As always, I would like the thank mishaminion42, reflectiveless, faultierqueen, DoctorSherlockLove, snapletonius, HilsonAddict, The Lord Writer, oatniel, Nami1415, Corantien, birdie7272, xXxBookNerdxXx, flyingmintbunnyisreal, asStClairewashere, Charlie, , and Akochan97 for their thoughtful and motivating reviews, and all those who followed and favorited this story. You guys are awesome! I'm not sure I would have written as much as I have as regularly as I have without a captive audience. Thank you!

Also, many heartfelt thanks to my beta, Helena Chauby for her editing assistance.

Thank you also to Lady of Clunn for her help BritPicking this story.

And, naturally, thanks goes to my flat mate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.

Chapter 8: Where angels fear to tread

John looked around the church a bit nervously. He wasn't in the nave of the church, he was in one of the side aisles with Sherlock and Isabel. Sherlock had thought it would 'fit' the case if they were married in the church where the case had started. Sherlock had added that, if the killer managed to get wind of it, they might be more appealing targets than Albert and Trevor.

That part made sense; John was fine with it. He'd lived most of his life in the firing line. John had also been fine with accompanying Sherlock to the Yard so that he could pitch his 'scheme' to Lestrade about staging an arrest. As much as John chastised Sherlock about 'being nice,' it was almost funny to see Lestrade about to blow a gasket.

"First you want to make him angry," Lestrade had roared, "Now you want him to get lazy?! What the hell kind of game are you playing at?!"

Sherlock had convinced Lestrade, naturally. Sometimes John wondered if there was anyone Sherlock couldn't charm, threaten, or otherwise manipulate. This time, Sherlock had focused on the logic of the case. Sherlock had been careful to omit the fact that he and John were not 'actually' a couple. Instead, he had spun the argument that he and John had been planning on getting married anyway, and this would allow them to do so, while benefitting the case. Their argument had got rather heated. Not surprisingly, especially given the media attention this case was getting, they were overheard.

About an hour into Sherlock and Lestrade's 'debate' a balding, middle aged man in a worn jacket knocked, and asked to come in. When Lestrade had denied his request, Sherlock let the man come in anyway. Lestrade had begun yelling again, and was really working himself up, when the balding man cut in, "My son is gay!" He'd had to shout to be heard, but his statement brought Lestrade to a stop, for the moment.

The balding man, whom John knew was named 'George' continued, "Liam came out to the family while he was still at uni, about seven years ago..." There George's voice began to crack. "I said the most awful things to him... He...I haven't..." George took a breath then, and looked down. "I kicked him out of the house...I don't know where he is, or if I'll ever see him again..." George took a watery breath, before looking up again. "I'm not sure if Liam will ever forgive me, but if I can help put this bastard away; Liam and those like him deserve that much. They should be safe...If you're willing, detective inspector, I'd be happy to take the fall. I'd like to give Mr. Holmes anything he needs to close this case."

Things where quiet then. It felt like all of the Yard was holding its breath. With a long sigh, Lestrade sank into the chair behind his desk and stared at the wood. "If this goes south, Sherlock, so help me, I will have your head on a platter."

Sherlock had smirked in victory. "I assure you, Mycroft would help you season it."

John almost chuckled at the memory.

While Isabel was helping them greatly on this case, she was largely ignorant of her role. Sherlock had spoken to her a few days before Lestrade, both to plan the engagement announcement, and to talk about the parishioners. With the information he'd gathered from Isabel, Sherlock had selected a target and approached him quietly. Just like Lestrade, George had only got part of the story. Sherlock had continued to tout the 'John and I are actually a couple' line and had used his not insubstantial charm to convince George to be 'arrested' so that John and Sherlock might actually catch the true killer. Given George's own back-story, Sherlock was easily able to convince him.

It had taken a bit of planning, but the 'sting' was all set up to go down later today. John and Sherlock weren't there. Nor were they planning to be part of it because, in Sherlock's words; 'We have something more important to do.' It was that 'something' that made John nervous. Today, with the help of Isabel, they were announcing their engagement to the church.

