Somebody to Die For- BBC Sherlock|Johnlock|Sequel to Between the Raindrops

Chapter Three- Durability: Infinite

A/N- Bit of a crossover here… Just to give you some clues. Slight smuff, too. And terrible innuendos. Sorry.

There was something Sherlock had not noticed about the man in the convenience store. Not out of stupidity, but because of what was unknown to the majority of the human race. And because Sherlock had not picked this up, there was no way he could possibly know that he was being followed.

The real shopkeeper had gone home three hours before he purchased the roses. Or, at least, he had tried.

Fortunately, somebody else had noticed. It was their job, after all. The family business in a way.

Hazel Peregrine and ‘Michael’ stared at the creature on the pavement, unsure what to do with it. It still looked like the man, of course, but its body odour was even worse. They were glad Sherlock had not noticed them yet- ‘Probably too busy getting the 221D’ as 'Michael' had said (gaining a massive slap from Hazel)- because standing over a corpse right in front of the home of the world’s only consulting detectives seemed to be asking for trouble.

Hopefully John would just think the gunshot was another one to the wall. Or perhaps a firework. It was that time of year, after all.

“Good thing the little shits ain’t bulletproof,” said an American accent from behind them. Hazel nodded, not bothering to turn around.

“Little?” ‘Michael’ raised an eyebrow.

 Hazel pulled out her phone from her pocket, and spoke into it quietly but clearly.

“Siri, I need to hide a body.”

“Again?”

‘Michael’ saw the body flinch, so he fired another shot at it just to make sure it was dead.

~~~

“You know, you’re only making it frizzier.”

“Sherlock, loosen up a bit. You’re home now,” John sighed, running a towel gently through Sherlock’s hair which was still damp from the shower.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock. “I just thought I heard something outside.”

“You probably did. We live in London.”

“You don’t say.”

“Cock,” John mumbled, shaking his head slowly.

“Is that a nickname or a request?” said Sherlock, smiling coyly.

“Fuck off,” John blushed.

The laugh that was about to escape Sherlock’s lips found itself trapped and swallowed when he heard the next noises- low voices talking from outside, a loud bang, an awkward hiss and a whooshing wheeze that sounded like something off the television.

John frowned, hearing the sounds this time, and removed the towel from Sherlock’s head so he could listen better, but there was nothing except the noise of far off sirens.

“D’you want me to go and have a look?” John asked, nudging Sherlock’s knee with his own. Sherlock nodded, so John borrowed his maroon housecoat and tied it closed at the waist. Swinging his legs off the bed, he crept towards the window and pulled back the curtains.

Nothing, except something glistening on the pavement.

With a shudder, John convinced himself that it was only a puddle of rainwater and tiptoed back to Sherlock.

“It’s fine,” he shrugged the dressing gown off and passed it back to his husband who dumped it on the floor next to the towel. He tousled Sherlock’s hair.