Author's Note: Part two of my Johnlock series. Please not that this is my original plotline. If you see this anywhere besides here or my AO3 account, please report it as stolen and contact me immediately.

"Morning," John greeted as Sherlock came out of his bedroom. He turned the page of the newspaper he was reading and began skimming for anything interesting.

Fixing his robe, Sherlock muttered, "Morning." He made a bee-line for the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Emerging from the kitchen, Sherlock scratched the back of his head as he walked towards John. "Anything interesting?" he asked as he sat down across from John.

"Nothing so far," John answered honestly as he flipped the page again.

A moment of silence passed between them before Sherlock started, "So, about that experiment-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! No!" John exclaimed, cutting him off. His face began to heat up despite himself. "We already talked about this. I am not submitting myself to another one of your experiments."

Sherlock crossed his arms and began pouting. "I don't know why you object so strongly. It's not as if this experiment is life-threatening," he responded childishly.

"Because you already experimented kissing me, remember?" John responded sharply as he picked the paper up to hide his face, which was growing hotter with every passing minute. "I could handle it for those couple of weeks, but you're talking about years of 'testing.' And you cannot even prove your hypothesis either way since we don't know how long I'm going to live. So, no – you are not allowed to kiss me every morning in order to hopefully extend my lifetime."

Suddenly, John watched as the paper was crushed down by a lithe hand. His heart raced as his eyes met Sherlock's. Swallowing, John set his jaw and stared Sherlock down. "If I recall correctly, you did not object to my previous experiment," he noted.

"Then your memory is faulty, because I was furious when you kissed me at that crime scene," John pointed out, trying to calm down.

Sherlock scoffed as he heard this. "Your objection was not to the kiss but to the location," he stated matter-of-factly as he leaned in. "And your demeanour tells me that you would not object now were I to kiss you."

Subconsciously, John had leaned forward while Sherlock was talking. When he heard those words, he came to his senses and jerked back. "It's good to know you're still human, Sherlock," he commented nonchalantly as he rubbed some of the wrinkles out of the newspaper. "Sometimes you don't deduce properly."

Huffing, Sherlock sat back in his seat and looked around the flat. John sighed in relief. It had been approximately three months since Sherlock solved the Green-Eyed Soldier case. Since then, John struggled even more to define their relationship. They were no longer just flatmates; they had not been flatmates since Sherlock invited John to the first crime scene. So John had classified them as friends until Irene Adler forced him to face his feelings for Sherlock. After a huge identity crisis, John labelled himself "straight with the exception of Sherlock" and had accepted his love as unrequited. It was only recently that he realised Sherlock might feel something for him as well.

But that then led up to the categorization of their relationship. They were not dating in the traditional sense. After all, they were living together but not physically involved with one another. In fact, Sherlock refused to kiss John unless it was for a scientific experiment, and John could not pluck up the courage to kiss Sherlock outright again. And even though he secretly missed Sherlock's touch, John did not feel comfortable with taking such a scientific outlook on their relationship. He did not want to be just another one of Sherlock's experiments. All this led him to believe that they were not dating, and they were definitely not boyfriends. But they had gone further than best mates would. So what were they?

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, cutting into John's thoughts.

John quickly lied, "I'm reading."

"Then you've been reading the same word for the last seven minutes," Sherlock retorted.

Once again, John hated how observant Sherlock could be and how fascinated he was by it. "It's nothing you would concern yourself with," he muttered as he closed the newspaper. "There's nothing you would seem interesting in the papers. Have you checked the website yet?"

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered bitterly before he took another sip of his coffee.

John made a mental note to hide his handgun before noon if they did not get a case. Although Mrs Hudson had forgiven and forgotten the first shooting, John doubted she would show the same amount of generosity the second time around. If there was one thing John was sure of, it was that he could not afford for their rent to spike. Opening his laptop, John checked his own blog to see if anyone had written him about a case. Nothing. He closed his laptop again and watched for a moment as Sherlock paced around the room. It was going to be a long day if Sherlock did not get a case soon. Boredom drove Sherlock insane, which normally drove John insane.