Sherlock had insisted that being here, instead of at the 'arrest' would send the message that his priority was now John, instead of 'the work.' John was somewhat dubious on that point. Even in a world where they would actually get together, John felt certain that Sherlock would always let a case interrupt 'date night' or whatever else they might have planned. It had certainly never stopped Sherlock from interrupting John's dates, when John was seeing other people.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was still talking amicably with Isabel. John, admittedly, hadn't been paying much attention, but Isabel appeared to be intelligent and friendly. John hoped Sherlock was at least partially motivated to be charming and agreeable because he wanted to be, rather than being solely motivated by the needs of the case. It always bothered John to see Sherlock be so convincingly friendly to someone one moment, then turning cold and calculating after he'd got what he'd needed. People, at least some people, where worth Sherlock's while, and John hoped he would convince him of that, one of these days.

Sherlock looked over at John then and smiled. John couldn't help smiling back, despite his nerves.

"You've been a bit distracted," Sherlock murmured, reaching out to caress the side of John's face.

John blushed and instinctually leaned into the touch. "I was just wondering," John began focusing on Isabel as Sherlock' returned his hand to his side, "Are you sure it's okay that we announce our engagement to the congregation? I mean we aren't really regular members of the church."

Isabel smiled warmly, her brown eyes crinkling in amusement. "It's just fine, John. As I said, we have a very open congregation. We don't have any mandatory attendance policy, and we welcome people of all faiths."

"Well, if you're sure," John replied. He liked Isabel. He doubted she was much older than thirty, but she had the air of a comforting mother. To the members of the congregation, perhaps she almost was.

Isabel nodded, "I'm sure, and congratulations, again, by the way."

John flushed anew and looked down for a moment. "Thank you." Sherlock and he hadn't done anything more 'couple' like than what they'd been doing already. That is to say small, affectionate touches, holding hands, and, when Sherlock chose to sleep, sharing a bed. Sherlock had insisted John sleep in Sherlock's bed, even if Sherlock didn't join him. John had to admit it was comfortable, and he'd got a secret thrill the few times he'd woken up to find Sherlock had joined him at some point in the night.

In general, John was having fun. Sherlock and he were on a case, which was always interesting. Also, John was relieved that he did not have to monitor his every word and action to prevent Sherlock from noticing his little crush. With a great deal of luck, Sherlock would just think John was embracing his 'role.' John sincerely hoped he would be able to get these feelings out of his system by the end of the case, because Sherlock Holmes didn't do relationships. It was not 'his area.'

"Are we nearly ready?" Sherlock asked.

Isabel leaned her head back to peer through the doorway into the centre of the church.

"Almost.." She concluded, continuing to watch for their cue. They were waiting until the end of services to make their announcement.

Sherlock smiled and took a breath, Mycroft's words from a week ago ringing in his head. "You know you're only doing this because of your own, unrequited feelings for the good doctor," Mycroft had said.

Sherlock had sent Mycroft a heartfelt glare and replied, "It makes sense for the case!"

Mycroft had raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. "What was that you once said about sentiment? 'The chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive.' Shortly followed by, 'Love is a dangerous disadvantage.' You were right, Sherlock. Take your own advice. Don't let your heart rule your head."

Sherlock had adopted his thinking pose then and tried to ignore Mycroft. Mycroft wasn't having any of it.

"First you die on him, Sherlock, and now you're playing with him to satisfy your own...baser needs."

Mycroft never saw the punch coming, the idiot. Although he'd returned it with a decent backhand.

"I am not playing!" Sherlock had hissed at him, getting ready to strike again.

"Think what you will, Sherlock," Mycroft had replied in an angry whisper, "but I will not help you pick up the pieces after something so foolish explodes in your face."

Of course John had come tumbling down the stairs at that moment, and had seen the end of their little scuffle.

Sherlock took another breath. He was not using John, he was not. Yes, fine, he loved John. But he was aware of that fact, and could therefore compensate for it. He'd offered John an out, he'd asked for permission. They were being smart about this. And if Sherlock felt relief at being able to express himself more openly, what of it? The only person he wanted to be honest with most of the time was John, anyway. And now he could be...just in a slightly deceptive way. Right. Train of thought not helping. Focus on something else.

"Isabel!" a wavering, distressed voice cause all three of them to turn their heads and look down the hall.

