A/N - The chapters seem to keep growing in length. This one needed room for more slashiness though, so it's justified ;) Anyway, more to come, hope you enjoy this installment!

Chapter 3: Out of the Fire?

Words in red spread out over the smooth wall of the cell. In the corner two men zipped closed a body bag around the corpse of poor, unfortunate Tony. Sherlock stood in the middle of the cell, examining the scarlet message with a pensive expression. To some it might seem a rather callous reaction to the death of a young man who had obviously been an associate, but Sherlock hadn't said a word since we received the news from Lestrade about what happened. I knew he'd noticed probably a million things upon entering the cell, but gave word to none.

"So," I said, stepping up beside him. I tipped my head, eyeing the message. "What's it written in, blood?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. Red paint." He gave me the same sort of look he gave newspaper reporters who were trying to make a story more dramatic than it actually was.

Don't try to read between the lines,

Say the bells of St. Augustine's.

"Is it another line from the poem?" I asked, frowning. "It doesn't really rhyme though."

"Only if you read it incorrectly. Visually it does." Sherlock took a deep breath before turning to Lestrade. "This is obviously connected with the fire."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest, regarding Sherlock skeptically. "Oh yes? And how do you figure that?"

"The rhyme. That…oranges and lemons thing the children say that has all the names of the churches, the fact that both of these crimes have been linked to me…"

Anderson, who was one of the men cleaning up the body, looked up from where he crouched and scowled. "You're saying this is your fault?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes. "In exactly the same way it's my fault that I have to put up with you! Of course it isn't my fault, whoever is doing this decided they need to take me out to do whatever it is they're trying to accomplish."

"Because you're such a sociopath?" Anderson retorted.

"Alright, alright, can we stop this?" Lestrade said, glaring between the two men. "This is hardly the time or the place. Sherlock, aside from the fact that whatever is going on here is supposedly centered around you, is there anything else you can tell us?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "No, that is what's going on here. I can give you whatever information you need about Tony, but as for the killer…" he brought his fingertips together and shook his head. "This is just another piece of the puzzle. As frustrating as it is, I may need to wait until they give me more…" He turned and strode from the cell.

I glanced around at the others, then hurried after Sherlock, Lestrade hot on my heels.

"So that's it?" Lestrade called after us. "People are dying, Sherlock, and all you're going to do is wait?"

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the reception area and turned to face Lestrade as he pulled his scarf on. "Fine. This is someone in control of a great number of people, gang leader or some such position. There are a few things of which I am absolutely sure, first, that they want control of London in one respect or another. Secondly, this person is plotting a major move in the near future, no doubt something you government types will label an act of terrorism, and you will be correct. Thirdly that all of these clues are leading me into a trap so that this person can have me out of the way before they make their biggest move against this city."

The entire room had gone eerily silent, all attention now on us. I looked over at the desk and met Donna's wide, shocked eyes.

Lestrade let out a long sigh. "And you're still going to keep following them, even knowing, or figuring or whatever, that it's a trap?"

"If I don't there will be far worse consequences," Sherlock replied. "More people will die." He frowned. "You don't believe me."

"No," Lestrade sighed. "I'm sure you can back up everything you've just told me, Sherlock, it's just this all seems more like something out of a James Bond movie and less like something out of real life."

Sherlock turned to him with a dark smile. "Psychopaths always have a flare for the dramatic."

"And you would know, wouldn't you, Freak?" Sally appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She stepped up to Lestrade's side. "Sir, call for you, it's about this…" she nodded back in the direction of the cells.

Lestrade didn't look too thrilled at the prospect. "Sherlock, would you mind just hanging on for a minute while I finish this?"

"I suppose…" Sherlock said idly, glancing at the clock. "As long as it doesn't take too long."

"Two minutes!" Lestrade promised, heading back towards his office.

I sighed and back against the edge of the front desk. Whoever was doing all of this obviously knew my friend quite well, especially the way he couldn't resist a challenge, even if, no, especially if his life was at stake. The idea of something happening to him briefly crossed my mind, and a thick lump welled in my throat. I looked over at Sherlock, but managed to hold my tongue. Around us, the busy flutter of the reception area had started up again. I could hear Donna shuffling papers and answering phones behind me. Officers came and went dragging various no-good-nicks through.

Lestrade returned, though Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That was three minutes and forty seconds. I told you I don't have time for this, we have a dinner reservation." He glanced back at me, indicating I was part of the 'we.'

"We do?" I raised my eyebrows.

"Yes, Italian place over in South Kensington. Ghirlandaio's, something like that."

"You and me? Dinner?" I said, still giving him a baffled look.

Lestrade looked half annoyed and half amused, which was his general attitude towards anything Sherlock did. "You know, Sherlock, when you're taking someone out on a dinner date you're generally supposed to tell them first."

