AN: I would just like to take the time to say thank you for reading and ask again that for any concerns/complaints/suggestions/questions/if you are offended by anything, please feel free to politely comment or reach out to me via email (birdie7272 ). I am more than willing to discuss any and every aspect of my fic but I respond best to respectful inquiries. Fandom = love. (this is coming off Ao3)

On a happy note... We have a goddess among us! The lovely Jaharra has offered to beta for us. *bows* Praise her and her grammar wisdom!

Cock

Moriarty really and truly was the definition of an absolute bitch.

Their next case brought with it a recurring theme.

"Cock!" Sherlock shouted loud enough to make everyone on the street jump.

They were walking back from their latest case, intent on making it to St. Bart's before Molly left for home. Not that she would not stay after hours anyway. Poor sweet bisexual Molly still had the biggest crush on grumpy never-going-to-happen Sherlock.

The case was the murder of an unnameable man in his fifties. His fingerprints had been burned off and, so far, nothing had come up as a DNA match and his dental records would take a few days, minimal. He was found sitting in the urinal of a public bathroom, held up by rope and what Sherlock had immediately identified as 'a various array of cock rings'.

The dead man was naked, which made it easy to see his penis was completely missing, the wound cauterized by what Sherlock deduced as a homemade blowtorch. Lestrade could not hold back his hiss of sympathy when John assured him it had not been post mortem this time.

Sherlock had plenty of deductions, including that the man was an assassin who enjoyed tuna salad, but the death itself was still a puzzle. The man's tongue had been carved out but that was an old injury. On top of his bald head was a target, three circles surrounding a dot, all drawn in bright red lipstick. All evidence pointed to asphyxiation but there were no marks around or in the throat.

Sherlock took samples of the lipstick while John distracted the yarders with the tale of Sherlock's bras cooking in the oven last winter and they left immediately for Bart's to access superior equipment.

"Hey, lady," A man further up the street called to Sherlock, a shit eating grin on his face, three of his friends chuckling behind him. "If you want my cock you don't got to shout. All you gotta do is smile for me, babes."

John groaned. At the moment, she really did not want to fight a group of twenty year old idiots. It was too bright out and there would be cops.

The man continued, winking and thrusting out his hips as they passed. "I bet you look gorgeous when you smile. Those lips were made for something alright."

Sherlock whipped around and growled. "Your mother's a slag."

The man threw up his hands and chuckled to his friends. "No need to be a cunt. I'm only giving you a compliment."

"No," Sherlock clipped her heels to a stop and enunciated extra slow. "I'm not saying that as some generic insult. Your mother is actually a slag." She gestured to his group of friends. "She's sleeping with your best friend there and that man there. In fact, his fly is still down and he has her lipstick on his zipper. So apparently, she was whoring with him this morning!"

Madness broke out as the friends guiltily argued back, running when the son eventually came after them. John chuckled to herself and pulled Sherlock along before she started pointedly insulting any of the strangers that did not deserve it.

"Hello," Molly greeted softly, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and dropped her gaze once Sherlock nodded at her.

Of anyone in that room, John would have guessed Molly to be the sub. Then again, who knew what Molly got up to when alone with her boyfriend. If she still had that boyfriend. John had not dared to ask, lest she burst into a fit of tears like the last time she had a breakup.

"Hey Molly," John greeted and took a seat as Sherlock got to work. "How are you?"

"Fine," Molly said, her eyes wandering towards Sherlock. "What's this case?"

"Cock!" Sherlock yelled.

Molly blanched, her face turning an alarming shade of red.

John chuckled under her breath and turned to Sherlock. "Stop trying to scar Molly."

Sherlock huffed and pulled out her phone.

John turned back to Molly and smiled. "Third crime scene in a month that a penis has been featured in."

Molly's red face did not recede. "Strange," she choked.

"Very," John agreed.

Molly did not need to hear about Moriarty. John was sure she could handle herself, but Molly was still an emotional person. It hurt when she found out her new girlfriend was actually an evil mastermind using her to get to her number one crush. There was no need to bring up any reappearances if it were not detrimental to her safety.

"Let me know if there is any way I can help," Molly offered.

John nodded. "The body will be brought here. Cause of death would be fantastic, as per usual."

The cause of death came back in two days time, no thanks to Sherlock's 56 text messages asking for updates.

"Really?" John called into the phone, having snatched it once Sherlock started going off on a rude tirade about Molly being distracted by juvenile arguments with her immature excuse for a lover.

"Yup," Molly answered. "Still no DNA matching in the system but it is definitely his."

"There won't be a match on anything!" Sherlock yelled, upside down on the sofa. "He was an assassin!"

Molly continued, clearing her throat, "Right, so, like I said. The sperm and blood in his throat matches his own DNA. The cause of death was by something thick and rounded but not strong enough to cut through the tissue in the throat. Which, with the DNA, leads me to believe-"

"He choked on his own cock!" Sherlock screamed, throwing a hand into her hair.