A tanned man about John's height with thick black hair and bright blue eyes was jogging down the aisle towards them. "Isabel, you need to see this," The man said nervously, his lips set in a tight, unhappy line.

"Bobby?" Isabel turned to face the young man, extending her hands towards him, her face etched with concern. "What's wrong?"

Bobby took Isabel's hands in his, and tugged her gently in the direction he had come from. "Someone's defaced the church, you need to see."

They set out down the aisle together, walking quickly. Soon, they were rounding a corner and walking out into a small garden on the side of the church. Bobby turned around as they exited the church and gestured towards the outside wall, "Here, look."

They turned and looked. John's breath catching in his throat in surprise. Despite the fog drifting through the air, it was impossible to miss what Bobby had been gesturing at. There, smeared over the fieldstones in what John desperately hoped was red paint, was another bible quote. It read:

Romans 1:32 - Though they know God's decree that those who practice such things deserve to die, they not only do them but give approval to those who practice them.

Isabel let out a cry of distress as she read the quote, and covered her mouth. Sherlock had already begun moving towards the inscription to examine it, when parishioners began spilling out of the church, summoned by Isabel's cry of distress.

John stayed back, letting Sherlock work, and tried to keep the others back as well. That turned out to be no easy task, as the crowd was soon incensed at the bible quote emblazoned on the stones of their church.

John began scanning the crowd, using skills from his army days to keep an eye out for anyone who may become volatile. A crowd, even a relatively small one such as this, could easily become dangerous. Bob or 'Bobby' as Isabel had called him, had a few friends clustered around him that looked like they could deal some damage, but not like the type that would. One man was taller, almost as tall as Sherlock, with short dark hair, glasses and built like a rugby player. There was another, shorter man with a shaved head and some visible tattoos on his arm that John felt certain was ex-military. He had the right look about him. He too, was scanning the crowd, possible looking for trouble. He might work as a security guard or bouncer now, John knew many who did.

John shook his head at himself. He couldn't tell if his skills as an ex-soldier or his experience with Sherlock's 'deductions' lead to his conclusions about the crowd. John turned and looked towards Sherlock again. The lanky consulting detective was stretching and twisting around the writing, examining high and low. Sherlock stilled then, and strode backwards a few paces, scanning the whole of the wall.

John slid his gaze along the edges of the crowd, sweeping around towards the far wall of the church. There was some slight movement at the very edge of the crowd, towards the back, near the small graveyard. Sherlock seemed to have seen it as well; John could see a slight shift in his stance and the briefest glance of his eyes towards the edge of the crowd. John knew from experience, Sherlock was about to run for whatever it was. John turned slowly towards Isabel, gesturing for her to stay where she was, and began, very casually, to walk towards Sherlock.

John had managed to halve the distance between them before Sherlock sprinted off. John took off after Sherlock, only glimpsing the man they were chasing as Sherlock and he rounded the corner of the church. John followed, and found himself plunging headlong into the graveyard behind the church, which was currently mired in soup-thick fog. John cursed, and jerked violently to the side to avoid crashing into a headstone that seemed to spring up out of nowhere.

John turned and ran the sound of hurried footsteps. After a moment he was able to make out the faint shadow of a man through the fog. John kicked up to a sprint, keeping his eyes trained on the wavering silhouette, trying to ignore the looming gravestones that whipped past as he ran. Reaching out, John felt the faintest brush of fabric brush his fingertips. Another inch, and he would have him. Pushing sharply against the ground, John leapt for the man in front of him, gripping tightly to the fabric of his jacket; the momentum carried them both into the mud.

"John!"

Recognising the voice that called out to him, John groaned, and rolled off his flatmate. "Sorry Sherlock, I can't bloody see in this fog."

"Shhh!" Sherlock hissed as he scrambled to his feet. "Quiet! Quiet!"

John stilled as Sherlock craned his head about, listening. In the gloom, three others stumbled up to them. John recognised them as Bobby and the two men who had stood beside him earlier, just outside the church.

"We came to help," Bobby gasped as he approached them.

"Yeah, where is he?" the shorter man asked, scanning the mist.

