Have I mentioned how happy everyone who has reviewed/favourited this story has made me? I'll say it again: everyone who has reviewed/favourited this story has made me happy! I love you people! This chapter was not easy to write. I blame the horrible sickness I was afflicted with this week. Damn the plague!

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.

Warnings: Irritable John. Poor grammar. Offensive, homophobic language!

Hypothetically

Chapter Four: Felony Assault

A shrill melody splintered his skull. Violin notes leapt up and down the music staff like demons dancing and poking their sharpened forks at the coal pit that was his hung-over brain. The discordant tune tantalised and tormented with every unforgiving saw of the bow until he was certain it were his bones in place of those agonised strings wrapped around the pegs. It was thus how John found himself dragged from his slumber by the cruelty of violin music.

His vision flooded with a hurtful flash of light as he parted his eyelids, and after groping his immediate vicinity, John concluded that he had fallen asleep on the sitting room sofa. The memory of his failed date and the rampant all-nighter at a pub descended on him. While John cringed at his excruciating recollection, he suffered furthermore as every measure of the violin pierced his eardrums.

To hell with Tchaikovsky and his bitchy symphonies, the prick, John thought with a groan.

"Shostakovich, actually," corrected Sherlock before John realised had unwittingly voiced his thoughts. "Violin Concerto No. 1, 2nd Movement."

John suppressed a whimper as he forced himself into a sitting position. "Must you attempt murder on your violin so early in the morning? And here? I was sleeping!"

"Evidently, yes. The acoustics are rubbish in my bedroom, and as I've recently discovered, worse in yours." He angled the hair of his bow against the strings and a high pitch keened through the air. "Besides it's a quarter to three in the afternoon."

John jolted awake from his stupor. "Three—the afternoon! Shit, Sherlock! Why didn't you—the clinic opened seven hours ago and Sarah's going to—"

The violin shrieked as Sherlock dragged the bow savagely across the strings to drown out his babbling. "Saturday," he chided. Blissful silence permeated the room, and Sherlock set his violin aside. "Really, John, your argument espousing the restorative properties of sleep is not very convincing when you are only a step above the drooling lump you were five minutes ago."

"I don't drool in my sleep," John replied. He then remembered precisely why he was not waking against the delightful curves of a woman. He glared at Sherlock; the man had the maddening cock-blocking abilities of a 70-year old Irish nun. "I'm angry with you."

The detective gazed back at him as if he had said something as inconsequential as 'it's overcast outside'. John forced out a ragged breath. "Care to guess why?"

"Hmm, no. Although judging by the way your nostrils are flaring, I suppose I have little choice in the matter." Sherlock flopped down in his green armchair. "This isn't about the scarab beetles, is it?"

"The what?"

Sherlock brightened. "No? Never mind, then."

"No, you mad bastard! Has it ever occurred to that twisted mind of yours to add a 'just kidding' or "not really" whenever you text me about smashing my legs or setting me on fire!"

"Why would I do that?"

John's expression darkened. "You know why. Dammit, Sherlock. She was a masseuse! A therapeutic masseuse! You couldn't wait several hours to murder me by text?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I did not know; I inferred. There's a faint bruise on your right cheek, and knowing that at your worst you cannot even be called a forward man, I assumed your date had an unfavourable resolution due to an external influence."

A silence drifted between them before John launched his arms into the air. "She was a masseuse, Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned back. "Is the repetition of that particular phrase supposed to be important?"

"Deduce it! Better yet, stop interfering with my dates!"

He pondered this for a moment. "Do you want a massage?"

John sunk back to the wrinkled sofa in defeat. Sometimes there was no reaching Sherlock Holmes. "No, Sherlock. I do not want a massage."

A trace of relief fell over him. "I see. Acupuncture is more my area, anyway." A glint shimmered in his sage-grey eyes, and he clasped his hands beneath his chin. "So obvious, now that I think of it. There are 360 pressure points in the human body, although I would argue the number is far greater. John, I would like to—"

"No Sherlock. No."

His face fell. "But you haven't allowed me to—"

"No, just stop. You have a case, and by the way you were abusing your violin just now, you're enjoying it. Why are you still bothering with this pretend murder?"

"I still haven't narrowed down the perfect method to kill you, John. It's most annoying."

"Hypothetically you mean," corrected John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Hypothetically, I find it annoying."