Suddenly, a thought struck John's mind. He remembered Donovan warning him about Sherlock at the very beginning. "Sherlock," he called out, his curiosity getting the better of him. Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John expectantly. "Have you ever thought about it?" he asked, not grasping the fact that Sherlock could not actually read his mind.

"About what?" Sherlock inquired.

John hesitated a moment, unsure if he should ask or not. Would Sherlock take it the wrong way? Still, he wanted to know the truth. He replied, "Sorry. Have you ever thought about killing someone?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up a bit in interest. A soft smile curled at the corner of his lips. "What do you believe my answer is, John?" he inquired, clearly more interested in John's opinion.

"I think you would start off by reminding me just how much of an idiot everyone is, especially the incompetent detectives at Scotland Yard," John began. "You must know that you being a murderer never crossed my mind, even after Donovan's warning."

Nodding slightly, Sherlock said, "Yes, I know. Even when I had that pink suitcase in front of me, the thought never crossed your mind."

"Because you're not a psychopath," John responded earnestly. "You get your kicks out of discovering how someone did something – sometimes even the why. If you were the killer, there would be no puzzle for you to solve."

Sherlock quickly played devil's advocate. "What if it was for the thrill of making Scotland Yard look completely incompetent?"

"Sherlock, you already do that," John responded, chuckling a bit. "And if you were thrown behind bars, you could say, 'Goodbye,' to solving anymore cases. How boring would life be for you then?"

Smiling at John, Sherlock glanced out the window. His smile grew to a toothy grin, and he rushed back into his bedroom. Quickly, John rose to his feet and looked out the window to see a patrol car sitting outside of their flat. He smiled softly and headed into the kitchen in order to pour Lestrade a cup of coffee. As he emerged from the kitchen with the mug in hand, John heard a light rapping at their door. He opened it and greeted, "Morning, Detective Inspector."

"Morning," Lestrade managed, stifling a yawn.

John offered the mug of coffee. "Here. You look like you need it more than me," he stated.

Without hesitating, Lestrade accepted the mug and took a sip. "Thank you," he said gratefully. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Getting changed," John answered. "He saw the patrol car."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I did not know he felt uncomfortable in his pyjamas with company in the house. Rumour has it that he went to Buckingham Palace with only a sheet covering him," he said.

"One word: Mycroft," John stated.

"Ah," Lestrade said noncommittally. "Makes sense."

Sherlock walked out of his bedroom still buttoning his shirt. "What happened?" he asked. He did not even give Lestrade a chance to speak before he added, "And make it quick."

"There was a bank robbery this morning in Brixton," Lestrade began. John looked at him in surprise. Last time John checked, Lestrade should not be investigating bank robberies. "The culprit was a Mr James Thornton. At 8:03 this morning, he walked into the bank, held up the few tellers and clients there, collected over a million pounds, and left. Luckily, one of the tellers was quick enough to hit the silent alarm button. Police units arrived to just miss him, but they caught up with him moments later. The attempted escape escalated to a high speed pursuit that ended in disaster. The suspect's car spun out of control, rolled three times, and crashed."

Pursing his lips, Sherlock said, "So why are you here?"

"You need to work on his patience," Lestrade informed John, ignoring Sherlock completely.

John smiled as he heard this. "Give me some time. I'm not a miracle worker, after all," he responded, unable to hide the laughter in his voice.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called out impatiently.

"He stole over a million British pounds from that bank. He had those pounds shoved in a black duffel bag, which we watch him throw into that car. However, we searched the car and the area around the crash site to find nothing," Lestrade explained. "The money is missing, Sherlock, and we have no idea how it managed to disappear."

John saw Sherlock's eyes spark in interest. "Take me to it," he stated, grabbing his trench coat and scarf. Both Lestrade and John exchanged surprised glances. Shrugging, John promptly followed Sherlock down the stairs. Once they got outside, Lestrade headed over to the car and opened the door. "Lestrade," Sherlock said, staring at him like he was an idiot.

"Why not? Donovan and Anderson want photos. They'll pay, even," Lestrade responded, smiling. "I'll split it with you."

