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Dangerous Assumptions

Chapter Four

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It would be nice, thought Sherlock, as they rode together in the cab the next day, if John would make the effort to hold his hand, or at least sit as close as possible on the bench seat. But John was leaning against the far window as if he was hoping for a chance to escape out of it.

Not an encouraging sign.

They were travelling to view Moriarty's recovered corpse, which Sherlock had had frozen and hung up in a townhouse (after the head was cut off, of course), made to look like the victim of some ritual killer. Now they had been called in to solve the murder. It was all very tedious, so Sherlock devoted his time to more pressing problems.

That John was a sexual being was painfully obvious. By Sherlock's estimation, he had his first encounter young - far too young - and since then he'd consummated the act nearly every year, with increasing success. Ten separate sexual partners at least. All women: most likely the closest he'd ever come to a same-sex experience was being hit on by a man, probably at a pub, which he'd no doubt politely rebuffed with that good-natured humor that other people found so charming.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth: it had all been so easy for John! Living at home with his physically demonstrative parents! For God's sake, he had an older sister, who no doubt brought girlfriends and the like around the family home from a young age! Sherlock had lived at a boy's school and had barely even seen a woman until he was eighteen years old. His first experience of sex had been when a bunch of his schoolmates showed him a smutty picture in a magazine; a vacant-eyed woman with her hands down her panties. Sherlock had been repulsed, both by the picture and the boys' salacious interest in it. No wonder John had a healthy sexuality whereas Sherlock (apparently) was mostly aroused by the idea of drowning!

No, the dream had been merely disturbing, that was all. Sherlock didn't know why such images would arouse him or why his body got aroused without his permission. He did know that he needed to initiate physical contact at some point today, or risk John starting to waiver on the whole "relationship" endeavor. Those pair-bonding hormones would come in handy about now.

He glanced speculatively across the leather seat of the cab. John sat opposite him, backlit by the light of the window, seemingly glowing with health and youthful vigor.

And yet, John had made no overtures towards Sherlock – his boyfriend, one might arguably call him – in all of the forty-eight hours they'd been together.

He must be thinking about it. They had slept chastely together for an entire night. That very morning John had changed clothes in front of him, not even self-conscious about his naked body [most likely, Sherlock speculated, from years of close-quartered institutional environments; first rugby and then the military].

Sherlock had anticipated unwrapping his present himself, but he understood that he needed to be very careful, as John seemed skittish. Better to wait on that.

There had never been a strong physical attraction between them, but Sherlock was hopeful that he could be aroused by John if he decided to be. His brain was fully in the driver's seat, after all. It was fortunate that in general he preferred male partners over female, mostly because he disliked women on principle (they were, as a group, far too emotional in his estimation – always with the talking, the feeling … it was extremely tiresome).

He needed John to think of him that way, come to him to satisfy those kinds of urges, if their partnership was to succeed. It was just too unlikely, at least in Western culture, that two men who were not sleeping together would be able to give their relationship the kind of permanence and prominence that Sherlock required from John. John would never accept that he could live happily celibate – sooner or later he would seek out other sexual partners, and then he would naturally pursue those connections in preference to the one he had with Sherlock.

No. That could not be allowed to happen.

But how did one go about indicating their willingness to engage in such acts? His past partners, for various reasons, had never required invitation. And although Sherlock was a fair hand at seduction, it was mostly with strangers, within the context of a case. Surely his pre-existing relationship with John precluded the acting of a role; John, for example, already knew that his name was not Francisco Demingo, and that he was not an international jet-setter and heir to a gold mine.

Sherlock opened his mouth to initiate a conversation on this subject, but found it unexpectedly difficult. John's placid expression, fixed on the passing streets outside the window, was not inviting. Anyway, what would he even say? John, if you wished to engage in sexual acts with me, I would not be completely opposed to participation. If you would agree to a few guidelines and took a shower first.

That did not sound right. There were rules about introducing these topics, rules which Sherlock had never been privy too.

Perhaps John would merely require some guidance, as he did in most things. Truth be told there was a particular intimate activity that sounded to Sherlock like a good place to start, and which could probably be said to be his personal 'favorite'; in fact, they could proceed right now if they wanted to (Sherlock had heard of such things – the public nature added to the pleasure of the participants – and John liked danger…). But the question seemed awkward to propose.

-John, would you care to fellate my penis?

No, he couldn't. It wasn't at all the thing. Perhaps when they got home, Sherlock consoled himself: he imagined them standing together in a cleared-off section of the flat [text to Garry: Plz Clear off section of flat – SH], possibly over tea, after John had finished fussing about the leftover lo mein that Sherlock wasn't eating.

- After you tidy up the tea things, perhaps you wish to perform oral sex on me.