"Shut up! Shut up, everyone!" Sherlock whispered insistently. Despite Sherlock's harsh words, everyone obeyed without protest. Sherlock inclined his head and they all followed suit, listening.

The soft chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves filled the air. John blinked the mist out of his eyes and tried to silence his breathing. The five of them stood for a long minute, statues in the graveyard mist.

The sharp cry of ravens to their left had them off and running again, tearing through the grass and leaping over low, crumbling gravestones. The fog thinned slightly as they neared the wall, and John glimpsed their man scrambling over it. Sherlock quickly followed suit, followed by John, Bobby, and Bobby's two friends.

The group of them streamed down a narrow ally which opened onto a dangerously busy street. People tumbled out of the way, and tires screeched as breaks were heavily applied. John and the three men scrabbled over the sidewalk, dashing through the street as the man they were chasing tried to evade them. Sherlock wound gracefully around several cars, which were required to stop suddenly, whilst John and the rest of them were forced to scrabble over the hoods in order to keep up.

The man they were chasing lurched up the street, making rapidly for the bridge just ahead of them. He was losing ground now, because, despite his speed, his legs were not nearly as long as Sherlock's. John and the others were doing a fair job of keeping up, only twenty paces behind Sherlock.

The fog lay thickly over the river making the water to either side invisible. They raced across the bridge, the mist whipping at their faces. Sherlock was closing fast on their man; he was just one third the way over the bridge. John saw Sherlock lunge for him. Unfortunately, the man they were chasing saw it too. He ducked and twisted, sending Sherlock sprawling up against the side. As Sherlock tilted dangerously over the edge, the man continued to run.

Immediately John felt his heart ratchet into a higher gear; Sherlock was teetering on the edge of the rail. Visions of St. Bart's flashed before his eyes. Sherlock was right on the edge of the ledge, about to fall... The three other men ignored Sherlock and ran for the criminal, leaving Sherlock to his fate.

Time seemed to slow down around John. This fall was not something Sherlock had planned. He had nothing to break his fall... They were too high up, and the water was too cold. If Sherlock went over, he may never get back out of the Thames again. Sherlock undulated, he was fighting against gravity. But would it work? Or would the cold, dark water swallow him up? John could only hope he would not be too late.

Sherlock heaved forward... this was it. Either Sherlock would have the abdominal strength to get himself up, or he was going to go over... John was out of time... Sherlock arched his back, teetering on the rail... and forced himself back onto the solid surface of the bridge.

John rocketed forward, lunging for Sherlock to help keep him from going over. Sherlock quickly got his feet under him and scowled over his shoulder at John. "What are you doing?! He's getting away!" Sherlock gestured wildly down the bridge, shoving John along. A dull thud finally managed to pull John's attention away. He turned to see the man they had been chasing most thoroughly tackled to the ground.

"There you see," Sherlock groused, disappointed, "You've let the rugby players get him! Come on, let's stop them before they do any real damage."

John followed as best he could, finding himself suddenly, quite cold.

"Stop that!" Sherlock called after Bobby and his friends, who were roughing up the man they had just chased down. "This man is not the murderer we've been tracking! The worst you could accuse him of is bigotry and graffiti. STOP!"

Sherlock's volume and forcefulness of tone finally brought a stop to the scuffle at his feet. Bobby and his taller friend drew back. Bobby's shorter friend remained on top of the man they had chased, pinning him down. "How do you know?" the shorter man asked with the practiced restraint of a soldier awaiting orders..

Sherlock heaved an impatient sigh. "His hands are marred with the paint he used to inscribe that quote on the side of the church, but he is a poor copycat at best. This case has been well publicised. This idiot probably heard mention of it in the paper and decided to take advantage of it to do a little fear-mongering. Given the layering of stains upon his hands, he's made a habit of this sort of thing. By the state of his clothes it's obvious he lives cheaply. Perhaps he was even an orphan, taken in by the church. Poor, indebted, and ignorant. Our killer is certainly no genius but he's quite a bit smarter than this man. No, our killer had grander plans than this."

"What do you mean, had grander plans?" Bobby asked, coming to stand at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock scanned the horizon and noted the commotion they'd caused. Reporters would be on their way soon, in addition to the police. This case, John, and himself had been in the paper quite a lot lately. Sherlock would just as soon avoid this opportunity.