Sherlock glanced over at John. "Hail us a cab," he ordered. Without questioning him, John headed towards the road. "We'll follow you," Sherlock stated.

"Why not just ride with me? Or are you starting to care now about your public appearance?" Lestrade jested.

Sherlock scoffed as he heard the insinuation. "Of course not. But John cares. I would not hear the end of it if those pictures were published in the a paper. Knowing Anderson and Donovan as well as I do, those pictures would be sent in anonymously," he answered.

A taxi pulled over, and John opened the back door. He looked back at Sherlock expectantly. Nodding to Lestrade, Sherlock quickly headed over. "Follow that police vehicle," he ordered before slipping into the taxi. John slid in after him and slammed the door shut.

"Theories?" he asked, knowing Sherlock would understand what he meant.

Looking out the taxi window, Sherlock answered, "Three so far. I need more information."

"You never answered my question," John pointed out.

Sherlock retorted, "You technically never answered it either."

"Fine," John said, knowing Sherlock would never tell him until he answered the question first. "I think you've thought about killing someone. I think you've thought about it for a total of five seconds before realising what a stupid idea it was. And I don't think you've ever entertained the idea since." He looked over at Sherlock and inquired, "So was I right?"

The taxi jostled a bit, and Sherlock looked forward. "I was sixteen. I thought about it for a full ten seconds," he responded vaguely. "Unfortunately, Mummy would miss Mycroft very dearly, so I stayed my hand."

John burst out laughing as he heard this. Looking over at him, Sherlock smiled before laughing along with him. "Do you ever regret it?" he inquired in between breaths.

"Every time he calls," Sherlock replied honestly, still laughing.

Eventually, the laughter died, and they were left both grinning in the taxi. John rested his head back on the headrest, shaking his head slightly. Closing his eyes, he relaxed as the taxi made its way through the busy streets. Time passed by slowly and quietly, which was comfortable for the two. Finally, the taxi stopped. John opened his eyes and quickly slipped out of the vehicle and looked back at Sherlock. After telling the cabbie to wait, Sherlock got out of the car as well. They both took a moment to take in the sight in front of them.

The scene of the crash had already been taped off. Dark skid marks marred the road before tearing up the grass. Rocking up onto his toes in order to see more, John saw the car was further down the embankment and was on its roof. It was a dark grey, four-door sedan – nondescript, which would be good for someone trying to blend it. Sherlock ducked under the tape and held it up for John to walk under. Clearly disgusted, Donovan rolled her eyes as Sherlock and John headed down the embankment. John still wondered what Sherlock exactly said to make her hate him so. Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned back to the car and waited for Sherlock to need him. Sherlock walked around the car, every now and again ducking down to get a closer look. As Sherlock examined the victim, his eyebrows furrowed together.

"John, come here," Sherlock said. John was almost immediately by Sherlock's side. Motioning to the victim, Sherlock pressed, "Tell me what you see."

John looked into the car. The victim was an older white male, probably in his late fifties to early sixties. Examining the body, John noticed the bruising from the seatbelt. There were scratches from the glass shattering on impact. Suddenly, something caught John's attention. Leaning closer, John noticed a liquid substance in the corner of the victim's mouth. He leaned forward and smelled carefully before recoiling. Vomit. Glancing around the car, John could not help but notice that there was no vomit anywhere else. He carefully reached out and massaged the victim's neck and felt the swelling. Quickly, John pulled back and looked at Sherlock.

"His death was not caused by the accident. He asphyxiated on his own vomit, which means his choking led to the crash. It looks like he had anaphylaxis," John said, knowing he was confirming what Sherlock already knew.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he heard this. "Fascinating. So a man robs a bank, gets away with the money, is murdered, and the money disappeared without a trace," he muttered to himself, glancing back at the road. "But how?"

"That's what you're supposed to figure out," John pointed out. "What have you figured out so far?"

Sherlock turned back towards the car. "He's a 54 year old male going from his receding hairline and lack of thickness. Dark spots and sun aging on his skin means he worked outside a lot – probably a manual labourer. He could be a farmer, but he's has a strong physique that farmers wouldn't need, which means he's probably a construction worker. He's used to living a little bit outside his means, obvious by the Vauxhall Ventra he's driving, but he is smart with his money." Brows furrowed together, Sherlock stood up straight again. "Then why the sudden need for money?"