"It's not a date!" I snapped automatically. Then something jumped in my chest. I looked to Sherlock with wide, questioning eyes, then immediately regretted even thinking about asking when I remembered we were standing in a crowded room.

"It was Mycroft's suggestion," Sherlock said with a long-suffering sigh.

That didn't do much to reassure me about his motives. "Mycroft? Sherlock, when do you ever listen to a suggestion of Mycroft's?"

"Since he has a surveillance camera in our front hallway." Sherlock gave me a very pointed look. I could feel all the blood draining from my face. Dear God. Sherlock shook his head, muttering something about destroying the offending piece of technology as soon as we got home.

"I'm not sure I even want to know," Lestrade muttered. "Sherlock, just a quick word before you go dashing off."

My flat mate turned to him, silently waiting for the quick word.

"I've been pulled from the case," Lestrade said, then, when Sherlock's eyes widened questioningly, continued, "Yes, apparently someone up high agrees with you. They agree with you so much that they've decided to call this a matter of national security and take it off my hands."

"Did they say anything about me being taken off of it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade gave him a calculating look. "Would you listen if I said they had?"

"No." Sherlock motioned to me. "Come along, John. We need to get to the restaurant."

Reluctantly I followed him out, wondering if anyone else's head was spinning the way mine was. Sitting back in a cab a few minutes later, I stared at Sherlock with an intense frown. Outside the city was starting to light up for the evening, and I was trying to switch my mind from murder scene to dinner with Sherlock Holmes. And speaking of which…

"Was this really Mycroft's suggestion?"

"Yes." Sherlock gazed out the window thoughtfully. "Or rather, Mycroft's insistence. He got the reservation and told me I had better use it."

"Or what?" A horrible thought came into my mind, just as I remembered that Sherlock often referred to his brother as the most dangerous man I'd ever meet. "Was…was he going to blackmail you or something?"

Sherlock's head snapped around. "What?"

"Well, you said he had a camera in our front hall, I take it you meant he has a recording –"

"John," Sherlock said, holding up his hand to stop me. "First of all, if Mycroft wanted to blackmail me there are far worse things he could use. I doubt it would come as a surprise to anyone to see me kissing another man."

I let out a long sigh. "What was it then?"

"He realized how dangerous this case is going to get, how important it is. He told me he'd have me forcibly kept away from it if I didn't take him up on his suggestion."

"So that was him that took Lestrade off of it?"

"I am sure."

"Good, good…" The Thames sparkled on our left and I gazed out at it for a moment. Then, suddenly something struck me. "No, no, wait, that's not good!"

"John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're saying the only reason we're going out to dinner is because your brother threatened you?" I liked to think that I had gotten quite used to Sherlock's social awkwardness in the time we'd been living together, I could put up with his rude behaviors and unintentional egotism, but for some reason this struck a deeper chord with me. I wasn't annoyed, I was thoroughly disappointed and let down.

And I could tell by the way Sherlock was studying my face he was trying to figure out what was going on in my head, trying to gauge, as he did, what would be the correct and appropriate response. "I didn't say I won't enjoy having dinner with you."

"Seriously? That's the best you can do?" When Sherlock chose not to respond to this, I turned my back to him with a huff.

Needless to say we were in a less than amiable mood when we arrived at the restaurant a while later. I was relieved to see that it wasn't a necessarily couple ridden restaurant, there were plenty of large groups of friends and…couples…couples….They sat us at a two person table against the wall. Candlelight threw shivering shadows over Sherlock's face. Damn it was hard to stay mad at him when he was looking like that.

"Usually its you yelling at me for sulking," he said, looking at me over the top of the wine menu.

I opened the menu, making a great show of examining the options. It really wasn't a surprise that everything sounded wonderful, a man who knew everything about the city would no doubt know the best places to eat. Score one for Mycroft.

"You're ignoring me, fine…"

I set the menu down. "Yes, Sherlock, because I'm mad at you."

"Because I took you out for dinner?"

"No, because it took a threat from your brother to get you to!" I paused then, mostly because I recalled hearing almost the exact same argument between a young man and woman standing outside Speedy's the other morning. "What's really going on here, Sherlock? Are you actually trying or is this your really round about way of letting me down?"

"Letting you down?" Sherlock gazed at me, and if it was anyone but him I'd say he looked confused. "This is why I don't usually bother myself with trivial things like feelings and relationships…" he murmured, lifting the menu.

I didn't really think his intentions were anywhere near as hard as his words, but under the circumstances I didn't particularly care. I wadded up the napkin that had been in my lap, threw it onto the table and got to my feet. "Excuse me." I muttered, heading in the direction of the bathrooms.

