Posted

originally on the Archive of Our Own at

http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/1026164.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Character: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade,
Mycroft Holmes, Irene Adler
Additional Tags: Younger John
Series: Part 3 of The Faithful Compass
Stats: Published: 2013-10-31 Completed: 2014-05-25
Chapters: 11/11 Words: 42114

A Service in Belgravia
by KeelieThompson1

Summary

As Sherlock and John attempt to face the momentary normality of

planning a civil ceremony, Irene Adler proves that they might still
have a few kinks to explore.

Do keep an eye out on some of my stories as some are likely to

disappear in the next few weeks. If you want to take a copy of them,
then now is the chance!

Notes
Thank you so much to my brilliant and lovely betas Lutz and
CirilEowyn for all their continued help with this fic :D
 I give you this ring

Being interrogated was tedious. Especially when he couldn't correct them .

"So he blew up the pool?" Inspector Davis asked.

Frustrated by being asked the same tedious question over and over again,
Sherlock tipped his head back with a groan. "That would certainly be a
valid conclusion. I will say it again; the pool exploded after he left. John
and I had just managed to escape-"

"And you, Sherlock Holmes, smart arse extraordinaire-"

"Is he allowed to call me that?" Sherlock asked Lestrade curiously.

Lestrade, who had stared at Sherlock with narrowed eyes for the first hour
of this, shrugged. "Don't think that anyone will complain after they've spent
five minutes with you," he muttered, stretching his feet out.

"- didn't pay attention to the body?" Davis continued with a glare at
Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock said easily. "I was paying attention to John. Who was
drowning. Why should I care about some dead body?"

"This from the man that turns up to crime scenes just for the thrill."

"I have a deep sense of civic duty," Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

Opposite him, Lestrade slunk down further in his seat as Davis fixed
Sherlock with a steely gaze.

Do not annoy them, Mycroft had said as they made their way to Scotland
Yard. Most of them will have their suspicions. Do not make them try to
search harder.

"The body," Davis said, picking up the file once more. "Unidentified, male,
between thirty and thirty five. Could this have been the bomber? Your
'Moriarty'?"

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "No. Moriarty was in the same room as the
corpse-"

"But he let you go?" Davis asked. "He played a game with you, exploded
two bombs according to you, killing in the process, and then just walked
away while badly timing his last bomb?"

"He's a madman," Sherlock muttered.

"Why did you take John home? He was tortured for all intents and
purposes-"

"I panicked," Sherlock snarled. "It does happen on occasion."

"You panicked so you took him home? Most people would go to the
hospital when panicking."

"I am not most people," Sherlock replied, meeting Davis' gaze. "I wanted
him safe."

There. Davis sat back with a sigh and Lestrade dropped his hand. Whatever
they might think of Sherlock, they all knew John was his priority.

Davis shook his head and ended the interview as Lestrade narrowed his
gaze at Sherlock. When Davis stood up, Lestrade remained in his seat.

"Question?" Sherlock mocked as Davis closed the door behind him.

"No," Lestrade said, seeming to come to some internal decision. "None I

want the answers to, anyway."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"They finished nagging you?" Andy asked looking up as Sherlock walked

into the flat. Across from him, John looked over, eyes scanning Sherlock's
with worry.
"For today," Sherlock murmured as he walked over to John's chair and sat
on the arm. It was impossible not to touch him, to dance his fingers over
John's wrist, to check his pulse and feel how warm he was. His eyes
immediately went to John's chest, trying to work out from the rate and
depth of his breathing exactly how much pain he was in. "Have you just
been sitting here?" he asked, realising that John didn't have a book in his
hands and that the television wasn't on.

"Andy was reading to me," John said, nodding at their friend. "But I'm
becoming slightly concerned he can't read as he seems to be making the
articles up."

"I'm a better writer than half of these," Andy dismissed. "People would pay
good money to hear what you're hearing."

Sherlock watched John squint at Andy and then look up at him. "How
likely is it that they will want you tomorrow?" John asked. "I might start
jamming wooden pencils in my ears just to escape Andy."

"Not cleaning that up," Andy warned, sounding bored as he continued to

read the newspaper. "I hate Brenda, why does she get the scoop? I could
talk to artists and dominatrices . They're wasted on her."

"You said gossip was beneath you," John reminded him.

"No. Gossip involving fit women who I want to shag should get beneath
me," Andy corrected, folding up the newspaper. "Pay attention, Watson."

Watson.

Turning his head down to John, Sherlock tightened his grip a little. "We are
not changing our last names," he warned.

"Could hyphenate," John mused.

Sherlock let out a pained noise. "Must we?" he whined. "Hyphenating just
means we couldn't make up our minds and will lead to the childish
argument of whose last name should come first."

"Watson has two syllables," John said easily. "Sounds better if it comes
first-"

"That's…" Sherlock trailed off when he caught sight of Andy as he blinked

and looked up. Andy's mouth dropped ever so slightly and his gaze darted
between the pair of them. "…It's like watching a child learn how to
deduce," Sherlock said, watching him. "An odd sense of pride and then an
equal measure of annoyance that they didn't manage to pick up on the fact
that we were talking about rings earlier."

Andy's eyes widened even further.

Accepting that Andy, for whatever reason, wasn't going to move, Sherlock
fished out the box he had picked up on his way back and held it out to John.

"To be fair," John said, looking at the box. "I was talking about rings. You
were breezing about the flat muttering something about knees." Sherlock
watched as John reached out for the box carefully. "We were meant to do
this together," John scolded.

"Do you have a time travel device?" Sherlock enquired. "Unless you can
find a way to accompany me two and a half years ago then you may have
problems. Besides," he added with a sigh. "You're an awful shopper at the
best of times without you being tetchy due to your injuries."

John froze and looked up at him.

"And the safety deposit box was on Knee High road," Sherlock added,
rolling his eyes. "Really, John, you do need to hone your listening skills. It's
pitiful how-"

"You two are getting married?"

No-one he was friends with could be that slow, surely? Wary, Sherlock
stared at Andy, hoping he was joking and that his thought process had
worked a little quicker than what it seemed.

But Andy was still looking for confirmation and John seemed to be doing
his best statue impression rivaling the useless morons who performed at
Covent Gardens.
"I'm surrounded by imbeciles," Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of
his nose. "Yes, we are getting married. Yes," he added, turning to John. "I
kept the rings."

John blinked and then looked down at the box, stroking his thumb over the
lid. "Andy, piss off," he said, seeming to wake suddenly.

"Is he going to go down on one knee?" Andy asked, finally coming around.
"That I would pay money to see."

"It isn't a proposal," John huffed. "It's…" he seemed to flounder. "I'll buy
you five pints if you leave," he said with a reluctant sigh.

There was amusement in Andy's eyes as he pretended to consider it. "All

right, but the cost for my best man duties are way higher than that. And you
two cocks better battle it out for me."

Best man?

John nodded. "I'll get the pistols out tomorrow," he promised.

Andy nodded and clapped John on his shoulder as he moved by. "No
swimming competitions though," he said with an odd voice as he tried to
joke.

John smiled, clearly appreciating the attempt. "Good luck with the kinky
lady," he offered as Andy nodded at Sherlock. Over John's head, Andy let a
grin creep across his face as he pointed to Sherlock and mouthed the words
'gold', 'payment' and 'best man'.

Panicked, Sherlock waited until the front door shut before he spun to John.
"Best man?"

John was looking rather unhelpfully at the box in his hands. "Are you sure
you want to use these?" he asked softly.

"We used the same proposal," Sherlock muttered dismissively, clicking his
fingers in front of John's face to get his attention. "Best man duties?"

The clicking seemed to work as John looked up and over. "I'm not sure
what you're asking me," he said after a moment. "Do you want to know
what they do or-"

"Why does he think there will be any 'Best Man'?"

With a long suffering sigh, John rested his arm upon the chair and shifted
with a wince to look at Sherlock. "Right," he said slowly. "By no means am
I offering a big wedding," John said looking slightly unsettled at the idea.
"But…do you want any traditional stuff or do you just want to rock up, grab
someone from the street to be a witness, sign the papers and stop off at the
morgue for ears."

"Why do I want ears?" Sherlock asked, pulling a disgusted face. "I had ears
seven weeks ago, do pay attention, John."

"Yeah, that was the salient point in my question," John muttered.

Sherlock stood and moved to the armchair that Andy had left the paper on.
Picking it up, he considered the idea. "I…" he folded his arms, hating that
he was unsure. "I want…" He sat down, locking gazes with John.

To his relief, John wasn't watching him with annoyance or frustration but
with simple curiosity, a gentle look of understanding on his face. It forced
Sherlock to take a breath and attempt to finish the sentimental request.

"I don't want it fit into the day," Sherlock said slowly. "It shouldn't be a trip
to the supermarket."

Understanding crossed John's face. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I agree but
I'm not so bothered that if you really hate the idea of having guests-"

Guests.

"I don't want it to be another crazy impulsive thing we just did. I want
people to know this is serious, that we mean it." Sherlock clenched his jaw
remembering the times when he hadn't cared one jot about what people
thought. "And it would avoid us being nagged by my mother until the end
of time for not letting her attend."

John smiled and nodded, then the smile fell away.

"Oh God," he groaned, lying back into the chair. "That means my mother
has to go, doesn't it?"

If there was one single thing that Sherlock had not missed in the time they'd
been apart it was John's mother. "She is still with that…the man who made
her slightly bearable?"

"Phil? Yeah," John nodded. "Or, we could just give her the wrong day and
then tell her she heard wrong."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked. "Because I see no problem with that
plan."

John laughed and then winced. "We'll see how she goes," he said,
considering it again. "God, I'm a terrible son," he murmured shaking his
head. "I just hope to God she doesn't give me wedding night advice."

Sherlock shuddered at the idea, feeling more and more relieved for his
mother. "Are you ever planning on opening that?" he asked, waving a hand
at the box.

John shrugged and turned the box in his hand. "You really kept these?" he
asked.

Sherlock nodded. "In a box, far away."

The fond smile made Sherlock's heart flutter stupidly as John thumbed the
box open.

The curiosity was touching; wedding rings weren't exactly that interesting
and men's were even less so. It was hardly as if either of them were
flamboyant enough to linger at the shop window of jewellery stores. It was
genuine curiosity that had John lifting the box closer so he could study the
content, not an act put on for show or worry.

It was comfortable.

Strange, how much he wanted it. Comfortable would usually suggest dull,
but John, John was interesting and comfortable and brilliant-
"Are there two metals?" John asked moving his head to try and manipulate
the way the light was catching.

"Yes."

There was a long look at him. "Silver and white gold?"

"If that makes you feel more at ease with them then yes," Sherlock smiled.

John blinked and traced a finger over one of the rings.

"The point was to make it hard to see the join," Sherlock added, raising out
of the chair and walking over. "Greyson filed it in such a way that-"

"Did you buy this or have it made?" John almost yelped.

Sherlock took the box from him and studied the rings. "Want to try?" he
asked. "Your finger may have changed in size a little over the years-"

John gestured at it and Sherlock plucked the ring out, handing it to him.

"God forbid you slide it on," John muttered, his hands clumsy with the
action. "I feel so gay," he muttered as he spread his hand and studied the
ring upon his finger.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and shot John a piteous look.

"Gay Alf gay not let me suck your cock gay," John explained, throwing him
an annoyed glare. He shook his hand suspiciously and the ring stayed put.
"Does that mean it fits?" he asked blankly.

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to John's knee as he knelt. "Yes," he said
with a nod as he slid his own on.

It did feel exceedingly strange to have the weight on his finger. That said,
he would bet it would be worryingly easy to become accustomed to it.

"Fuck," John breathed with a grin. "So this is er…after we get married this
is…" he trailed off awkwardly. "Um…what our hands will look like…" he
laughed at his own words. "I just…this feels tangible," he said softly.
"Will look like?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Can we not keep them on?"

John stared down at him. "Uh…I don't think so," he said, sounding unsure.

"People have engagement rings."

"Girls have engagement rings," John corrected. "Men…have no money. I

think that's how it works."

Sherlock sniffed in derision. "Pointless rule," he muttered, standing up.

"Tea?"

"Uh," John's voice called to him. "So we're keeping them on then, just to
check?"

"Test run," Sherlock called back.

Yes, he thought as his thumb stroked the ring on the inside of his finger.
Very easy to get used to.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You'll have to take it off for cases," John mumbled to him as they lay in
bed that night.

"You'll hold onto it," Sherlock decided, rolling over to him and touching the
bullet John wore. He stroked his finger over the chain and then dipped to
John's collarbone.

John caught his hand and pressed a kiss to it. "Just this and the ring," he
warned. "I'm not becoming your flaming extra pocket."

Sherlock nodded.

John was showing no signs of sleep. It was the problem at the moment; he
wasn't doing enough to feel tired and overcome the nagging ache that the
ribs caused him. And, being a doctor, John seemed insistent on taking deep
breaths as often as he could, despite the pain it caused.

"Go to sleep," John said softly with a smile. "You need your three hour
recharge."

Sherlock sneered at him, unimpressed, and then focused back on tracing

John's bones, his ring flashing in the street light.

"I was thrown out of three jewellers," Sherlock admitted.

"Only three?" John asked. "You must have been on good behaviour."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "The amount of people buying a ring just

to apologise for a secret affair was worrying."

"And how many people did you tell this to?"

Eight. "Five."

John scrunched up his face in doubt at that fake number and Sherlock felt a
warm flutter in his chest at the idea John could read him. "I'm amazed you
didn't get punched," John said with a smile.

"I was," Sherlock rolled onto his back. "Well…I ducked a few. The last one
I wasn't expecting; he seemed very placid…it may have been the revelation
of the fact that he liked larger women while hand in hand with his fiancé
that-"

"Prat," John whined, nudging over a little to rest his head on Sherlock's
chest. It was a position they had both started to get used to as it was best for
John to sleep on his injured side. "I'm amazed you survived."

"In the end I went to a man who used to forge paintings to pay for his
artistic life style. Years ago I used to introduce him to con artists; I don't
think a single one of his has been caught. Shocking really; he always liked
to see if he could add something in and still get away with it-"

"So a master forger made our wedding rings?" John asked.

"And designed them," Sherlock added, nodding in agreement.

There was a long sigh. "Why does that sound fitting for you?" John said
after a moment. "Only you could manage to make it both romantic and
fucking weird."

Sherlock smiled as he lifted the arm John was laying on to stroke a hand
through John's hair. "It's an impressive talent of mine," he decided. "Not
one I had any desire to claim so it must be through sheer natural brilliance."

John snorted, his hand with the ring on Sherlock's chest. Still taken by it,
Sherlock reached with his free hand to stroke the metal.

"I'd do it tomorrow," he mused, staring at the ring. "Tonight. Now."

"I know," John said, risking a stretch before hissing and relaxing again. "I
just…I'd like to not be wincing at everything when we get married."

Sherlock nodded. "Then we really will have to tell your mother the wrong
date."

"Cringing is not wincing," John mumbled. "Cringing is more

psychologically damaging."

Amused, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's hair.

"John," he said after a moment.

"Mm?"

"I will wake you up."

It was a topic he had only just started to dare broach. For the first two days
after the pool, John had violent nightmares that were not conducive to one
healing from broken ribs. They seemed to be just a blurred mix from the
captivity, facing Taylor and from the explosion. John woke from them all
and, despite the pain he was in, would usually fling himself into the sitting
room or, on one memorable occasion, upstairs.

Sherlock had just about managed to get him down to pacing the room
before returning to the bed.

In his arms, John sighed. "Not tired," he said firmly.

"I could tell you more stories. I could tell you how I almost sent Victor's
entire family to prison for identity fraud. That might cheer you up."

"Almost?" John asked, sounding unimpressed. "That sounds like it doesn't

have a happy ending."

"Or the time I interrupted Mycroft's first date with a dead cat."

John twisted his neck to stare at Sherlock incredulously. "I can't decide
which is more…are you trying to tell me a bedtime story?"

"It's what people do, isn't it?"

John shook his head. Though whether it was in reply to Sherlock's last
question or to the general idea of being told a story, Sherlock had no idea.

He suspected it might be both.

"You could talk to me about it," he suggested very quietly, unsure as to how
John would take that offer.

John's hand drew circles on his chest. Lazy, misshapen circles. "I know,"
John said eventually. "And…I want to. I will. I just…I need it straight in
my own head first."

"I'm not asking for a perfect rendition of events," Sherlock snapped, feeling
his temper fray slightly. "I could help you…think," he said hearing his
voice trail off.

That sentence had sounded far better in his head.

"I know," John said gently. "And I get it. I'd be crawling up the walls in
frustration by now if we were the other way around but…" He turned his
head into Sherlock's neck. "This helps."

"Being in bed?"

"Being with you. You can be the most dangerous, stupid man I know but…
you're also the safest."
Sherlock smiled at the idea, then scowled. "Stupid?" he asked, lowering his
chin to glare at John's nose. "Stupid?"

"In the cleverest possible way," John replied sweetly.

Choosing to accept the change of conversation, Sherlock wriggled in an

overly dramatic fashion. "Now I'm not telling you what her reaction was to
the cat," Sherlock sniffed.

"I'll get it from Anthea. I'm sure Mycroft has told her by now."

"I doubt it," Sherlock muttered. "He didn't come out of it well either."

"Well then I could tell Anthea and she could torture your brother."

True. "Maybe," Sherlock replied closing his eyes. "But only if you sleep."

"Spoilsport."
 With Love and Joy
Chapter Summary

Those around Sherlock and John react to news about the wedding.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

September

John

"So they've given up?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Apparently so," he said as he flicked his way through

the post, tossing any potential bills in the direction of the bin. "Lestrade
suspects something."

"Will he keep quiet?" John asked, easing himself over to the chair then
reaching with his foot to try and pick up the bills.

"I'd imagine so," Sherlock replied, sounding far too unconcerned to be

believed. They hadn't really broached the subject of Charlie since the yard
had started interrogating them about the body found at the pool. John had
been able to use the stress of the situation to claim that his memory was
blurred, that he'd had a limited view of events. They'd agreed to keep their
recounts as vague as possible and not tie themselves to anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock paused in his disposal of the post. "I would do it again," he said
awkwardly. "He was a vile man and I was given limited choices."
John stared at the bills under his feet then up at Sherlock. "First man I killed
was an order. It makes life seem so…" he struggled for the word.
"Powerless. And powerful at the same time. It's far too easy to pull a
trigger."

Sherlock looked up at him and slowly nodded. "So easy that it almost
makes it difficult," he said, sounding confused by it.

If he weren't injured, John would have hugged him by now. Sherlock

seemed so adrift in the centre of the living room that John wanted to tug
him back to safety, to company.

Instead, Sherlock came to him. Kneeling down, he tugged the bills out from
under John's shoe and shook his head. "I was aiming these at the bin for a
reason," he scolded.

"They need to be paid," John muttered. "People asking for money do not go
away just because you've put their letters in the bin."

"Refunds," Sherlock corrected. "Mycroft has been overzealous this month."

"Why is Mycroft paying the bills?"

Sherlock shrugged, tossing the envelopes properly into the bin. "He likes
paperwork."

Freak. "Have you told him?"

"That he's paying the bills?" Sherlock queried.

"That we're getting married."

"I had a lecture," Sherlock nodded. "The day after I picked up the rings.
Apparently Anthea's family are catholic and Mycroft has been attending
marriage sessions. He believes himself to be something of an expert."

"Really?" John asked, doubtful. "He was giving you advice rather than
warning you away?"

The slight head tilt was enough to let John know that the warning had
simply been ignored. "He thinks we're rushing," Sherlock said rolling his
eyes. "But then Mycroft thinks a brisk walk is rushing so it would seem
foolish to give his thoughts on the matter weight."

"And your mum?"

Sherlock squirmed. "Have you told yours?" he accused.

"No, but we've agreed that she's the devil incarnate and needs to be given
very selective information. Hence the reason Harry hasn't been told yet."

"They haven't phoned," Sherlock scowled. "Neither of them. After what

happened-"

"Ah," John held up a hand. "That's because I haven't told them."

Sherlock glared and folded his arms. "That's exceedingly childish," he

muttered.

"Right," John nodded. "Well, I just didn't want to risk either of them
deciding to come over to help me recover but if you want them here-"

"You still have your room in Bethnal Green," Sherlock pointed out, looking
a little ill at the idea of a Watson invasion. "They could go to that god awful
house and see you there."

"Yeah, I'm not keeping that," John said slowly. "I am moving in-"

"You already have," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "But if you use
your old room then they may never know where we live."

Clicking his tongue in amusement, John shook his head at Sherlock. "Just
how thick do you think my family is?"

"For the sake of our impending nuptials I believe it is safer if I never

answer that question."

Sniggering, John reached out to tug Sherlock close, grinning up at him.

"So," he said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's hand. "Do we tell my family and
your mother together?"
"As in, tell them as a group or that we should go as a couple in case a
witness is needed? "

"The latter," John said firmly, then winced. "I mean...no witness required, I
hope!"

With what seemed to be great reluctance, Sherlock nodded. "Together," he

sighed miserably. "For better or worse, I suppose. May as well face worse
now."

John swiped at him playfully.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alf

"What the bloody hell am I meant to do with you?" Alf complained as he

spotted John in the middle of the bar. "You're not meant to lift anything.
Drinks, barrels, your shirt-"

Pointedly, John lifted up the bottle he'd been carrying. There was a slight
wince to his movements that Alf spotted. The moron was pushing himself
far too much, Alf thought with a shake of his head.

Sherlock had better hang, draw and quarter the bastard who'd done it.

"Vodka?" Alf asked, nodding at the clear liquid.

"Water," John corrected shaking his head.

"Then it's just as useless." Alf sighed as he walked over and sat on a bar
stool. "Are you okay?"

"I'm bored," John said, avoiding Alf's gaze as he frowned at one of the
pumps and fiddled with it.

"How long until you're back in action?" Alf asked, watching him. John had
lost weight again, a fact that Sherlock Holmes was probably spitting
feathers over.
"Six weeks." John sounded so miserable about it that Alf nearly smiled.
"Six long weeks."

"Spending most of that with Sherlock I take it?" Alf asked.

John nodded, then blinked and looked over at him. "Um...yeah…we're

um…we're…" he trailed off and looked at the pumps awkwardly. "We're
getting married," he said with a slightly disbelieving tone to his voice.

Married?

Startled, Alf blinked at him and leaned back. "That's quick," he said slowly.

John said nothing, watching him closely.

Why…oh.

Amused and trying not to cringe at the fact that John had known about
Alf's…fondness for him, Alf waved a hand in front of his face dramatically.
"Oh, why couldn't it have been me," he sobbed before dropping his head to
the bar top and letting out a dramatic wail.

"You're a wanker," John declared after a moment, his voice relieved. "A
complete-"

"I'll start solving crimes," Alf continued, putting everything he had into not
laughing. "I have a club. I can give you drama. And get a good coat."

John's tongue clicked to the side of his cheek and he pressed his lips
together in amusement, shaking his head.

"Life isn't worth living," Alf continued to moan. "Dear God, why do you-?"

A hand clapped him on the back, interrupting his commitment to the

moment. "Can I switch shifts with Dommo?"

"I'm in the middle of something," Alf sighed, turning to Freddie. "I'm trying
to convince John to marry me instead of Sherlock," he wrapped an arm
around Freddie's shoulder. "Think I should go down on my knees?"
"Why? You're shit at head and the floor's filthy."

John sniggered. "Really?" he said to Freddie. "And what part of closing last
night made you think you didn't have to wash the floor?"

Freddie opened his mouth, darted a glance between them and slumped. "I'll
get a mop," he decided, ducking away from Alf's arm and heading off to the
closet.

"I love your army meanness," Alf said sincerely.

"That wasn't mean," John leaned against the bar carefully.

Alf chuckled and shrugged, then refocused. "So?"

John darted a look at him. "I…thank you for the offer but-"

"Not that, you tit," Alf said shaking his head. "Though good to know both
you and Sherlock knew about that tiny little crush I had. It was the army
uniform. I'm such a sucker for-"

John scratched at his head and yawned.

"I meant," Alf said with a mock glare, "How did you two go from 'we'll
take it slow and see what happens' to 'fuck it all let's just get married'?"

"It's been almost ten years," John protested. "How much slower would you
like us to go? We just…it feels right."

Credit to them, Alf supposed, to take that risk again with each other. "So,
how did you ask him?"

John shifted.

"He asked you?" Alf gaped, stunned. "Again?"

"No," John shook his head. "I just…changed my answer."

"Huh," Alf considered that. "In that case there might be a few swans that I
might try that line with-"
A bar towel was thrown at his face. Wincing at the smell of Malibu, Alf
tossed it on the floor. Opposite him, John rested a hand on the pumps, still
fiddling with it.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Why are you already wearing a wedding ring?"

John pulled his hand from the pump as if Alf might try to take it away. "I…
it's an experiment," he said awkwardly.

"Freak," Alf decided. "Both for that and coming to work. I seriously can't
have you in, John."

"Can I sit on the stool and boss them around for opening?" John asked.

"If it means I can stay in bed later then knock yourself out," Alf shrugged.
"Ooh, and you can help boss the minions around while the show sets up."

John did a double take. "Show?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Violet

John looked unwell, she thought as she ushered the boys into the sitting
room. Sherlock was hovering around him, a hand held just shy of touching
John as if far too aware that John may need some help at any moment.
Occasionally, even as they took their seats, John with a great deal more care
than he had ever displayed, Sherlock would brush his fingers against John's
in a silent-

There was a wedding ring on her son's finger.

Swallowing back the shock and hurt, Violet looked down at the teapot, even
as she allowed her eyes to flicker to John's left hand. Sure enough, the
partner to her son's ring was on John's hand.
With a thudding heart, Violet picked up the pot and, trying to focus
completely on her task, poured the drink. Sherlock must have been
distracted, she thought as she moved onto the second cup. He'd have
noticed something by now.