"I beg your pardon?" Lestrade asked, finally having approached the two of them.

Sherlock explained, "Although he lives somewhat out of his means, he's very good with his finances, obvious by how he's managed to buy and keep this relatively new car. He isn't a gambler, and he wouldn't take out an unnecessary loan or commit to a high risk investment. So why would he feel the need to rob a bank?"

"Maybe he was tired of living like that," Anderson suggested. He stood off a ways, watching Sherlock with clear distaste. "Greed could have gotten the better of him."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned around and snapped, "Anderson, do the world a favour and stop talking." Anderson set his jaw and glared at Sherlock in response. "Greed did not motivate this man. He would be wearing better clothes and own a Rolex if that was the case. No. We're missing something." With that, Sherlock began sifting through the car.

"Sherlock, you can't do that," Lestrade rebuked. "You'll contaminate the crime scene!"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade, and John looked at the Detective Investigator sympathetically. Everyone knew that Lestrade needed Sherlock, which meant that the consulting detective would do whatever he wanted. After looking through the car a bit more, Sherlock pulled back and said, "Your next best bet is check out this man's house. There must be something in his life that sheds light on why he needed to rob a bank. Look into his finances to see what his lifestyle is like while you're at it. See if there have been any large withdrawals lately. Get back to me."

With that, Sherlock headed up the embankment. John scrambled after him, waving goodbye to Lestrade as he struggled to catch up with Sherlock's long strides. "So what are you keeping from them?" John inquired.

"Technically, nothing," Sherlock replied. "It will just take them a lot longer to figure out what I already know."

Glancing around, John made sure no one could overhear them. "And what might that be?" he inquired.

"He was being blackmailed," Sherlock answered. "He needed the money for a specific reason. My best guess is her." With that, he whipped out the photo of a you woman, probably in her early 20s, holding a newspaper. Her brown eyes were wide with fear; her long, brown hair messy and unkempt; and her knuckles were white as she gripped the paper as hard as possible.

John's heart sank as he saw her. Covering his mouth with a hand, he turned away and felt his stomach churn. "Oh, God," he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes for a moment. The photograph was a proof of life, but she was not blindfolded. If she was not blindfolded, chances were that she knew what her kidnappers looked like. If she knew what they looked like, chances were slim that she would ever make it out alive.

"If they were planning to kill her, she's already dead," Sherlock said softly. "There's no need to get upset about something you cannot change."

Awestruck by his flatmate's lack of empathy, John incredulously asked, "No need, Sherlock? No need? There's a young woman out there somewhere, terrified out of her mind, and probably staring death in the face. You should have told Lestrade!"

"There are also thousands of people staring death in the face as we speak, many of them even younger than her," Sherlock pointed out, tucking the photo in his pocket. "And Lestrade will find out when he searches the house. However, if I told him now, he would have taken this picture as evidence, and I would not have been able to investigate as I need to." A moment of silence passed between the two as Sherlock opened the taxi door. "It'll be faster this way. Better for her."

John answered, "Jesus, Sherlock, of course I know that. You're a much better chance for her than the Yard, but that doesn't mean that I should just be indifferent to her plight."

"It also doesn't mean you should take the weight of the world on your shoulders if we find her dead," Sherlock responded as he slid in. "St. Bart's Hospital."

Sliding in after him, John closed the door. "Why are we going to Bart's?" he asked.

"I need Molly to run some tests for me," Sherlock answered as he pulled out his pocket magnifying glass. He began to closely examine the photograph. John knew better than to ask anything while Sherlock was observing, so he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes again as he tried to clear his mind. If anyone could save that girl, it was Sherlock, and John knew he just needed to place his complete faith in the consulting detective. Silence filled the air, and it was so quiet that John nearly jumped when Sherlock called out, "John."

Looking over at his flatmate, John asked, "We there?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said, motioning towards the building.