He raised his eyebrows. Sherlock was doing this to annoy him, no doubt; he could not seriously have abandoned the premise that murdering him was a strictly hypothetical situation. Despite John's efforts to block it, Sally Donovan's smug voice skittered through his thoughts. How well do you think Sherlock Holmes does hypothetical scenarios?

"For the record I don't want to be dissolved in acid, have my eyeballs gouged out or rot in a sealed room somewhere."

"Good! Then you understand my dilemma!" exclaimed Sherlock. "Your death must be perfect! How can it be perfect? And John, do not say sleeping pills or such nonsense. It's so mundane that, so help me, I will put myself out of my own misery with them if that's the case!"

"I'm going to count my sleeping medication in the washroom," John replied suspiciously. "But I really don't believe you understand the meaning of the phrase, rhetorical question, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot up from his armchair, and a look of desperation advanced over his pale features. "What do you mean I don't understand, when it's you who has not understood a single word that I've been saying? Are you really that dense? Even the skull would have discerned it by now if it was not collecting dust in Mrs Hudson's closet!"

"Understand what? What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at him with an amalgamation of confusion and exasperation before throwing himself back onto the armchair, and he said nothing further on the subject. John's hangover reminded him of its presence with a throbbing ache behind the eyes. In no mood to unravel the strange workings of his infuriating friend, he tottered to the loo for some ibuprofen.

"Take a bath while you're in there," Sherlock ordered in a low voice. "We will be returning to Islington tonight—the Savage Serpent. I understand that it's a congregation spot for the more unsavoury clientele of the borough."

John whipped around from the bathroom door. "Are you mental? No, never mind that, of course you are. I thought you said at the morgue that the Yard was tracking the gangsters!"

A derisive chuckle resonated from the curly fringe of hair peaking over the armchair. "Yes, by tracking low-level snitches one-by-one, like idiots. I find that if we are seeking vermin, we go to the nest. And somewhere in that nest there is another mule, another victim, a lead—"

"The murderers?" supplied John.

"Yes, those as well, probably. Be presentable by six. We wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

John spent a record thirty minutes in front of his mirror contemplating what outfit would be "presentable" for a gang of drug lords and murderers before deciding to throw his padded black jacket over the first shirt he could grab. After pulling on a worn pair of blue jeans, John exited his bedroom with a sigh. He was still irritated with Sherlock, but he could not very well allow his friend to storm the wolves' den armed only with his charming sense of tact.

He knew that he was doing the charitable thing when he found Sherlock hunched over a spread of crime photographs in the sitting room wearing the same ostentatious black suit with his purple silk shirt. "Honestly, you did not think I would pretend to be a yobbo from the gutter? We need information, not initiation."

Despite himself, John let the image of Sherlock in baggy jeans and a sideways cap float through his mind for the better part of the cab ride to Islington. It was only five minutes from their destination that he noticed Sherlock had been turned to the window during the whole journey. The detective had not once shifted the conversation to his acupuncture-themed murder plot. It unnerved John; he had told Sherlock to stop, but he never listened. John could have sworn that Sherlock was sulking by his moody expression against the window glass.

The cab slowed to a halt, and Sherlock quietly slipped out of the car before he could say a word. John handed the cabbie several notes and hesitantly followed him into the raucous pub. At once the sour air of beer and cigarettes engulfed them. Rough male voices broke against the blaring of Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper over the sound system. When Sherlock said that the clientele was unsavoury, he was uncharacteristically circumspect. There were chavs wrestling each other at the tables, a circle of men lighting up joints in the corner and several acts of social indecency occurring to the chorus of breaking glass.

Sherlock marched through the chaos as if it was no less intimidating than an art museum and seated himself on a barstool at the end of the counter. As John joined him, a pretty, but frazzled redheaded bartender had arrived for their drink orders.

"Two shots of whiskey, please," Sherlock said mechanically.

"Comin' up loves," sighed the long-suffering woman.

John examined him incredulously. "You're drinking? You never drink."

"Why else would two men enter a bar?"

"Yes, because otherwise we would blend in with the furniture perfectly, wouldn't we?"

"Two whiskeys." The redhead pressed the shot glasses against the counter with a thunk. "You lads are a bit far from Soho, if you'd ask me."

John launched an I-told-you-so look to Sherlock when the word 'Soho' registered with him. "Oh, no. We're not together…like that."

The bartender shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I'll warn you, this is just the warm-up crowd."