Trying to smile, she handed out the cup and saucer to…to her son in law.
What an odd thing to think, she thought as John accepted the tea with a nod.
Son in law. She'd assumed after the break up two years ago that she would
never think those words-

Though granted, when her boys had been young she'd never considered the
word. Her husband would never have approved, whether the marriage was
legal or not. And Sherlock probably would have taken an extra amount of
pleasure at that fact.

The silence seemed to make both Sherlock and John nervous as they
glanced at each other. John was glaring at Sherlock pointedly and nodding
his head in her direction as if trying to get Sherlock to open his mouth.

"Or you can tell mine," she heard John murmur.

Sherlock immediately relented and she braced herself, trying to not think
about how she had missed out-

"We wish to inform you that we are getting married."

Getting married?

Immediately her eyes fell to their rings.

Self-consciously, John hunched his shoulder up a little, his cheeks turning

slightly ruddy as he sighed. "Christ, this is going to be everyone's reaction,"
he muttered as he took another sip of tea.

But Sherlock lifted his chin. "I do not see why people are so adverse to us
wearing these before we marry. It's the safest place for them rather than a
drawer."

It took her a moment to process that. "So…you are wearing your rings
before you are married?"
Sherlock slumped back into the sofa, folding his arms. John frowned,
moving to manoeuvre the tea and stop it from splashing. She watched him
throw a glance over to Sherlock and Sherlock simply glared back.

Then stuck out his tongue.

"Child," John muttered, looking back at her. "Sherlock thinks we need to

test the rings out to see if any adjustments need to be made. I'm expecting to
have my hand dipped in acid any day now."

"Don't tempt me," Sherlock muttered, staring at the window.

Putting that aside…she took a deep breath. They were getting married;
there would be a ceremony and pictures.

Strangely she didn't quite feel the excitement she had felt when Mycroft and
Anthea had come to tell her the news about their engagement.

"And you've…considered this?" she asked, trying to be delicate. "In depth."

Both of them looked at her, one with a shifting concern and the other with
growing annoyance.

"I seem to remember Mycroft got champagne," Sherlock muttered, sitting

up to lean forward. "I told you he was her favourite," he added to John.

John tried to smile. "Perhaps your mother is simply good enough to

remember that I can't drink at the moment," he said as his hand reached out
to squeeze Sherlock's.

But Sherlock remained staring at her, his gaze icy and Violet found herself
sighing as she put her cup and saucer down.

"It's very fast," she said carefully.

"It's hardly fast," Sherlock muttered. "Ten years is not-"

"Ah, are we now allowed to include the previous relationship?" Violet

asked, surprising even herself with her tone.
John shook his head and moved as if to lean forward. Instantly, Sherlock
moved, taking the cup and saucer from John and putting them down on the
glass table instead.

"Violet," John started. "I understand-"

"No," Sherlock snapped. "No. We both made mistakes. Or do you think that
John's mother was overjoyed at the fact her son was dating a drug addict
who was involved with all manner of criminal activity?"

Drug addict.

Criminal.

They'd never really used those words before. Swallowing, Violet opened
her mouth to reassure him in some way; he'd come so far and he didn't
deserve to be continually labelled. "You didn't leave him," she said firmly.

"I should have," Sherlock snapped.

Next to him, John glanced over in surprise and murmured something that
she couldn't hear. A flicker of a rueful smile crossed Sherlock's face as he
rolled his eyes at John.

And relaxed again.

"You cannot blame me for having some concerns," Violet said, feeling
slightly unbalanced by their interaction. They were so calm with each other.

It was a stark difference from how they'd been before.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Sherlock asked, his temper skyrocketing again.
"Does she think I'm stupid?" he asked turning to John before turning back
to Violet. "That I haven't considered every angle of this? Or is it my deep
yearning, crushing need to be loved that has made you believe I'd get
married just for the sake of frolicking around a registry office?"

Violet glared at him. "I am not saying that I think you two are ill-suited. I
am saying that you have not been a couple again for very long and getting
married is-"
"We've set a date for March," John said quietly, looking slightly amused.

March?

Violet had envisioned some haphazard ceremony next week in which

Sherlock rushed the registrar through the words and then ducked off for
some case. March sounded…formal, proper.

Thought out.

"That's…that's seven months away," she said, completely ignoring her own
rule to never say anything quite so obvious to either of her sons.

Was it her imagination or did John look tickled?

"Don't start," Sherlock muttered, glaring at them both. "John refuses to see
the logic in waiting until then."

"You'd would have wanted the wedding earlier?" she asked John, in
surprise. If anything she'd have thought it would have been the other way
around.

"I wanted December," John replied. "Enough time to get things sorted, for
me to be in better health. But no, December is too jovial. Too many people
will be in a celebratory mood."

Next to him, Sherlock shuddered.

"And January?"

"Cases," Sherlock explained seriously. "People put far more thought into
crimes after Christmas. I imagine that most have nothing else to do but plan
while enduring family gatherings. And the amount of revenge killings-"

"Sherlock," John murmured.

"And I would rather not have to choose between my wedding day and a
delightful case. They tend to run into February and then of course there's
Valentine's Day-"
"Too romantic?" Violet asked, starting to see why John had looked so
amused.

"No, good crimes again," John explained. "It's a wonderful time of the
year."

Exchanging a smile with him, Violet sighed. "So is there a specific date in
March?"

Sherlock nodded.

Then frowned and looked slightly panicked before glancing at John.

"Go on," John said calmly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he shrugged. "It's at the start of the month,"
he said.

"Yeah," John nodded. "The seventeenth sounds like the start of the month,"
he said, his lips twitching in an amusement Violet recognised from years of
marriage.

There was a flicker of surprise on Sherlock's face. "Are you sure?" he said,
looking suddenly wary.

Even Sherlock had to know that forgetting the wedding date wasn't quite a
good thing.

"Yes. I listened."

Her son didn't seem convinced.

The seventeenth of March.

Slowly, she sipped her tea again, feeling oddly at peace with it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg

Found the body there his arse.

Not for the first time, Greg felt like groaning into his desk as the file came
up. Again.

John Watson, injured, captured and half drowned. A dead body. A missing
criminal mastermind, an explosion and Sherlock Holmes.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that if John had been toyed with, played
with and injured then of course dead bodies would start to follow.

As it was, Greg didn't know whether to be insulted by Sherlock or annoyed.

Both John and Sherlock had killed for each other now. And both times Greg
had turned a blind eye.

He was an idiot.

There was the ruling, one that backed up Sherlock's claims and closing the
case. All he had to do was sign to it in agreement as one of the investigating
officers and it would be done with.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The landlady let him in. In his opinion Mrs Hudson was a saint sent from
up above to deal with those two every day.

"Boys," she called up the stairs. "You have a visitor."

A reluctant grin crossed Greg's face as the sweet natured call reminded him
of being twelve and knocking for his mates to come out and play.

The grin was wiped away when Sherlock came out and met him in the
landing.

"Is it done with?" Sherlock demanded, closing the door behind him.

"Can we not do this inside?" Greg asked.

"John's in there," Sherlock said dismissively. "Tell me first-"

Something was pointedly thrown at the door on the other side. Sherlock
glanced back once and then turned to Greg with a demanding look on his
face.

"Was the body Moriarty's?" Greg asked quietly.

"No, I told you-"

Greg let loose a long, loud sigh. "I didn't write John up."

It seemed to take a moment for Sherlock to follow the logic. Softening,

either at the memory or towards Greg, Sherlock stepped back a little. "That
would never have gone to court. John did it to save me."

"He was in far more danger the other night than you were then." Greg
scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Why the hell you decided to lie-"

"I brought him to the pool and shot him," Sherlock said in a strange tone.
"How many people do you think would believe I did it simply because
Moriarty told me to?"

Jesus. Hearing it actually said was…it felt odd not to reach for his cuffs at
the confession. "You were forced. If he was a stranger-"

Sherlock looked away. "The less you know the better," he said, shaking his
head.

It hadn't been a stranger?

Who the hell had it been?

It wasn't his nature not to ask. But even as he opened his mouth, Sherlock
glared at him. "Inspector," he said in an annoyed tone. "Unlikely as it is to
come out, believe me, your acting ability is horrifically useless. A genuine
reaction may save your job."

Surprised, and a little touched by the words, Greg tilted his head. "Never
knew you cared," he teased, trying to change the subject.

"Of course I care," Sherlock muttered in annoyance. "You're the only one
that routinely calls me onto crime scenes."
Ah. Of course. Greg nodded. Sherlock Holmes did have his priorities after
all. "Right," he said shaking his head. "Then I need a pen to sign this and
we can all get on with things."

Sherlock glanced back at the door and nodded, opening it and leaving it
wide open so that Greg could follow him.

John was sat in the armchair, his eyes narrowed as they came in, the paper
forgotten upon his lap.

And a ring-

Stunned, Greg whirled to look at Sherlock. "You're married?"

"No," John said, sounding annoyed. "We're engaged…" he trailed off and
glared at Sherlock. "It's your bloody idea to wear them before we get
married. You explain," he added with some frustration.

Sherlock looked skittish. "Experiment," he said with a shrug as he found a

pen and thrust it at Greg.

"Engaged?" Greg asked, looking between them.

John nodded.

For a moment, all Greg could see were the two morons that had stood in the
station years ago. The drug addict he'd arrested for walking into his crime
scene and the tired, grumpy boyfriend that had draped himself over the desk
as he moodily answered Sherlock's release form.

Greg clicked the pen. "You want an engagement present?" he asked, leaning
down to sign his name. "There," he said, as he scrawled his signature in ink.

When he looked up, John was watching him with concern. "If-"

"No more shooting people," Greg said, letting Sherlock read what he'd just
signed.

John blinked at him and then his gaze drifted to Sherlock who was ignoring
them both now in favour of scanning the document.
"He's lucky to have friends like you," John said quietly.

Greg waited for the correction. But either Sherlock agreed or wasn't
listening because no correction came.

"It wasn't just for him," Greg said slowly.

John looked surprised, but pleased. "What are you doing on March 17th?"
he asked.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock

The ring caught the light as he twisted it around his finger.

He didn't want to take it off.

On his shoulder John's head moved, probably stirring from the morning
light that streamed through their curtains.

Sherlock waited. Waited until he heard John wake enough to remember to

take a deliberately deep breath and hiss at the pain.

Then he ducked his head down, placing small kisses along John's face.
Moving down the curve of his forehead and tracing the bones with his lips
until he found soft cheeks littered with rough stubble.

Then lips.

Sherlock twisted so that John didn't have to, bending to keep their lips
together as they kissed deeply, enjoying the laziness of it all.

John was going to be his husband.

Smiling into the kiss at the idea, Sherlock smoothed his hand down John's
torso, lightening his touch so as not to put any pressure on John's ribs. His
hand found the waistband of John's pyjama bottoms and he hesitated.

They simply hadn't gone down that road yet. Before Moriarty's game they
had rarely shared a bed with each other; usually only doing so when they
crashed together after a late night or a case.

How many years had it been since he had touched John like this?

Sherlock rubbed his thumb across John's hip thoughtfully. Maybe-

There was a loud knock at the front door which he ignored, continuing to
kiss John. Then-

"John!"

Sherlock over balanced at the sound of Harry Watson's furious voice,

throwing out his hands to avoid crashing into John and hurting him.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," John groaned. "Now? She picks
now?"

Sherlock propped himself up to glare at John. "You told her?"

John opened his mouth and winced "I…told a friend who might have told
her friend who might have told Clara who-"

Sherlock pushed himself up and off the bed, reaching out for his dressing
gown. "Deal with her."

"You said-"

"I said we'd tell her together. My part is done," Sherlock argued. "She
knows."

John sat up awkwardly, wincing as he did. "Then by all means, show her in
here."

"I-"

"John!" Harry sounded as if she were in the flat now. "Sherlock? Has he
broken his fucking ribs?"

Ah.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Shame," John said, sounding amused. "Sounds like your part still isn't
done."

For better or worse.

If John could put up with him inviting criminal masterminds into their lives,
Sherlock could deal with the Watson family.
 I choose you
Chapter Summary

With a date set, both Sherlock and John are helped/annoyed by people
trying to be helpful and both experience cold feet as Sherlock takes his
first case since John’s injury.

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to all who have commented. Apologies for not
replying - a bit swamped with work and with a move coming up :D.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The sight that greeted Sherlock as he stepped out of his room was not a
pleasant one.

There were boxes in the living room.

Boxes that signified this was it. John had given up that spare room in
Bethnal Green and now officially lived at 221b Baker Street.

With his fiancé.

Sherlock eyed the boxes, unsure why he found them so unsettling. His
thumb stroked over the band on his third finger, still finding it a source of
comfort despite the situation that was unsettling him.

"They aren't decorations," John pointed out as he walked back into the
room. "You could… I dunno…unpack them."
"Your ribs are close to being healed," Sherlock murmured. "You could
attempt to move them out of my way."

Though if he tried, Sherlock would wallop him one.

He hated being in love; logic simply flew out the window when dealing
with John. Unimpressed by his own fickle thought process, he glanced over
at John to find the man was watching him with a narrowed gaze. Annoyed,
Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow.

"You need a case," John said decisively.

He needed the boxes to go away. They were an obstruction. With a last

derisive look at the objects, Sherlock turned and stalked over to his husband
to be who was still giving him a strange look.

It was almost as if John could see the chaos of maddening thoughts that
were echoing across Sherlock's mind.

That thought was equally stupid.

Needing to…to somehow get rid of the confusing, nagging worries,

Sherlock ducked his head to John's and kissed him. A nipping playful kiss
that had John groaning into his mouth within seconds, making Sherlock
smirk in success as John's hand reached up to fist at his shirt, pulling it tight
across his bicep.

The bruises across John's ribs were still vivid, though a far less alarming
shade than they had been. It had been fascinating to track the colour of his
skin as the bruises had started to form, then fade, leaving few darker
splotches where the impact had been the most severe. John was moving a
lot easier now, sleeping better.

"I have to go to work," John murmured against his lips, interrupting

Sherlock's mental diagnosis.

Sherlock hummed his complaint into John's mouth. "Too early," he

murmured.

"The surgery?" John pulled back. "I'm in danger of being late as it is."
Ah, the surgery. Sherlock hated the surgery. John was a fill in for a few in
the area and there was never any warning or plan. It was frustrating.

"You're working tonight," Sherlock said, drawing back.

"I'm sitting on a stool and bossing people around for four hours as they
prepare to open," John corrected, reaching for his jacket. "It's hardly
taxing."

Sherlock sighed and turned back to the boxes, listening to John's keys rattle
as he put them in his pocket. "What am I meant to do?" he huffed.

"You could unpack these," John said, sounding doubtful even as he spoke.
"Or bug the yard for a case."

No. He'd end up on some dull, obvious murder, eventually annoying

Lestrade which would mean Sherlock would be less likely to be called if
there was a truly interesting case.

"I'll be going straight to the club," John said as he walked to the door. "You
could pop in, eat with me there?"

Sherlock nodded. "Perhaps," he said, still eyeing up the boxes.

"Right."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were living together.

The boxes were proof of it. Irrefutable proof that John was staying.

They'd done it once before, Sherlock remembered. Almost two months of

waking up with John, of easy sex and eating in bed. Lazy mornings of just
touching and tea, evenings of rushing out, laughing and dancing.

Fights.

Moving out.

That hadn't been unexpected; John had always intended to move out as he
had just been staying with Sherlock for the summer. This seemed somehow
different. John didn't have a date to leave, there were no letting agencies
phoning up, no flats being shoved under Sherlock's nose for him to agree or
disagree with.

This was to be permanent.

Sherlock stroked the ring on his finger again. Marriage was meant to be
permanent as well, Sherlock had not proposed with the intention of it not
lasting. And, strangely, it was some comfort that John had gone into
everything with his wide eyes open; Sherlock had no doubt that if John had
reservations they would not be in this situation.

Why did the idea of living together bother him? They'd been doing it since
they had become engaged…

The boxes were a commitment.

So was the bloody ring.

Why was it the boxes that bothered him?

It was stupid and foolish to feel this way, he thought as he made his way
into the kitchen, feet echoing with a determined step upon the floor. Armed
with one of the knives from the block, Sherlock stalked forwards and slit
one open.

There were some medical textbooks, a few DVDs and-

Sherlock sighed as he reached in and picked up the folded plastic pack,

recognising the dress uniform inside. With his thumb, he stroked the plastic
as he remembered the dinner they had gone to celebrate John becoming an
officer.

They'd joked about Sherlock's brief stint in the military; the bargain that
Sherlock would tell John how he had been recommended for discharge once
John made Captain.

He never had.
Soldier, doctor, bar tender, assistant.

Husband.

Sherlock stood with the uniform, inspecting it at full length. With a long
breath, he turned to hang it up.

The Bond DVD's he left in the vain hope they might rot in the box.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John had never been so fucking confused in his life. He sat next to Alf as
the rehearsals went on, trying to not look like some wide eyed innocent.

"Would you-"

"In a second," Alf said, his eyes firmly fixed on one of the dancers who had
quite possibly the best legs John had ever seen on any person living.

"And the fact they're dressed like women-"

"They still have dicks," Alf replied sounding entranced. "My god the things
I would do to him."

"Him or her?"

Alf shook his head. "Don't start questioning the pronouns. My rule: find out
the name and just use that."

John nodded slowly.

"You do realise," Alf said as he took a sip of the cocktail he had whipped up
earlier. "That if you sit here looking as awkward as you do you are going to
be teased?"

John glanced over at him.

"You're fucking bisexual," Alf muttered. "Cock or pussy, why do you care?"

John shifted. "I just…I'm adjusting. I can't believe you never dragged me to
a drag show before now."
"The last time I introduced you to something I ended up with Sherlock
breathing down my neck and shooting me death glares. Not even for you
would I risk that again."

"What if I asked you to be my best man?"

Alf actually froze. Slowly, as if in deep shock, he turned to look at John.

"Did you just-"

John nodded.

"I…I'd have thought Andy or Mike-"

"Nah. Sherlock stole Andy years ago. And Mike's a good friend but…it's
you I come to bitch to. And you did encourage me to…" John waved his
hand at the club. "Two nights here and I got a blow job from Sherlock so
you did something helpful."

"Two nights here and you got into a fight with Victor Trevor," Alf
corrected.

John shrugged. "Still…you're my first pick."

Alf slowly grinned and nodded. "You just want me to let you have the
reception here free of charge," he said as he took a sip.

"Violet wants a posh hotel; she's offered to pay for it."

Alf pulled a face and turned to look at John. "Will Sherlock approve of me
being best man?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah," John said looking back at the show as the music started up again.
"Just…don't go wild on the stag night."

"Oh," Alf breathed suddenly sounding as if Christmas has arrived. "Stag

night…fuck this is going to be epic," he decided, sitting back with a smug
smile.

John sighed and took another sip of his drink. "Can…as my best man I need
some advice."
"Wedding night worries?" Alf asked in a mocking voice.

"Sherlock's getting cold feet."

Alf put his drink down. "Don't be a tit, John. Sherlock's wanted you with a
ring on your finger for years." He paused and sniggered. "His ring anyway-
"

John rolled his eyes. "I moved my stuff over last night and…he was looking
at those boxes as if they came with a white picket fence and two point five
child."

Alf sighed. "People wobble. He'll get over it or he won't."

John pulled a face. "That's shit advice," he complained. "You are crap at
this," he muttered into his drink.

"Sorry, no, you're right. Sherlock will respond well to loving cuddles and
reassuring words spoken in sweet whispers late at night. Because he'll love
the insinuation that, after wanting this for so many years, you think he
wants to back out."

John narrowed his gaze and tapped his fingers on the bar before relenting.
"So I just wait?"

Alf shrugged. "Try it. And if it all falls through I will take my best man
duties very seriously and see you through the difficult time."

"You're such a giver," John muttered.

"Aren't I just!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When John returned to the flat it was obvious Sherlock had a case. Mainly
because it looked as if Sherlock had been in the middle of organising John's
boxes and then had dropped everything to hunch over a laptop, typing away
at the speed of light.

Still, at least he'd tried, John thought as he stepped over the debris of his
things.

"Sherlock?"

"Busy," came the monotone response, the speed of the keys never faltering.

Bending was a problem still. Frustrated, John looked down at his medical
books, trying to keep his temper. If Sherlock started pacing they'd be done
for.

In the end he started to toe them to the side, trying to clear a path for when
Sherlock leapt into action. It was only when he realised the repetitive
tapping sound was starting to slow that John turned to look at Sherlock who
was eyeing him up suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, as if John were the thickest person
on the planet.

"Clearing space."

"Are you under the impression I cannot cope with the idea of stepping over
a book?"

"Well," John turned to him fully. "You couldn't cope with moving them
from a box to a shelf so I wasn't sure if taking a nimble step would be too
much for you."

Sherlock sniffed as he looked back down at the laptop. "You cannot cope
with the idea of prioritising. I have a man's health at risk here and my
methods will do far more to correct it than anything in those books which,
you may have noticed, have come to no harm while on the floor."

Lifting his hands in surrender (and temporarily forgetting that doing so

would not help his still recovering ribs) John turned to the kitchen.

He'd seen Sherlock in this mood before: pedantic, clipped and dismissive. It
was his attitude when someone interrupted him while he was working on an
important part of a case and, as annoying as it was, he knew he shouldn't
take it personally.
Despite the timing.

Cold feet? John glanced back at the boxes trying to take some comfort in
the fact that Sherlock had started to unpack them.

Stupid really, he'd given Sherlock far more cause to worry about his
commitment than Sherlock had given John.

Sherlock had been patient, had taken a leap of faith with him. He really
should do the same.

"Do you want to talk it through?" John called back.

"How much exposition do you need about the safety of your books-"

"The case," John specified as he pulled the mugs out. "You blethering
idiot," he muttered under his breath.

"Perhaps we should discuss the fact you think, in addition to me abusing

your belongings, I am now also deaf."

John flicked the kettle off and returned to the living room, staring down at
Sherlock who slowly looked up and met his eyes, fingers still flying over
the keyboard.

John tapped his foot.

"Start again?" he offered after a minute's thought.

Sherlock's fingers stopped as he stared intently at John. He drew in a deep

breath and released it slowly.

"Good afternoon John, I have a case and am well aware of where the books
are on the floor."

It did little to improve John's mood. "Nah," he decided. "You're being a

pedantic wanker and if you want me to shut up or go away then say so,
otherwise stop picking a fight."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze and stood up in one smooth movement. With a
sneer at John he lifted his coat from the peg and stomped off down the
stairs.

"Well," John muttered to the living room. "At least you picked one."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is Mr Holmes there?"

John yawned as he stared at the muted television, cradling the phone in

between his neck and shoulder. "No, sorry, he went out a few hours ago.
Can I help?"

"It's Percy."

That hardly helped. "You're a client?"

The man at the other end of the phone spluttered and John felt something
tighten in annoyance inside of him as he switched off the television.

"I…well, I suppose -"

"Have you employed him for a case?" John asked, trying to keep the
impatience out of his voice.

"Well…mates rates and all-"

Mates rates?

"Did you say Mr Holmes?" John queried.

"I…yes…well of course-"

John ignored the rest as he sat back, frowning and trying to rack his brains
as to who the hell Percy was. The accent was public school boy…
Percy….Percy…P…

"Phelps?" John asked suddenly as an old memory stirred slightly.

"I…yes?"
They'd been teasing each other once about their backgrounds; or rather John
had been teasing Sherlock about his wealthy roots and Sherlock had
humoured him. Percy Phelps' name had come up only because Sherlock had
admitted that, at school, he had been a complete and utter shit and had used
his classmates as experimental practice for future endeavours.

Percy Phelps had been conned at the age of eighteen and Sherlock had, for
the sake of warding off boredom, found the con artist and conned back the
money.

Apparently, Percy was one of the most gullible men alive.

"Sorry, he did mention you," John said slowly. "Did you have a message
you wanted passed on?" he asked as he reached for the pad and pencil.

"Well I just….see the thing is…I have a new suspect."

John looked up at the ceiling trying to picture Sherlock's face as he was told
this information. He couldn't decide whether Sherlock would be amused or
irritated by the idea that someone had spotted a suspect and thought he
couldn't. "By all means," John said, trying to keep the laughter out of his
voice at the image in his head.

"Well," Phelps begun and John rubbed his hand over his forehead, sure that
if he heard the word 'well' again he would kill something. "The thing is, I
found out something about my fiancée's brother yesterday and it's been
playing in my mind."

Christ, he was going to get the man's life story here. John twirled the pencil
around his fingers and tried not to sigh in annoyance.

"He's nice."

Phelps said it as if John should instantly agree that the brother was indeed a
suspect.

John didn't even know what the poxy crime was.

"Nice?" John asked doubtfully. "That's not usually a reason why people are
suspects. Is he too nice? Fake nice? I don't-"
"Oh dear heavens old chap. I mean he's…" Phelps hesitated. "Otherwise
inclined."

John made a confused noise. "Sorry, what is the crime?"

"Theft," Phelps said without hesitation. "And Jack, he's well-"

John clenched his hand on the pencil.

"-he plays for the other team."

John was just about to groan in annoyance when suddenly he put the
phrases together. If he stopped looking for what the crime was and just
listened to the phrases-

"Are you trying to tell me that…uh…" he racked his brain for the name.
"Jack, is gay?"

"Well…yes."

John waited.

And waited.

"And?" John said slowly. "Is there more as to why he's a suspect?"

Phelps made an annoyed sound as if it were John who was at fault. "Think
about it old chap. They're deviants."

John pulled the phone away from his mouth and covered his lips with his
other hand as he struggled not to laugh. The moron sounded so ridiculously
concerned about it that while part of him wanted to hiss and spit down the
phone in sheer fury, most of him found the attitude just fucking hilarious.