John quickly hopped out of the taxi as Sherlock paid the cabbie. They then headed inside, John following Sherlock, and to the morgue. As expected, Molly was down there, carefully examining a corpse. She looked up in surprise as she heard the door open. Almost immediately, she became flustered and flushed. She fidgeted slightly as she said, "Hello, Sherlock. Dr Watson."

"Molly, I need you to test the residue on this photo," Sherlock stated, cutting right to the chase.

Blinking in surprise, Molly reached forward and grabbed the photo. "Should I test for anything in particular first?"

"Common allergens that bring on anaphylaxis," Sherlock told her. "And I need you to return that photo to me as soon as you have what you need. I still need to do my own tests on it."

Molly whispered, "Okay," before scurrying off.

John felt bad for her. After all, he understood more or less where she was coming from. It was hard to love Sherlock, especially since he was so oblivious in regards to love. And although Sherlock knew John was in love with him, he had not made a single move outside of trying to start some experiments. John had been left feeling defeated and wondering if someone else – someone like Molly or Irene Adler – would have been better for Sherlock. Sighing, John shook his head and followed Sherlock out of the morgue and up to the laboratories the level above. Molly was already processing the picture, taking several swabs before handing it back to Sherlock. In turn, Sherlock took the picture and headed towards the opposite side of the room. John followed him as he always did and stood just off to the side, waiting in case Sherlock needed him.

Both Sherlock and Molly went to work. Sherlock was examining the picture under his pocket magnifying glass again. On the other side of the room, Molly slid a swab into a test tube filled halfway with some chemicals. Each of them worked independently, neither of them acknowledging the fact that the other person even existed. Finally, Molly beamed brightly before practically skipping over to Sherlock. "Peanuts," she informed him, showing him a print out.

Glancing over at it, Sherlock quickly responded, "Of course. Obvious. Thank you, John."

"That's Molly, Sherlock," John responded bitterly. "And for being the most observant man in the world, I'm offended that you think my voice sounds anything like that." He crossed his arms and pressed his lips together in distaste.

Sherlock smirked as he heard this. "I apologise. Thank you, Molly," he corrected himself before briefly looking up at John. His eyes reflected his amusement at John's indignity.

"You're welcome," she murmured in response, flushing a bit. "Do you need help with anything else?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock answered, "That'll be all."

"Oh. Okay then," she said quietly, avoiding eye contact with both of them. She looked around uncomfortably before heading back over to her station.

John couldn't help himself. She just looked so pitiful shuffling around her stuff. Quietly, he headed over to her and whispered, "You really did help him back there. He's not very good at being grateful, but that doesn't mean he isn't. He just can't express himself very well."

"I know," Molly answered, forcing a smile on her face. "But thank you for your concern."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Call Lestrade immediately." Quickly pulling out his phone, John punched in Lestrade's speed dial. As soon as the mobile began ringing, Sherlock walked over and snatched it out of John's hands. John stumbled after Sherlock, barely managing to bid Molly goodbye as he scrambled to keep up. Sherlock said, "Lestrade? Get to the Thames River immediately. You're looking for a boat that's parallel or near Jubilee Gardens. It'll be a small, nondescript boat. The suspect's daughter will be there." John could barely hear Lestrade yelling at Sherlock, asking the consulting detective how long he had known about the kidnapping and blackmail. Instead of answering, Sherlock closed the mobile and handed it back to John.

"Alright, how you know?" John asked as they headed towards the exit.

Not faltering for ever a second, Sherlock explained, "The room she is in is decorated with fishing equipment. She's been kidnapped, so she would not be taken to the kidnapper's home. No hotel would be caught dead with such décor, so that means she has to be somewhere else that would be decorated as such. The only logical possibility is a boat. So if you were a kidnapper, where would you go with a boat? Somewhere where it would not stand out – so, River Thames."

"But how could you know that it's anywhere near Jubilee Gardens?" John pressed as he hailed a cab.

Sherlock scoffed, "A mirror is nearly clipped out of the picture, but the Ferris wheel is visible So, near Jubilee Gardens."

"How do we know she's even still there?" John asked as he opened the taxi door.

