Hey there lovely readers! Just wanted to say thankyouthankyouthankyou for reading and all that. 901 reads so far... it's kind of unbelievable. Thanks for the votes and comments as well. Her'es chapter seven, I hope you'll like it!

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The ride to the crime scene was a short one. Sherlock had been quite accurate when he told Lestrade he would see him in fifteen minutes. When the cab stopped both men got out and John began looking around at his surroundings. They were in a part of town he'd never been to before. All he could see were old brick buildings and an abandoned warehouse. There were a few police cars and other emergency vehicles parked outside one of the buildings, and a small crowd of people had gathered. Sherlock paid the cabbie, then stood next to John.

"You ready?" He asked, staring straight ahead. John just nodded. He was pretty sure Sherlock had been talking to himself anyway from the soft tone of his voice. This was the first case he'd taken since the one he couldn’t figure out. John knew he must've been nervous. They began walking, and when they reached the yellow police tape Sherlock held it up for John, as he usually did. Nobody tried to stop them or question them, which was strange. John guessed Lestrade had informed everyone that they were coming.

John stood near the entrance and waited while Sherlock talked with one of the officers outside. His eyes scanned the crowd of people, and landed on a young woman with her head in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking and someone had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. He looked away from the crying woman to see Sherlock walking over to him. He greeted him with a smile, then gestured toward the open door with his hand.

"Shall we?"

John's mouth stretched into a tight-lipped smile and he nodded. Sherlock went in first, and John followed closely behind.

"The officer says they're upstairs," Sherlock called over his shoulder. John just kept walking, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace as they climbed the stairs. They reached the second floor and followed the familiar sound of Lestrade's voice into what John guessed was a bedroom. There were only a handful of people in the room, but since the room was so small it appeared to be awfully crowded. John and Sherlock squeezed in the door and went over to the bed, where Lestrade was standing, staring down at a figure laying beneath a white sheet. There was a spot of red in the center of the bed, and from the slightly metallic aroma in the air John knew it was the blood of the victim.

Cameras were flashing and everyone seemed to be talking at once. It was quite a busy scene. John knew it would eventually get on Sherlock's nerves, especially when he began to analyze everything and begin his deducing. John stood back and watched Sherlock walk up to Lestrade and begin talking. He couldn't hear what they were saying due to the other conversations that were going on. John was only able to pick up bits and pieces of them all. He learned that the victim was a man who had just gotten married, and that he was supposed to be moving the next day to the house he and his wife had just purchased. John figured the crying woman he'd seen outside was the wife. Well, widow now.

John found a corner of the room that was free of people and went to it. He leaned up against the wall and watched with his arms crossed while Sherlock put on a pair of gloves and slowly pulled away the sheet. Everyone in the room began crowding around to see, so Lestrade told them all to leave. John wasn't sure if he should stay or go, but remained still while everyone else left. Soon it was just Sherlock, Lestrade, and John alone in the room. Sherlock had pulled out his magnifying glass and was examining every single part of the body and the bed it was laying in. John still had no idea why Sherlock always brought that thing along. He wondered if it helped at all, or if he just did it to look cool.

John's eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock's hunched figure while he maneuvered around the bed. Lestrade glanced over in John's direction, and his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, hello John," he said. "I hadn't noticed you come in." At that point in time John began to walk closer to the two of them and smiled at the detective inspector. They shook hands and John nodded his head.

"Yeah well, I was already out with Sherlock so I figured I'd drop by."

"That's good." He chuckled and shook his head. "You know, that one time when Sherlock showed up alone I was a bit worried."

"What do you mean?" John asked, tilting his head to the right slightly like a confused puppy. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I figured from the way he was acting that you'd gone away somewhere." He paused. "Or at least quit the detective stuff." John looked to Sherlock, who was pretending not to hear the conversation that was going on. He was now tapping away on his phone, completely motionless except for his fingers.

"Oh, no," he said, looking back to Lestrade with a smile. "I'd never do that."

John peered over at Sherlock again, who was still pretending to be deaf for some reason and hadn't looked up from his phone. However, he thought he saw the faintest hint of a smile on his pale, pink lips.

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About twenty minutes after they'd arrived at the crime scene Sherlock and John were sitting in the back of a cab on their way back to their flat. Turns out the wife was the murderer. Apparently she'd had cold feet for weeks, but had decided to go along with the wedding anyway. Then on their honeymoon she'd planned to start an argument when they got back so he would want to end the marriage. However, the argument had become quite intense and ended in her stabbing him with a steak knife. Then she put him in bed and threw the knife out the window before calling the police.

Sherlock had also managed to locate the knife in a dark alleyway in less than five minutes. How Sherlock managed to figure all of that out so quickly baffled John. When he expressed his fascination with Sherlock's work the detective had given him a closemouthed smile and went on his way. John always felt self conscious after complimenting Sherlock, yet he found that he was always doing it. He wished he knew if it bothered Sherlock or not, so he would know if he should try to stop or not.

When they made it into the flat, John wished he'd gotten his pasta to go instead of leaving it on the table. He was still a bit peckish, so he went straight to the kitchen when they got inside.

"Goodness John," Sherlock said, appearing beside him while he looked in the fridge, "Is there ever a time when you aren't hungry? You're starting to remind me of my brother." John looked up at Sherlock in time to see him making a face at his mention of Mycroft. He laughed quietly, then closed the door and began searching through cabinets.

Sherlock disappeared into his room, but returned minutes later without his scarf and coat. He went to the living room and sat down on the sofa. John continued his search for snacks for several more minutes before giving up and sitting in his armchair. He picked up his laptop and turned it on.

He felt eyes on him, so he looked up at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I’m doing, I'm turning on my laptop." Sherlock sent John a glare that could curdle milk and he immediately apologized. "I figured I'd work on my blog." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Not that thing," he said, grabbing a newspaper off of a nearby table. He flopped down on the couch and opened the paper. How Sherlock managed to open it so loudly and forcefully without tearing the newspaper John would never know.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound being that of John's typing and Sherlock's page turning. Occasionally a car would pass by and John could hear it through the window, but otherwise it was rather quiet.

John heard a low groaning sound coming from the direction of the couch Sherlock was resting on. He ignored it and continued writing. The groaning continued, and got louder as time went on. John found himself grinding his teeth as his irritation grew.

Sherlock let out a loud sigh, and John slammed his hand on the coffee table.

"Sherlock do you mind?" he yelled. "I'm trying to work here!" Sherlock sat up quickly and glared at John.

"On what? That stupid blog of yours? Don't be absurd that thing isn't the least bit important."

Sherlock got up and stormed off into his room, leaving John by himself. He sat silently, thinking about what Sherlock had said. He knew his blog wasn't all that exciting or interesting. He knew that it wasn't a world famous blog…yet. But, he was actually beginning to enjoy writing it. He'd thought his therapist was crazy when she told him to start it, but now he saw that it was helping him. Having some time to himself to reflect on what has happened in his life was actually beginning to give him some kind of joy. Though, he found that he mostly wrote about Sherlock and their adventures together. The fact that Sherlock himself had told him his blog wasn't important kind of hurt. If the person whom the blog was practically dedicated to didn't care about it, why should he?

John slowly closed his laptop and left it on the table before going into his room for the night.