There were benefits to being friends with Gay Alf.

He couldn't help it.

"I'll pass that along," he said, not quite managing to contain his giggles.

"I'm serious," Phelps said, sounding a little cross now. "You don't
understand what they get up to."

John sniggered again.

"They…they do things that decent men shouldn't do-"

John broke into peals of laughter.

"I will be speaking to your employer about your attitude towards me,"
Phelps said, sounding frustrated. "We're old friends. Mark my words you'll
be lucky if you have a job this time tomorrow."

John opened his mouth to tell Phelps to mention to Sherlock that they
needed some lube while he was at it, but the words suddenly died on his
lips.

He'd worked for the army and, while for the most part he'd been lucky with
people's attitudes, he knew how hard it could be when someone wanted to
make life difficult. This wasn't a mate of Sherlock's that John could tell to
go fuck himself, this was a client.

This was Sherlock's work. His livelihood and love.

And just like that the amusement faded away and frustrated anger took its
place.

"Do you have his mobile number?" John asked, his voice completely
changed.

"I'm glad to see you are taking this seriously," Phelps said with a level of
arrogance that made John want to reach through the phone and wring his
neck. "He has not picked up the phone but mark my words I will be leaving
him a message about this conversation."

John looked down at the ring on his finger.

"I would expect nothing less," he said tightly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Client called," John said as Sherlock walked back in.

Sherlock said nothing as he dumped his things on the table and walked into
their room.

"Right," John said to the television as he stood and made his way up to the
spare room. "Check your voicemail," he shouted to Sherlock as he walked
up the stairs.

He had just settled into bed when he heard Sherlock's furious voice drifting
up the stairs. Not loud enough to make out the words but enough to let John
know that he was angry. Curious, John got back out of bed and made his
way downstairs.

"-you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I have to do as you

say," Sherlock was snarling down the phone. "I have no intention of solving
your case-"

Sherlock paused and John leaned against the door frame, admiring his
fiancé's back.

"-perhaps the reason my assistant was so rude to you was because he's been
my partner in deviancy for almost ten years. And given that I've watched
you play soggy biscuit at school I would suggest the next time you attempt
a thought process that you should consider what other stories I can circulate
among your friends, the least not being the fact that you lost official naval
documents because you were engaging with a prostitute while your fiancée
was ill. It's the sort of story the Sun would run a front page edition of. And
oh dear," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with content. "The document
seems to have gone live on the internet. What a pity."

And with that he tossed the phone onto the sofa and stood with his hands on
his hips.

"So you got the voice message then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Message?" he asked mildly. "He was fearful I had

accidently employed the wrong sort as my secretary."

Secretary?
"And the documents?" John asked, feeling irked at the label.

"Miraculously, after three months of not being posted online seem to have
suddenly found their way there," Sherlock answered innocently, sounding
as if he were a thousand miles away.

John nodded to himself. "I'll leave you to it," he said quietly.

"He seemed to think he'd won," Sherlock said, still not turning. "With you.
Apparently you had deferred to your betters at the end. Any idea why he
would think that?"

John turned back and sighed. "It's your business," he said slowly. "Not
mine. I can't out you to every-"

Sherlock turned looking baffled. "Out me?" he asked, his tone incredulous.
"Out me?"

"You have clients that come from that world, that come from all walks of
life and-"

"And if they dislike the fact that I am marrying you then they can suffer
without my help," Sherlock snarled.

"What if the cases are interesting?"

Sherlock gaped at him.

"Oh go to bed, you're being ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "And

incidentally, in case it had escaped your attention, our bed is there," he said,
jabbing a finger at their room. "Not up there."

"I'm trying to give you space," John shouted at him. "So you can adjust to
that," he said, jabbing his own finger at the boxes.

"I am adjusting to 'that'," Sherlock snarled, "because this time you are not
going to leave and believe me, John, given our history that is a rather
baffling concept to get my head around. It is a concept not helped by the
fact that you are pulling away from me to give me 'space'. I do not need
space. If I need space I have a front door to walk through."
"You didn't use it earlier," John yelled.

"You had just walked through the door," Sherlock bellowed at him. "Even I
am aware that getting up and leaving as someone enters a room is
considered rude."

"Oh," John yelled, suddenly faltering in his anger. "Well…you dropped my

books on the floor."

"You brought Bond DVDs into the flat," Sherlock argued back. "Do not
think for one instant we will be watching those."

"Fine," John snapped.

Sherlock nodded and then it was awkward.

Painfully awkward.

John eyed him up carefully. "Alf said I should give you space," he
muttered. "He said cuddles and reassuring words would be stupid."

"Cuddles?" Sherlock sneered. "The word cuddles was used? Have you met
me?"

John kicked at the carpet. "I don't…" he folded his arms. "Once upon a time
I would have used sex to help this."

Sherlock tilted his head. "I have no objections to that."

John smiled weakly. "Think we're ever going to have it again?" he tried to
joke.

"It's not a requirement, John."

John winced. "It's important," he said seriously. "If for no other reason than
it gives you something to do after a fight."

Sherlock's lips twitched.

"So you haven't got cold feet?" John asked, stepping forward.
"Maybe," Sherlock said reluctantly. "A little. We've had numerous setbacks.
I suppose part of me thought there always would be something in the way."

That stung a little but in all fairness, it wasn't as if it was without precedent.
"We can wait a little longer-"

Sherlock shook his head. "March is long enough," he said, meeting John's
gaze.

"Ah," John stopped close enough that he could have reached out and
touched Sherlock. "So all those reasons-"

"Are true," Sherlock defended. "They are very good excuses."

Fair enough. John reached out and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's lips,
humming in pleasure at the casual ease of it all. "So what was it that sent
you through the roof with Phelps?"

"His future brother in law," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Explained why he
had stolen the documents and why he hadn't posted them. Then when
Phelps called…" he hesitated. "He said you were the wrong sort and I
thought he meant common-"

"Thanks," John muttered, amused.

"It took me very little time to gather what he meant. By that time I was
already yelling at him," Sherlock looked at the phone. "You are aware that
you have cost me fifty thousand pounds."

John blinked. "I…wow…we could have had the most flamboyant wedding
in the history of gay weddings for that."

Sherlock sniggered. "We could have sent him a thank you note complete
with pictures of his money being well spent."

John laughed and stroked Sherlock's curls back. "We could have invited
him and had him as the guest of honour-"

Sherlock pulled a face. "He'd have ruined the day."

John sighed and looked at the laptop. "Did you really post the documents
online?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock pulled away to retrieve his phone from the chair. "I gave
them to Mycroft."

John blinked down at the internet screen and nodded. "I'd forgotten that
your brother isn't always a complete dick," he said as Sherlock moved
around the room.

"He does make it hard to bear that in mind, though he has redacted a lot of
the document," Sherlock admitted as he picked up some of the-

Books.

Softening, John watched him fondly. "You don't need to do that now," he
said gently. "Come to bed."

"I can-"

"Sherlock," John said firmly. "Please, come with me to bed."

Sherlock spun.

He wanted to try, John thought as he took a deep breath. For Sherlock, he

would always want to try.
 To have and to hold
Chapter Notes

Happy Christmas/Holidays to everyone - I hope you're having a great

time :-)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

To have and to hold

Kissing Sherlock was always brilliant.

John wasn't exactly sure what it was about Sherlock and kissing, all he
knew was that in their time apart he had never managed to find anyone that
was as good at kissing as Sherlock was. No-one who could make his heart
thump a manic beat or sigh in pleasure. There was no-one else who, just
with lips and tongue, could make John want to intertwine them in anyway
just to ensure that he would never have to stop kissing them.

It wasn't just the technique, though that was appreciated, was also the
knowledge that John had Sherlock Holmes in his arms. That Sherlock had
been carefully bracing himself above John, slowing down to gentle brushes
of lips when John struggled to keep up because of his fucking ribs. It was
the fact that he would never have dreamed of kissing Sherlock without
smoothing his thumb over some part of Sherlock's skin, a reassuring,
pleased touch.

Intimacy.

John curled a hand into Sherlock's hair as the man moved down, brushing
soft lips across John's jaw, down the hollow of his throat, hands wandering
to undo John's shirt. Feeling pleasantly buzzed, his lips tingling from the
kisses, John let his own hands drift to Sherlock's buttons.
There was no complaint or murmur of annoyance from Sherlock. Instead,
he obediently moved, allowing John to take off his shirt and dump it on the
floor.

"Why can you dump my shirt on the floor and yet I can't dump your
books?" Sherlock muttered against the skin of John's belly.

"I can stop and pick it up," John offered as Sherlock reared back up to steal
another kiss.

"You could stop?" Sherlock asked sounding curious.

"Maybe," John teased. "Convince me otherwise."

There were nerves behind Sherlock's gaze as he reached his hand down to
the pyjama bottoms John was wearing. His thumb smoothed over the band,
grazing sensitive skin that had John hyper aware of his touch.

"I would," Sherlock said, suddenly serious. "If you asked I would."

Not really wanting to go down that path, John smiled and reached up for a
kiss. "Finally tamed you to do household chores then, have I?" he asked.

Sherlock's smile was tight, forced, but he seemed to accept the avoidance of
the topic. Instead, he swooped down as his hands tugged at John's pyjamas;
his mouth opening.

It was bliss. Soft and careful, tentative and welcoming. The hand on his
hips stroked reassuringly and John swallowed, letting out a shaken breath.

Sherlock.

He opened eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed, needing to see that it was
Sherlock down there. So many times he had longed for Sherlock in the
middle of this act. There had never been a happy medium when he'd been
with someone else; slow had given him time to create an empty fantasy that
had made the separation hurt more afterwards and rough had given him
flitters of moments to wish otherwise.

It was Sherlock.
He needed to see, to see Sherlock's face, his eyes as
he did this. He tried to reach down to encourage Sherlock to tilt his head up,
not really wanting to ask and risk it sounding like some barked order.

His ribs protested the moment he tilted and he hissed slightly. Sherlock
must have misunderstood the noise because he slowed even more, his
tongue becoming cautious.

He couldn't sit up.

"How long can you last?"

Stupid.

Trying to shake the voice away, John stared at the ceiling, feeling vaguely
baffled by himself. He'd had sex before and since the whole thing with
Taylor. He hadn't had nightmares or any issue with sexual partners so why
now?

It was in his head. Too aware of it, he thought with some disgust at himself
as he reached down a hand to stroke Sherlock's hair carefully. He just
needed to push through and relax. It wasn't as if he had been hurt or injured,
wasn't even as if he had screamed or begged with Taylor.

Sherlock pulled back and John stirred, looking down to flash him a smile.
Sherlock did not look amused.

The words 'it's fine' were threatening and John bit his lip to keep it in.
Instead he scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned into it.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John let out a long breath. "Every time I've done this I've missed you or…
tried to avoid thinking about you or…" he waved a dismissive hand.
"Engaged in sex that didn't give me a chance to think about you. I wanted to
see…" he trailed off and waved a hand at his chest, hoping it was enough
explanation.

"There are better positions if you wish to look at me. You could ask."
John nodded. "Yeah, I know. Just…feels a bit weird to haggle over
positions. We never had a problem with it before."

Sherlock seemed to consider that as he dropped down next to John and

stared at the ceiling. "You are thinking about it too much," he said
eventually. "If I dislike you telling me what to do then I will object.
Loudly."

"I know that," John said softly, turning his head to Sherlock. "It's just…
frustrating. Everything else is good right now. Why can't this…"

Sherlock hummed at that. "We've worked on other things," he said

thoughtfully. "We've not discussed this. Not really."

True, but God almighty was John happy with not discussing this.

"Why didn't you have sex?" he asked Sherlock abruptly.

"I…" Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. "Too complicated. I had most of the
data I needed and…" Sherlock shook his head and then turned to John. "It
would have made me think of you."

"Sensible," John murmured.

Sherlock gave him a look as if to ask what else could it possibly be. "Why
did you suddenly decide to become promiscuous?" Sherlock asked. "You
weren't before."

"Dunno," John answered honestly. "Seemed like the thing to do and then…
it seemed like a way to stop thinking and wondering."

They lay together silently, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

"What was your last sexual encounter?" Sherlock asked.

"Toilet," John answered without much inflection. "Held onto the toilet tank
while someone fucked me."

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "Name?"

Christ what had the name been? The guy had objected to their encounters,
had made mutterings about not meeting John for a quick shag anymore and
John had brushed it off.

Looking back on it, he'd been a fucking arsehole.

"No idea," John said honestly. "He didn't think it was healthy, what I was
doing. And there were a few girls, a nurse, another officer…" John
shrugged. "Never had a problem with them."

As he said it, he wished he could swallow back the words and rearrange
them until they actually sounded the way he had meant them too, but
Sherlock merely nodded, seeing the meanings behind the poorly phrased
words. "I suppose I should take that as a compliment," Sherlock decided
slowly. "And your first encounter after Taylor?"

"No problems," John said slowly. "I told you, I pulled out when I wanted to
leave. They never raised…" he trailed off as his mind turned to Moran and
Moriarty's words.

"You dislike being restrained," Sherlock informed him. "Blindfolds, games,

tests, all of those make you stiffen in concern. You want either rough or
gentle, no inbetween and if I start to go rougher then you disengage
emotionally. Slow gives you time to overthink things and you start to
worry."

John turned properly to Sherlock. After a beat he sat up, hissing at the pain
in his ribs as he did so.

"John," Sherlock's voice warned.

"Not going anywhere," John said, dropping his head as he rubbed at his
temple. "Just…" he shook his head, not really sure what he wanted to say.

The bed creaked as Sherlock sat up with him, laying his chin on John's
shoulder as he sat behind him. "Perhaps pointing this out to you before we
had sex was a mistake," he said thoughtfully.

"No," John sighed. "Perhaps me shagging anything with a pulse was a

mistake," he corrected, tipping his head back to Sherlock's shoulder and
exposing a tempting expanse of neck. "You okay? I mean…need a hand?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Then: "May I try something?"

John nodded and settled as Sherlock slipped his hands back down to John's
dick again, his arms and torso creating a comforting chair for John.

"I missed you," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "I missed the weight of you,"
he added, his fingers starting to stroke gently. "Your smell. Your eyes and
the way they change in the light. You have the most frustrating eyes to
define."

"Says you," John breathed, trying not to nestle back.

"And your lips," Sherlock added, craning his neck to capture them. "I could
kiss you for years."

John hummed in agreement, kissing back fiercely as he felt himself start to

unwind. Sherlock's hand twisted wickedly and he groaned-

"And the noises you make," Sherlock added against his lips, the words a
brush upon John's skin. "Gasps and groans-"

Hand over his mouth.

Fucking sing for me-

John shook his head and the hand on his dick stilled as Sherlock dropped to
lean on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock-"

But Sherlock's hands were flexing on John's knees as if he were trying to

get himself back under control.

"I'm thinking too much," John murmured.

Sherlock drew in breath, as if about to speak and then made an annoyed

noise and stood up, reaching to find his shirt.
"Sherlock-"

There was no response.

"Sherlock-"

"What?" Sherlock snarled. "Shall we have another conversation about how

you weren't raped because you were able to walk away and say no
eventually? Or shall we have another conversation about you just wanting
to burn off stress? Or the fact that sex is so muddled in your head that if we
have it in the next decade I'll be amazed."

John had no idea how to respond. Confused, he watched Sherlock dress.

Then slow.

And stop.

Sherlock was standing in middle of the room, his shirt mostly buttoned as
he stared at the rug. "I want to fix this," Sherlock complained. "It's…
frustrating."

"I know," John said gently.

"I want…we used to laugh," Sherlock sighed. "You were the first person I
ever laughed with during sex, the first person I ever…" he looked away. "I
despise that I don't know how to touch you to make this work."

John scooted over the bed to be as close he could to Sherlock. "It's not
that…or you," John confessed. "I…mixing sex and love is tricky…I spent a
year trying to separate the two."

Sherlock bowed his head to John's and they stayed like that for an age,
breathing each other in and trying to work it out in their own heads.

Eventually, John pulled back and held out a hand to Sherlock.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock took the hand. "What?"

"Come and have a massage," John offered, pulling at him. "You can laugh
at my shite skills as I try to do it from the side."

"How tempting," Sherlock huffed, even as he allowed himself to be

manoeuvred. "Your idea then is to-"

"Over thinking it," John warned.

Sherlock flopped down on the bed, his distaste for the idea clear.
"Overthinking it," he muttered to the pillow. "Only you could get me to
even consider that there could be such a thing."

"I'll take that compliment," John decided as he settled to the side and leaned
forward carefully, pleased at the signs that his ribs really were on the way to
recovery.

"It wasn't intended as such," Sherlock said, voice muffled.

The nightmare came in the early hours of the morning and had John sitting
up straight in bed, panting away the memories.

It took a while for the soothing hand on his back to register as he bent
forward, trying to scramble for control.

"Taylor?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Leg," John replied, lifting the covers to reassure himself that everything
was fine. Sherlock stayed silent, as if trying to work out the logic.

"Do you want the light?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

No. John shook his head, knowing that Sherlock could see him in the half
light as dawn approached.

The bed jostled as Sherlock slid out and padded off down the hall. The
kitchen light poured through the door after a moment and John winced at it
as he rubbed a hand down his thigh.

He'd accepted it.

When he'd been in the desert, staring up at the sun, his mouth dry as a bone
and everything pounding with pain, he'd accepted that was it. That all of his
mistakes and poor decisions had led to him bleeding out in the sand until
the sun bleached him into the landscape, not even a stain left behind.

Who wanted to deal with that?

Fuck, that was being so unfair to Sherlock, but there were times that John
felt he was just a huge bundle of issues and scars. There were moments,
sometimes lasting for days or weeks on end in which he felt together, at
ease with the world and pleased with his place within it.

And then…

Probably should have stayed there.

"Stayed where?" Sherlock asked as he returned with a steaming mug of tea.

Self-deprecation was boring. Reaching out for the tea, John shook his head.
"Thinking out loud," he excused as Sherlock sat down next to him. "Do you
ever wonder…how differently life could have gone?"

Sherlock was silent. "Stayed where?" he asked again.

John mentally replayed his thoughts, trying to think of a way to phrase it

that didn't sound…

"I need help," he said softly, surprising himself even as he said the words.

"I think so," Sherlock said, equally careful.

John let out a wobbly breath and leaned against Sherlock. "You do realise
you're marrying a nutter?"

"Do you?" Sherlock retorted.

Sherlock watched John sleep, finally.

He despised how they were in bed at the moment. Walking on egg shells,
waiting for the latest problem to reveal itself; it was hateful. Their sex life
had never been problematic before and it made Sherlock ache with envy to
see other, far worse suited couples so at ease with each other.

But then…

Sherlock tilted his head as he watched John curl in closer.

John had made him laugh during sex, had shown him that having emotion
involved was fun and made the physical act…more. If he were going to
complain about their sex life at the moment then perhaps he should accept
that there was a way to solve it.

He could do for John what John had done for him years ago.

And with that, Sherlock started to plot.

"John."

The moron batted him away and huffed. "Fuck off," came the pleasant,
sleep slurred response.

Unimpressed, Sherlock tugged at his arm, careful not to pull on John's

injured side. "I have a plan," he explained, trying to keep the irritation out
of his voice.

"Great," John muttered. "Sleeping. Go away."

"John," Sherlock huffed as he dropped John's arm and glared down. "I need
to do an experiment."

John cracked an eye open warily. It was amusing to watch him weigh up the
likely dangers of returning to an unconscious state while Sherlock indulged
his curiosities.

"I'm up," John decided, sitting up carefully, even as his hair stuck up wildly,
as if volunteering its owner for business. "What do you want?"
"Come with me," Sherlock ordered, tugging at his hand again before sliding
off the bed. Behind him he could hear John sigh and then the covers moved
as John followed him off the bed and out the bedroom.

As he approached the bathroom, Sherlock stripped off the t-shirt he'd been
wearing and tossed it to the side. When he looked back, John had stopped
and was frowning at the shirt.

"See, why is it that never happens in your bedroom yet you feel you can
treat the rest of the flat like a rubbish tip?"

Sherlock leaned against the door, smirking. "Have a shower with me," he
offered.

There was a flicker of something that wasn't quite as strong as annoyance

but was in danger of getting there eventually. "Sherlock-"

"Just a shower. Together," Sherlock specified. "You smell."

He knew he'd won when he saw John's lips twitch in amusement. With a
sigh, John walked forward and started to undress.

The shower wasn't quite Sherlock's preferred temperature; he preferred it to

be slightly cooler so he could think easily while John liked to attempt to
scald himself, something Sherlock was sure had more to do with his
shoulder injury now. Satisfied that he'd found a happy medium, Sherlock
turned to John as he got into the shower.

And reached out a hand to shove John's head under the water as it poured
down.

He was careful not to leave his hand upon John's head, trying to avoid any
associations with what had happened at the pool. John spluttered water and
instantly waved his hand through it, spraying some back at Sherlock.

"You bloody git," John muttered as he wiped his face to rid it of excess
water.

"We're having a shower, John," Sherlock said with false sincerity. "You
have to get wet."
John laughed, his shoulders relaxed and looking at perfect ease with the
world as he reached for Sherlock, pulling him down into an easy kiss.

He felt John's intention through the slight snigger laughed into their kiss as
John pulled him straight into the water's downpour. Refusing to give in,
Sherlock continued to kiss John, fascinated by the way the water changed
the texture of the kiss.

It had been years since they had done this.

In the end, John pulled away with a strangled laugh as the water crept in
through the slight gaps between their lips and Sherlock tipped his head
back, enjoying the water and trying not to watch him too closely.

"Christ I'd forgotten how you look in the shower," John muttered, a hand
reaching out to Sherlock's chest. Curious hands traced his body; their first
time this naked with each other in far too long.

Sherlock smoothed his hands along John's shoulders, part of him

remembering John before he had filled out, been younger and unmarred.
Not as interesting or substantial, Sherlock thought when reminded of the
past.

The man in front of him now was far more confident, far more equipped to
weather a storm with Sherlock.

Not wanting to turn it into something too serious as he'd made that mistake
far too often, Sherlock reached for the soap and handed it to John. "Attempt
to make this into a useful endeavour," he suggested.

John rolled his eyes and stepped around to Sherlock's back. "You're not
going to ask me to drop the soap?"

"I wouldn't," Sherlock chided. "My mother bought that soap and-"

"Don't talk about your mother while we're having a naked shower."

"As opposed to a clothed shower?" Sherlock asked, shaking his head at the
stupidity of the sentence.
A wet smack resounded as John hit his back playfully. "You know what I
meant; there are cleaning showers and naked showers."

"If you say so," Sherlock muttered, trying not to groan too loudly in
appreciation as John started to rub the soap in. He smiled at the sensation of
a quick, fond kiss pressed between his shoulders.

In the distance, barely audible over the sound of the water, a ring tone
started to sound out.

A ring tone for an unknown number.

Case?

"Is that the phone?" John asked, his hand pausing.

"No," Sherlock lied, stretching out pointedly. "Stop trying to get out of
this."

John sighed. "I suppose I'd best get used to this," he said as his soothing
strokes continued. "In a few years you'll be complaining of bad backs, all
those things that come with old age-"

"You are hardly that much younger than me," Sherlock huffed as he leaned
his arms on the tiles and let himself just enjoy the touch.

"Five years is a long time," John teased, his hands slipping now to
Sherlock's lower back. "You'll be demanding a sponge bath every day."

"Is that not part of the point of marriage? To have a loving spouse willing to
rub your back?"

John laughed. "That wasn't part of your marriage proposal," he countered.

"No-one adds that in," Sherlock sighed. "Please will you stay with me until
I die, watch as I grow old, wrinkled and incontinent. Argue with me over
what meal we'll have and whose fault it is that the cheese is growing
mouldy at the back of the fridge. Rub my back when I start to hunch over
and endure cold feet in the bed."
"You don't have cold feet," John mused.

"One of us does," Sherlock mumbled as John found a particular ache at the

base of his spine.

"I'd have said yes, even if you'd have asked it like that."

Sherlock lifted his head, oddly touched by the sentiment.

"Besides," John added, seeming oblivious. "You don't really care about
what we eat or the food in the fridge and if you hunch it might mean my
back will be spared from having to look up at you."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "As long as there is a bright side," he sighed.

"Mm," John said, his hands slowing as they drifted lower.

A shiver of anticipation ran over Sherlock. Not so much because he hoped

for something sexual but more due to curiosity of seeing what John would
do.

Taking him out of the typical bed situation seemed to have worked wonders
so far.

John still hadn't said anything; his hands still smoothing over Sherlock's
arse with the soap in gentle circles. It felt as if he were thinking or
considering something and Sherlock lay his head back on his hands, trying
to let John work through whatever it was in his head and simply enjoy the
touch.

Then the angle of John's hands changed and Sherlock clenched his hands on
the tiles as John knelt behind him.

No.

He'd wanted to touch John, he'd wanted to…he'd wanted John to be relaxed
so that when it was Sherlock's turn to wash him John would be receptive
or…

John's hands spread Sherlock's cheeks and then-

It had been so long since someone had touched him sexually. The last time
had been John and that had been far, far too long ago. It was stunning how
much he suddenly ached for more; as if the urge had been fully awoken the
moment he was reminded just how good it could feel.

John was on his knees. His ribs, the position…Sherlock wasn't entirely sure
it was such a good idea to-

Stop thinking, he scolded himself. John had shown no fear or worry when
stopping before; a fact that Sherlock could only be immensely grateful for
as it meant he could trust John not to push himself too far.

He had to trust John.

And the tongue pressing into him was doing wicked, sinful things that made
his cock ache for some friction. Stubbornly determined, he kept his hands
on the tiles, letting John have full control. But the bastard seemed
determined to torture him as John's hands smoothed along Sherlock's thigh
and hips.