Sherlock contemplated, with some satisfaction, a vision of John on his knees, face buried in Sherlock's lap. Perhaps he could lay one hand on John's head – not pressing him down (Sherlock knew people didn't like that) – but just keeping pace with him as he moved. That would be satisfying, he decided. Of course John would have no experience at performing this specific act (Sherlock had determined that within moments of meeting him), whereas he, Sherlock, had been the recipient on two separate occasions. So John would require patient instruction, which Sherlock would provide, with sensitivity and kindness. The thought of what a considerate lover he would be made Sherlock feel almost proud of himself.

"Sherlock? Were you planning on getting out of the cab?"

Sherlock blinked. They were at the townhouse already, and John was standing at the door, peering in at him quizzically.

Disoriented and – horrifyingly – somewhat aroused (again! Unthinkable!), Sherlock scrambled to get out of the back seat, almost losing his footing on the high curb as he unfolded his long frame. The car door was already swinging down to strike him.

"Here," said John, nudging him out of the way so it fell harmlessly onto John's own hip. He extended a hand and Sherlock clasped tight hold of his wrist to regain his footing. "Be more careful, daftie."

They got out and Sherlock trailed after John, unexpected confusion welling through him. He always found himself disagreeably affected when John was nice to him; it left him feeling so flustered.

"Molly, have you had many sexual partners, would you say?"

They were standing in the lab while Molly collected skin samples from the unidentified corpse. There had been nothing of interest to see at the crime scene (as Sherlock had been 84 per cent confident that there would not be), so they were now back at the lab examining what only Sherlock knew were the frozen remains of Jim Moriarty.

He had left John outside with Lestrade – idiocy loves company – so it seemed rather a good time to gather data. It helped that Molly was a particularly un-intimidating woman, and he felt able to share his feelings with an unusual degree of freedom.

"Erm … sorry?"

To Sherlock it did not seem at all inappropriate to discuss this topic with someone who was known to have a crush on him. Frankly, Sherlock suspected that Molly could offer some useful pointers about how to initiate the fellating, having no doubt been on the receiving end of such requests before.

Also, as she had prior experience at being in an extremely unequal relationship with a man who was probably repulsed by her need for romantic affection, she ought to be able to provide unique insight into the situation.

As she pointed a modified space-heater in the vicinity of her ex-boyfriend's frozen torso, Molly flashed a slightly anxious smile in Sherlock's direction.

"I was just wondering, as it relates to my own circumstances," Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, yes, I heard that - you and John – you're a couple, now?" Her voice soft and shy. Of course, word would have spread quickly around the Yard; officers of the law were terrible gossips.

(Sherlock had announced their new status, loudly, in the middle of the crowded murder scene).

"Yes, it's true," said Sherlock.

"I see. Congratulations!" Molly tried to look cheerful, but the slight downward turn at the corner of her eyes indicated otherwise. Sherlock wondered if he would still be allowed unlimited access to the corpses now that Molly knew her chances of being with him were minimal. That would be unfortunate.

"I'm … I'm very happy for you two," she said, her voice was stronger now, her smile more sincere.

"Thank you, Molly," he said graciously.

"I didn't – um, don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't think that you and John were ga –, uhm, that you were that kind of friends," she said.

"It's very new," Sherlock agreed.

"Well, I'm sure the two of you will be very good for each other."

That was a very strange way to put it. "Er, I suppose so," said Sherlock doubtfully.

"It's exciting." She peered up at him through the brown curtain of her hair. "I really wasn't sure that you would be looking for that kind of thing?"

"Oh. Well, yes, my thinking has evolved over time," Sherlock agreed, watching as she sliced thin strips of skin from the soles of the frozen feet. Collecting samples for DNA evidence? "I find that our society is largely not set up for single people. It's difficult even to buy food in small enough quantities. Social events are largely designed for couples, as is so much of our infrastructure … medical systems, for example. Even things like vacations, living expenses, eating out," confronting sociopathic murderers, "the division of household chores."

"John says you don't do any chores," Molly noted. She was a reader of John's blog.

"Yes, well. Regardless, there are a wide variety of benefits that are better suited to couples or families," said Sherlock abstractly. "I could name hundreds if examples, to say nothing of all the psychological advantages of pair-bonding in humans. And of course there is the security in old age or infirmity."

Sherlock glanced down at the ring he was wearing on his right hand: rough-hewn silver, with the outline of a snake engraved in the side. Fretfully he twisted it around his index finger.

-Theyll eat u alive.

-Theyll stone u 2 death.

-ull die all alone :)

He clenched his teeth and forced the thoughts from his mind.

"Maybe I'll take up internet dating," said Molly, sounding demoralized.

She turned back to the corpse to test the resistance of its chest with her scalpel, but it was still too solid to cut. Frowning, she adjusted the heating unit.