"Perhaps we'd best bring our man back to the church before we get into that," Sherlock replied. "There's going to be quite a spectacle here soon."

Bobby glanced around and nodded while his shorter friend hauled the man they had chased to his feet. Sherlock noticed the parishioners had rather a good grip on the delinquent. That was most useful.

Bobby and his friends began jostling the man they had chased back towards the church. Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to follow, when he noticed that John wasn't beside him. That was odd, because John was always beside him. Sherlock turned around to see John standing almost exactly where he had been when he'd pulled Sherlock back from the railing. He was shaking, which was also odd, because John was rarely so affected by the cold.

"John?" Sherlock began taking a step towards his friend.

John looked up at him with hard eyes. "Not here, Sherlock," he said before striding off to catch up with the others.

Sherlock's brows knitted together in concern, but he managed to remain quiet until just after they'd cleared the graveyard. Once they were back on church grounds, Sherlock addressed the parishioners who had helped in the chase, "Please, go on inside. Tell Isabel to call Lestrade, she has his card. We'll be right in." Bobby nodded assuredly, and ushered the others into the church.

Sherlock turned then, in the mist by the side of the church, and faced John. "What's wrong?" he asked without preamble.

John crossed his arms and stared at the ground, still shaking. Sherlock seriously doubted it was the cold. John was in one of his familiar jumpers with redened cheeks and a bit of perspiration showing around his brow. "If this is going to become a habit of yours Sherlock, I need to know right now."

"If what becomes a habit?" Sherlock asked, lost.

John looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze sharply. "Jumping off of things!" John hissed angrily, "Or nearly so. It's not alright! I-" John brought his hands up to cover his face, "I can't watch you jump off of something again," John finished with a shaky breath.

Sherlock's gaze softened in sympathy. "John... I'm sorry. I didn't realise." He took a step forward, and rested a hand on John's shoulder. "I'm alright John, I wasn't going to fall even if you hadn't tackled me."

John's lips were pressed into a thin, unhappy line, and he leaned his forehead into Sherlock's chest despite how upset he was. "Don't do it again," he insisted.

"I won't," Sherlock promised, bringing both arms around John's waist and holding him there for a few moments. "I am sorry, John. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I'm fine," John insisted, drawing a deep breath.

"No," Sherlock replied, leaning down to press a kiss against the top of John's head, "You're not. But I'll make it up to you." Sherlock rubbed a hand up and down John's back, glancing over at the church when he noticed members of the Yard arriving at last. "For the moment, however, I think we have some explaining to do. And then, if you're still up for it, we did plan to announce our engagement."

John nodded and looked up at Sherlock. "Let's go then."

Sherlock smiled down at John for a moment before sliding his arm around his waist and guiding him inside.

Some time, and much excitement later, the delinquent, who was named Lewis, and had a long history of petty crime, was arrested. All proper statements were taken from those involved, and the congregation was left to their own devices once more.

Before the congregation had a chance to settle down, one of the parishioners announced the 'arrest' of the serial killer, and began streaming the news on their tablet. It was a good day. Not only was a petty criminal in custody, but, as far as most people knew, the man who was the cause of many of their recent fears, was finally behind bars.

George put up a good show, he looked every bit the raving, prejudiced fanatic. The church was appalled that one of their own was to blame, and relieved to have the ordeal over with at last. Once the news broadcast had finished, Isabel gathered everyone's attention for one last announcement.

Sherlock and John were now, once again, waiting in the side aisle just off the main part of the church. They waited alone and in silence as Isabel began to introduce them. Sherlock's long, warm hand was nestled securely against Johns'. They looked a sight, still smeared in mud from their earlier adventure, but there was nothing to be done about it now. John was still a bit inwardly shaken, but he was managing.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand then, getting his attention. "It's almost time," Sherlock whispered.

John looked at him and nodded, feeling a small measure of calm at last. Drawing a shaky breath, he turned his attention to Isabel in the next room and listened.

"Well," Isabel began, "I know this has been a longer and more...energetic day than we were planning, but I have an announcement to make that will add a pleasant note to the day." The parishioners murmured in curiosity. "I hope you will join me in welcoming Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson."