"You really are being lazy," John decided, pulling away slightly.

Sherlock opened eyes he hadn't realised he had closed and stared at the
water streaked tiles. "How lazy do you want to be when it's your turn?" he
asked.

John nipped at his arse playfully and Sherlock could feel John's hair brush
Sherlock's skin. "I'm injured," John reminded him, even as his hands snaked
around and brushed against Sherlock tentatively.

Images of John, years ago, watching Sherlock with huge awed eyes as
Sherlock swallowed him down made Sherlock ache with want. It had been
so long since they had been tentative with each other, since they had been
forced to learn each other's skin. A rare benefit, Sherlock thought, was that
they had the flare of a new romance again.

He looked down, watching as John's hand wrapped around his cock and
opened his mouth in a breathless gasp as John's mouth and tongue
descended on him once more.
"Boys," a voice called up. "You have another one."

John stopped, his hand pausing and his mouth pulling away-

"If you even think about stopping for any other reason than injury or death
then I will never forgive you," Sherlock hissed.

John laughed and pulled at his hips. "Mrs Hudson is bloody close," he
warned even as he restarted his efforts.

"I couldn't care if a brass band came marching in," Sherlock hissed as his
fingers tightened against the tiles, that wonderful wave of pleasure starting
to build in his stomach.

"Sherlock?" that evil voice shouted. "It's a client."

John turned his head-

"Death or injury," Sherlock snarled, desperate not to lose that feeling.

The tongue returned and the hand on his cock turned sinfully perfect and-

Sherlock clenched his teeth together, fighting the urge to gasp or moan; the
fact that he knew he needed to making it even harder to swallow back the
noises he wanted to make. The world screeched and shuddered and stopped
for a moment.

And then he was too sensitive, pulling away from John's hands and turning
to look down at his lover.

Who looked pleased with himself.

Thudding his head back against the tiles, Sherlock stared down at John.
"Think we have enough time for reciprocation?"

John opened his mouth.

"Sherlock? Are you in the shower?" Mrs Hudson called as she knocked on
the door.

John grinned. "Possibly not."



"Not decent," Mrs Hudson was muttering as they stepped out: John in his
dressing gown and Sherlock in a towel. "It's nine forty in the morning-"

Sherlock blinked at that. "It's a good job Mycroft paid the water and heating
bill last month," he muttered to John as they walked into the lounge.

John flashed him a grin and Sherlock felt something in him ease at the sight
of John looking so…

Young?

Happy?

In love?

Stopping in front of the client, Sherlock glared down at the man who had
dared to interrupt his most ingenious plan of the week. "Be quick and don't
be boring," he instructed, folding his arms.

The man gaped at both him and John. "I…Oh," he said, his eyes widening.
"I thought…you live here?"

Sherlock stared at him a moment and then turned to Mrs Hudson with some
disbelief.

"I think my car might have killed someone."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

It was surely not possible to have a client so moronic-

"Why don't you walk us through it," John suggested in a gentle tone. "All
the facts, from the start?"

Sherlock opened his eyes in time to see the man nod, clearly relieved to
have some instructions.

"His car?" Sherlock breathed at John as they all moved to take a seat.
"You yelled at your last client," John murmured softly. "You can't yell at
them all. Pick and choose, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at the ceiling for a moment before following John back into
the living area

In the end sending Andy was a waste of time. Part of Sherlock had hoped
that he could get John to finish their shower but the moron client, had
seemed terrified of stepping out the door, as if the police would be waiting
for him the moment he left the sanctuary of 221b Baker Street.

Though it was somewhat gratifying to know that he thought Sherlock had

far more power with Scotland Yard than he did.

But the fact remained that John refused to get back in the shower while Phil
was around. Or retire to the bedroom, despite the fact that Sherlock refused
to get dressed.

Sherlock had never hated a client more.

"Is there a point to this?" Andy asked on the screen as he made his way
down the field to the stream. "I thought you said you weren't leaving the flat
because you had a chance of a shag?"

Sherlock just about heard Inspector Carter mutter under his breath off
screen. "John thinks it's rude while we have a guest," he muttered. "I'd
argue that as the guest wasn't invited we shouldn't have to change our plans-
"

John, fully dressed, hit him with a cushion as he walked by. "Get dressed,"
John sighed at him. "It's not happening."

"Bad luck," Andy said with a grin as John asked if Phil wanted more tea.

"Show me the stream," Sherlock ordered, pointedly trying to ignore the

situation.

"And when did you start thinking of me as your lackey? I thought you had
John for that?"

Sherlock smirked as he felt the glare from John. "I simply obeyed their
summons; they did ask for my best man."

Andy stopped.

"Seriously?" he asked, a grin appearing on his face.

Behind Sherlock, he heard John snigger. "Well he's going to enjoy the next
few months," John said.

The bell rang.

Again.

"Oh good, it's probably more morons come over to visit. John, do put the
kettle on," Sherlock huffed. "Go back to the body," he ordered Andy.

"I'm your best man?" Andy asked still looking delighted as he walked.
Behind him, Inspector Carter looked as if he were in pain. "So your stag do-
"

Ah.

He had not thought that through.

Turning in his seat, Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

"I'm not helping you," John said, handing a coffee to Phil. "Not until you
get dressed."

Sulking, Sherlock spun back to the laptop just in time to hear Inspector
Carter's opinion of the case. "Pass me to him," he ordered Andy.

"I don't think that's wise," Andy decided as he continued to walk.

"And that has stopped you when?" Sherlock inquired. "You cannot honestly
think Phil is a suspect," he added.

The doorbell rang again and John sighed, walking to the door and then
disappearing through it.

"Did you see him?" Sherlock continued, "Morbidly obese, the undisguised
halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet
porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low
self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and you think he's an
audacious criminal mastermind?!" Amused by the idea, Sherlock turned to
Phil who was looking taken aback as if Sherlock's words were new
information.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, spotting his worried look. "I'll-

There were extra footsteps on the stairs.

Someone was with John.

Ignoring Carter as he started to whine about something irrelevant to the

case, Sherlock turned as John re-entered the room with…

He let his eyes drift over them, trying to establish any threat and raised an
eyebrow as one walked straight in the direction of his room.

Mycroft had sent them but they weren't his usual minions. These were…

Ah.

Interesting.

Far more interesting than the idiotic case that had interrupted his morning.

One of the men from Buckingham Palace shut the lid of Sherlock's laptop.
Across from him, John caught his eye, standing very still.

Sherlock shook his head minutely.

Hardly a threat.

John visibly relaxed, even as the man returned with Sherlock's clothes.

"Get dressed, Mr Holmes," one ordered as the clothes were placed on top of
the shut lap top. "Where you're going, you'll want your clothes."
Sherlock looked up and shook his head. "I'm fine," he said with a smirk.

"Oh God," John groaned, rubbing at his face. "We're going to see Mycroft,
aren't we?" he complained looking up at the heavens as if for help. "He's the
only person you'd try and piss off like this."

"That and you," Sherlock said sweetly as he stood. "Next time," he warned.
"Get back in the shower."

"Get an office," John suggested looking unrepentant. "They'd have just

barged in mid…" he trailed off and looked uncomfortable as if suddenly
remembering their audience. "Get dressed," he said with a slight plea in his
voice.

"I'm merely preparing you for married life, John," Sherlock called as he
walked to the landing and started down the stairs.

"You're marrying him?" Sherlock heard one of the men ask in disbelief.

"Yeah," John said, still sounding pleased about it.

Sherlock dropped his smile at the bottom of the stairs.

Bugger that stupid boomerang and ridiculous client.

 For better or worse
Chapter Summary

John has his first true experience of jealousy over Irene Adler and
fumbles as to how to deal with it. Meanwhile, Sherlock spots an
opportunity in Miss Adler.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The room was…female. Elegant white furniture, all spotless and

effortlessly grand greeted John as he walked in. Taking a shallow breath he
tried to steady himself for the act he was about to-

There was a naked woman standing over Sherlock.

Completely naked.

John glanced down at the bowl in his hands as if there would be some sort
of solution in the water. He was meant to be a passing good Samaritan, a
doctor healing the wounded priest who had just been mugged.

Was this part of the plan?

Probably not.

When he looked up they were still looking at him, as if he were an errant

child, sneaking down after bedtime. The pair of them with their dark hair,
light eyes, smooth pale skin and equally haughty looks of enquiry on their
faces made John want to 'politely' tell them both that this situation was
really not good.
They were on a case; it was hardly the time for people to get naked.

John slid his gaze to Sherlock who merely rolled his eyes and looked away
in annoyance. It didn't take a genius to work out what Sherlock was
thinking.

Must you interrupt? I was getting somewhere before your plebeian presence
distracted me.

Or probably something to that effect.

The woman, Miss Adler, flashed John an amused smirk before tilting her
head questioningly. "Tea?"

John continued to stare at Sherlock. "No," he said slowly.

No to all of it, please.

"I had some at the palace," Sherlock said narrowing his gaze at Miss Adler.
John watched as the woman walked away showing off a rather well shaped
bottom before she sat herself down on a chair.

"I know," she declared, tipping her head with an amused air. The pair of
them locked gazes, Miss Adler still looking as if she were enjoying the
situation and Sherlock looking deeply…

Unsure.

Which would have been funny except for the fact that the thing he was
unsure about was a naked person. Slightly baffled by the situation, John
shuffled, sure that there was something he should be doing . Walking in on
your future husband as he chatted to a beautiful naked woman wasn't
exactly good.

Was he meant to get angry?

Sherlock glanced back at John, as if he had heard the inner dialogue. His
gaze travelled over John, as if looking for something, the crease of annoyed
confusion not leaving the space between his eyebrows.
Then Sherlock looked back at Miss Adler, as if he hadn't managed to see
something.

Was that good or bad-

Who was he kidding? It was Sherlock. Give the man a puzzle and he'd
obsess for days.

"Do you know the problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes?" Miss Adler
asked.

No, correction. She bloody well purred it. Like a cat about to stretch out
and butter its owner up for lap space-

Fucking hell, he was jealous. He was jealous of a suspect in a blackmailing

case.

No, not a suspect. She was the culprit. They knew that.

That was even more pathetic.

Bloody Sherlock and his fascination with those who successfully broke the
law.

"However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

John glanced at Sherlock again, at the vicar's disguise that Sherlock had
thrown together earlier. Sherlock? Priestly?

Pull the other one. The man had tried to get John to shag him on the sofa at
Buckingham Palace.

The memory made the jealous quake ease a little.

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?" Sherlock asked, his voice
reflecting John's amused disbelief.

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power, in

your case it's yourself."

Sherlock glanced at John.

"So far so good," John muttered, moving forward.

"You love him though," Miss Adler decided as she glanced at John. "You
didn't even get him to hit you for your disguise. Too worried about those
ribs." She fluttered a gaze up at John. "I could work with those ribs if you
like."

Sherlock's mood plummeted. "Put something on," he demanded, shifting in

his seat. "This is a foolish way to conduct business."

"Ah," Miss Adler said as she stood. "Is that what this is?" She walked
closer to John. "Would you like me to put something on?"

Her gaze didn't drop away as she stared at John, daring him to look, to do
something.

Look at her face.

Do not look below her face.

"Missing the female form?" Miss Adler asked with a smile. "In my opinion
it is the most delicious one."

John stared at her, determined not to falter.

"I could have you begging for mercy."

John danced his gaze away, looking at the windows beyond. The brief
second he looked back, there was something in her face, something
suspicious-

"Here," Sherlock's voice cut between them as he held out his coat-

His coat.

Confused by the whirlwind of emotions, John looked away again, trying to

steady himself.

This had been a colossally stupid idea. There he was, standing around like a
dipstick while two of the most elegant people he'd ever seen, sat and played
a game of who could unnerve the other more.

"Jealous?" Miss Adler asked, turning to Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing but placed himself in between John and Miss Adler.
"Hardly," he said, thumb stroking over the ring that had reappeared on his
third finger.

"Oh Mr Holmes," Miss Adler said, taking the coat and sitting down
dramatically. "That particular item of jewellery means nothing. I should
know. I've enjoyed enough from people who wear them."

"So I've heard," Sherlock said, linking his hands behind him as he wandered
to the fireplace.

"You sound proud," John said, watching her take her shoes off.

"I don't force them," she replied calmly. "Nor have I made such a promise
to anyone yet."

Well, there was something to be said for that, John supposed. Across from
him, Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully.

"But we do have something in common, you and I," her gaze slid to
Sherlock again. "I like detectives. And detective stories."

Great. Of course she did.

"So tell me," Miss Adler said. "How was he murdered?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking flustered by the sudden change in topic.

John watched him as they talked about the case from earlier that morning.

Sherlock. Flustered.

That was new.

The slither of jealousy returned.

Outside the room, John stood and took a breath, almost relieved to be out of
there. The battle of wits between Sherlock and Irene Adler made him feel
like a third wheel.

A third wheel with Sherlock. John wasn't entirely sure that had ever
happened with another human being involved.

"Are you all right, John?"

He glanced at the woman. The maid or something he supposed, vaguely

remembering when she had let him in. "Yeah," he said. "Just need some
air."

"And some water too?" she asked, seeming perfectly at ease with him, as if
she already knew him. It must have been a prerequisite of her job to be able
to talk to anybody that walked through the doors.

A little unsure of the idea, he looked at the woman and shook his head. A
long look was levelled at him before she turned to go upstairs.

"Bet you a tenner he doesn't get those pictures."

John froze and stared. Reluctantly, he could feel a smile start to bloom over
his face, tickled despite himself. "Twenty," he bargained.

She nodded at him. "You underestimate her," she scolded as she

disappeared up the stairs.

"No, he's just a stubborn wanker," John muttered as he fished the lighter out
of his pocket. Rolling up a newspaper he flicked up a flame and held it to
the paper, puffing on it to encourage the smoke.

The trickiest bit was holding it up to the smoke alarm. His ribs protested as
he stretched and John found himself wincing ever so slightly.

Getting the smoke to stop was just annoying.

"I said you can turn it off now," Sherlock's voice called.

"Yes, all right," John muttered, tapping the newspaper against the cabinet.
"It doesn't have a flaming on off button."

Though given that Sherlock always disconnected the smoke alarm in every
flat he lived in, it was highly unlikely that he had any clue how the bloody
things worked.

'The pop of a silencer echoed and the alarm went silent as three men
clattered down the stairs. Some form of military, John thought as he
watched them walk towards him.

"Thank you," John muttered at the one now pointing a gun at him.

All of them were armed.

Fantastic.

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" one asked with an American accent.

John nodded, "And you are?"

"Busy," came the short reply. "I suggest you cooperate or you will not live
to see the end of today."

Really? It was slightly worrying that John felt more annoyed than worried.
Though it was one way to break off the melding of minds going on in the
other room-

Hoping that gunmen would break up Sherlock's conversation? That was

probably a bit not good too.

The man holding the gun on him gestured for John to raise his arms above
his head.

John hesitated.

"I have no problem with telling him to shoot," said the leader.

Wincing, John lifted his hands, holding onto his head as his side ached
instantly in protest and shortened his breath.

"Good choice," the leader said with a smirk. "Let's hope Mr Holmes is as
wise."

Not fucking likely.

They entered the room; the mirror gone and a safe apparent. Sherlock stood
in front of it, his eyes snapping to John's.

Then to John's raised hands, then down to John's side.

"Don't fuss," John muttered as he was led in.

"On the floor, Miss Adler," said the leader.

As she was shoved to the floor, so was John. Right into the edge of the
table. Something pressed viciously in his side and there was a pain that
made his nose feel like it was buzzing. Restraining the urge to hiss at the
sensation, John stared through the glass table as he felt the press on a gun
muzzle on his neck.

"Any instructions for me?" Sherlock asked, his voice flat with anger.

"I want you to open the safe," the leader said.

"Remove the gun from his head," Sherlock snapped.

"Do it or he pulls the trigger," was the unrelenting reply.

Not entirely sure what would happen to them once Sherlock did open the
safe…wait…

Did Sherlock know the code?

John twisted to try and catch Sherlock's gaze. But the idiot was staring at
the leader, rigid with fury.

"Ask her," John said, annoyed. "She knows the code-"

"She also knows the code to alert the police," the leader said speaking over
him. "I've learned not to trust this woman-"

"I don't know the code-" Sherlock started to protest, the wobble in his voice
genuine. John had heard him lie enough times to hear the difference.

Fuck.

"Mr Archer, on the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson in the head."

What?

"I don't know-" Sherlock's desperation was clear for anyone to hear now.

He didn't know the code?

Christ. The sudden thundering pounding in his head echoed like a drum that
couldn't be ignored.

"Mr Holmes doesn't know the code-" Miss Adler started to say.

"One." The leader seemed unmoved by their words. "Tw-"

The gun shifted, pulling back slightly as the man behind readied to pull the
trigger.

"She didn't tell me," Sherlock said, suddenly sounding frantic.

"-wo. Thr-"

"Wait."

John closed his eyes.

Silence.

And then a beep.

The code.

Sherlock was entering the code.

Had he known it? Had that been Sherlock bull-shitting until the last minute?
Sherlock wouldn't…
Would he?

John peered up, just about catching a glimpse of Sherlock, his back to John
as he entered the code. The muzzle of the gun returned to press firmly
against his nape.

He was shoved down onto the table, the edge pushing against his ribs and
winding him. John pressed his lips together, determined not to make a
sound and let the bastard above him know just how much that hurt.

What would happen when Sherlock opened that bloody safe?

Or when he didn't?

He might be able to do something. Shove a leg back to catch the guy…Mr

Archer in the leg and knock his aim askew. It might give Sherlock enough
time to-

"Vatican Cameos."

What the fuck?

Completely thrown, John twisted his head to look at Sherlock, baffled-

It was an old army code but why-?

He kept down.

A gun shot rang out as Sherlock ducked, the bullet hitting Mr Archer.
Opposite John, Miss Adler slammed her elbow into the solar plexus of the
man standing over her while Sherlock dealt with the leader.

It was agony to drag himself off the table and crawl over to check Mr
Archer.

"John?" Sherlock asked as the last of the men crumpled to the floor.

"He's dead."

When John glanced back, Sherlock was watching him with narrowed eyes
that briefly flickered to John's ribs.
John shook his head and sat up stiffly, gingerly testing out how easy it was
to move.

"I was almost afraid you wouldn't notice," Miss Adler said as she walked
over.

"You were hardly coy about it," Sherlock muttered, hovering by the safe.
"There'll be more of them," he said striding over to John. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," John said tersely as he allowed Sherlock to help him up. "Vatican
Cameos?"

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "You suggested it once as a password for

danger."

"When?" John demanded, blinking at him.

"The first new years' eve we spent together after you joined the army."

"That would be the same night I offered to use a hairbrush as a sex toy?"
John asked carefully.

"We possibly need to have a conversation about coded commands then."

"Possibly," John agreed as they walked outside. "Why are we-"

Sherlock let off the gun three times and then came back in, closing the door.

"And that was?"

"Calling the police," Sherlock said, as if John were daft for not working that
out.

"Oh for God's sake," John muttered, rubbing at his face with his hand and
then hissing when it pulled at his side.

Gentle hands smoothed over John's side as Sherlock backed him slightly
into the hallway wall. "Broken?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"No," John said, shaking his head. "Just…it's set me back a few weeks I'd
say."
Sherlock threw a dangerous look back at the living room where Miss Adler
was. "I have the pictures," he said softly.

"Maid owes me twenty quid then," John said with a weak smile. "Any idea
who those men were?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It appears Irene Adler has more secrets than
Mycroft let on," he said, eyes still glued to the living room door.

"Go," John said, pushing Sherlock slightly. "I'll check on the girl. Get my
money."

Sherlock flashed him a distracted smile and made to move. At the last
minute he seemed to rethink and instead looked down at John's chest. "I
shouldn't have brought you here," he muttered.

"Fuck off," John suggested without bile. "Who'd have set off the smoke
alarm?"

Somehow, within five minutes of the conversation, Irene Adler had

retrieved the pictures and camera phone, drugged Sherlock and escaped.

It had to be said, she was pretty impressive.

The same could not be said for Sherlock.

The sedative was enough to make the detective woozy, babble incoherently
and slur his words as if he'd been at Mrs Hudson's sherry.

It had taken two of them to get Sherlock up to the flat while John had
followed behind with Donovan's phone in his hand after he'd confiscated it.

"Two men," Sherlock slurred as he lay in bed.

"No," John sighed as he struggled to pull the covers over Sherlock. "Just
one. Just me."

But Sherlock shook his head fervently, "Two men. For you."
"You're enough for me," John said gently. "Come on. Sleep it off."

"Want you."

The frustration in Sherlock's voice was enough to make John pause. "I
know," he said as he tucked Sherlock in.

"'m trying," Sherlock added.

"I know you are," John soothed, sitting next to him.

Sherlock blinked up at the ceiling and let out a long sigh. "Bored," he
muttered.

He was drugged, John thought before he allowed his thoughts to go

spinning as to exactly what Sherlock meant by that. Stupid to get upset by
someone who had tried to stroke the buttons on Lestrade's jacket earlier.

"Go to sleep," John suggested, keeping his tone soft.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, turning over inelegantly. "You've changed," he

declared sleepily. "Bossy."

"Have to be," John said watching him. "God knows what you'd get up to if I
weren't."

"Better," Sherlock decided.

"I'll be next door if you need me," John said, standing up and trying not to
hiss as he did.

"Why?" Sherlock asked his pillow blankly.

"No reason."

Outside the door, John leaned against it and stared ahead.

You're reading into it too much, he thought sternly. Too tired, too vulnerable
in that area.
"Shirt," Sarah ordered as she walked over to him. Bloody typical that she'd
been on her way to pop in on him when they'd pulled up at the flat. Behind
her, Lestrade gave John a stern look.

Right.

Unbuttoning, John stepped forward and sat in the kitchen chair. Lestrade
hissed sympathetically at the already darkening bruise as it spread across
John's side.

"Breathe in," Sarah ordered, pushing on the bone. "Rate the pain."

"Fantastic," John muttered.

"One to ten, John."

"Six," John muttered. "Did you find any hint of her?"

"Irene Adler?" Lestrade asked. "No. But Sherlock's given me an arse load
of paperwork with that weapon discharge."

"And now?" Sarah asked, pressing again.

"Seven," John said tightly as a thin, intense line of fire shot along his side
almost winding him. Pushing through it, he tried to refocus on Lestrade.
"What about the girl-"

"Kate Abbot? She's fine. Due to wake up soon," Lestrade said.

"And now?"

"Three," John said, glancing down at Sarah. "They aren't broken."

"If I smashed your hand with a hammer would that be a seven too?"

John glared at her. "They aren't broken," he reiterated tersely. "Believe me, I
know what broken ribs feel like."

Sarah glared up at him. "You know what a sharp break feels like. I'm not
convinced one hasn't cracked again."
"I'm not going for an x-ray," John huffed. "Makes no bloody difference
anyway."

"Up," Sarah ordered. "We are going."

John stared at her and then at Lestrade hopefully.

The useless man raised his hands in defence. "I've learned never to argue
with a doctor."

"I'm a doctor," John snapped.

"Or women," Lestrade added quickly. "She wins."

John glanced down the hall to his room where Sherlock was. "But-"

"I'll stay with him," Lestrade offered. "Shift finished half an hour ago
anyway."

"Do not record him on your phone," John ordered, standing up at Sarah's
bidding.

"Would I?" Lestrade asked sounding tempted.

That night, Sherlock crawled into the upstairs bed with John.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked. "This isn't our bed."

"You were drugged," John murmured, trying not to move. "I wanted you to
get some sleep."

A hand smoothed down his side. "You're tense," Sherlock decided.

"Sleeping on-"

He sat up.

"Yeah," John said, staring at the window. "Cracked."

Sherlock let out a long annoyed sound. "Same two?"

"One. Not as bad as before but…" John closed his eyes. "Fucking bored of
it already."

Sherlock leaned over him and pressed his forehead to John's throat. "I
despise people pointing a gun at you," he muttered.

"Not hugely fond of it myself," John sighed. "I felt useless today."

Sherlock shook his head. "I shouldn't have taken you."

Right.

John shoved at the pillow under his head, bunching it up angrily. "You
should get some sleep," he said tightly. "You need to sleep the drug off."

A thin, bony finger traced the nape of John's neck. "He had a gun to your
head," Sherlock breathed. "Right here," he added, poking in hard. "When he
pointed that gun at you I had no idea what the code was."

How had he figured it out then? Not entirely sure he believed Sherlock but
unwilling to go down that path, John turned his head. "Do I look like some
fucking damsel?"

"I don't care," Sherlock hissed. "I care that I could have been planning your
funeral right now."

"Well at least it wouldn't have been boring."

Silence.

At the back of his head, John knew he was being ridiculous. He knew he
was fuelled by exhaustion, pain and a long day of dealing with a gorgeous
dominatrix who looked at Sherlock as if he were a delectable toy to play
with.

With a long sigh, John shook his head. He opened his mouth to say
something but closed it when he found there was nothing to say.

The bastard behind him said nothing.

"She was beautiful."

There was a long groan and then a thud as Sherlock collapsed onto the bed.
"This is boring," Sherlock muttered. "Fine. Let's go through it. Yes she is
attractive; it is part of her chosen profession. Yes, she is clever; it's the
reason why Mycroft sent me after her. No I do not want to be with her; I am
with you. No, I do not want to call off our engagement because some
woman flashed me."

John stared at the window, the words in his head sounding stupid.

Be even more stupid to let the moronic idea fester.

"I'll…just this one question and…" John took a deep breath. "Do you think
you'll get bored?"

Sherlock threw himself out of the bed and slammed the door behind him as
he stormed off.

Great.

John stared at the ceiling for a moment and sat himself up gingerly.
"Sherlock," he called. "Can we deal with this now instead of dragging it
out?"

