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Chapter 19: Lying (2)

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"I mean, I don't think Hilton is especially gay friendly or anything. He doesn't mind, and we were good friends, so..."

"But you would know, wouldn't you?" Sherlock suddenly cut in, eyeing Elsie. "That he isn't especially gay friendly."

John turned a puzzled gaze to Sherlock, then to Elsie. What?

"And you also know we're not really uni pals of your husband."

At this, John stared at Sherlock. WHAT?

Elsie went so pale the doctor thought she'd pass out, but instead she braked hard, so violently they were all propelled forward and only avoided injury thanks to their seatbelts.

"What the..." John began, but he froze when he saw Sherlock's instinctive reaction had been to stretch his arm to the side before him, as if to prevent him from smashing into the seat in front of him. As the car came to a halt, and there was obviously no danger to be feared, Sherlock removed his arm and averted his gaze embarrasedly.

"I..." Elsie started, but she fell silent just as soon, obviously in shock.

John sent Sherlock a confused look, at a loss as to what to do.

"You have a female lover, right? She's the one sending you those messages," Sherlock went on, as if they hadn't been stuck in an unmoving car in the middle of the road.

"Um, sorry, don't you want to park to the side or something?" John suggested, looking nervously behind them. Sherlock glared, but Elsie resumed driving slowly, regaining some composure.

"You are right, Mr. Holmes."

John jumped at the name, befuddled. So she truly had known all along their real identities? They must have looked like idiots, playing married to fool someone who was in fact fooling them... Well, not fooling Sherlock, obviously.

"How did you know?"

"Well, the dog, for one thing."

"The dog?"

"She has a dog, doesn't she?"

Elsie nodded stiffly, her gaze clearly frightened.

"I thought she was dead, you see," she murmured, a catch in her voice. "There was an explosion in her building, and..." She trailed off, and seemed so distressed John scowled at his friend. Did you really have to tell her that now? She's driving, for God's sake!

But Sherlock paid it no heed.

"Abby and I were engaged, you see. If I had known she was alive, I would never have..."

Her voice broke again, and she started to cry.

"But why don't you tell Hilton?" John asked. "Get a divorce, maybe?" Wasn't that the obvious thing to do?

"I can't do that!" she exclaimed. "You don't know him. He loves me. He'd kill her for sure."

John arched a disbelieving eyebrow and glanced at Sherlock, whose face remained expressionless.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

"I don't know... I just have no idea!"

"You've been seeing her, though," the consulting detective pointed out.

She turned to him in panic.

"Please don't tell Hilton!"

"Can you look at the road, please?" John groaned as they almost missed a bend.

She complied, swiping her tears away with the back of her hand.

"You must understand we were hired to explain why the dancing smileys put you in such a state of horror, Mrs. Cubitt," Sherlock went on.

"I know... I know, but..."

"What makes you think your husband would kill... um, Abby?" John inquired, incapable of picturing Hilton as a murderer.

Elsie shook her head in despair. "He told me. On the day of our wedding, he told me he would not tolerate it if I loved anyone but him."

"You're free to get a divorce, though," John insisted, finding the whole affair incomprehensible. A jealous husband did not always lead to murder, for Christ's sake!

But Mrs. Cubitt started shaking, and her eyes filled with renewed tears.

"He won't let me go. I know he won't..."

So that's why she's been so distressed ever since she received the coded messages. John tilted his head to the side.

"Wait... But why did she write to you using smileys?"

"It's a code we created when we were little girls. We grew up together. It's a proof that it's really her writing to me, and when I saw it I knew she was alive."

"I see."

John glanced at Sherlock again, but the detective's face was inscrutable.

"All right," he said. "Considering the situation, I guess it would be fine if we didn't tell a word about Abby to your husband."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! Thank you! I knew you'd understand..."

"But the question is," he cut off, "what do you want us to tell him? You've been terribly incautious in handling the situation I'm afraid."

"You're right, indeed... What could you tell him?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking. This is such a strange case, I don't see what could possibly explain your reaction to the dancing smileys. Why didn't you think of anything before he was so desperate he went to a detective?"

"I was just so lost, and so scared... I can't lie easily, Mr. Holmes, especially not to my husband..."

The rest of the ride was spent in heavy silence, interrupted by Elsie's intermitent sobs.

When they arrived back to the house though, her face was in check again, and she smiled weakly when they got out of the car.

"I'm sorry it turned out to be such an unpleasant drive. I guess you didn't get to enjoy the scenery very much..."

Sherlock returned her smile amicably – his attitude definitely kept surprising John, who did not know what to make of all this.

