she was pushed back against the fountain and judging by the traces of blood under her finger nails, she tried to fight back and she got a punch to the side of the head." He mimes punching me and I automatically step back, falling against the edge of the fountain. "The attacked strangled her," his slender fingers wrap around my neck and I shiver again, "until she passes out and he dumps her in the water."

"But she's not in the water now," I say as I unlatch his fingers from my neck.

"Yes," he looks around the group of policemen, "who moved her?"

"A small patrol of policemen discovered her about an hour ago on their morning sweep for drunks," Lestrade answers.

"Get to the point," Sherlock hisses.

"They found her as she is now, out the ground, not in the water."

He lets me go so suddenly that I stumble backwards onto the edge of the fountain and sets to pacing around the body. "Why would they move the body after she died? Why?" His hands fly to his temples, "Anderson."

"Yes."

"Go back to the office and get me-" Anderson's face has lit up at the thought of Sherlock needing his help, "Oh don't look so happy, go back the office and get John and I some coffee, I can't stand you hanging around."

He grumbles and looks to Lestrade for help but Lestrade nods at him impatiently and he leaves. Not even a second after Anderson has exited the area Sherlock lets out a triumphant, "oh!"

"What?" I say, although he doesn't need the encouragement anyway, he'll take any chance to show off that he's a genius.

"She wasn't killed here," he looks far too happy about this revelation.

"What?" I repeat.

"She was killed elsewhere and they were moving her to the fountain to try and cover it up, make it look like she's a drunk who drowned in the fountain after deciding to take a swim. Look at the pull on her jumper. It's pulled tight on the side closest to the fountain and trailing out on the other. It's obvious she was dragged here…"

"And how would you know this?" One of the other, younger policemen who I've never seen before ask.

Before Sherlock can even open his mouth, Lestrade is scolding him, "I know what you're thinking and don't. He's not a suspect."

"You can leave too, help Anderson with the coffee; it's a hard task for humans with brains as small as yours."

"You said the last one wasn't killed where we found her either," I say trying to restore some order.

"Yes, I did say that. John you are the only one with sense here." I'm so grateful that he's eyeing off the group of police and not looking in my direction because I can feel my face going red and the most idiotic smile on my lips from his praise. I look down at the body and sober myself as best I can. "The other was moved too," he turns back to the body, "She died in almost exactly the same way."

"Almost?"

"The other had a fresh scar that had been stitched up on her stomach. I obviously haven't checked this one yet." He pushes past me, back to the woman and pulls her onto her back. Without a moment's hesitation, he lifts her shirt. "It's the same people. The scars are the same."