"The truth is, I am not – a hundred per cent practiced at the art of romantic relationships," said Sherlock casually, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Molly froze, which Sherlock interpreted to mean that she was listening carefully.

"I do not always know how to best proceed," he said. Specifically, he did not know how to succeed at making John desire him sexually.

"Are you asking me for medical advice?" asked Molly, very delicately. "Um, intimately speaking?"

"What? Oh. No. Thank you, Molly, I have sodomized a man before," said Sherlock.

Molly went very red and started violently coughing. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry," she managed, gasping for breath. "So you were looking for some suggestions …?"

Sherlock sighed. "I've had sex," he said, "but I've never had a friend before. It seems to change the situation."

When he next looked up, Molly's face had gone soft, the way it did when she thought about kittens, or whatever else she thought about while she was down here among her decomposing remains.

"Well," she said finally, "I wouldn't worry too much about that." She bent to examine the feet of the corpse. "John is already very fond of you. I mean, I hadn't, urm, I hadn't thought your relationship tended in that direction, but there's no doubting his affection - I mean, all this time he's lived with you, gone with you on cases, tried to keep up with you, right?"

Sherlock watched her cut another piece of skin off the man she had presumably once tried to seduce into her bed. Was that for trace evidence, then?

"Well, yes," he said. He supposed he should have expected her to be familiar with sexless relationships, given her dating history. "But that's not, ah, that's not exactly the issue in question."

"I think you can trust John to take it at the right speed," Molly said, diplomatically. "That's the whole idea behind relationships, that you can just, um, let your guard down, like? And help each other? And you don't need to be on edge anymore, because you're, you know, you're together, you can just relax and let the other person back you up. D'you know what I'm saying?"

"No," said Sherlock thoughtfully. "Not in the slightest."

"Right." Molly sighed. "Well I suppose my advice is just to talk to John about how you're feeling. Because, erm, good communication is – you know, it's very important, in a relationship."

"Hmm." Sherlock looked moodily at the frozen, headless corpse and then back up. "I'll consider your suggestion. Good chat, Molly. I suppose I'd better be off. Have fun with – ah, you know." He nodded at the decapitated body and spun on his heel, his coat flaring behind him.

"Um – thanks?"

With barely a wave he stalked out of the lab with the tails billowing behind him like a cape.

Molly watched him leave, her brow a little furrowed - then shook her head in perplexity and returned her attention to stripping the remains of the mysterious John Doe.

Such an interesting case.

Collecting John was not difficult, and neither was steering him down the hallways of the Yard; they needed to get home so they could attempt Sherlock's latest scheme. He was in a great hurry and John was scurrying to keep up, a task made more difficult by his short little legs, which had to move at twice the speed to match pace.

They emerged through a side door and Sherlock was thinking how easy things were going – the murder achieved with barely a hitch, the cover up going along swimmingly – when John suddenly slammed into him from behind, knocking them both down to the sidewalk. All the air was pushed out of him and the cement crushed cruelly against the bones of his hip.

For one ridiculous moment he thought perhaps John had been overcome by the view of his sexy backside as he walked.

But then he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet impacting with a brick wall and put the whole thing together; they were being shot at.

Oh, fascinating.

Sherlock wanted to look at the point of impact – somewhere behind them and slightly to the left, if he was any judge, impossible to know if the bullet really would have hit them – but John was still on top of him, refusing to let him up. One arm was wrapped tight around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in to John's body, and the other was buried in his hair, pressing his face to John's chest. Sherlock choked against the suffocating fabric of his shirt, but the grip was relentless, and only tightened as Sherlock tried to move.

"John?" Sherlock tried to squirm out from under him, but John merely pressed down with more of his weight. It ground Sherlock's already-battered side further against the sidewalk, and he muffled a cry and fell still, breathing wetly through John's shirt.

"John!"

John's head was tucked over his own, hunched over his body, his chin pressing into his crown. "Stay down, it's alright, shh," he muttered, his voice strange and tight. "Just stay down." The fist in his hair was immovable.

Well of course he was going to stay down – he wasn't an idiot. Keeping low he managed to turn in John's arms and eventually work himself free, looking up to demand an explanation.

Instead he was confronted with the sight of John, face white as a hospital sheet, one hand clamped around his own shoulder.

Oh shite. Sherlock hadn't even heard the second shot - was it a different gun, one with a silencer? It made no sense. But here John was, just as Moriarty had predicted – likely bleeding out as they spoke, killed trying to save Sherlock's life.

Please God, let him live.

"Let me see, John," Sherlock demanded, which was unwise, as it was better to keep pressure on a penetrative injury. Wasn't it? But Sherlock had to see the wound, had to know how bad it was. Perhaps it was only a graze. There was no blood on the back of his shoulder, so did that mean the wound was minor, or just that the bullet was still inside him? "John. Stop. Let go, let me see."