Molly coughed, "Yes. That. After he had, um, ejaculated."

"Thank you, Molly," John sighed and looked to Sherlock, now curled up and kicking both legs over the back of the couch. "That's… very disturbing, but I'm sure very helpful."

"No problem," Molly said. "Now, if you don't mind I need to call Greg."

"Of course. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

The phone call done, John joined Sherlock on the couch, steering clear of her feet pounding against the wall.

"Look," John started, trying to be as reasonable as she could when there was a big purple cock mural still above her. "I was wrong. Clearly this is Moriarty having fun. But you've beaten her before. She's left you a string of murders that you now know are definitely linked. Once you look at all the pieces, I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Oh," Sherlock cried, spinning and pounding her head into the cushions instead of banging her feet. "You wonderfully dimwitted girl. How I long to live in your head for only a day. It would be a holiday!"

John sighed, waiting for the drama queen to get to the point.

"You don't get it!" Sherlock rolled completely around again and dropped her head in John's lap. "There is always something more with her. If I haven't connected the pieces by now, that means there is one missing, and that one will likely end up like the others any day now."

John's mouth puckered in understanding. "Someone else is going to die. And you're worried you won't save them in time."

"Oh, please." Sherlock huffed and turned into John's stomach, her voice muffled by John's shirt. "That's no concern of mine."

John grit her teeth, reminding herself Sherlock was not actually a heartless witch of a woman and that she just did not like to be called out on having emotions. Scared of intimacy, that one.

"He won't be…" Sherlock crossed her arms in front of her chest. "What did you call it? A nice man."

John put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back, trying to gage her frustration pout. It was nearing the level of 'the only cases available are 2s, we ran out of chocolate biscuits, and John threw out your emergency cigarettes'. It was best to talk her through it. "How do you know he won't be a nice man? I mean, the assassin, sure. Arnold and the banker- what was his name? Carl? They seemed innocent enough."

Sherlock groaned, pushed into John's stomach once more, then flopped onto her back, yelling at the ceiling. "I already told you! They are connected!"

"Yes." John flexed her hand and tried to keep her voice level. "But you never told me how. And if you did, it was not to me. It was to Billy the skull."

Sherlock snapped her attention to the skull and glared as if it had personally wronged her.

"Out loud, please," John reminded her.

"The banker worked for the assassin. He was the one who, quite illegally, deposited large sums of money into the killer's offshore account in exchange for a plethora of hookers."

"And how do you-"

"Joooohn!"

John lifted up her hands and apologized, "Please, finish!"

"Moriarty obviously employed the assassin and supplied the banker with his prostitutes."

"Obviously."

Sherlock glared and John mimed zipping her lips.

"Their connection was established through the cock rings."

John snorted.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Don't be childish, John. The brand of the rings holding up the assassin were the same as the ones left on the nightstand in the banker's home. A cherry left for us by Moriarty herself."

"Can we not compare cock rings to cherries?"

"Once the connection is established the reason behind it becomes clear. What else would a low level banker, easy to forget and makinging minimal money, have to do with an assassin? He could barely afford a prostitute, let alone five at a time."

"Five?" John had to interrupt.

"At least. Based off the size of the bed and the nail polish left on the wall I would have said four. Not to mention the glitter everywhere. But the empty glasses with distinctly different shades of lipstick say otherwise. Really, how did you not see it?"

John shook her head. Amazed, as always.

"Haywire is trickier. How is he connected to all this? Nothing in his records connects him to the banker. His email in unhackable, thanks to Moriarty, I'm sure. He could have hired the assassin, but the motive is unclear. Who did he have killed? Who is the missing link? Where is the missing data? Why all the cocks?!"

Sherlock was gripping her hair by the end of it all, curled up against John's thigh, kicking the cock on the wall again, aiming at the hilt of the knife jutting out of the balls. John took pity and pet at her hands, trying to get her to stop pulling.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out soon," John soothed, grabbed Sherlock gently by the wrist and freed her from the knot she was creating. "Tomorrow we'll lay out all the evidence from each case and tape them to the wall- eh-" She prematurely interrupted Sherlock's protest, "We are not pinning them. Last time you used a set of arrows and do I really need to mention the mess above my head right now?"

Sherlock sighed, pouted, and rolled onto her other side, frowning towards the fireplace. "We're out of tape."

"Why are we- Never mind. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason all three rolls are gone."

"Experiment," Sherlock huffed.

John had to contain her fond chuckle. "I'll get more tomorrow before I meet Martin-"

"Marshall."

"-for lunch."

Sherlock did not appear to be moving, so John reached for the book closest to her and dove into a refresher course on new methods for treating hypothermia.