"That's fine, Mrs. Cubitt. We'll just take a stroll through the country some time in the afternoon – and perhaps you could lend us your car so we can go to that tearoom again?"

"Of course!" Elsie nodded with fervour.

"And don't worry: we'll try to think of something." He winked at her knowingly, and John had to stop himself from gaping.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!"

xXx

Sherlock and John had lunch alone in the kitchen with the cook Maria, while Elsie retired to her room for the day, feeling very weak.

"So you're all abandoned!" the good woman exclaimed as she served them. "Mr. Hilton has gone riding, and Madam is unwell..."

"It's okay, really," Sherlock replied smoothly. "We were thinking of taking a romantic stroll around the countryside. Do you have any suggestion?"

John choked on his drink and stared. What?

But Maria was beaming. "Of course! If you take the little path behind the house on the side of the orchard, you'll have a nice walk in open country."

"Perfect!" Sherlock exclaimed as he stood. "Well, John, shall we go then?"

"You don't want coffee?" the cook asked, very surprised at the sudden burst of enthusiasm.

"No, thank you."

Thanks for answering for me, John thought as he followed rather grudgingly, thanking Maria for the delicious food he hardly had any time to eat. As soon as they were out and could no longer be heard, he asked his friend:

"So... How long have you known that Mrs. Cubitt knew about us?"

"From the very beginning."

John blinked.

"But how?"

The consulting detective smirked, and John had to avert his gaze so as to repress the urge to kiss him. This wasn't good. Sherlock smirked every day. A lot.

But he also liked the attention, and frowned as the doctor turned away from him.

"I deciphered the code of the dancing men," he said rather dryly.

"Really? When?" John pressed, unable to keep his eyes away from his friend when he was being so fascinating and brilliant. Sherlock smiled with satisfaction, and replied in a off-handed tone:

"When you shoved me up against a wall. Well, a bit after that, actually."

John turned crimson and had the very silly reaction to look around him, checking if no one had been listening. Obviously, no one had, since they were surrounded only by fields.

"How... Why... Wait. Was that the sudden illumination you got while we were..." He trailed off, stunned and a little miffed at how casually Sherlock was treating the matter. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I like to save my best effects until the end," he retorted.

"Your best effects?" John was seriously starting to get annoyed. "Did you see the poor woman? She was in a state of shock and she didn't even have lunch! It must be hard enough for her as it is with her husband she seems to fear..."

He stopped in mid-sentence as he noticed Sherlock was chuckling. That was the last straw.

"Sherlock, it isn't funny!" he exclaimed, quite outraged.

"Oh yes it is, John. You are very funny."

"Wha—"

"Did you really believe a word of what she said?" Sherlock cut in.

John froze.

"What?"

The sleuth rolled his eyes.

"Think, John, just think! Don't you find it weird that she kept playing oblivious when she knew who we were?"

"Well, if she's really scared of her husband, she—"

"God, John, look at him! That guy, kill someone? Don't make me laugh."

"I'm really not trying."

John's curt reply brought Sherlock back down to earth, and he abruptly fell silent. John arched an eyebrow.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if chasing some unwanted thought away, and resumed as if nothing had happened, but in a more neutral tone:

"Elsie Cubitt does indeed have a female lover. But she was never reported dead. They have never stopped seeing each other, and they planned together the murder of Hilton Cubitt."

John was so flabbergasted by the revelation he completely forgot Sherlock's peculiar behaviour just a moment before.

"How do you know?" he inquired, his eyes filled with wonder – and probably admiration, too.

"As I said: I deciphered their codes. Thanks to you, I think."

"Thanks to me?" John repeated dumbly, too awestruck to use his brain properly.

Sherlock did not reply. They walked in silence for a few minutes, and John had time to sort his thoughts and register what had just been said.

"How did the code work? " he asked finally.

"Once I had recognised that the symbols stood for letters, it was easy enough. I just applied the usual rules. E is the most common letter in the English language, so the dancing man that was most recurrent probably referred to it. On the second message Hilton had brought to you, there appeared to be only one word – for none of the men was holding any flag. Since there were two separated Es in it, and only five little men, the word could have been something like "lever", or "sever" perhaps. Or, most likely, "never". So I got the letters N, V, R... Then I guessed a word that looked like E_ _ _E would probably be 'Elsie', and—"

"What did they tell each other in their messages?" John cut in, too concerned about the situation to be very curious about ciphers and methods to understand them for now. This didn't seem to please Sherlock, who gave a sullen moue. But since John wasn't even looking at him, he dropped it and went on:

"When and where to meet. That we were coming."