"Thank you for the tip," John scrutinised the name badge below the woman's shoulder, "Marilyn."

She looked flabbergasted at the sound of her own name. "Damn, you can actually read! 'Round here it's either bitch, hot tits, or something worse."

Sherlock watched the exchange while impatiently swirling the alcohol in his glass. "Perhaps then, Marilyn, you can tell us whether or not your next wave of customers might include the Rogues?"

She paled. "Oh no, don't tell me you blokes are reporters. Because by the look of this one," she gestured at John, "you're not cops."

John put on a placating smile. "No, no, we aren't the press. I'm John Watson, and this is my friend—just my friend—Sherlock. You could probably just say that we're—"

"Recent acquaintances of Robert Thomas and Joey Smallish," interrupted Sherlock.

She frowned. "But Bobby and Joey are dead."

"Quite." A dark, amused smile flashed over Sherlock's face, and John almost had to rib him.

"Err, Bobby…he wasn't too bad. Would even tip me from time to time. He never really got on with the rest of the gang—I bet he only joined because of that dickhead Joey. There was an arsehole if you ever saw one. Stealing, copping feels, starting brawls. Can't say I miss Joey."

"Yes, but I couldn't care less whether you miss them. Did you notice anything strange between them or amongst the gang in the last three weeks?" insisted Sherlock.

"Sorry, he's like that," John broke in before turning to the detective. "Be nice, Sherlock."

"That would imply that I am,"he countered.

"Well, uh, Bobby told me he was going on a trip about two weeks ago. He practically shouted, and Dawson—Mitch Dawson, the leader of the Rogues," she clarified, "got really pissed. He kept on about 'all their necks on the block' or whatnot, and would've beaten poor Bobby to a pulp if Joey wasn't there. To be honest, Dawson's been off for the last month. Makes me afraid to leave the counter."

"'Ey, Bitch! Refill now!" slurred an angry voice from the other end of the counter.

The bartender sighed. "There goes the break. Nice talkin' to you lads. Now get out before someone bashes your heads together."

Left alone, John turned to Sherlock, who was sniffing his whiskey in distaste. "So? What are you thinking?"

"Three possibilities, but there is one unavoidable fact. They are afraid."

"They?" parroted John. "You mean the Garrotter Street Rogues?"

Sherlock replied with a slight nod. "They use their own members as drug mules rather than string along a boat of immigrants. They hunt down said members and gut them mercilessly, quickly, as though on a countdown. Their own leader is emotionally compromised."

"But why would they be frightened? They trafficked the drugs. They committed the murders, they—"

"Oh!" Sherlock's eyes shimmered in the dim lighting. "Oh, John, this is good! Brilliant even! It is the drugs, but it isn't the drugs. Just as it is the Rogues but it isn't the Rogues! Misdirection, John!" He waved away John's blank expression. "They are employed by another—someone far more threatening! What if they lost track of something that one of the mules trafficked, something their employer demanded? It explains their desperation!"

"An employer?" Sometimes John was convinced that Sherlock's brain behaved like a toy car making all lefts. Then a horrifying thought sent his pulse racing. "Oh god, Sherlock. Ireland. A threatening employer…you don't think it's him, do you?"

Sherlock turned to him with an unreadable expression and said nothing. John forced down his whiskey in a single gulp, but it made his throat burn cold. The thought of Moriarty resurfacing so soon made his stomach clench.

"Oi, benders!" growled a loud voice. Sherlock hardly glanced over his shoulder before a smile curved over his lips. John followed the direction of his friend's eyes and stiffened; swaggering toward them was a burly drunk.

Lovely, just what we need, John thought.

"What's two poofters doin' at my bar?"

"Are," answered Sherlock.

The man's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

John kicked at Sherlock's leg. "No, Sherlock. Don't." For the life of him, John could not determine why Sherlock looked so damn pleased to see an angry hooligan harassing them.

Sherlock swivelled one-eighty degrees on his barstool and hazarded a sip from his shot glass. "It's 'what are two poofters doing at my bar' not 'what's two poofters doing at my bar.'"

"Ey! Ya think that's funny, Fag?" The brute struck the glass from Sherlock's hand, and it shattered furiously against the floor. Only then did John see the source of the detective's amusement in the form of a skull and scythe tattoo printed on the man's arm. They had found a member of the gang.

Sherlock did not flinch. "No, not especially. Poor grammar appals me."