The door slammed back open.

"I am bored of this argument," Sherlock snapped as he re-entered the room.

"I have done nothing to-"

"You said you were bored," John snapped. "I get you were drugged but… I
am asking three fucking hours after you said it rather than let it become
some huge drama."

Sherlock stared at him.

"I was…" Sherlock kicked at the bed post. "I saw bloody pink elephants not
two hours ago."

John felt his lips twitch. "I…" he scrubbed a hand over his face. "She looks
like someone you should be dating. You're both…you look like you'd fit."

"Not my type," Sherlock muttered. "Your type maybe, but not mine."

"You don't like intelligent, witty and attractive?"

"No, apparently I like morons."

John watched him, feeling his lips curve upwards as Sherlock came back to
the bed. "Are you trying to make me feel better by calling me a moron?"
John asked.

"It depends how successful the attempt is."

"Possibly more successful than I would like." John watched as Sherlock

settled opposite him. "She's…seductive."

Sherlock nodded. "You were watching her too," he said with a narrowed
look.

"I watched her face."

"Mm. I could practically hear your thought process as you stood in front of
her and believe me, John, it was not exactly clean."

John laughed and tilted his head back against the wall. "You're getting
better at this," he decided, watching Sherlock.

"Could I have got worse?"

This time he laughed and then winced at the way it jostled his ribs. "Okay,"
John said, taking a breath. "So, you're not bored. You are frustrated by the
lack of sex but not enough that you'll wander off with her."

Sherlock watched him steadily.

"You said I'd changed."

"You have. You'd have avoided this conversation like the plague years ago."

John grinned and turned slightly to him, the pair of them awkwardly
leaning against each other.

"So you got beaten by a girl," John said softly as he breathed Sherlock in.

"I was not beaten," Sherlock muttered. "I was…she was lucky. And
technically I did get the pictures. No-one said I had to hold onto them," he
added petulantly as he stifled a yawn.

John snorted. "Was it not implied?"

"Embrace the art of the technicality," Sherlock murmured, already sounding

as if he were drifting back to sleep.

"How did you know the code?" John asked after a few minutes.

Silence.

Either he was asleep or pretending to be.

John turned his head and stared at the curtains, watching the way the room
lightened as the occasional car passed by and listening to the occasional
snore from Sherlock as he tried to forget the feeling of the gun pressed to
his skin.

You pull your trigger, I'll pull mine.

It was pathetic that he found himself pushing back into Sherlock to listen to
the sound of him breathing in the hopes it would drown out Charlie Taylor's
voice.

Taylor was dead. It had been years ago. He'd had sex in the shower with
Sherlock that morning.

He was being stupid.

You do as you're told. React as I want. I control you, Watson. I'm in your
head.

John stared at the curtains until dawn came.

 For Richer
Chapter Notes

Eek! Am off to the NTA tonight :D Hope you all enjoy the chapter :D

"Sherlock," John called. "Would you get a move on?"

Silence.

"Of course," John muttered as he used the mirror to do up his tie. "Ignore
me."

There was a loud crash from their bedroom which could possibly be
Sherlock throwing a temper tantrum or doing some experiment or it could
just be because it was Saturday.

All options seemed equally likely.

"You still alive?" John called after a few minutes.

"And touched by your devotion," Sherlock answered.

"If you're alive it means you're going," John muttered at the mirror as he
finished tying the knot. Sherlock's reflection appeared, striding over to one
of the armchairs and yanking off the cushion to pull out a blade.

"You do not need to take that," John said turning to find his suit jacket.
"And make some effort," he added catching a glimpse of Sherlock.

"I'm wearing a suit," Sherlock huffed as he twirled the knife in his hands.

"You always wear that suit," John said. "At least wear a tie," he suggested.
"I'm not wearing a tie," Sherlock said dismissively as he headed back to
their room. "Or going," he added over his shoulder. "It will be dull beyond
compare."

"It's your brother's wedding," John called down the hall. "You have to go."

"No, I don't," Sherlock's petulant tone carried across to John.

"I bet Anthea that I could get you to go," John offered.

Sherlock's head appeared around the bedroom door. "How much?"

"Three hundred quid."

Sherlock sniffed thoughtfully. "Hardly worth getting out of bed for," he

decided, disappearing again.

"If I can get Anthea to pay me to get you to attend then imagine what deal
you could get Mycroft to agree to."

Silence.

Then the door opened and Sherlock slowly sauntered out looking
suspicious.

"How far could I push it?" Sherlock asked.

"He's your brother," John said, trying not to smile at how well it was
working.

Sherlock smirked, walking close. "Sixty forty for that money," he said
giving John a rather seductive look before striding past and reaching for the
tie.

"You'll have your own deal," John complained, turning to follow Sherlock
to the mirror as he flipped his shirt collar up. "Don't start scrounging on
mine."

"Without me you'll have no money," Sherlock pointed out as he started to

tie his own tie. "Consider your bargaining chip."
"You're a dick," John muttered as he slipped his wallet into his pocket and
reached for his jacket. "I could not go."

"Then you'll miss out on any money," Sherlock said, smoothing his collar
down and adjusting the tie fractionally. "Think it through, John."

To his surprise, Mycroft and Anthea had opted to have their wedding in
Surrey, Anthea's ancestral home. The wedding ceremony was at a grand
church that her family had used for generations and the old country manor
house down the road was putting up all the guests and hosting the reception.
As it was, the church was already filling up and there was a sharp contrast
to the few weddings John had been to previously. Both Mike and Harry's
weddings had been filled with people John knew and there had been a
cheerful simplicity to them.

Cheerful simplicity was not really in Mycroft's vocabulary. The fact that
there were as many red roses as white in the flower arrangements at the end
of every aisle was probably just the tip of the iceberg.

"Well," John said as Sherlock threw himself into the pew next to him.

"Deal done," Sherlock said with a far too pleased look on his face.

"What did you get?"

"I'm not telling you," Sherlock said, lifting his chin in an arrogant smirk.
"Make your own deal with him."

"That's mature," John muttered.

"Sherlock."

They both jumped slightly and turned to look. Violet was stood over them,
wearing a deep midnight blue dress and neat jacket, her hair coiled up in
what John now thought of as her trademark look.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mycroft invited me," Sherlock told her calmly.

"Not here…I mean…" she trailed off and pressed her lips together. After a
long pause (which in John's head was suspiciously as long as a ten second
count), Violet placed her hands on her hips and switched her attention to
John. "Why is he sitting here?"

Uh…

Twisting awkwardly, John looked around trying to see what was wrong
with where they were sitting. A glimpse of Sherlock's amused lip twitch
cottoned him on. "Why aren't we closer to the front?" he asked curiously.

"Mycroft wants me to sit here."

"He does not," Violets scolded. "Get up to the front, now."

"No," Sherlock said, wriggling in his seat as if to get comfortable.

Violet stared at him for a moment then looked to John.

"Deal with him," she ordered before moving off and aiming for fresh blood.

With some apprehension, John looked at Sherlock. "Has she decided to hate
me again?" he asked, watching her storm after an errant guest.

"It's a wedding," Sherlock said with a shrug. "And she's a mother.

Apparently the combination creates madness."

"She won't be like this for ours, right?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "I'm hoping she gets this out of her system today.
There must be some benefits to being the younger child."

"We should move," John decided.

"No."

"Sherlock, I will follow you into any amount of danger but I will not sit
through an entire meal where your mother glares at me for something you
did."
"You've sat through many meals like that," Sherlock complained folding his
arms.

"She didn't hate me back then."

Sherlock heaved a sigh.

"And the seats at the front might be better…you know. For my ribs."

It was pushing it. Sherlock raised his gaze to the beams above them and
then rolled his head down to John with a raised eyebrow.

"Fine," John sighed as he slumped further into his seat in resignation.

"Fine."

As it turned out, sitting in silence for a few minutes was a bad idea. Every
so often he managed to glimpse a familiar face from the news that made
him certain he should hate half the church and almost entirely sure he
should sedate Sherlock to keep the world safe.

"Do you think Anthea will tear herself away from her phone?" John asked,
peering around.

Sherlock smirked and pulled something out of his pocket. A rather familiar,
well used blackberry-

"You two are fuckers," John muttered, trying not to laugh. "Complete and
utter fuckers."

"Hence the reason I need to stay at the back."

The wedding was…efficient and elegant. As was the meal.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," John muttered as he caught sight
of the plates.

"I know. Four course meal," Sherlock shook his head at his phone as he
typed something quickly. "We'll be hours."
"It's foie gras."

Sherlock shrugged. "Predictable."

"You'll have to eat it."

"Mm."

Sitting next to someone who wouldn't stop texting on their phone was
beyond annoying. It wasn't as if Sherlock usually shunned his phone but
recently the amount he texted had skyrocketed.

"Are you having an affair with Lestrade?"

The speed with which Sherlock's head whipped up was brilliant. "What?"
he asked with some horror.

"You. Texting," John gestured at the phone. "Are you going to put it down
at some point?"

Sherlock blinked at him and then down again. "I'm…enquiring about

something."

"A case?"

"Something important," Sherlock said as he tucked his phone into his suit
pocket. Almost the second his hand left his jacket, John could hear the quiet
murmur of the vibrate setting.

John reached for his wine glass and swirled it around before putting it back
on the table. Probably a bad idea for so many reasons.

When he looked back down at the disgusting starter it was gone. The entire
chunk of foulness had vanished.

Darting a glance at Sherlock's plate it was obvious it hadn't been relocated

there.

Baffled, John peered around in case the damned thing had somehow slipped
off the plate and landed somewhere stupid.
"Pocket."

"What?" John said, looking over at Sherlock.

The madman tipped his head minutely in the direction of a large portly man
who had insisted his wine glass be filled almost to the brim.

There, in his jacket pocket just peeking out, was John's starter.

"I didn't fancy two helpings," Sherlock muttered, reaching for the wine.

"I do love you sometimes," John said, trying to keep a straight face. "And
when he puts his hand in his pocket?"

"He's been aggressively demanding drinks from people all evening,"

Sherlock mused. "I doubt he'll be putting his hand anywhere close to his
pocket until at least dessert."

"And then?"

"We'll be long gone," Sherlock said, neatly cutting his own foie gras. "The
perfect crime."

Trying to distract himself from sniggering, John looked across to Mycroft

and Anthea who sat alone at a table talking to each other and looking
around occasionally.

The pair were probably still discussing something top secret.

They fit though, John thought as he watched Anthea murmur something and
Mycroft's lips curl in amused approval. Strange, in some ways; Mycroft had
never struck John as someone lacking in confidence but he seemed to be far
more comfortable in his own skin with Anthea. Looking back on the first
few times he had met Mycroft it seemed that Mycroft had been as
uncomfortable as John.

Not as nervous. Or as waffling. Or as self-conscious.

Christ, what the hell had Sherlock seen in him back then?
"Do you remember our first dinner?"

"Which?" Sherlock asked as he stared thoughtfully at a silver haired woman

as she tried to tug her husband up to dance. "The first time I made the
monumental mistake of following you into Greggs? The first time we sat on
the sofa and you insisted I try your incredible take on rice with tomato
ketchup? Or-"

"Our first sit down meal. The one you dragged me to when I first met your
mother."

There was a twitch as Sherlock twisted a little, turning to face John. "I'm
still not entirely sure I shouldn't have taken offence at your glowing review
of that beef."

Oh God. "I can't believe I said that in front of your family," John muttered.
"It was that bloody wine."

"It was brilliant," Sherlock said, smirking. "Everyone there was so dull, so
eager to be seen at the event doing their bit for charity. Saying the right
thing, doing the right thing. Dull, dull, dull. And then there was you."

"Not saying the right thing?"

Sherlock gazed at him. "You weren't playing the game. You've never played
the game, it bores you. You are what you are, you do what you do and you
work by your own moral compass. Damn the rest of the world."

"I used to stammer out apologies left, right and centre," John muttered.

"Used to," Sherlock agreed.

Something about his tone made John want to grin. "Why did you ask me to
that dinner?"

"Ask?" Sherlock enquired. "I do not remember asking. As I recall I threw

clothes at you and forced Andy to back me up."

"Which is your version of asking," John muttered. "In fact, for you, that's
probably polite-"
"I was being forced to go," Sherlock said, examining his wine glass. "And I
decided that, as long as I had to go, I may as well frantically scrabble at the
chance of having the one thing there that would give me some hope of
enjoying the night."

John tilted his head, trying to see it again. Sherlock ordering ridiculously
expensive drinks, getting quiet by dessert, Violet looking at John with
approval and hope.

And then he looked at their table. At the red wine they were both nursing, at
Sherlock's relaxed shoulders and at Violet as she laughed next to Anthea's
parents.

"I'm glad you did," John said quietly as he reached under the table to
squeeze Sherlock's hand. "Think we'd have gotten here if you hadn't?"

"I think we would always have gotten here," Sherlock said looking down at
their hands as he returned John's squeeze and then let go as another text
message vibrated from the phone in his pocket. "There, on the far right of
our table is Anthony Sheers, a doctor who went into plastic surgery but
always wanted to be a trauma surgeon. Two tables directly behind us is
Elaine Walters; foreign correspondent. You'll like both of them."

"What will you be doing?" John asked as the plates were cleared.

"I'll be here," Sherlock said, pulling his phone out. "People will mingle
briefly; go to Anthony first. He will be eager to hear your tales."

Not sure whether to be confused or oddly touched that Sherlock had

bothered to look for these people, John stood and wandered over.

He ended up having a brilliant evening while Sherlock sat, tapping away at

his phone with a smile on his face.

"Your ribs are healing nicely," Sarah said as John drew in a deep breath
while she listened through the stethoscope. "I take it you haven't been on
many cases since?"
"No," John said, relieved when she took the metal away. "We agreed that
the last thing Sherlock and I wanted was to end up with me having dodgy
ribs. After the new year I'll start going with him again."

It was strange, since doing in his ribs the second time John had found
himself at the surgery far more. Probably because it was the weather for
people getting sick and the waiting room would have been packed even if
the medical staff was at full capacity.

It felt comfortable.

"Did you know that Joshua is retiring at the end of February?" Sarah asked
as she washed her hands and let John button up his shirt.

"Yeah, he mentioned it. Along with his long epic poem about the wonders
of Jamaican rum."

Sarah laughed. "He'd better keep bringing that here, otherwise I won't let
him go," she said. "No, the reason I was bringing it up was because it will
mean there is a job available."

Startled, John looked up, not entirely sure he was understanding that right.
"What…for me?"

"You're well-liked, lately you've been reliable, present. You have a

specialism that none of us do and there are some patients that are already
asking for you when they ring up."

A job.

A proper, full time, professional job.

"I…sorry, you've completely caught me off guard," John said trying to

bring his thoughts together.

"I imagine so," Sarah said as she sat back down. "I don't want an answer
straight away, John. Have a think about it and let me know before the new
year."

Dimly, John nodded.



"A job?" Alf asked as they sat on the wooden benches. "As a doctor?"

"I did train to be a doctor. I am a doctor," John muttered as he swirled the

ale around in a tankard.

"What's the pay like?"

"Good," John admitted. "I could tide Sherlock and I over a little; enough
that he might have some choice in the cases. Not that he doesn't already but
it could make life easier."

"You couldn't go with him," Alf pointed out. "They'd fire you within ten
hours. Take it from someone who is your boss."

"I get cover-"

Alf waved a hand. "I don't give a fuck," he muttered. "Half my staff get
cover because they're busy with a cock up their arse. At least you're
honest."

John nodded. "Part of me feels like I should take it. I mean, we'll be
married, living together. Add working together to that and…" John hissed
slightly. "I'm sure that's not meant to be good," he said shaking his head.

"When do the pair of you give a damn about that?" Alf asked. "Why are we
even having this conversation?"

"Because it might be-"

"We are drinking," Alf almost whined. "And that man over there, the
Swedish god of a man has been looking at me for half an hour while you've
whined on about this. I could be fucking him next to the coconut stall by
now."

"It's winter wonderland, you prick, there are no coconut stalls."

"The 'hit the polar bear with the snowball' stall then," Alf said in a mocking
tone. "Look, you don't want the job so why are we talking about it? Why
are you keeping me from a damned good fuck?"

"He could be shit," John sighed as he swallowed the last of the ale. "You're
a terrible best man."

Alf stood and bowed. "Talk to Sherlock," he suggested. "Or Andy," he said,
looking over John's head and catching someone's gaze.

"Hello," Andy said, almost bouncing down on the seat next to John. "Fuck
me, you look miserable. Has he been trying to shag you again?"

"I've been offered a job," John muttered.

"Already bored," Andy said, leaping back up and going to the bar. "What do
you want?"

"I'm trying to talk about-"

Next to him Mike sat and shrugged at Andy. "Your call."

Disbelieving, John looked at Mike. "You said you were busy- wait…did
you just tell Andy to get what he likes?"

Mike shrugged looking amused. "Catch up with your mates," he suggested,

standing to follow Andy.

"What-"

Turning around, John blinked at the others coming over.

"John," Bill Murray said striding over to give him a slap across the
shoulders. "Three continents is getting married."

Alf, who had been watching with amusement, sat back down. "I'm sorry,
what did you just call him?"

John glanced back and winced as he saw others he recognised. "Why are…"

Oh.

"Is this my stag night?" he asked Alf, baffled. "You do know the wedding's
in March, right?"

"Well," Alf shrugged. "Andy and I figured that getting Sherlock to

voluntarily attend would be shit so we thought we'd give you as many as it
took for him to show up to one."

Despite everything, John felt the laughter bubble up as he tipped his head
back.

"Now," Alf said. "You," he settled on the seat and grinned at Murray.
"You're borderline. Any tips for me in getting that man over there to ride me
like the earth was ending?"

Murray gaped.

"You'll scare him," John sighed as he stood to greet the others.

"I'll get advice from…what was it you called him?" Alf asked Murray.

"Three continents-"

John almost ran away and prayed that Alf was already too drunk to
remember that particular detail later.

The honey mead was far too sweet. By two, John had stumbled home and
was throwing everything back up.

Fucking Andy buying them all sweets all night to go with the drink.

"Is this really the trip down memory lane that you want to take?"

Too aware that there was more to come, John clung onto the edge of the
toilet seat and peered up at Sherlock. "You need to go to a stag do," he
muttered. "They'll kill me with alcohol poisoning otherwise."

"You don't have to go," Sherlock said, sitting on the edge of the bath. "You
do know that is an option don't you?"

"'t's fun," John mumbled as he turned back to the bowl feeling another wave
about to hit.

"It appears that way," Sherlock muttered. "You really-"

John stopped listening as he threw up again. Behind him he heard a long

sigh and then a phone vibrating.

"I hate that thing," John complained as he flushed the toilet and sat up.
Stumbling over, he started to strip off and was only dimly aware that
Sherlock's eyebrows rose at the sight. Ignoring him, John clambered into
the shower and switched it on, not bothering to warn Sherlock or pull the
shower curtains.

The blast of water was brilliant, even as John something that sounded like a
spitting cat being sprayed. When John opened his eyes, Sherlock was half
way across the room, his shirt dark with water and hair already slightly flat
from the spray.

"I'm having a shower," he said earnestly.

"Yes. I gathered," Sherlock replied, leaning against the wall.

"Too drunk to be yelled at," John muttered, tilting his head into the spray.

"Not yelling," Sherlock said his voice changing a little. "I'm finding that
your showers seem to improve without a curtain."

John turned his head to Sherlock curiously and swept a gaze over him.
"You're turned on."

A spark of something grew in Sherlock's gaze and a pleased smile crossed

his face as he stepped close. Silently, John watched as Sherlock stopped
right next to the bath tub and reached out a hand and traced a hand down
John's side, his fingers following the path of the water.

"Come in," John offered.

Sherlock looked up, startled and with a hesitant tilt of his head. Vaguely
John could hear Sherlock's phone vibrate again as he reached out a hand
and stroked wet fingers across Sherlock's cheeks.
The hum of the bathroom lights were loud as John bent down to Sherlock
who stood as still as a statue. Gently, John touched his lips to Sherlock's,
the odd sensation of touching someone who was mostly dry while he was
soaking wet.

"Come in," John whispered again, feeling something within him thrum with
pleasure. The interrupted shower almost a month ago had been the most
contact they'd had since John had re-broken his ribs.

And had that gun at his head.

He dismissed the memory. He was getting damned good at it.

The dark lashes flickered and the lids closed over those familiar grey eyes
as Sherlock looked down. It was so strange to see him at this angle that
John studied Sherlock's face curiously, fascinated by a drip that blazed a
path down smooth skin.

Somehow, he knew that Sherlock was pulling away even before he did it, or
maybe he was so drunk that everything was slowing down. Yet he couldn't
quite find the right synapse to have a reaction.

"You're drunk," Sherlock said, stepping away as his phone went back in his
pocket. He reached past John and turned off the water. "I'll find you a
towel."

John slumped against the wall and groaned.

I'll find you a towel.

I'll find you a towel?!

It was so…fucking polite.

I'll find you a towel.

Mild. Polite. Un-Sherlock.

I'll find you a towel.

Absolute bastarding wanker.

John lay in bed, sure he was dying as his head pounded, and stared at the
empty space beside him.

The space that had been empty all night.

And that phone. That sodding phone. Sherlock had been texting while John
had stood in a shower, naked, and asked Sherlock to join him.
 For Poorer
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Sherlock's phone was on the table.

Unattended.

Still suffering from his hangover, John stared at the phone. He was not that
pathetic.

All he wanted to do was check who was texting Sherlock. They were going
to be married-

Oh god. It had to be the hangover, he was not that pathetic. Or desperate.

The phone still lay on the table.

If it went off he'd pick it up. That would be normal. Just about.

Groaning, John leaned back and buried his face in his hands. He never
cared who Sherlock texted before, not even when they'd been friends who
occasionally fucked.

Then again, Sherlock had never preferred to text rather than fuck John in
the shower.

"Still suffering?" Sherlock asked as he came back into the room and
scooped up his phone.

"Fucking Alf," John muttered, sliding his hand down his face. "I think I'm
suffering from all that sugar."

Sherlock's gaze remained on the phone's screen.

Great. "Did you tell Molly what time for tonight," John asked staring at the
television.

"Tonight?"

"Christmas Eve. We're having people over."

There was a long silence. "Why?"

"To spread the joy," John said sarcastically.

When he looked up Sherlock was watching him over the phone. "You're
angry," Sherlock said softly.

And being a brat.

"Hungover," John excused, sitting up. "No texts?"

Sherlock blinked and looked down then up in quick succession. "Lestrade

always tries to avoid bringing me on a case at this time of year," he said
looking peeved about it.

"Is that why you always wanted me back for Christmas?"

Sherlock frowned and lowered his phone. "How much did you drink last
night?" he asked sounding thrown.

Touched by the rare sight of a baffled Sherlock Holmes, John grinned. "I
was drinking for you and me," he reminded Sherlock.

"You shouldn't," Sherlock murmured stepping forward. "You don't have

enough brain cells to risk destroying more."

So much for that sweet moment.

Whatever expression passed over his face made Sherlock frown and sit on
the coffee table opposite and study John intently.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock leaned forward and brushed his lips over John's.
The touch was so gentle that it made John hum contentedly.

"It's Christmas," Sherlock murmured. "Don't be a moron. You've always

been my favourite present, remember?"

John smiled into Sherlock's lips. "This will be our first Christmas together
in the flat, spending the whole holiday together without one of us being
injured or ill."

"It's early in the day," Sherlock muttered. "Don't give up hope now."

John snorted.

The phone went off.

Annoyed, John pulled back, already prepared for when-

Sherlock's lips followed his.

It had been an age since they had kissed like this, with lips and teeth and
tongue. Desperation bled into the kiss until John clutched at Sherlock's shirt
to drag him down to the sofa.

"How long has it been since we did this?" John asked as Sherlock
manoeuvred them so they were laying length wise with John underneath. )

Sherlock made a non-committal noise. "The first time we did this was after
Christmas," he said ducking his head to John's neck to lay tiny kisses there.
"The year we started dating properly."

John started to laugh. "That was your reaction to Mary Poppins being on
the television."

"Terrible film," Sherlock muttered. "Terrible accent," he added, pained, as

he started to nudge at the collar of John's t-shirt.

"I'd forgotten that," John murmured as he stroked a hand through Sherlock's

hair. "I could play it over and over again next time you piss me off."

He received a jab in the stomach and a playful smirk. Feeling suddenly

lighter than he had in ages, John poked Sherlock back and laughed into
Sherlock's mouth.
"Stop moving," Sherlock complained as he caught John's hands.

Hands tight around his wrists

"Do as you're told-"

John shoved at him, sitting up. Sherlock went without protest, sitting back
on his heels and watching John with startled eyes.

Stupid.

Feeling ridiculous, John adjusted himself cautiously, trying to calm his

suddenly frantic heart. "Sorry," he murmured shaking his head.

"My fault," Sherlock said backing away. "Moronic mistake to make," he

said as he unfolded himself and stood up.

John could have screamed in frustration. "It took me by surprise."

"Mm," Sherlock said, standing with his back to John as if to steel himself.
Drawing in a breath he reached for his phone and strode out.

Hurt, John slumped back into the sofa.

Hours later Mrs Hudson came up with Andy. The worst thing was Sherlock
was still busying himself with his bloody phone.

"Merry Christmas, dear," Mrs Hudson said to John as she kissed his cheek.

When she stepped away Andy looked at John and made a move as if to do
the same thing. "Get lost,"
John muttered at him with a grin.

"I'm not feeling the love," Andy complained. "It's Christmas you…" he
trailed off and glanced at Mrs Hudson. "You git," he said in a hesitant tone.

"I'm sure you'll live," John replied. "Wine?" he asked Mrs Hudson.