"But how..."

"Moriarty planned this."

John stopped dead in his track and stared at his partner's back. Sherlock turned to him, and developed:

"He might even be the one who put Elsie in contact with a rich bachelor heir in Great Britain. In any case, he's the reason Abby and Elsie started using their code so obviously – he surely asked Mrs. Cubitt to let her husband see it, and act horrified."

"But why?" John insisted, completely lost.

"Well... Because they're dancing little men, for one thing."

The doctor swallowed with some difficulty.

"And?"

Sherlock glanced at him, then looked straight in front of himself again.

"He wanted to lure me into a trap."

John's eyes widened. "Then why did we come?!" he exclaimed frantically.

"Because I won't fall for it," Sherlock replied with a thin smile. John grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look him in the eye, none too gently.

"What. Is. Going on? Sherlock."

The detective blinked, surprised at the sudden outburst.

"Relax. Do you seriously think I would've brought you here if there had been any danger?"

"I hope. We live with danger on an everyday basis."

"But this is Moriarty."

"One of his games again?"

As John's grip slackened, Sherlock stepped back and resumed walking.

"Of some sort, yes."

"What sort?"

"Originally, Elsie and Abby had probably intended to make the murder look like an accident. Or a suicide, maybe."

"So Elsie would inherit all the money from her late husband."

"Precisely."

"Originally?" John underlined.

Sherlock nodded.

"I don't see what you... Oh."

As realization dawned on him, John looked worriedly at his friend.

"They're planning on blaming it on us."

"On me, John. You are above suspicion. But me..."

"No one could ever suspect you of murder!" John burst out.

Sherlock stared pointedly. "Really? I can see many people who'd be more than happy to indict me."

His expression darkened. John remembered Sergeant Donovan, Anderson, and thought that more than half of the Met would probably be very happy indeed.

"But there wouldn't be any proof," he persisted, desperation in his voice.

"Moriarty can make proof."

"But he's not here!" Then, suddenly vibrant with anger: "Is he?"

Sherlock sent him a glance sideways, observing his tensed features, but shook his head negatively.

"As I said, he's just playing. Testing me. It's so simple, really. He must have told the two girls that if they didn't blame the murder on me, he'd destroy them, because they owed him. Something of the like. He's just having some fun."

"And he's got a bloody twisted sense of it," John muttered threateningly. Sherlock noted the fury, and became aware of just how much the doctor seemed intent on killing the consulting criminal with his own two hands. Telling him it was vain would be useless, though. John was even more stubborn than Mycroft, perhaps even more stubborn than Sherlock himself, for he had strong moral principles.

"So what do you plan on doing?" John wondered.

The consulting detective smiled, his eyes sparkling. "You'll see."

"Can't you even tell me?!" John snapped irritatedly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Don't you trust me?"

The voice was annoyed, the tone, accusing. But John could hear the undertone of uncertainty in his friend's coldness. When Sherlock was happy – excited over a case, gleeful thanks to a challenging murder – he was on fire, as he himself put it. John found the expression quite fitting: Sherlock was indeed radiating, burning with the energy of the thrill and the exhilaration of danger, relishing the stimulation it provided his brain with. When Sherlock was bored, he was loud and unnerving, whined all day long and shot at walls. John had got used to it, and truly hoped that now, he'd always find a way to occupy his friend, even if it implied giving his own body for the sake of experimenting. No, what was terrifying, truly terrifying, was when Sherlock was cold or silent. When he was hurt, he turned to ice. That was the stage beyond annoyance, beyond boredom. John had only started noticing it recently, but that was also when Sherlock looked the most alone.

"I trust you," he said.

"I know I messed up that day we were kidnapped and brought to the... to the basement, but it wasn't a game. He wasn't even playing, he..."

John repeated: "I trust you."

"Good," Sherlock said quickly, averting his gaze nervously. "Good."

Slowly, very delicately, John came closer to him and circled his waist. Sherlock stiffened slightly, but let him do as he liked.

"I just don't trust him," John murmured.

"Quite rightly so."

They exchanged an amused look, and a knowing smile graced their lips, a sense of intimacy mirroring on their faces. John hugged his partner tightly in a surge of affection, and Sherlock almost cowered, then panicked even more as he thought his reaction might very well deter his friend. But the doctor only slackened his embrace, lacing their fingers together and resting his head on the detective's chest.

When they parted, he looked up at him and asked:

"So... Why did we go on a stroll for? Are we going somewhere? To see Abby, perhaps?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Then what?"