The drunk was moments away from driving his knuckles into Sherlock's head when a grizzled voice called over the chaos. "Lee! Haul yer fat-arse back over here! We've got business to discuss!"

"Dawson, we've got a wise-arse o'er here!" shouted the first man.

The owner of the gravelly voice reluctantly stood from a newly acquired table and strode toward the drunk followed by another grinning thug. Dawson took a drag from a lit cigarette and folded his arms. John swallowed hard as he took in the nearly identical tattoos on all of the men.

"Right then, so what did them fags do?" demanded the gang leader.

"Those fags," Sherlock corrected with an exaggerated sigh. "It's 'what did those fags do.'"

"He can't help it!" appealed John as he prayed that the powers above would strike Sherlock with a case of laryngitis. "He doesn't mean it."

"Yes he does," said Sherlock.

The drunken gangster, Lee, pulled Sherlock from his seat by the lapels of his coat. "Don't you never mouth-off to Dawson, ya cocksucking fairy!"

"Double…negative!" choked out Sherlock.

"Hey!" cried out the third member of the Rogues. "I know this one. He's that Asbo Detective! Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock groaned at the word Asbo while John whitened.

"Detective," hissed Dawson. He took another breath from his cigarette and cracked his right knuckle. "That right? The both of ya, then?" For the first terrifying instance, their attention focussed on John. "What do ya think you're detecting?"

John gulped and said nothing. The three men closed in on them. "Two detectives in our bar for a drink. Takes bollocks, don't it Lee? Then again, Frankie here says the skinny one has an Asbo…" Dawson trailed away, and the other two men chuckled derisively. "Whatever for, I wonder?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock managed to disengage himself from the grasp of the thug that had him by the coat. Brushing himself off, he sniffed, and took a step toward the leader of the Rogues. Expletives flew through John's mind with the speed of his sprinting heartbeat.

Sherlock drew himself to his full height and stared Dawson in the eye. "Arson. Although, I suspect after tonight I should expect a second violation…for felony assault." With a quick grin, he plucked the cigarette from the gang leader's lips and took a deep, gratifying drag.

It all unravelled faster than John could register. Sherlock deflected the first punch that had been levelled at his nose and countered with a swift uppercut to Dawson's solar plexus. As he doubled over, the detective caught a fist intended for his ribcage and aimed a kick between the legs of the second thug—the man called Frankie. The gangster fell to the floor, vomiting while the ends of Sherlock's coat still twirled through the air. John found himself gaping like a dimwit; sometimes he forgot how spectacular it was to witness Sherlock move like that.

Out of necessity, he recollected himself when the burly thug Lee took a swipe at the air two centimetres from his face. John ducked under the meaty hook, struck at the man's pressure point below the armpit, and readied himself to slug him in face when he turned around. However, before he could act, John felt a sharp pain against his shoulder that sent him sprawling on the ground.

Disoriented, he searched for his assailant and found that it was none other than Sherlock who had shoved him out of the way. He opened his mouth to yell at him when a silvery glint flashed in Lee's raised hand. Knife. The thug had a knife.

"Sherlock!" The gangster turned at an angle, which blocked John's line of sight. Sherlock hunched over, wincing in pain. John hastened to his feet and launched himself over Lee. They went tumbling to the sticky, glass sprinkled floor, and it only took two punches to the head to keep the thug there.

Adrenaline coursed through him like a burst of cold water. "Time to go," he said while fastening a hand around Sherlock's forearm. He focussed on a broken exit sign that only flashed the glowing letters 'IT'. Without a glance behind him, he yanked Sherlock toward the back 'IT'.

A fresh rush of air awakened John to the fact that forehead was damp with sweat. He took in a breath with relief, but that fleeting sense of freedom evaporated when the backdoor swung open after them.

Dawson reeled out of the pub. "You're not getting away that easy, detectives!"

John glanced at Sherlock, who was rolling his wrists. He did likewise, preparing for another unpleasant fight when a sharp crack rang into the alley. Without a shift in his expression, the gang leader fell forward. Behind him stood the redheaded bartender holding a shattered flask of gin.

"Detectives, huh?" she asked with a sideways grin.

"Consulting Detective," Sherlock irritably corrected.

John smirked back at her. "And I'm a doctor, actually."

"Yes, John, and why don't we stand about discussing the state of the economy over the unconscious gangster?"