"That would be lovely," Mrs Hudson answered as she made herself

comfortable on the chair.

Nodding at her, John wandered back to the kitchen and glanced at Sherlock
as he walked out of their room.

The silence was awkward and uncomfortable as they looked at each other.

"Is that wise?" Sherlock asked with a nod at the wine.

"Because of the lack of brain cells?" John asked trying for levity.

"You had a nightmare last night," Sherlock said quietly.

Had he? Surprised, John paused in the middle of pouring. "Bad?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "It's always worse after you've been drinking," he

murmured.

Oh.

Carefully, John put the bottle down. "I…I don't remember it," he said.
"I'll…I'll go easy on this."

Sherlock nodded and moved forward as if to kiss him and then stopped.
With an awkward nod, Sherlock moved past him into the living area where
Andy and Mrs Hudson were chatting.

Christmas completely sober?

It would make a change from the last few Christmases.

Returning to the living area, John handed over the drinks he'd poured and
sat on the edge of his arm chair.

"…the wedding plans going?" Mrs Hudson was asking Sherlock.

The look Sherlock shot her was like a deer trapped in the headlights.
Panicked, his gaze sought John's.

"Well…" John said, frowning. "We er...the ceremony is booked and the
reception is at a hotel."
Mrs Hudson beamed. "And the cake?"

Cake?

"Theme colours?" she asked, looking a little sad.

It was John's turn to look at Sherlock in panic. It was gratifying to see his
own confusion echoed in Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked around as if to
find an answer on the walls.

"Andy's helping with that," John lied.

Andy, who had been watching them both with an eager grin on his face,
looked at John as if mortally wounded. "Blood," he said, clearly reaching
for the first possible thing. Either that or making some vague threat at John
for bringing him into it.

"Red?" Mrs Hudson asked with a smile. "I suppose that is fitting," she said
as she put the drink down. "I'll just pop the mince pies in the oven."

The moment she was out of ear shot they both glared at Andy.

"Don't fucking blame me," Andy hissed. "You brought me into it," he added
at John. "Besides, it's fitting. You could have blood spatters as decoration."

"They are fascinating," Sherlock murmured thoughtfully.

"Maybe we should tell her we're having a blood cake too," John said,
sliding properly into the chair.

"Is the cake necessary?" Sherlock asked.

"It's cake," Andy complained. "You have to have cake," he argued. "John,
tell him. Cake is utterly necessary." He sat on the sofa. "So what have you
two actually done about the wedding? Isn't it in three months?"

Yeah.

That was scarily close.

"You could have roses," Mrs Hudson decided as she returned and sat in
Sherlock's chair. "They're so romantic."

"Boring," Sherlock mouthed at John.

Grinning, John winked at Sherlock. "We could have a cake shaped like a
heart."

"You could wear a wedding dress," Sherlock replied.

John broke into laughter at the image. "Christ…why the hell aren't we
eloping?" he asked.

"Andy won't let us," Sherlock complained as he walked by John's chair,

stroking John's hand as he went.

John glanced at Andy.

"You meet people at weddings," Andy argued.

"Or get a second chance with them," Sherlock said as he sat on the edge of
John's chair.

Andy flipped them the finger.

"You have to wear them," John urged.

"No," Sherlock said flatly, backing away.

"It's better than the bells," John said as he walked forward trying to aim the
antlers at Sherlock's head. In the living room the others were listening to
Lestrade tell a story about a drunken prisoner who had tried to blag his way
out of the cells by claiming to be the King of Bohemia.

"I am giving you fair warning," Sherlock said, backing away from John.
"Those will not be going on my head."

"If I get them on there they have to stay there," John bargained.

"I'm not agreeing to that," Sherlock replied. "Get those away from me. You
can't reach that high anyway."

"I can't reach your head?" John asked, stopping suddenly. "How fucking
short do you think I am?"

Sherlock darted forward and grabbed the reindeer antlers. Suddenly wary,
John backed away.

"But they'll look funny," Sherlock mocked in a voice John assumed was
meant to sound like his.

John nodded and reached for them only to have Sherlock bend to his lips.

This time Sherlock kept his hands behind him, keeping the antlers from
John. When John peeked up at him curiously, Sherlock smiled faintly.

"Trust me," he murmured.

The kiss was long and sweet and tasted like the wine Sherlock had sipped
earlier. He half expected Sherlock to use the opportunity to slip the antlers
on his head but Sherlock kept the headband to himself even as he pulled
away with a pleased look on his face.

"Are you going to play us a tune, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson called. "Leave
the boy alone."

"Boy?" John murmured to Sherlock.

"She's drunk," Sherlock muttered.

"Make it a slow one then," John suggested. "We don't want her to start
dancing around the flat with her hip."

"Or stripping considering her history of exotic dancing," Sherlock muttered.

"Some things are best left unseen."

"And unmentioned," John muttered, backing away and aiming for the
kettle. "Tea is sobering," he explained when Sherlock frowned at him,
puzzled.
"Make it strong," Sherlock suggested as he strode back out. Just after John
filled the kettle the sound of the violin rang out, a soothing tune that made
John pause to watch his almost husband.

Seeing Sherlock both focused and calm was rare but he did occasionally
manage it when playing properly. The sight of him surrounded by their
friends, the people they had chosen to invite into their flat was…good.

Very good.

It was strange what could set off that odd wave of fondness. All John could
think of was Sherlock as he had first known him, in a flat with someone
who hated him, alone and drifting through life without proper purpose.

For the rest of the song John couldn't help but watch Sherlock as his
husband-to-be flicked a warning gaze up as Andy reached for the antlers
Sherlock had dumped on the side table. It was impossible not to smile at
how different things were now.

The kettle clicked off, bringing him back to what he had been doing. He
tried not to laugh at Mrs Hudson's overjoyed expression, part of him feeling
bad that he was slowing her down with the tea.

Then again, she did need to get down the stairs somehow.

Once the tea was made, John walked out, passing Mrs Hudson the cup
which she took without question. As if he'd just been keeping her busy
while John was making the tea. Sherlock finished with a flourish that made
Mrs Hudson beam.

"Lovely, Sherlock. That was lovely."

Sherlock nodded, awkwardly accepting the compliment and turning away to

put the violin down. He paused and then peered intently out of the window.

"You okay?" John asked trying to see what he was looking at and – oh!

Molly.

Dressed up.
Bright lipstick.

"For Andy?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Possibly…" he said, sounding a little hesitant.

"Though…she has helped the Inspector on a number of cases."

"Be kidding," John hissed.

Sherlock threw him a baffled look. "How is it my fault that Andy is

somehow inept at making Molly believe that he truly likes her? And may I
remind you that this is far better than the last way she tried to deal with it?"

"When she went on a date with Andy?"

"When she went on a date with a master criminal," Sherlock hissed back.
"You are far better than I at-" he broke off as Molly climbed the stairs.
Sherlock and John both whirled around quickly and John had a sudden
feeling that they looked like children caught with illicit sweets. "Molly,"
Sherlock said in an awkward greeting.

Molly, bless her, looked just as awkward as she stood laden with presents
and seemingly uncomfortable with being dressed up. "Hello, everyone.
Sorry…hello," she finished hopefully.

Andy had taken one look and then stared at John pleadingly…

It wasn't quite lost on John that out of the corner of his eye he could see
Greg gape appreciatively at Molly. An appreciative look that only grew
when Molly took off her coat and handed it to John.

"What do we do?" Sherlock hissed, striding forward to propel John into the
kitchen.

"I don't bloody know," John muttered. "You think if I knew that much about
relationships it would have taken me almost a year to get you to agree to us
again?"

"You got me to agree to marry you after heartlessly dumping me. I'd say
you're more than equipped."
"We leave them to it," John decided. "Let it take its course. Plead ignorance.
You're spectacularly ignorant when it comes to people and I'm a bastard
when it comes to relationships."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he thought about it then nodded.

At least them being fucking hopeless at times had some uses.

Andy was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

"Aren't you married?" he asked Lestrade frankly after the Inspector handed
Molly another drink.

"I….we're separated," Lestrade said awkwardly, his cheeks flushing, then

frowning as if suddenly going over his actions.

"Right," Andy said nodding. "PE instructor, didn't you say, Sherlock?"

Fiddling on his laptop, Sherlock froze and glanced at John helplessly.

"No, it wasn't-"

"But this time it is, right?" Andy said in what was an attempt at a helpful
tone of voice.

John watched Sherlock mutter something at the screen as Lestrade paused

as if thinking everything over-

Dawning realisation seemed to suddenly cross the Inspector's face and he

huffed in sheer annoyance. Bending down close to Sherlock's face John
turned his mouth to the man's ear.

"We had an agreement to say nothing."

"I said it yesterday," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the screen. "I did not
realise you expected time travel."

"You told people that Lestrade's wife had cheated on him again?"
"I didn't cheat on him," Sherlock replied. "It's hardly my fault. I'm simply
relaying information."

"Are you boys plotting?" Mrs Hudson called to them.

"The blog," Sherlock replied quickly in a louder tone. "It still says one
thousand eight hundred and ninety five."

"Yeah," John replied, not quite as convincingly. "Sherlock's trying to put a

brave face on. He lives for the blog."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "Thank you for that," he muttered.

"You can take revenge later if you like."

Startled, Sherlock turned to him. "I-"

"What's this?" Andy asked from the fireplace. They both turned to look at
him, holding up a present. "It's addressed to Sherlock," he said shaking it a
little. "Your wrapping's improved, John."

"It's not from me," John replied, standing up and frowning at it. "Did
someone drop it off?"

In one swift move, Sherlock stood from the chair and walked over to Andy,
taking the present and inspecting it closely. It was red, a startlingly vivid
shade tied with a black bow.

Even the wrapping looked tempting.

Part of John sunk, just a little and then sunk a bit more when Sherlock
strode out to their room, shutting the door behind him.

There was a long awkward silence.

"I'm sure it's just an unexpected gift, dear," Mrs Hudson soothed. "Not from
a secret admirer at all."

God the woman was the queen of no tact.

"Of course it is," Andy scoffed. "Sherlock's probably just chucking it out
the window."

John shook his head. "More wine?" he asked Molly.

"More wine?" Andy asked blankly.

In the entrance to the kitchen, Lestrade was frowning after Sherlock and
moved, following the path Sherlock had taken.

"Are you seeing your family tomorrow?" John asked Molly, trying to focus
on something else.

"I…" Molly shifted. "My sister," she said brightly. "Niece and nephews,
that sort of thing. My nephews are asking for pictures of dead bodies now. I
think I'm cool at the moment."

John nodded, not really following the conversation as Lestrade returned.

"He's on the phone to his brother," Lestrade announced looking a little more
relaxed. "Maybe it was from him."

Andy snorted in laughter. "Mycroft? Sending a Christmas present? Fucking

hell, the world's ending."

Present.

Blood red.

Sexy.

The text messages.

Mycroft involved.

John stood, knowing before Sherlock strode back out.

"Irene Adler will be dead by midnight," Sherlock announced before he

swept out.

Seconds later the front door slammed shut and everyone avoided looking at
John.
For once he had no idea what to say.
 In sickness
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

In the weeks since Irene Adler's body had been found Sherlock had been
quiet. Very quiet. He had barely taken any cases, instead opting to sit with
John curled up close.

John didn't say anything about it.

Whatever Sherlock had done with her he hadn't cheated, it was hardly
Sherlock's style. Clearly there had been something that his communication
with Irene had given him, something that John hadn't provided.

That could be a huge bloody list.

Still, there was something sweet about Sherlock at the moment. At night,
when John had gone to bed and Sherlock followed him hours later, John
often woke to Sherlock smoothing his hands along John's body. The first
time it happened John had tried to wake himself up to respond but Sherlock
had never pushed for anything more.

It was on the third week that Sherlock announced he'd booked a therapy
session.

"You did what?" John asked blankly.

"Therapy," Sherlock repeated. "You have been before. We should have gone
earlier but apparently the Christmas holidays create a lot of work for these
people."

"You…you want to go to therapy?" John asked slowly, still a little baffled

by it.

"Want?" Sherlock queried. "Not particularly. "But you need to go and we

need to discuss it. A third person will help to monitor the discussion and
keep us on track."

"Discuss…" John sat down rather heavily and buried his face in his hands.

Discuss it? The idea made him rather ill.

"Yes. In forty minutes."

John raised his head. "So you've had this planned for a while?"

Sherlock nodded. "My first idea was to simply turn up at the office with
you but I was told that wouldn't exactly encourage you to trust me."

For Sherlock that was probably being thoughtful.

"You know how much I don't want to do this," John murmured.

"I believe it needs to be done."

"What do you expect will happen?" John asked suddenly. "I'll give a blow
by blow account to you and a stranger and miraculously-"

"I'll have a better idea of what to avoid, how to help you."

John snorted. "Well that will fix everything. All we need is the great
Sherlock Holmes on the case."

Sherlock said nothing but waited.

Okay, so maybe he was being a little defensive. Frustrated, John groaned

before he drew in a deep breath.

"Fine," John said standing up. "We'll try it."

God help them.

The therapist's office was a blue that immediately got his back up. It was
the cool blue he associated with rooms that were designed to try and limit
the amount people got pissed off when within them.
There was a water thing outside as well.

Next to him, John could almost feel Sherlock vibrating with the amount of
comments he was biting back.

"Shall we start with the first time?"

Knocking on the door. A breathless kiss, a dare-

It seemed so innocuous. "I was sent there to-"

Helen, the therapist, held up a hand. "I meant the first time you two had
sex."

Sherlock sat back, eyes narrowed.

"With each other?" John asked.

Helena nodded.

"We uh…I came back from uni and he was sending an email. I think there
was a conversation about cow tipping…" John pulled a face as he tried to
remember why they had discussed that and how the hell that had led to
them having sex.

"Is that what you would class as the first time, Sherlock?"

"No."

Surprised, John looked at him. "No?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The first time we had sex was the night after the
club. After I had recovered from speedball."

Helena paused and glanced at him.

"We weren't dating," John argued. "That was…"

"Dating," Sherlock muttered. "Despite our best efforts. Neither of us had

anyone else after that." He seemed to think it through. "Adam shoving his
tongue down your throat notwithstanding."
John almost laughed. "I…you weren't seeing anyone then?"

"No," Sherlock said, looking startled. "Did you think I was?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned at the table and shrugged as if lost as to what he

could do with that.

"That surprises you?" Helena asked, still looking a little thrown by

Sherlock's casual reference to his drug use.

"I…" Sherlock shook himself. "You should be asking him questions."

Feeling a little smug, John shifted back and grinned at Sherlock. "But we
need to do this," he said in a slightly mocking tone.

The look Sherlock threw him could have dropped an army of thousands.

"Why wouldn't you class that time as sex, John?"

Bugger, the focus was back on him. "I…it was one sided?"

Next to him, Sherlock turned his head sharply to look at John.

"Why was it one sided?"

Why? Did she want a fucking diagram? "It…uh…I…" he hummed at the

ceiling. "Sherlock gave me a…" he trailed off hoping that she would get the
picture.

She waited.

"A…blow job?"

"And why was that one-sided?" Helena asked nonplussed by his

stammering.

Had she given blow jobs?

"I was…Sherlock didn't…" John threw Sherlock a desperate look but

Sherlock was watching him with a slightly wary look. "What?"

"Go away," Sherlock said, looking at Helena suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" she exclaimed.

Sherlock sighed and stood. "We'll be back momentarily," he said, tugging at

John's arm and pulling him out. Thankfully there was no-one in the waiting
room as Sherlock shut the door behind them.

"What-"

"Do you enjoy giving me fellatio?"

"Yes," John said, not needing to even think about it.

"Have you enjoyed it in the past two years?"

"I-" John faltered and shrugged.

"Do you not let me because you think I won't enjoy it? That you have to
give me something more than the simple pleasure of watching you?"

It sounded stupid when Sherlock phrased it like that. Leaning back against
the wall, John shrugged, studying him. "You really didn't see anyone? After
we became intimate?"

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "I haven't," he said slowly. "The last person
I had sex with was you and the person before that was Victor before we
went out that night when you and he fought at Back Door."

Oh.

It was obvious really but…it was strange to hear it like that. Reaching out,
John stroked a hand down Sherlock's cheek. "Why not?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock nuzzled in. "You know why," he said in a voice barely more than a
whisper.

Right. Touched, John kept stroking Sherlock's cheek.

How was it that this man who had been so…monogamous had recently
flirted with the idea of cheating?

The minute he thought it John flinched back and dropped his hand. That
was completely unfair-

"What?" Sherlock asked looking worried.

A little shaken, John flashed him a weak smile. "We should go back in
before she calls about your speedball habit."

Sherlock looked rather bored by the idea.

That night, John woke clawing at the bedcovers, panicked and alone. He sat
up panting and trying to calm down-

The door banged open and arms wrapped around him. The familiar smell of
Sherlock wafted over him and he turned into it, breathing him in deep.

"Taylor?"

John nodded. "I don't…I never had nightmares about him before."

"Tell me," Sherlock soothed.

No.

He had no idea why he was so determined to hold onto it. Part of him knew
it would hurt Sherlock, of course it would. If their roles were reversed John
knew it would be agony to hear it.

But there was more. The humiliation, the realisation how stupid he had
been, his own…less than stellar behaviour while with Taylor. How many of
the people there had given full consent? There had been one or two girls…

He should have realised.

"The first time I went I had a girl on her knees and I…I don't know if she…
Charlie poured beer down my throat as she-"
Sherlock held him tighter. "You didn't know," he murmured.

"So?"

"He did."

"I'm not a child, Sherlock," John muttered pulling away.

"I know," Sherlock said, following him and gripping his shoulder tightly. "I
know," he said again.

"I keep going over it. Again and again. Who there was willing? Who…who
did I…" John swallowed and shook his head.

Sherlock shifted and turned to face him. "Who did you…" he trailed off and
then suddenly stiffened as if turned to ice. "You haven't raped anyone," he
breathed in horror.

The words hung in the air.

Fury thudded through him. Sheer, complete fury that had John dart off the
bed and as far from Sherlock as possible.

"John-" Sherlock started to say in warning.

"No," John snarled. "No. Don't say a fucking word to me. Don't sit there
and offer platitudes. You have no idea what I did there. It's all fine as long
as I was the victim but…what if-"

"You didn't know," Sherlock roared at him. "You would never, ever choose
that. Ever. The fact that you are more bothered by their level of consent
than yours should prove that."

"It doesn't change the fact that I did it."

Sherlock groaned into his hands. "I don't care," he snarled into his hands. "I
do not care about random people that Taylor played with. I care about you-"

"Well aren't you the fucking soul of humanity," John sneered.

"Because I care about you more than some stranger?"

"Yes."

"At least I am making an effort for our relationship rather than drowning in
self-pity for something that may or may not have happened."

What?

John stepped back.

Effort?

Whatever was on his face must have shown because Sherlock's immediately
fell in horror. "I didn't…that's not-"

John had zero interest in hearing it. Without a word he turned and walked
out of the room, grabbed his coat and keys before slamming out of the flat.

Staying at Alf's was always a nightmare.

"It was bad then?" Alf asked quietly when he got up. "You'd have been out
of here ages ago otherwise."

John had stayed on the sofa and was jealously guarding the remote. "I
guess," he said, refusing to look at Alf. Out of the corner of his eye he could
see Alf make a few aborted movements.

"Serious?"

John's only response was to turn up the volume.

"Right," Alf said, sounding less confident. "And you don't want to talk
about it-"

"No," John replied.

"Right…" Alf moved awkwardly and then paused again. "Can I go?" he
asked in an odd voice. "I mean you don't want to talk and…I'm finding this
really uncomfortable."
"Go."

Alf nodded. "So glad you've given me permission to be kicked out of my

own place."

John stared at the screen.

By five he had to go home. He needed to get changed because, irony of

fucking irony, Alf had planned a sodding stag thing for tonight. A proper
one that had been booked in for weeks.

May as well get drunk.

Praying that he didn't see Sherlock, John slipped his key in the lock quietly.
For all he knew Sherlock had gone out and was back on a new case. It was
possible, after all there had been a single apologetic text from Sherlock, and
that had been it.

He'd texted Irene Adler more times in an hour.

Quietly he made his way up the stairs and-

He froze.

Sherlock.

In the chair.

And a woman with dark hair and an elegant back was on the floor in front
of him. Sherlock had his elbow on the arm of the chair, his hand covering
his eyes as he murmured something gently and she listened earnestly.

It was like stumbling upon…

She was alive.

Irene Adler was alive. And in contact with Sherlock.

Giving him comfort.

He had no idea what to do with that.

No idea at all.

Oddly numb, John turned away, making his way down the steps silently and
back through the door.

Sherlock was currently upstairs with Irene Adler yet the world outside was
still going on as normal.

Maybe he'd hallucinated it.

Baffled, he turned to the door half tempted to go back up and check but the
idea of seeing that again…

It made him ache.

What did he do?

Sherlock had forgiven the unforgivable but…

To John's horror he could feel tears blurring his vision.

Habit took over.

He went to the first bar he saw.

Where r u?

John?

Stag night?

"Here," John snapped as he walked in to Back Door and headed straight for
the bar.

"Uh…" Andy followed him. "Where have you been for the last four hours?"
John sat himself at the bar and smiled at Danny. "Triple whiskey," he
ordered.

"Right," Andy mumbled. "Okay."

When Danny brought the drink over John shoved it at Andy.

"Catch up," he suggested.

"Maybe-"

John turned his head and glared at Andy.

"Yep," Andy said, picking up the glass and downing it as quickly as he

could before he spluttered at the taste. "How many have you had?"

John eyed him up. "Not enough," he muttered.

Andy stared at him and then waved at someone behind John. "We need a lot
more people to help with this then."

Ten minutes later Sherlock stormed in, hauled him up out of the seat and
practically dragged him out and into the back.

"Fuck off," John sneered at him, trying to pull out of his grip.

"You are not nearly sober enough to fight me properly," Sherlock informed
him tightly as he practically threw John into the office.

Stumbling, John threw up his hands in surrender. "'m not fighting," he

muttered. "No point, is there? Can't win."

Sherlock locked the door and eyed him up suspiciously. "You've been
drinking heavily," he said with a frown.

John shrugged and stumbled over to the chair before collapsing into it. "Go
on then," he said magnanimously waving his hand at Sherlock. "Do it."

Blankly, Sherlock stared at him. "I apologised," he huffed after a moment.

"What I said was…"he pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. Ten
seconds later he opened them and drew in a breath. "I did not mean to
imply that you…to cheapen what happened to you."

John nodded. "And the rest?"

"I…" Sherlock shifted in frustration. "Perhaps it would be easier if you

explained what annoyed and then I can make any necessary alterations."

"Ah…" John leaned forward. "Right…Okay."

Straightening in triumph, Sherlock nodded.

"Apologise for choosing to text Irene Adler rather than fuck me in the
shower."

Sherlock froze.

"And for texting her nearly every hour and only texting me today once. For
meeting up with her when you and I fight."

Sherlock went white.

"Basically," John suggested in what he thought was a reasonable tone.

"Would you mind apologising for having a fucking affair and thinking I'm
too thick or broken to notice?"
 In health
Chapter Notes

Sherlock's pov

See the end of the chapter for more notes

2nd February

An affair.

An affair?

What the hell had that moron been drinking?

An affair?!

Sherlock couldn't quite get his head around it. John honestly thought he'd
been having an affair? That he'd been tempted by someone else? How could
he even think that after all they'd been through.

Granted the shower situation hadn't been well thought through. There was a
lesson in there somewhere about not turning away from your wet naked
partner to send a text asking what to do. Which, now that he was thinking it
through might have been equally moronic as-

No. How could John possibly have come up with that idea? Though the
phone calls and the texting-

John thought he'd been having an affair? And yet, nothing could be further
from the truth.

2nd November

It was painfully obvious that John had failed to sleep last night. The
clenched jaw, the way he drank four cups of tea in a row and stayed close to
the sofa were all clear signs. It was frustrating because Sherlock could
barely remember what they had talked about last night, other than the fact
that they had talked.

Sherlock hated forgetting things, especially when John was involved.

Irene Adler had a lot to answer for. The drug had blurred everything,
created a cacophony of images and sounds that Sherlock couldn't sort
through or make sense of. From the moment in the bedroom at Irene's to the
moment he woke curled around John he could only remember fevered
dreams rather than how he and John had ended up in the spare room with
John suffering from a re-broken rib.

It was only when rooting through his coat pocket that he discovered his
phone with a new text.

I can help you help him xxx

Sherlock raised his gaze to the ceiling where John was.

As if he would let Ms Adler anywhere near John.

6th November

He will pleasure you but he won't let you do the same to him. xxx

Sherlock stared at the text message, lost.

Don't let him. It can create dangerous habits.

11th November

Finally he relented.
What's in it for you? SH

A trade. Help for a loved one in exchange for the same.

It was dangerous. To ask properly would mean revealing a lot about John…

There were easier ways to get the information.

Done. SH

28th November

There was something wonderful about slowing things down with John.
Years ago they had tumbled into a sexual relationship first, and it had been
wonderful, but it meant they had skipped a lot. Simple things like touching
John without hoping for more, lying together quietly and just talking.

And John started to relax.

He laughed more, his shoulders eased and he teased Sherlock with a wink.
While his ribs were injured, John seemed to find peace in their sudden
intimacy, which was why he agreed to meet her.

"Not a place I would associate with you," Sherlock murmured as they sat in
the office at Back Door.

"Nor would I associate it with you," Irene replied as she took a delicate sip
of her cocktail. "It appears we both appreciate partners with unusual tastes."

Sherlock cocked his head, suddenly intrigued. Opposite him, Irene smirked
and waited.

"Your staff…Kate. She knew John." How? John hadn't recognised her so…

Irene nodded. "We'll get you there," she said with a pleased look.