The detective smiled playfully.

"As I said. Just a lovers' stroll in the countryside."

John stared.

"You're not serious."

"Umm... Nope. Actually, I just wanted to touch you in open air."

And without further notice, he tripped John and made them roll onto the grass by the side of the little path.

"Sherlock! What..."

John was interrupted by one of those bruising kisses that left him breathless and panting for more. But this time, something in his partner's eyes made him put a hand on the detective's chest, and push him back gently. The kiss felt too forced, the eagerness too skilfully shown. Sherlock looked at his friend inquiringly – but the uncertainty was back in the clear pupils.

"Sherlock." John caressed soothingly the cold palm with his thumb. "If you're not comfortable with anything... physical, it's okay. I don't mind. Well, maybe I will at the beginning, a bit, but... What I'm trying to say is that we don't have to do it. I won't leave you, even if you don't want me to touch you."

Sherlock pushed his hand back feverishly, eyes wide.

"What are you saying?"

"That it's fine if you don't want the sex."

"I..."

"Look, I didn't want you to think that you were disgusting, dirty or undesirable – or any other nonsense."

"Is that why you touched me in the first place?"

"What? No! God, no. I wanted you." John saw something flash in Sherlock's eyes and realized he'd used the past tense.

"I want you," he corrected precipitately. He felt himself blush with shame, hating to sound so bestial in front of his ethereal, intellectual partner, but he forced himself to keep his head up, and to look Sherlock in the eye.

"I want you, but I won't leave you if you refuse me. Hell, I won't stop loving you if you refuse me!"

Sherlock smiled jadedly. "This is chemistry, John. Whether you want it or not, if our relationship isn't fulfilling, you'll easily fall in love with someone el–"

"But it is fulfilling! I–"

"Do you think that I don't want you?" Sherlock cut in, realization hitting him. John took a deep breath.

"All I'm saying is that in any case, it's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock just stared at him, utterly lost and confused. He just didn't understand how their conversation had ended up being about this. He didn't understand why John was suddenly making such a fuss. He didn't understand why it triggered a bitter taste in his mouth, when he should have been glad that John was being so tolerant and open-minded. He didn't understand, didn't understand... And the loss of sense was making his mind spiral right back into a chasm of self-deprecation.

"But it's not all fine, is it?"

"Sherlock..."

"My body is horrendous and I–"

"Sherlock!"

"I'm just grotesque. I am nothing physically. My body is only good for trans–"

John interrupted him with a kiss, swallowing his babble from his very lips.

"Shh..." he whispered against his mouth.

"Don't you shh m... mmh!"

John tried to keep the kiss gentle and reassuring, but Sherlock's mouth was so hungry and his tongue so violently desperate that he was having a hard time not drowning into the touch.

"You're not grotesque," he whispered, resting his brow against Sherlock's, their noses rubbing, their lips brushing. "You're beautiful." Then, as an after thought. "You're handsome, Sherlock."

The detective snorted.

"You're a very bad liar, John."

John kissed the corner of his lips, then his cheek, his cheekbone...

"I know..."

… the side of his nose, his eyebrow, the temple...

"... that's why I wouldn't lie to you."

… the top of the ear, the lobe, the chin. Sherlock was letting him do whatever he wanted with his face, each kiss making him shiver a little more, of pleasure, expectation, or just an overload of undesired emotions, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that Mycroft had been right. John was so much under his skin now that when they parted, he would take all warmth away.

"Then you're not lying," he murmured. "That's why they say love is blind."

His voice was deep, his tone mocking – the tone of a cynic. John's hand in his curls pulled the hair gently and curved the nape of his neck, forcing Sherlock to lock eyes with him.

"And do you think it is? Blind."

Fear and an indefinable anguish flickered in the clear pupils, which blurred – but Sherlock did not avert his gaze. He forced himself to look in the depths of John's irises, to really look, even though their intensity was blinding, their determination dazzling. You give me so much, he thought.

"It blinds you," he finally let out in a whisper, "it blinds you, but it clears my mind. I told you already... You are unbeatable as a conductor of light."

John felt his heart clench at the words, and he hugged his friend tighter. But Sherlock suddenly swooped on him and impaled him with his tongue. John squirmed and moaned under the onslaught, but soon surrendered. Just as he did though, the detective broke the kiss and looked him in the eye, frowning in childish discontent.

"John. I want you to touch me. Touch me."

And as John just lay there, blinking in bewilderment, Sherlock groaned and added demandingly:

"Now."

xXx

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tbc