It was terrible to feel the fluttering panic in his chest, the frantic need to stop up whatever part of John that was bleeding. Sherlock hated to panic, and tried to avoid it whenever possible. But honestly, who could have helped themselves, when they went from being huddled tightly in John's strong arms, to being turned lose in the cold street and suddenly realizing that John was shot? It was very disconcerting!

And really, what were the chances that it would be that same shoulder? Could they honestly not catch a break?

"John, let me see!" But when he tore John's fingers away, the fabric underneath was perfect and whole. Not real, Sherlock realized in time with his pounding heartbeat - not real, not real – John was fine, it was some kind of psychological reaction of the kind to which John was apparently prone.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John was asking, his voice faint. Idiot! Moron! Sherlock was perfectly alright, he'd seen to that, hadn't he, using his own body as a shield. It was John they needed to worry about, for God's sake, John who could have been shot and who was now squatting helplessly on the sidewalk, face clammy and pale, no doubt going into shock.

"Am I - honestly, John. Yes, I'm fine." John's teeth had quietly started to chatter. His eyes were still vacant.

"Sorry," he managed. "I think I'm a little off my head."

Flashback, brought on by the PTSD, of course. So stupid of Sherlock to think otherwise. He wanted – suddenly, incongruously - to pull John against his own side, warm him up and calm him down, but that was not Sherlock's strength; instead he was forced to get them moving. They were not safe where they were.

He gripped John's arm and hustled him out from behind the car, ignoring his protests, and forcibly dragged him into the crowd milling in the street. Walking on his jarred hip proved to be unexpectedly painful, but Sherlock forced himself to ignore it. He had to get John home, quickly, before the psychological symptoms worsened and John became useless. Hopefully the sniper, having missed his chance, was long gone or wouldn't be able to shoot them amongst so many people.

They were entering the train station when Sherlock was distracted by an irritating buzz. His phone - there was a new message. Impatiently, he flicked it open.

-Hello, Pet, it said.

-Soon ur both going 2 be dead :)

While he had John safely stashed under the awning of a mini market, Sherlock paced frantically - compensating for a prominent limp - and stared at the screen of his phone.

-Did you like the sniper?

-I thought it was a nice touch 4 poor John.

-Must be a nasty shock for him, almost getting shot again

-& so soon after the last time, too …

They were all from Moriarty's number.

Sherlock texted Mycroft first. He had to check that the flat was secure before he took John there. If someone was trying to kill them, they would start at 221B.

-No security violations within the past 72 hours, said Mycroft's text.

Alright. The flat was safe. They just had to get back to Baker Street. Then John would be fine, not staring sightlessly through him the way he did when Sherlock reclaimed his arm and urged him to start walking.

He disliked that the war was still so present for John. Sherlock would prefer that it was something that had happened to him a long time ago, long before he met Sherlock, that merely taught him some useful skills and gave him a slightly more worldly outlook than the average. An interesting story, nothing more.

The short walk to the flat was interminable - pock-marked with places for a shooter to hide, with his side angrily protesting each step. John seemed antsy even at their own front steps, continually pausing to look back towards the street. Sherlock forced him up ahead of him, covering his back, and hobbled up after him.

Who could have done this?

Sherlock wasn't stupid: there was no question that Moriarty was dead. Sherlock could have held his skull in his hands, if he wanted to.

And this was no ghost.

Clearly the texts were written by somebody else. Even the cadence of the words was different. Also, there were several missed opportunities to miss the use of shortcuts. Jim had insisted on inserting them at every opportunity, perhaps knowing that it grated on Sherlock's nerves to read them, like nails on a chalkboard. He'd exaggerated their use, deliberately, never missing a single possibility for a letter substitution or an abbreviation. Another of his games.

This new person didn't follow the pattern perfectly.

Somebody with access to Moriarty's phone, obviously, or at least the same number. The phone hadn't been among Jim's effects. It must be someone from within his organization. Somebody who wanted him to believe that it was Moriarty, or at least make the connection to the dead man.

Somebody who knew of his games with Sherlock, somebody who knew of their ongoing conversations. Not even John had ever known about those texts.

A follower, an acolyte? The second in command, stepping into the shoes of a fallen leader.

He would have to send a request to Mycroft, asking for additional security: his pride could wait until they weren't at risk of being picked off from an adjoining rooftop. He'd have to keep John in the flat. Inconvenient.

But really, Sherlock meditated, it was all rather perfect. He already had a murder to cover up, and now here was a murderer on the loose. The solution was obvious: kill two birds with one stone, and blame the former on the latter. Simple and elegant.

Really, as long as he could keep them both from being killed, he couldn't have planned it better, himself.

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