Five possibilities. "Is she-"

"How are things going with John?" she asked, ignoring the question.
"No," Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair. "No, we've discussed John
plenty. We had an agreement as I recall. What of your 'problem'?" he asked
using air quotes.

Chin in the air, it looked for the longest time as if she wouldn't reply.
"Well…" she said, putting her drink down. "I need to die."

"And you need my help with that?"

"Yes." Irene was gazing at him seriously now. "Not literally of course," she
murmured. "But…I'm sure you can imagine that in my profession I have
made enemies. People who stay away only because of the information I
hold over their head. And as many favours that are owed to me, I owe
others. My road to now was not easy."

"You want to disappear," Sherlock murmured.

"People look for you when you disappear," she explained softly.

"You could fool most people," Sherlock decided after a few seconds to
think it through.

"Your brother and James Moriarty are not most people."

Ah.

Oh, that could be interesting.

"I have your attention," she said, pleased.

"It's been a while since I played Mycroft," Sherlock said, his mind already
racing with ideas. "He won't stop unless he believes he has won. When you
die on his terms."

"The camera phone," she sighed with annoyance.

He smiled. "Indeed."

2nd Feb
John was wonderfully warm under the covers, even if he did smell like he'd
been dipped in a bucket of alcohol. Spooning up behind him, Sherlock
pressed his lips to John's hair and stroked a thoughtful hand down John's
arm.

It took John a while to gain consciousness. Slowly he started to stretch then

hummed appreciatively at the repetitive movements on his skin.

Then he groaned and turned to bury his face in the pillow.

"Water?" Sherlock offered.

There was a pause before a muffled sound that was probably John saying
please. Reaching over, Sherlock picked up the water from the table and
encouraged John to sit up.

Four seconds into drinking Sherlock could see John suddenly becoming
aware again as to what they had fought about yesterday.

Ever petty, John took charge of the cup pressed to his lips and Sherlock
dropped his hand down to the bedspread.

"How did we get back?" John asked after taking an abominably long time to
drink his water.

"Mycroft is occasionally good for something. And shockingly, the bar staff
seemed to have experience getting drunks into cars."

John nodded, as if that had been the most important question he'd had.

"I'm not having an affair," Sherlock heard himself say, surprised by the hurt
in his own voice.

"I know…" John's teeth worried at his lip absently, clearly having more to
say. "I know you didn't have sex with her…" he sounded far more doubtful
about that then Sherlock was happy with. "Well…" John shifted and took a
deep breath. "I saw you with her. Here."

"Not in bed," Sherlock muttered.

"There's more than one way to have an affair," John said slowly.

True. It was still insulting though. Turning away, Sherlock stood and
walked to the door where his coat hung and dug into the pocket.

He tossed his phone at John.

"You know the password," he said as John made no move to pick up the
mobile that lay right by his thigh.

"5646," John muttered. "Is it still-"

"It's always that," Sherlock replied, folding his arms.

"You should change it," John sighed as he reached for the phone and keyed
in the password. "It's predictable-"

"It's sentimental," Sherlock corrected with a scoff. When John frowned at

him, he rolled his eyes. "What does it spell?"

"I…" John looked down and muttered the numbers to himself.

There.

John closed his eyes then glanced up.

"You see but you do not observe," Sherlock said, feeling suddenly drained
as he sat back on the edge of their bed. "Let's hope you can both read and
comprehend."

John's thumb moved, scrolling through the options and finding the texts
before he paused.

There was always the chance that John would be more hurt by this, that he
would see it as the ultimate betrayal to trust his secrets to someone else. But
as John scrolled Sherlock couldn't see fury or humiliation.

Instead John's features softened.

There were likely to be many texts in the conversation that showed

Sherlock to be utterly inept and woefully ill prepared. The thought made
him want to squirm but it seemed only fair that he give John full access to
all his ill-conceived ideas just as he had given Irene full disclosure of John's
experiences.

Those fascinating blue eyes lifted and fixed Sherlock with a long stare.

For a long, dreadful, thirty seconds of silence Sherlock had no idea what
John was going to say. It was like being rudderless and having no clue
where right and wrong were or how far from those points he was.

Then John put the phone down and tapped a finger on the back of it.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly.

Sorry? For what? What exactly did he mean by-

John surged forward, covers and all and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

The relief was an almost physical sensation and he clutched at John's t-shirt
as he finally released the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

"Why didn't you say?" John murmured.

"I was trying to get you to relax. The last thing you needed was to know
that was my aim."

John chuckled weakly into his throat and the grip around Sherlock
tightened. "You seriously have been conversing with a drop dead gorgeous
dominatrix just to get me to calm down?"

Possibly? There was something a little strange with the way John was
phrasing it. "Yes?"

"I fucking love you sometimes," John laughed, sounding more relieved than
anything else.

"It's ruined now," Sherlock muttered. "I should have…of course you would
have acted unsettled recently. From the evidence available it must have
seemed-" The idea that he had let John think that didn't sit well at all. "You
didn't say anything," he said cautiously.
"I didn't think you knew what you were doing," John said quietly. "Or how I
would feel…I…I just thought she was giving you something that you
weren't getting from me. An outlet or a friend that…" John shrugged.

"You are what I need," Sherlock said "You are all that I need."

John nodded.

They sat with each other, listening to the quiet and lost in their own
thoughts.

"I'm scared," John said suddenly. "That if…that I might bring him here. Into
our bed."

Taylor.

The burning, gnawing ache of being acutely helpless rose again and
Sherlock glanced hopelessly at his phone.

It seemed unlikely he could get away with sending a text now.

"What?" John asked, pulling back to study him.

"I…he is," Sherlock said, mostly sure he was saying completely the wrong
thing.

John slumped back.

Definitely the wrong thing.

"It's akin to when someone tells you not to think of a number. That's the
surest way to ensure that the number is remembered. You are so determined
to not think of it that it is all you can think of."

The nod from John was encouraging. The defeated slope of his shoulders
was not. And it was obvious why - knowing the solution and being able to
put it into practise were two entirely different things.

"The therapy helped," Sherlock muttered, determined that at least one of his
ideas had been useful.
"It did," John agreed. "There's so much I just assume…we were shit at
telling each other things."

"We're still shit at telling each other things," Sherlock said mutinously.
"Hence this situation."

John smiled and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "I worry I'll be…that
I'll be cruel or callous. That I'll just…" he took a long breath. "That it will
just be sex."

Sherlock snorted.

It was impossible not to.

"John," he said when his partner's face clouded over in annoyance. "You
and I have never managed to just have sex. Ever. Even when we tried to
make it just sex we failed. We are engaged, we are older and we are far
wiser. Why on earth would we ever just have sex?"

"Cause it's the only way I know how to…" John looked away. "I missed
you," he said to the wall. "I didn't want to deal with that and then later I
didn't want to deal with Taylor."

Oh.

Sherlock frowned at the pattern on the duvet.

"I'm going to have a shower," John decided, moving off the bed. "Go and
have something to eat," he suggested softly.

Food.

Dull.

There was one option as far as Sherlock could see.

"Lie down," Sherlock ordered John when he returned.

"Why?" John asked, pausing at the doorway and looking snug in Sherlock's
dressing gown.

And wet.

Wonderfully wet.

"I want to give you an orgasm."

John leaned against the door frame. "Did you listen to what I just-"

"Did you?" Sherlock asked. "I am going to prove to you that you will not
miss me when I am sucking your cock, nor will you hurt me or mistreat me
because believe me, I would tell you if I felt hurt or ill-used."

John drew in breath, clearly ready to argue.

"And I can't prove any of that if you don't take a chance. A leap of faith if
you will."

John closed his mouth.

"It's a win, win," Sherlock added. "Either you get to orgasm or you get to be
right."

For once.

Wisely he kept that additional point to himself, though he suspected John

knew it had been silently added.

"Christ, I feel like I'm twenty again," John muttered as he strode to the bed.

"That's the attitude," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Fuck off," John muttered, his voice wobbling in a laugh as he sat in the
middle of the bed and then lay down.

The smell of him was intoxicating, Sherlock decided as he climbed on top.

The shower gel that John bought, that they both used, sent something
thrumming across his veins. No surer way to tell the state of a relationship
than the soap they used.
John was naked under the robe, his temperature warmer than usual due to
the hot shower. His skin was slightly damp and Sherlock chased away the
drops of water with his tongue to get to the man underneath.

A gentle hand stroked through his hair as John bent his head to place a kiss
upon it.

How did that idiot think he'd be callous in bed? Even when he'd been
inexperienced and fumbling John had been a considerate lover. Unsure of
himself certainly, but he'd always had the right instincts.

Sherlock made his way down, fingers and lips skirting over tiny scars as he
revelled in the chance to re-learn John's body. He had known him so
perfectly once, so thoroughly and completely, and he would do so again.

A calloused thumb brushed his cheek and Sherlock glanced up from John's
stomach to meet the nervous gaze looking down at him.

Not taking his eyes off John, Sherlock moved lower.

There was a flicker in John's gaze that betrayed his nervousness but
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed, constant and patient. Slowly he took John into
his mouth, brushing soothing thumbs against the soft skin of John's thighs.

Trust yourself, he wanted to say.

He kept going.

John's eyes fluttered shut and he tilted his head back with a strangled intake
of breath before he tensed and looked back down.

There was worry in John's gaze, a hesitant fear that made Sherlock want to
stop and check that everything was all right. But he needed the chance to
show John, to prove that everything between them was safe. That it was
enjoyable and easy, pleasurable.

Sherlock closed his eyes and started to work, enjoying the sensation and the
sounds of John above him. He went slowly, allowing John to see and feel
how much Sherlock was enjoying the act. He kept his movement reverent,
exploratory and careful, his tongue stroking the flesh and tasting every
millimetre.

Above him, John sucked in a hitched breath and a careful hand rested upon
Sherlock's hair as John shifted. The gentle touch made Sherlock smile
around John's cock and part of him hoped John could feel it. The touch was
soothing and intimate in a way that he had missed. A hint of the partner that
Sherlock had once relied on, the man who had once been the first to make
him laugh in bed, to show him the wonders of mutual pleasure, the one who
had trusted Sherlock endlessly.

Trust.

Stroking John's hips with his thumbs, Sherlock hummed in contentment and
was rewarded with a gentle thrust and gasp. Every move, every flexing
muscle and muffled moan let him know that John enjoyed it, was
unravelling.

The hand in his hair stroked a curl from his forehead and the tenderness of
the movement made Sherlock glance up.

Then stop, panicked by the far too bright eyes staring down at him.

"Fuck," John muttered, covering his face with his elbow. "If you tell anyone
I cried I will…" he faltered as if stuck on an appropriate threat.

"You aren't…?" Sherlock frowned, hating the fact that he had no idea how
to phrase his…concern. It was unlikely that John was hurt as Sherlock was
relatively sure he hadn't suddenly lost the art of giving head. Sitting up he
stared as if he could see through the arm covering John's face, slightly
baffled at what was happening. Happy tears didn't really seem to apply…

John shook his head and dropped his elbow away. His hand reached to cup
Sherlock's chin.

"I…" John seemed to be struggling for the right words. "I really missed
you," he said eventually.

Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips over John's. The touches were
so light, barely there and mostly made of gentle puffs of air that caressed
the skin. The smell of John, the feel of his hands stroking Sherlock's skin,
his thumbs tracing shapes over Sherlock's cheeks. All of it was-

Perfect

Their kiss grew more frantic, deeper as if to suck each other up and
Sherlock rolled them, so John was on top, naked and still a little damp from
the shower. It was damp enough that his fingers didn't skim over John easily
but instead felt a rather pleasing amount of friction. The hands that the army
said were too unreliable nimbly undid Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock threaded
his own fingers through John's short strands, enjoying the feel of them. As
his shirt was pushed to the side, Sherlock sat up, allowing John to push the
material off his shoulders.

Pulling back, John stared down at Sherlock as if making some grand

deductions of his own. Unsure what he was looking for, Sherlock allowed
his hands to smooth up John's back as he waited under the stare, too aware
that John had done the same for him many times over the years without
questioning or commenting.

John smiled and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead and
then tipped Sherlock's face up with his thumbs to kiss Sherlock's lips.

He let John dictate the speed and the rhythm, content just to follow John's
lead. When hands started on his belt buckle Sherlock resisted the urge to
pull out of the kiss to check and question if John was comfortable with
everything.

A leap of faith was what he had asked for.

It was a little awkward, trying to wriggle out of his trousers. John grinned at
him and chuckled, an easy noise that found Sherlock smiling in response
and giving John a gentle nudge in the ribs to redistribute John's weight.
John vanished off his lap completely and Sherlock, once undressed, reached
for him sending them both sprawling inelegantly across the bed.

"Smooth," John murmured against Sherlock's lips.

"It was," Sherlock argued as he allowed his hands to roam. They had ended
up on their sides and Sherlock pushed at John gently until he was on top
and staring down into John's amused face.
He wanted to see John, to watch and feel. It had been so long since they had
been like this, since Sherlock had felt so utterly connected to another
human being. The rest of the moronic world seemed to be a million miles
away, a distant dream and insubstantial compared to John Watson being in
his arms.

Willing. Eager. Relaxed.

Finally.

Tentatively, he closed his hand over the two of them and felt John's puff of
breath at the contact. Sherlock pressed his lips to the spot just under John's
ear and smirked at the moan as John tipped his head to allow for easier
access.

"Still works," Sherlock grinned.

John shook his head (thankfully in amusement) and reached his hand down
to wind his fingers around Sherlock's.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered, lifting his lips to John's ear. John turned
his face into Sherlock's neck and nodded, his breath panting against the
crook of Sherlock shoulder. A kiss pressed against the skin there and then
John's breath started to stutter.

He wanted to see.

Turning his head, Sherlock kissed his cheeks and then tried to move to
capture John's lips. As he pulled back to look at John there was a flicker of
panic and then John craned his head to restart the kiss.

Not yet then. John wasn't quite ready to bare himself like that. Instead they
kissed and Sherlock could swear he felt the orgasm start to roll and build
inside John just from the kiss.

The groan as John finally came was perfect.

The feel of it, the knowledge that they were in bed, touching, feeling was
enough to push Sherlock over. It was hardly the best orgasm he'd ever had
but the act was satisfying; the feeling that raced through him was sheer
contentment. He allowed himself to collapse on John slightly and nose at
his shoulder and the scar upon it. He could feel absent strokes along his
back as John sighed in contentment.

He was half asleep when John chuckled a little underneath him. Annoyed at
the jostling movements, Sherlock shifted and turned his head to glare at the
side of John's face. "I'm comfortable," he complained.

John laughed. "We had sex," he said sounding delighted.

"Well at least you're now classing that as sex," Sherlock said with a yawn.

"I'm growing up," John said and turned to press a kiss to Sherlock's face, his
aim useless. "You're getting old."

Sherlock scowled and glared at him, making enough effort to lift his head
just a little.

"You never used to sleep on top of me."

"I made more effort than you did," Sherlock said, settling down again and
trying to be obnoxious with the way he sprawled his limbs over John.

"Yeah, you did."

The tone of voice was wrong and Sherlock frowned.

Sitting up, Sherlock shifted his weight off of John unsure…

"In this," John said. "With this. You've…you've been fucking patient."

Had he? It hadn't felt like it. Unsure what to do with the compliment
Sherlock hummed. "Yes well…" he looked around for inspiration. "You
made more effort than I did to get us back together."

John stared at him, as if turning the idea over or perhaps looking for the
correct response, though Sherlock had never known John to struggle
particularly with that before.

As if at a loss, John just nodded. "Come on then," he said, reaching out a

hand to Sherlock. "Have your nap."

Sherlock sniffed and narrowed his eyes before he lay down, stretching out
again and smiling whenever he heard John grunt.

"You can be such a fucking child," John huffed.

That was better.

"And sweet," John added as an afterthought.

He was far too comfortable to complain. He'd do it later.

 To Cherish
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The club was quiet. John didn't know if it was a sign of getting old but he
was starting to find he preferred the club when it was closed and it was just
him and the staff.

Or him and the entertainment after hours.

He perched on a chair and pushed a bottle along the bar.

"You slipped up," he said as he raised the Corona to his lips. "At Irene's."

"Not so much that you noticed it," Kate said as she took off the
impressively realistic moustache. "It's a good job that Sherlock does all the
observation work on your cases."

"You pose as the maid."

"I pose as her casual lay," Kate answered as she took a sip from the bottle.
"The more you try and hide something then the more people look."

"And this?" John asked. "The Drag King troupe?"

"A hobby," Kate said with a smile. "Which Irene then insisted I use to
practise my 'undercover skills'," she took another sip as she eyed John up.
"Maybe you should try it."

John chuckled. "I don't think Sherlock and I will be fleeing the country and
faking his death any time soon."

Kate shrugged. "Neither did I." She put the bottle down seriously. "Will he
do it still?"

"He's never turned down a chance to fool his brother," John sighed as he
took a sip. "But…he said it might take some time before you can join her."

Short nails flicked at the slightly loose corner of the Corona label.

"It'll be all right," John said as he watched Kate's face. The lost look made
part of him ache. "She'll be all right."

Kate shook her head. "She always is," she said after a moment. "I still hate
it."

"The danger of it?" John asked. "Or her…uh…" he struggled for the correct
phrase. "Her profession?"

An amused look was shot in his direction. "She's brilliant at it," Kate said
with a purr to her voice. "And watching her with other people," Kate bit her
lip and lifted an eyebrow suggestively at John, making him laugh.

"You're mad," he muttered, relaxing a little. "The pair of you."

Kate opened her mouth as if to say something but a shadow passed over her
face and she shifted a little, suddenly quiet. At his look she heaved a sigh
and looked down. "She told me. About you…I was about to…make a joke
about Sherlock liking to observe."

Ah.

It was part of the reason that he despised people knowing anything about
his time with Taylor. As far as John could tell anyone who did know
instantly started to treat him like he was fragile and it made him feel fragile.

He hated it.

But he needed to learn how to deal with it. People might find out or guess
and he couldn't react with a stony silence every single time.

"Nah," he said, keeping his tone light. "Sherlock making observations in

bed is dangerous for his health."

Kate shot him a weak smile, still seeming uncomfortable.

"So her…being a dominatrix," John said, determined to say the word. "Isn't
what bothers you?"

"Not being with her bothers me," Kate argued. "She…she aims herself at
danger and thinks herself immortal." She took another sip. "It's as bad as
dating a man."

John snorted. "It's as bad as dating Sherlock Holmes from the sound of it.
Determined to take on the whole world just to prove he can."

He took the comfortable silence as agreement.

"How did the pair of you meet?" John asked.

"At a club. She was trying to teach me how to seduce someone and then let
me know how successful I had been. I think I was told how successful my
seduction was at least six times that night."

That was a damn good image in his head and the smirk Kate shot at him
showed that she knew it. "She used to have me come over after clients,
sometimes before. We made a game of it a few times and then…we just…
we were together. Then she was trying to pull away when-" she drew in a
shaken breath. "I don't envy you dealing with Moriarty."

"He threatened you?"

"With others. He's not the only one with pull. Irene knows far too much for
those with power to be happy with her just walking around. Irene likes
having knowledge for our protection. And it's fun," Kate added honestly.
"But to use it against people just because you can? That's just…it's wrong
and it puts us at risk."

"You'll never be able to come back," John said softly.

Kate shrugged. "I've had a mind blowing orgasm in the cubism section of
the national gallery. I think I've had my fill of the country."

John grinned.

"I lost," Sherlock announced as he stormed back in.

"Believably?" John asked as he sat reading a book, a cup of tea balanced on

the arm of the chair.

"Of course believably," Sherlock muttered, standing in front of John like a

small child demanding attention. "I am more than capable as an actor,
believe me it is hardly a difficult skill no matter how hard you would like to
pretend-"

"You believably lost to your brother?" John rephrased.

"But I won," Sherlock said after a brief pause. "The fact that he doesn't
know I won only makes him even more stupid."

John lifted his gaze from his book. "He actually bought it then?" he asked,
laying the book down on his lap.

"Of course. Throw in me being underprepared for a woman like her, a hint
that James Moriarty helped her and then a dash of me showing off at the
end."

"Ah," John said lifting the book up again. "So you didn't lose?"

"It had to be believable," Sherlock argued, flouncing into his chair opposite
John.

John found himself snorting. "So the only way you could believably lose
would be to win?"

"Yes."

Right. "Your arrogance really can be astounding at times," John muttered.

When he looked back up Sherlock was smirking at him.

"But," Sherlock said in what was definitely a seductive purr as he leaned

forward. "That's how I get what I want."

Amused, John watched him. "Is it now?" he said shifting in his chair to get
more comfortable. Sherlock smirked at him and picked up John's feet.

"It is," Sherlock said, rolling John's socks off as he knelt down. "For
instance if I tell you now that by tomorrow morning you'll have had me in
every possible way and be thanking me for-"

"And that will convince Mycroft you have suddenly turned against Irene
having just realised that she was trying to break us up?"

Sherlock sneered at the idea, muttering under his breath as he got rid of the
socks by throwing them somewhere behind him. "Moron," he hissed. "As if
after all this time-"

John grinned and bent down to Sherlock. "I know. As if you'd waste all that
time and effort that you'd already put into me."

"And look at how poorly trained you still are," Sherlock said with a grin.

John ignored the slight quiver at the back of his mind and hummed in
amusement as he rested his elbows on his knees. "Is Mycroft actually
escorting her out of the country?"

"I did try to explain that a luxury car is hardly a hardship but Mycroft seems
to think that making anyone use public transport is far too cruel to be
humane."

"Kate's struggling with the idea," John said softly. "How long are you going
to leave it before you go after Irene?"

"About thirteen days."

Thirteen-

"The day after our wedding?" John asked, tilting his head.

Sherlock nodded then paused. "Perhaps fourteen. The plane journey time is-
"

"Still stuck on the fact that you're leaving…" John sat back. "Hate the
timing," he decided trying not to feel disappointed. "But…it's a few days-"
"Few weeks," Sherlock corrected. "And we will be leaving."

"We? How? You go abroad to consult on rare occasions as it is without me

going with you-"

"I was thinking of using a different cover story."

John waited.

"A trip that two people take after they get married?"

"Who the hell is going to believe that we are going on a honeymoon?" John
asked with disbelief. "You and me by the beach somewhere tanning? You
and I couldn't even manage a fancy hotel in Florida and that was while you
had a case."

Sherlock smiled slightly at him, as if fond, before the expression vanished

and turned into something slightly…

Nervous.

"I…" Sherlock shifted on his knees in front of John. It seemed to strike him
where he was and, with a small frown, Sherlock sat up on his chair, still
leaning forward to continue their contact.

It was strange seeing him so visibly nervous.

"Sherlock-"

"You were happy once, out in Afghanistan. I…you keep it apart. I want…"
Sherlock hummed in annoyance at his own stilted reply. "I've always
wanted to see you out there."

John felt something in him freeze for so many reasons it was impossible to
pick it apart.

"I…I thought she was going to Karachi," John heard himself say and then
winced. "Right yeah, we could travel…borders are funny though about
people-"
"John," Sherlock said, cutting over him.

"Yeah…" John took a deep breath and settled back to think about it, all too
aware of Sherlock's gaze upon him. "Couldn't call it a honeymoon," John
said eventually.

"You aren't answering the question," Sherlock huffed, drumming his fingers
on the arm of the chair. "Why do you not want us to go?"

He was being calm. Strangely calm considering the history behind what he
was currently proposing. "I…we're in a good place. A really…we even talk
about things," John said with a slight smile. "It feels…to risk that just after
we got it seems-"

"Dangerous?" Sherlock asked with a curling smile. "Could be."

Despite everything, John could feel his pulse jump. "Foolish," he tried to
correct.

"Moronically so," Sherlock said, his voice taking on that damned tone that
made John's toes want to curl. "There's an endless amount of reasons why
this is a ridiculous idea." John tilted his head to watch Sherlock stand and
walk over until he was in front of John. "Leaving here to help a dominatrix
with so many secrets that half the world wants her dead," Sherlock started
as he bent down to John. "Going to a place where you'll have to attempt
being quiet when we are alone together-"

"I'm no-where near as loud as you can be," John muttered, keeping his gaze
fixed upon Sherlock and seeing the challenge in his eyes. "Do not test that,"
he added warily.

"Learning languages," Sherlock added with glee. "New data, new

surroundings. Seeing you in your former element."

"Not a soldier any more," John reminded him softly.

"Yes you are," Sherlock declared with arrogance.

"Then you should follow orders."

"I still outrank you."

It pulled a surprise laugh from him as John remembered that stupid week
and a half that Sherlock had spent impersonating an officer just so he could
see John. "You were dishonourably discharged-"

"I was recommended for discharge," Sherlock corrected.

"And the only reason they didn't go through with it was because you
weren't actually in the army for them to find your records."

"So I wasn't discharged."

John rolled his eyes then closed them as Sherlock begun to sweep kisses
down his neck. "There is something seriously wrong with us," John decided
as Sherlock begun to work on his shirt. "Anyone else would be pleased at
how safe and calm things are going to be."

The word dull vibrated against his skin as Sherlock continued to explore his
collar bone.

Sherlock, out in Afghanistan. The food, the people. Christ, the views and
the culture. Travelling and keeping their relationship secret-

There was something exciting about it.

Sherlock collecting data, learning a new language, he could always pick

them up with ease, travelling with him, planning. Helping to save the
woman who had helped save his future marriage.

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock knelt down again, now fixated on

John's belt.

The benefits far outweighed the potential losses.

Reaching down he cupped Sherlock's jaw. "Bed," he said decisively.

Sherlock smirked. "So we're going?" he asked, rocking back.

"Yeah," John said, tracing his thumb against Sherlock's jaw. "But we will
have to lie about our relationship," John said gently. "Or at least not make it
obvious. You'll have to be quiet."