Shrugging, Sherlock said, "We don't. This is a shot in the dark. Let us hope that it hits true."

Their taxi ride to the Thames was painstakingly slow. All John could think about was this poor girl, either dying or dead on this boat. Leaping out of the taxi, John felt his heart sink as he saw police cars and tape marking off the area around a boat. Lestrade was giving orders. His attention turned towards John and Sherlock as they headed over. Immediately, John knew Lestrade was furious. Lestrade made it to them in less than a minute. "You cannot keep information from us when we're investigating such a sensitive case!" he snarled.

Sherlock was completely indifferent to Lestrade's anger. "Is she still alive?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered. "But that's beside the point, Sherlock! You kept important information from us. Important information that could have led us to a dying girl faster."

Shaking his head, Sherlock cut in, "I told you to go to his house, didn't I? And I take that you found the ransom note somewhere in that house – probably on the kitchen counter or on top of his desk – ergo I indirectly informed you about the kidnapping and did not in fact keep any information from you. Besides, you wouldn't have found her any faster. I'm the only reason you're here right now."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled before realising that he had caught the attention of several officers. He took a moment to collect himself before hissing, "Every time I let you on one of our crime scenes, I am putting my arse on the line for you. If I cannot trust you completely, I can't let you at the crime scenes." Sherlock stiffened as he heard this.

John gently said, "Detective Inspector, Sherlock meant-"

"And you," Lestrade growled, turning on John. John blinked in astonishment to hear the venom in Lestrade's voice. "I expected more from you, John. I thought I could at least rely on you!"

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped, "Leave John out of this." Both Lestrade and John looked at him in disbelief. "He didn't know about what I had done until we had left the crime scene, and I kept him from contacting you. This is only between you and me."

Shocked, John could not believe that Sherlock had just lied to Lestrade. And Sherlock had lied in order to deflect the anger rightfully directed at him. After all, John knew better. He should have called Lestrade the moment Sherlock told him about the girl. But he hadn't because he knew Sherlock would figure it out. Sherlock would make everything right. And Sherlock was showing John just how much that trust meant to him. Or, at least, that's what John told himself. How could he truly understand why Sherlock Holmes did what he did?

"Fine," Lestrade said, turning back to Sherlock. "This is your only warning, Sherlock. Pull another stunt like this again, and I will have you arrested for withholding evidence. And you'll never be allowed at another crime scene again."

Sherlock set his jaw and said, "I understand. Let's go, John." He spun on his heels, his trench coat fluttering behind him.

"Sherlock, don't lose sight of the real goal," Lestrade called after him. "We need to get that money back."

Without looking back, Sherlock loudly responded, "And you'll get it!" He whipped out his mobile phone before calling someone. Once again, Sherlock managed to surprise John by his next actions. "Brother dearest, how are you?" Sherlock greeted, using a false chipper tone that he used only for Mycroft. "Quite fine, quite fine. I'm actually working on something for Lestrade, and he was hoping for your help," he explained. Smiling, John rolled his eyes. Even now, Sherlock could not ask his brother forthright for a favour. That would mean he owed Mycroft, which was unacceptable in Sherlock's book. "Yes, Lestrade is hoping for your help. A bank was robbed earlier this morning, and the money has disappeared completely. We need the surveillance footage from the bank as well as any of the vehicle the suspect gets in after the robbery. Over a million quid is on the line, so I'm sure you understand just how important this is." He paused for a moment before a smile broke across his face. "Lestrade will be so grateful. You know where to send it to."

John waited until Sherlock closed his mobile before saying, "You didn't have to do that back there."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, John clarified, "Lie to Lestrade. Defend me. He was right, you know. Although you might not understand, I know better. I should have warned him that there could possibly be a kidnapping."

"Then why didn't you?" Sherlock inquired a bit sharply.

John simply answered, "Because I trust you. I believe in you. Much more than I should, really. And only God knows why I do. But I wouldn't betray you. You do know that, right?"

Smiling softly, Sherlock said, "Yes, I know." Without another word, he hailed a cab and gave their address to the cabbie. John shook his head before getting in after Sherlock. This was most definitely going to be an interesting case.