John heard the church erupt with applause as Sherlock and John moved to join Isabel at the altar. The stone church was beautiful from the inside. Tall arches met overhead and detailed stained glass adorned the windows along each side.

Isabel smiled at the two of them before holding her hands up, and calling for silence. "You all know we have them to thank for the continued safety of our community. In addition, we will soon have the privilege... of hosting their wedding!"

John had thought the church erupted before, but now it shook and thundered with clapping hands, cheers, and shouts of congratulations. John grinned out at the crowd as he felt Sherlock tug him closer. The possessive side of his flatmate was rather endearing. John was grateful for it. Even as tired and strung out as he was, he doubted they would be leaving the church without first joining in some celebration on their behalf.

It was indeed, late afternoon before they managed to get back to the flat. John was exhausted. As grimy as he felt and as restless as he knew his sleep would be without a meal, John wasn't sure he had it in him to do anything but collapse and try not to have a nightmare. He was, therefore, pleasantly surprised to find freshly delivered Chinese food waiting for them in 221 B. He looked up at Sherlock suspiciously.

Sherlock smiled down at him. "I remember your somewhat persistent need for food. I thought I might save you the trouble of procuring it by way of apology. I had Mrs. Hudson bring it up for us."

John chuckled and shook his head. "Thank you Sherlock, I'm better now."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. Go have a shower, I'll get you a plate."

Now that he knew hot food was waiting for him, John figured he could manage a shower.

A few short minutes later found John eating on the sofa as Sherlock took his turn in the shower. It was an uncommonly chilly day and it felt good to be freshly showered, wrapped in warm pajamas, with good food. All in the middle of a case, too. Perhaps Sherlock would even let him get a decent night's sleep.

As if summoned by thought alone, Sherlock strode into the room in cotton pajamas and his dressing gown. "Good food?" he asked, still towelling his hair.

John nodded. "Yes, you should join me, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a show of pouting, but willingly sat beside John and indulged in an egg roll. After John had cajoled him into eating three dumplings and a small container of lo-mein, they packed up the leftovers and nestled together on the couch.

John felt the ache of a trying day in his muscles as he settled against Sherlock's side, but he was reluctant to let himself drift into unconsciousness. Sherlock's not so near-tumble into the Thames had rattled him more than he expected. He was sure he'd put all that behind him until he saw Sherlock teeter on the edge...

John felt Sherlock's arm sliding around his waist, tugging him closer. "Come here, John," Sherlock whispered. John could not bring himself to argue. Sherlock brought his hand up and began threading it through John's short hair, while his other hand held John tightly about the waist. John snuggled deeper into Sherlock chest and sighed contentedly, starting to feel better almost instantly.

"Feels nice," John murmured into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock smiled as he looked down at John "Of course it does. I'm playing to your instincts."

John shifted his head on Sherlock's chest to look up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Most people, baring trauma and/or some natural deviations of preference, enjoy being held, or in some way compressed, and having their heads stroked. This is because they learned to associate these things with safety from being tightly compressed in their mother's womb, then held and stroked often after birth. Assuming they had caring parents of course." Sherlock spoke calmly and, for once, his voice didn't seem to hold any distain in explaining something, that to him, must have been 'obvious.' "I gave you quite a fright earlier, it seems. Your heart rate has been elevated since then. Calming you down is the least I could do after, well..." Sherlock hesitated a moment, "after you've been so accommodating on this case."

What Sherlock was saying made sense, and now that he'd mentioned it, John recalled learning something of that nature in his development classes at university. It made him smile, Sherlock doing something so nice, in such a... 'Sherlock' way. "Well, thank you," John murmured, snuggling back into Sherlock's chest and closing his eyes.

John doubted this was the biology or chemistry Sherlock had thought of when he'd first proposed to John, but John was very grateful for the comfort of his embrace. Despite Sherlock's protests of 'not caring,' John knew that he was one of the few people Sherlock actually did care about. Even without John's crush, John knew Sherlock was someone he could trust with this vulnerability. He was safe with Sherlock. With that thought in mind, John's heart rate finally calmed, and he drifted off to sleep.