"So you said-"

"And," John said, taking a steadying breath as he tried to be mature for once
in his damn life and not let worries fester, "Taking you out there…I'm not
entirely sure it won't burst some image you have of me but…I like the idea
of…I think it will help us."

Sherlock leaned up into him, finding John's lips with unerring aim and
kissed him fiercely, his fingers digging in almost painfully where he
touched John. Pulling John up Sherlock herded them through the kitchen
and back to bed. John let him, slightly surprised by the sudden need coming
from Sherlock.

They'd been careful when doing this. Gentle and reverent, slow with soft
touches, reassuring looks and Sherlock had led the way, finding some
unending and rarely touched flow of patience within himself. But this
was…

He curled a hand around Sherlock's hair and pulled him down onto the bed,
rolling them until he was on top and Sherlock's eyes just caught the light,
getting rid of their clothes as they went in a frantic tumble that left John
gasping for breath.

John could almost pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock seemed to come to
his senses and watched the sneer of self-directed irritation form as he
attempted to slow down their movements.

"You're thinking," John scolded as he reached for the bedside table.

"I'm always thinking," Sherlock replied absently, his eyes fixed on John's
hand.

"I used to dream of doing this out there," John said gently as he pulled the
lube into his hand and closed the drawer. "Being outside in the heat and
coming in. You pleasantly cool-"

Sherlock continued to eye him up as if waiting for something. John started

to kiss his way down the soft skin of Sherlock's stomach, keeping his gaze
on Sherlock.

"I had this fantasy of you in silken sheets. Completely impractical but…"
John shrugged as he nosed his way down. He popped the lid of the lube and
watched Sherlock draw in a long deep breath. "I always thought of you like
that when I was out there. A luxury."

It had been an age since he had done this, John thought as he circled a
knuckle. And Christ, however long it had been for him it had been even
longer for Sherlock. He'd forgotten just how…intimate it was.

"Moronic idea," Sherlock muttered, the bob of his throat belying his words.

John smiled and slipped a finger inside. Sherlock gasped in surprise and a
flicker crossed his face.

Hurt?

John froze.

A pair of steely grey eyes glanced down at him, eyebrows drawing together
for a moment before Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's been years," he said
dismissively. "It's merely…odd."

Because he hadn't slept with anyone or been stupid enough to-

Sherlock shifted and seconds later John felt a finger sliding in against his
own. Unsure, he looked down and watched Sherlock's finger, at a far more
awkward angle than his own, push in.

"John," Sherlock said softly. "Lube would also be helpful."

"Right," John muttered, picking the tube up and squeezing again.

When had been the last time he had bothered to stop to add more-

"John."

Fuck.
Pulling away, John turned and drew up his knees, placing his forehead upon
them as he steadied his breathing. Sherlock rested his hand on his back, not
moving but a comfortable grounding weight nonetheless.

"Is there any reason why you are suddenly pushing so hard for this?"
Sherlock asked after a moment.

"The first time we did this…I wanted to look after you-" John grinned at the
irritated puff from behind him. "It made it so much easier, so much…I
wanted you to be able to lean on me and to just…relax. I thought…after
what you asked and all that you've done I want to be able to…I dunno."

"Comfort me with your magic cock?"

John snorted and laughed. "Maybe," he said after a moment, nodding

thoughtfully. "You trying to say I haven't got one?"

Sherlock hummed and then, by the sound of it, crashed back on the pillows.
"Go on then," he said imperiously.

John turned and raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"You started," Sherlock argued. "Experiments never yield useful

information unless you see it through."

"This is an experiment now, is it?" John asked, trying to keep a straight face
as he turned.

Sherlock's lips twisted in amusement. "Get on with it," he muttered, folding

his arms under his head the epitome of laziness.

This had to be the most bizarre way of doing it. Trying not to laugh, John
slipped a finger in again, watching Sherlock's face closely.

The bastard pulled an unimpressed face and sniffed.

Giggling now, John added more lube and a second finger as he searched
for…

There.
A hitched breath but one of pleasure this time. Sherlock shifted slightly, his
legs opening wider.

John bent down and sucked him as he added a third finger, grinning at the
sound of a surprised moan and the way Sherlock shook at the sensation.

"That does not prove you have a magic cock," Sherlock argued, his voice
sounding slightly hoarse.

The idea was both terrifying and tempting.

John took the risk.

And when he slid in later it was tight and hot and slow and still perfect.

And still fucking terrifying.

"Nothing sparkled," Sherlock muttered into John's hair as he lay collapsed

on top of Sherlock.

"Hmm?"

"No stars."

"I'll make you see stars tomorrow," John promised with a yawn.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "You were loud," he decided. "We should do
that often to help you practise being quiet."

John felt himself chuckle. "Any fucking excuse," he muttered.

After a while Sherlock poked at him, dislodging John and forcing him to
roll off and onto the bed. They jostled each other as they tried to get
comfortable and Sherlock used his freezing cold feet as an unfair
advantage.

"Would you do it?" John asked as they settled on a comfortable position.

"What Irene is doing?"
"Given the sorts of activities the woman gets up to you will have to be
slightly more specific," Sherlock replied sounding surprisingly awake.

Or not. It was Sherlock after all.

"Fake your death, be separated from Kate."

"I barely know her."

"Don't be facetious," John sighed.

Sherlock was silent for the longest time. "Perhaps. But I believe the point is
moot."

"Because you don't need to fake your death?"

"Because you wouldn't let me," Sherlock replied, shifting again. "You can
be annoyingly stubborn at times. You'd follow me whatever I did."

John smiled, not sure what else to say. Instead, he reached out and laced
their fingers together, watching as their rings caught the faint light coming
through the curtains, blending together until it was hard to tell where one
band ended and the other began.
 I pledge my Faithfullness
Chapter Notes

The end of the series!

Just a small note to say a huge, massive thank you to my two betas -
they've been amazing throughout this entire series and have helped me
improve tremendously both with my writing and my confidence within
it (and with SPaG! - don't forget that!). And it's sad to see the series
go, especially as it has been the series that has directly meant life is as
good as it is right now through the friends it helped me to meet and the
confidence I've gained from it and them.

Way too sappy, I know, but very true!

"Here," Sherlock ordered, stepping in front of John, his hands coming up to

the tie that John wore.

"It's a tie," John sighed, standing patiently. "It's not difficult."

"One would think," Sherlock said even as his hands smoothly adjusted the
knot at John's throat. His own was, of course, perfectly knotted and
unerringly straight; a line that pointed straight down to his waist coat.

Coat and tails suited him.

"You look like a Victorian gentleman," John said as he let his eyes sweep
appreciatively down Sherlock's long form.

Silvered eyes lifted to John's. "I'm about to enter into a civil ceremony with
another member of my sex. Exactly who taught you about the Victorians?"
"You're nervous," John murmured as Sherlock continued to fiddle. "You
become such a wanker when you're nervous."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked as he stepped back, utterly fixated on the tie. "Most
people would say that means I've been nervous every moment of my life."

"More of a wanker," John corrected. "We really shouldn't be doing this.

Seeing each other."

"Why?"

"It's bad luck," John said, glancing at the mirror, not entirely sure how he
felt about the new suit.

"We don't have a bride. Unless you feel that you wish to be referred to as
such in which case I will inform your mother she finally has an answer to
the question she posed to you years ago and to me last night."

God he so could have done without knowing that.

"And you told her…"

Sherlock smiled. "I doubt she'll ask again," he said as he disappeared into
the bathroom.

"What does that mean?" John called to him. "Sherlock? Sherlock?!" Lost he
sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. "Grant me patience," he pleaded as the
bell rang downstairs.

Feet clambered up the stairs and seconds later Andy walked in, dressed in
his suit. "I look like a fucking idiot," Andy announced going straight for the
mirror.

"Hello John. Congratulations. How are you feeling? Oh, you know,
fantastic, completely bowled over by the support being offered by friends,"
John mocked, staring at his friend in some disbelief.

"I'm not your fucking best man," Andy muttered as he inspected his chin.
"You didn't fight for me so fuck you."
Christ, was everyone but him nervous today? "Swear one more time and I'm
calling your mum."

Andy snorted. "Good luck with that, she thought she was getting an invite
to the wedding."

Bugger.

"Oh," John said. "Before I forget…" he reached for his wedding ring and,
after a hesitant breath, tugged it off. "Here."

Andy turned and blinked. "I don't want to marry you," he muttered.

"You're the best man," John explained patiently. "You need to give this to
Sherlock so he can give it to me."

Andy sniggered.

"You fucking child," John sighed. "Take the ring."

Andy sighed and reached out, plucking the ring from John. "Seems weird
seeing you without it now."

"Yeah," John said, clearing his throat and trying to focus on how much
lighter his ring hand felt. He felt oddly bereft without it.

Sherlock strode back out, his hair slightly more tame. "Why does he have
that?" Sherlock demanded, looking at the ring.

"Because when they ask for the rings you need something to give to me,"
John explained, trying to hold onto his patience. "And you need to give me
yours."

Sherlock looked at John as if he'd just suggested Sherlock shoot his own
mother.

"Don't be a baby," John muttered as he held out his hand. "You'll get it
straight back."

"You're going to give it to Alf?" Sherlock asked, holding his ring hand far
away from John.

John stared at him and then went for Sherlock's hand.

"You'll mess up the suits," Sherlock protested as he tried to step back.

"But as I'm not the one who spent an age staring at myself in the mirror I
don't think that argument's going to work."

It was surprising how good it felt to see Sherlock reluctant to give up his
ring. Sherlock's head lowered as he cradled his hand to his chest
protectively.

"Give us a moment," John asked Andy.

"Sure," Andy replied easily. "Can stop at a pawn shop on the way," he said,
tossing John's wedding ring into the air.

They both shot him a furious look and Andy faltered in surprise. "Jesus," he
muttered. "Calm down," he said as he wandered out.

"Toss that ring in the air again and I will shoot you," Sherlock called after
him.

"And it won't be a clean shot if he's aiming," John added.

The look he received was both amused and annoyed.

It was one of John's favourite looks from Sherlock.

"Come here," John said, holding his hand out for Sherlock's. "I felt the
same," he confessed glaring at his own empty ring finger. "Feels wrong to
not be wearing it."

Sherlock nodded, his fingers curling as if to keep it on.

"Sherlock," John prompted.

It looked as if Sherlock was startled to remember he was there. He pulled at

the ring as if annoyed with himself, or the situation, and gave it to John in a
frustrated shove.
John took it and curled his fingers around it, surprised by how protective he
felt about a ring of metal.

"I can actually put it on you this time," John murmured.

When he looked up Sherlock was watching him with a soft, startled look.

It hit him in a sudden wave and he found himself reaching up for Sherlock's
suit jacket to steady himself as he leaned in. Unfortunately, it seemed as if
Sherlock was so startled that he just stayed where he was so John ended up
with the bridge of his nose on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock jolted and pulled back awkwardly. "What-"

"We're getting married today," John breathed. "Actually married. To each

other."

For a second his own worry was reflected in Sherlock's eyes and then the
man smiled. One of his rare unguarded smiles that the rest of the world
barely saw.

"Finally," Sherlock breathed, leaning forward and tipping his head up so he

kissed John's forehead.

Finally.

John nodded and wrapped his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck,
pulling him in for a kiss. It was soothing and strengthening all at once.

"Messed up your suit," John murmured against Sherlock's lips.

An irritated noise burst from Sherlock and he backed away striding to the
mirror.

John couldn't help but grin, ear to ear.

God, let the rest of his life be like this.

They'd agreed to keep it simple. Traditional. John had tentatively mentioned

writing their own vows and had been relieved at the expression of pain on
Sherlock's face.

The expression had only increased when they had discussed how long the
vow exchange would take.

They'd both asked if there was a short version. Or a very short version.

The shortest version.

Still, he hadn't quite been prepared for how it would feel to be stood in front
of everyone they knew, and a number that Sherlock had angrily huffed
about because neither of them had a clue as to who they were, and promise
to love Sherlock for the rest of his life.

And to seal that promise with the rings they had already made their own.
Which happened despite Andy trying to be funny and pretending to lose
John's ring.

Sherlock had made one request of their vows.

"I now declare you equal partners," the official said.

"Hear that?" Sherlock asked as he leant close to John. "Partners."

"Husbands," John said stubbornly.

"John," Sherlock huffed as he ducked his head a little, his lips almost at
John's. "Do not be childish."

"Fine," John said, unable to stop himself from smiling. "Partners," he said
as he pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

He could feel Sherlock's grin in his toes as they kissed.

Married.

Finally.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Andy said as he stood up. "My name for those of
you who don't know me and want to find me at the bar later, is Andy-do
you want a pint."

There was a polite chuckle. Lestrade did not look impressed or tempted.
He'd probably would need a few more pints in him before Andy could
wrangle anything from him.

Wait.

That opening line sounded…familiar.

Peering forward, John tried to find Paul in the room. Paul who was taking a
sip of beer with his arm wrapped around a pregnant Alina.

It was Mike who tilted his head at Andy's opening as if he was finding it
oddly familiar too. Maybe Andy had heard it at Mike's wedding-

Sherlock was watching Andy with a wary frown, as if braced for doom.

"Fornication," Andy said with a cheerful smile. "Forn-ic-ation…wait,

sorry…for an occasion," he said with a wink, "such as this-"

Where the hell had he heard this before? John narrowed his eyes, his thumb
absently brushing his wedding ring as he tried to work it out.

Across the room Mike suddenly stiffened and closed his eyes, his mouth
twisting into a snigger.

Where the hell had Andy got the speech from? When he looked even Harry
had her elbows on the table and was leaning her mouth into her clasped
hands as if to hide her expression.

Oh God, if Harry knew it then it was likely to be a horrifically embarrassing

speech…

"Alf and I," Andy said, gesturing to Alf who was sat with a smirk, "wanted
to get everything right. "We escorted our grooms to the car, made sure a
certain someone didn't kidnap them," he said, turning to glare at a distinctly
unamused looking Mycroft.
It probably didn't help that a few guests turned to look curiously at Mycroft
while Sherlock smirked at his brother.

Mycroft smiled tightly, as if it were a joke.

"We made sure we had the rings…though if any of you has seen Sherlock
over thepast few months you'll know how dangerous that mission was.

"And of course, best men have sex with the bridesmaids." Andy made a
show of looking around and then looking down at John and Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at him and then turned to John.

"Why are you looking at me?" John muttered to him trying to find Molly in
the crowd to see how she responded to that. Maybe he could torture Andy
with her reaction…

"Of course there are the mothers…both of you are looking wonderful
today," Andy said with a grin and a wink. "I don't mind a bit of experience-
"

Oh dear god.

John winced and closed his eyes, not daring to look at his mother in case
she actually looked tempted at that offer.

"It's been great to see all of you here today to celebrate these two idiots
finally managing to tie the knot. John especially, I mean let's face it, back in
University he was hardly a lothario. Gotta say, we were relieved when
Sherlock turned up. John was pretty hopeless. I mean, Harry managed to
pull more girls at university than John did."

His traitorous mother sniggered at that and Harry…Harry also was

laughing. Traitors. He hadn't been that bad. There had been Anna and…the
other one and that girl he had kissed-

Fuck.

That was really rather sad.

Next to him, Sherlock's shoulders shook in amusement.

"Which is why we have to acknowledge the great work that my partner in

crime did all those years ago."

John winced as he felt Alf stand. "Tell me they're gonna start on you soon,"
John murmured turning to Sherlock.

"You're a far easier target," Sherlock replied with a pleased smile. "Perhaps
Mike or Paul might have been a better pick."

Yeah, John was starting to feel that was true.

"Picture this," Alf said, flapping his arms in a dramatic manner. "A young
boy, coming into my club. Though at the time it was owned by Philippo
Martez who used to get his staff to sell slush puppies as cocktails." He
turned to look down at John. "So you were ripped off a lot," he added with
a grin. "But anyway, there I was, all rippling muscles and slick with oil
when this nervous, hunched over shy young man walks in, looking around
all wide eyed with stumbling tongue."

"I didn't wander in, you dragged me-"

"Uh-uh," Alf said, waggling his finger at John. "You came to me, seeking
me out like I was your Obi-Wan."

Fucking hell. John sat back in his chair and reached for his wine then
paused as he caught Sherlock's fascinated look. "He's twisting this," John
complained.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered absently, "I'm trying to work out the truth."

Great.

"He threw himself down upon my mercy-" Alf continued.

"You're my husband, you're meant to help me," John tried again.

"Shush," Sherlock murmured.

"-and told me all about Sherlock Holmes."

Next to him Sherlock stiffened as if suddenly sensing danger.

"I don't know how many of you knew Sherlock back then but…you know
Grease with John Travolta's character who used to check himself in the
mirror and constantly fiddle with his hair?"

Sherlock looked like a meerkat – as if frozen at the sight of danger.

Minutely his head shook in denial.

"And swaggered around, trying to look cool."

Sherlock winced and threw a death glare at Alf. When lf just winked at him
Sherlock turned to John. "Stop him," Sherlock hissed at John.

"Shush," John mocked. "Alf's speaking."

"Pretty sure he had a comb in his pocket-" Alf added.

"I had cocaine in my pocket," Sherlock muttered to John.

"Yeah, that will go down better," John replied.

"In one night I had John as the darling of The Back Door. I wrote his phone
number on his arm-"

"You did that?" John asked, far too loudly.

Alf paused, clearly derailed and peered down at John curiously. "Yeah…
who did you think did it?"

"I…" John looked at Sherlock. "Never mind," he said awkwardly, reaching

for his drink and slightly relieved that he hadn't actually advertised himself
like some dodgy escort service all those years ago.

"The next night I taught John how to dance," Alf continued on. "You're
welcome," he said to Sherlock.

"Do remember there is a band later before you boast about being
responsible for that," Sherlock sighed.
Hey.

John turned to glare at Sherlock and lost interest in even pretending half
way. To be fair, he still couldn't slow dance for toffee. No-one really ever
taught him how to slow dance with his husband.

Husband.

Huh.

"And that very night, John and Sherlock got together."

Well-

"Well," Alf said with a grin. "Sherlock gave him a blow job so-"

Oh god.

His mother was there-

Sherlock's mother was there-

Groaning, John banged his head on the table as he vaguely heard Alf sit
back down.

Thank God.

"Which was a relief for us," Andy said, taking over once again. "Because,
let's face it, Sherlock's got it all. He's brilliantly clever-"

John had definitely heard that before. Where the hell had Andy got half of
the speech from?

"And apparently really delivers in the bedroom. Is that like father like son
Violet?"

Is that like mother like daughter?

It was a film. What fucking film was it? If he could remember then-

"I mean he could easily be a model…you know if it wasn't for his…" Andy
cleared his throat. "Personality," he said, clearing his throat. "And it's been
great to see the wonderful effect he's had on John. The way he uses his
Dick."

"Does he know my mother is here?" Sherlock hissed at John.

"I believe he asked her to rate your father's sexual performance," John
reminded him.

"Dickensian," Andy corrected himself, "The way Sherlock uses his

Dickensian language has had a real positive effect on John and improved
him greatly.

I give it a year. That bastard had taken the speech from 'I give it a year'.

What was the next bit? Christ it had been only last year that Andy had
dragged him to see it-

"And I mean he's a real…" Andy looked down at Sherlock…"seven…eight

out of ten?"

Sherlock looked affronted and glared up at him.

"But uh…" Andy smiled. "These pair of dipsticks together…well, no-one

else would have the other so I think they're probably stuck with each other.
Longer than a year probably."

John glared at him with badly disguised amusement. "Plagiarism," he

scolded.

"Liable," Andy corrected looking pleased with himself.

Sherlock darted his head between them. "How-"

"To the groom and…uh…groom…" Andy lifted his glass. "And to the two
people I love most in the world." He went to sit down and then stood up.
"I'm straight by the way, if you see me at the bar. I'm being platonic."

"Well," Alf said doubtfully.

"Fuck off, I am," Andy said, slumping down into his seat. "If you make me
gay Alf then the women of London won't forgive you."

"I wouldn't plague my friends with you-"

Grinning, John leaned into Sherlock. "Pair of dicks," he muttered to

Sherlock who was glancing between Andy and Alf as if deciding whether to
let them live. "Relax, that's it. Both our dads were thoughtful enough to die
before this and neither of our mums want to do it so that's it."

Sherlock shot him an amused look. "Thoughtful enough?" he queried,

leaning in close as Andy and Alf continued to rib each other.

"You know what I mean," John chided with a grin. "Husband."

Sherlock sucked in his breath and his entire attitude changed as he studied
John.

He was starting to get used to that look again; the look that said Sherlock
was feeling sentimental and was about to do something that was a Sherlock
version of sweet.

What he was absolutely not expecting was for Sherlock to stand up.

"What are you doing?" John hissed at him.

"Giving a speech."

"What? Why-" John broke off as they gained the attention of the room once
more. Unsure, he stared up at Sherlock.

"Ladies and gentleman," Sherlock said, his gaze pausing over a few that he
clearly thought did not deserve the title. For a moment he seemed to get
distracted by them, possibly deducing the intimate details of their sex life or
something. "Being aware of the moronic decision to have two best men
who, while arguably comedic, are not known for their sentiment I felt it
prudent that someone attempt it-"

Andy snorted into his wine glass and proceeded to choke until Mike
clapped him on the back. Sherlock flickered a glance at him. "And, as you
can tell from my best man's reaction, most people would not expect that,
between John and I, I would be the one standing up to deliver that speech."

Not entirely sure what to expect, John tensed, ready to leap in and help if
necessary. Across the room, when John dared to finally look in her direction
after the speech Andy had given, Violet had her gaze fixed on Sherlock
with a hint of hopeful pride. For a moment their gazes met and she smiled
faintly before returning her attention to Sherlock.

It was hard but he forced himself to relax in the chair, to not leap up and
help Sherlock out. If there was ever a task that Sherlock needed to know he
could do on his own this, declaring sentiment to an entire room, was
something that John had to let happen.

It had been an age since Violet had glanced at him with approval. It felt
good to have it for a fraction of a second before she returned her focus
completely and utterly to Sherlock.

"I took the liberty of making a list of the various adjectives used to describe
me over the years and conscripted my best man to write them down.
Unfortunately, when dealing with journalists, one must remember that they
dislike being told what to write and so, at the end of an hour of trying to
remember this list, all I had to show for it was this," Sherlock said, holding
up a scrap of paper with the word 'Fuck off' scrawled in thick marker pen.
"Evidently journalists also dislike people trying to talk to them the hour
before they are locked into the print."

Andy nodded at that.

"Arsehole came up a lot," Sherlock informed them. "My husband added to

it this morning with wanker."

John grinned at the use of husband. Opposite, his mother gave him a
strange look and then leaned into Phil, an oddly thoughtful look on her face.

He wasn't entirely sure it suited her.

"The list was extensive and mostly couldn't be repeated in polite society. I
can be rude, obnoxious, dismissive and cruel. And yet I have somehow
been fortunate enough to win the love and loyalty of the bravest, kindest
and best man I know."

What?

Stunned, John stared up at Sherlock having been completely prepared for a

speech that would dance around the point that Sherlock was pleased about
being married and yet have him phrase it in the rudest way.

"John and I have had…" Sherlock paused to consider, "What most people
would term as far too many dramas. Indeed, I have heard some wonder why
we even kept going given the turbulence of our relationship. Certainly we
have…" he smiled and looked down at John. "We have weathered quite a
storm."

John watched him, not toosure what to do and half certain that if he
breathed wrong it might snap Sherlock out of the startlingly sentimental
mood he seemed to be in.

"Under a year ago, John made me a promise. He told me that I can get lost
in my own brilliance and that he would be my fixed point, my roots to keep
me grounded. A hand held out to me through the bad days and confusing
cases."

It was impossible to keep the idiotic grin off his face as John heard that; it
seemed unendingly sweet that Sherlock grouped the two together.

"And it occurred to me that I should make a similar promise especially as

John is, as I'm sure he knows, signing himself up for life to a man that will
not offer him flowers or…" Sherlock faltered, his mind clearly searching
for typical romantic gestures. "or…stuffed animals and candle lit dinners.
Certainly I'm sure enough of you here realise that this speech is…not
particularly expected of me."

There were a few gentle chuckles.

"So, in front of you all…" Sherlock seemed to draw in a shaken, nervous

breath. "John, terrible though you believe my knowledge of astronomy to
be, I believe that the guiding light used, the fixed point the world looks to in
order to ensure it is on the correct path, is the north star. The point that we
all use to guide us straight and true.
"It seems then that you are my north. In every endeavour, whether by my
side or not, it is your voice, your memory, your dry remarks and smile that
keep me heading in the right direction. And my vow is that I will always
look to you. I will always strive to reach you and I will always find you. If
your hand is to always be held out then I will always take it. You are my
north and I your ever faithful compass."

John stared at him and pressed his lips together then nodded. Before he
knew what he was doing he had stood and wrapped Sherlock up in a hug, a
sudden applause breaking out.

"Sit down," Sherlock muttered in his ear. "I haven't finished yet."

God, there was more?

John lifted his hands in surrender and sat, not entirely wanting to give up
the rare opportunity.

Sherlock cleared his throat and drew in a long breath. "I have a gift," he
said smiling awkwardly. "For John, one I owe him from long ago. Possibly
you will be able to gauge how justified your invitation to this event was if
you understand the meaning of this." Sherlock reached down. "Which most
of you won't," he added in a clipped mutter.

"But, you have waited long enough for the promised treat I offered when
this all began."

John tilted his head, mind racing through all the inappropriate things
Sherlock had offered him over the years.

What came out was a packet of cheese and onion crisps and all John could
do was throw back his head and laugh, joined by Sherlock's amused
chuckle and those of their friends.

The End
Works inspired by this one
Cover: A Service in Belgravia by January_Marlinquin

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