The men's bathroom had two stalls in it, but I locked the main door behind myself anyway, walking over to lean on the edge of one of the sinks and stare at myself in the mirror. I still wasn't actually sure if I was mad at myself, or at Sherlock. Honestly, if he was confused, could I really blame him? I had just been asking him to forget the kiss on the stairs and now I was angry because he only took me out after having his arm twisted.

"God, you're turning into a teenaged girl," I told my reflection.

There was a light rap at the door. "John?"

"Go away, Sherlock, I'll be out in a minute."

Silence, then came an odd scratching noise. I looked at the door, frowning when the lock suddenly turned. Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped in, sliding something into his pocket as he did so. He shut the door behind him.

I continued frowning. "You picked the lock."

"I ordered that chicken risotto for you, I hope you don't mind," he said. Then, "I didn't mean to upset you, John."

"No, no," I tapped my hands against the cool porcelain of the sink. "I haven't really been too clear about what I want, have I? And you, well, even with someone very good at expressing themselves socially, you'd be at a loss in this situation. Don't…take that as an insult."

Sherlock moved to stand closer to me. I looked up at him, my heart suddenly pounding a machine-gun barrage against the inside of my chest. It was making it hard to breath properly. I turned to face him, leaning back against the tile wall behind me.

"Well?" Sherlock said, standing all too close to me now. "Now is as good a time as any to tell me what you do want."

In an attempt to stop its psychotic spasms, I think my heart jumped up and lodged itself tightly into the back of my throat. "What I want?"

"Yes." He took another step closer, then reached out to put his hands on my waist. It crossed my mind that this was a rather strange gesture for someone so adverse to unnecessary contact. All thoughts fled my brain however as he rested his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching, his breath playing across my lips. "Tell me."

"Can't I just…" I murmured, my voice vanishing into the air.

"Mhmm." Sherlock tipped his head to the side enough to brush his lips over mine, questioningly, then drew me closer as we kissed again.

This time it wasn't awkward. I slid my hands up, grabbing onto his jacket lapels, forgetting entirely that we were in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant as that one moment seemed to stretch out forever.

The door opened. Sherlock turned away from me seamlessly, switching on the faucet and pretending to be washing his hands. I was left with nothing but to grab a paper towel and act at drying mine off. The man who entered barely looked at us as he moved to one of the urinals.

Sherlock gave me an intense look before nodding towards the door. Out in the little hall that had the bathrooms on it I had to stop and lean against the wall for a few minutes, as my legs had apparently turned into something far less stable than flesh and blood. Sherlock gave me a pleased little half smile before heading back to our table.

When I had finally regained enough motor-control to return to the table myself, I saw that the waiter had just brought our food out. He was also leaning over and whispering a little too intimately in the ear of the man I'd only just been snogging in the bathroom. (That thought in and of itself brought a flush to my cheeks.)

By the time I actually reached the table, however, the waiter had slipped off. I sat down and looked over at Sherlock, who hadn't yet touched his food. "What was that?"

"Jealous already?" Sherlock shot back, smirking.

"No, seriously, Sherlock, unless you were asking him about the dessert menu…"

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. "He won't be getting a very good tip, I'll tell you that. Though he may have given me one." He looked back at me with one of those maniacal smiles that usually proceeded us dashing off across the rooftops of London. "St. Paul's, John, what better place to take a stab at the heart of the city."

"You're kidding," I said, though at the moment I was far more eager to dig into the chicken risotto Sherlock had aptly ordered for me. "When?"

"Tomorrow night, if our moonlighting friend is right. And yes, moonlighting because I know I've seen him somewhere before…I just can't quite put my finger on it…"

I chewed a mouthful of food, fixing him with a frown. "Well, then, you'd better let Lestrade or Mycroft or whoever know."

"No…" Sherlock shook his head, reaching out to run the tip of one slender finger around the rim of the small candle on the table. "No I think I'll go myself."

"Sherlock," I said, setting my fork down. "You said yourself these clues were leading to a trap for you…"

"I'll be careful, John."

"I'm coming with you."

He picked up his fork and began poking at the pasta on his plate, without any real intention of eating any. "John, we kissed, we didn't sign a marriage agreement. You don't have to follow me for better or for worse."

"No, but seeing as I'm the one who usually has to end up pulling your butt out of the fire…" I tried to mirror the sort of intense look he was so naturally capable of throwing me. "You know I'm coming whether you want me to or not. I won't let you do this alone." I swallowed thickly. "Especially not after that."

Again the little smile returned. "How are your legs? It's rather intriguing, this effect I have on your motor functions. Speech and movement both seemed to be - "

"Sherlock!" I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him. "Shut up and eat your dinner. I'm not an experiment." Then I paused. "Were you just making fun of yourself?"

Sherlock however had just shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and was unable to answer.

A/N - As always, comments/reviews/feedback greatly appreciated :)