"He's right. Go on, get outta here! I'll be fine, these bastards won't tell their arses from their elbows when they wake up!" she added after John raised a concerned eyebrow.

"Right…okay." John shifted awkwardly before Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and took off through the alley, forcing him to follow after. It was only several blocks away from melee that John recalled how Sherlock had doubled over in front of the thug who held the knife.

He froze. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock's pale eyes widened as John peeled away his coat to check for stab wounds. "John, what—"

"Where? Where did he stab you, Sherlock?"

"He didn't—"

John summoned what remained of Captain Watson and stared Sherlock down. "Just show me where."

Hesitantly, Sherlock gestured at a spot below his ribcage. Neglecting his protests, John untucked the purple shirt from Sherlock's trousers and pushed open the first four buttons. Against his pale skin there was an angry, dark welt but no visible stab wound.

John's shoulders slumped with relief. "Thank god. I thought he stabbed you. Why did you shove me out of the way like that? You could have—"

"Because I saw the knife, and you did not."

"Sherlock, I…" he trailed away when he found himself ensnared in that razor-sharp gaze. John absentmindedly traced the outline of the bruise on Sherlock's skin. It was not that long ago when their places were reversed and Sherlock, shaking with concern, had torn off his jacket by the pool. What had John said that night? People will talk.

Undressing my flatmate in a dark alley: they certainly would have something to say now. He rested his palm over the bruise, and Sherlock gasped. That spot would be tender for sometime, and John would have to force him to ice the bruise when they returned to the flat.

His thoughts drifted back to their argument that afternoon and Sherlock's sullen behaviour on the cab ride. John could not even remember why he had been irritated with him. "I think you mentioned that, in theory, you wanted to stick me with acupuncture needles?"

Something in Sherlock's expression alighted. "Well, yes, but not immediately. I would like to do so after I've flayed you in a single go with a curved blade to determine whether or not the pressure points are preserved without the flesh." He paused. "In theory."

"Ah…good?" he ventured. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a quick smile.

"Admit it," John began, while gingerly re-buttoning Sherlock's shirt. "The only reason we walked in there and started that mess was because you were desperate for a smoke."

"Not the only reason." Sherlock produced a wallet from his coat pocket. "For the leader of a notorious gang, Mr Dawson ought to notice when he is pickpocketed." He rifled through the contents before pulling out a blank white card with a phone number scrawled on it.

John took the card and frowned. Beneath the phone digits, in a different pen colour, five capital letters were printed:

MORAN

"Sherlock, what's this?"

Sherlock tossed the wallet over his shoulder. "Something interesting."

Reviews are not only appreciated—they are WORSHIPPED!

Howlynn: LOL, Sherlock+ Morgue= Good times. Hmm…chipper shredder…as always, your ideas intrigue me. Too bad the husband doesn't quite get it, ha! ladypredator: Ha,hahaha poor Sherlock. No one understands. At least he gets milk. Thanks for reviewing. The Random Panda: Yay! Thanks for reviewing! It means a lot to hear that it's in-character, it really does! meredithriddle: That…is a seriously good death. Am I a corrupting influence here (not that I mind)? I can't begin to note the twisted things this story is making me dream. Kunoichi Umi: Now I want a curly-haired puppy, lolz. I completely agree with you though—screw a date, give me the cheekbones or give me a creepy horrible death! CowMow: I wholeheartedly endorse fanfiction as a means to avoid studying for an exam. And yes, you can lock the doors, and Sherlock will show up with a chainsaw. CharmingKarma: Oh god, that review got me! Thank you so freaking much for that, it seriously made my day. Seriously, laugh all you need to, that's the fun with dark humour. dcfg21: Yes, the murder-snake what murders. Bless you for reviewing- it made me laugh at my silliness. ViciousHerring: I'm completely for frightening housemates. And I really enjoyed your comment about the "I would like…", you totally got it! LunarLacrimosa: Thank you thank you thank you! Your comment meant so much to me, it gave me the fuzzies! Skyuni123: I shall update as quickly as the powers that be allow me to! One thing I can promise is that it won't go unfinished. I'm just so glad it's loved. herRhi-chan: Thanks for the review! I wanted to make this as in-character as possible, while making it a fun Johnlock story! I'm happy you approve! sycamoretree: Hilarious, I could perfectly imagine John walking in on that. Thanks for reviewing and complimenting my twisted plot! laceypinkdream: Cute, huh? ^^ Hee, I'll take it :)