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Chapter Text

Three bloody years. And now Sherlock Holmes was shaking with laughter beside him, in the flesh. For the unveiling from the ridiculous disguise to now, all John could think about was how unreal this was all becoming. He had pinched both arms raw from the time Sherlock Holmes appeared in front of him to the time he was dragging John once more into a cab and to 221b Baker St, which he hadn’t seen in about two years.

The explanation for his return was even worse. All his enemies were dead and gone except one.

But when he saw that what Sherlock had said was true, that Colonel Moran was indeed staying in the apartment across the street from 221b, he shut up and allowed Sherlock to pin him against the wall in the corner.

Then there were shots fired, Moran was handcuffed to a table, and then Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan and a few other Scotland Yarders busted in.

Lestrade all ready knew Sherlock was in London? Mrs. Hudson knew? Bloody Mycroft knew?

Bloody hell!

John was about to return to his single bedroom apartment back in the slums when Sherlock took his arm, “Mrs. Hudson would love to see you again, John.”

John blanched. Mrs. Hudson. Of course.

She was indeed happy to see him, especially after being given a fright with the gunshot and bullet through the window, right through the bust of Sherlock Holmes, of which John had seen from the empty apartment across the street.

“Shame to have wasted such a brilliant piece of artwork. Where do you want it, Sherlock?” she asked.

“You can have it, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, sinking into his armchair, “If you like…”

Mrs. Hudson made an approving noise, and carted the bust out of 221b. John went to help her, but she protested. “I bet Sherlock wants to catch up with you, John, dear,” she said, gesturing with her head at the only consulting detective in the world. The only undead consulting detective in the world, as the world would have it…

Once she was gone, John felt Sherlock’s presence right behind him. He turned quickly, and without thinking, punched Sherlock in the face. “You are a complete arsehole,” he breathed, and made to leave.

Sherlock was undeterred, and put a hand on John shoulder. John tried flinching away, but his former roommate was firm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was for your own safety.”

John growled a bit, “And you think everything will return to normal? Sherlock! Three bloody years!”

Sherlock’s face fell slightly, and John could see the look of pure guilt in his friend’s features. “You’ll need time, I know…”

“You have no idea,” John replied.

Sherlock took his hand away from John’s shoulder. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll still be here. And your room upstairs will be, too. Remember that.”

John nodded, “See you around, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, making his way down the stairs and out the door to the street.

But his heart was breaking inside. He had missed his best friend. But lying about being dead was just something he could not get over in the span of about five hours. The case had come too quick for John to think then.

But he knew he couldn’t stay away for long…

Chapter Text

John was just finishing the morning paper and a cup of tea when Sherlock texted him: Case. Was wondering if my blogger would like to come. SH

Though it wasn’t written, this time was implied. Sherlock had been texting every time he had a case for the past two months. He had come back in April, and right now, outside John Watson’s lonely one bedroom apartment, the lovely June sun was almost to its peak.

John wanted to text back saying, No, you bloody tosser, stop asking me. But of course he didn’t. He was going stir crazy without something to do. Having coffee dates once a week with Mike, then nightly pub crawls with Harry, trying to be the good older brother just wasn’t enough. He needed Sherlock’s cases, rather needed Sherlock himself. At least heads in the fridge would be more exciting than a blog that was losing followers, especially after “The Final Problem.” Though “The Empty Apartment” had gotten some of the old followers back, John had stated he wouldn’t be chronicling any adventures for a while, and the comments died down once more.

Instead, John went to the window and looked out. It really was a nice day. The schools had all gotten out a week ago, and so there were children in the streets with their parents, or teenagers hanging out in packs on the sidewalk. The thing that was odd about the street, though, the slums, actually, was there was a cab idling near the door to John’s building.

I see the cab, Sherlock. Are you getting desperate?

John sent the text and moved the curtains to look at the cab again. Nothing happened for a while until John’s phone beeped:

Yes. SH

It was a blunt message, with no explanation. John was slightly taken aback at this. Never once in the history of Sherlock and John’s friendship had Sherlock been that blunt about… ‘What, John? Needing me? Sherlock Holmes? Needing poor old Doctor John Hamish Watson?’

But the proof was there.

Sherlock, you sod. Wait up.

*****

It was explained in the cab almost immediately what was up. There was no touchy-feely conversation about how much Sherlock missed John, or vice versa. Just stone cold facts: A girl named Alice Braddon was missing. It was a presumed kidnapping: broken glass on the floor, blood, and a ransom note asking for about 2,100,000 pounds.

“Thankfully this is a noble-blooded family living in Belgravia, but still. They don’t like change in that neighborhood, I’ve found,” Sherlock snarked. “Lestrade’s character limit stopped there, so we’re going and having a proper look at it.”

They got to the house, were admitted in by Lestrade himself, and were taken up the stairs to the girl’s bedroom. It looked like a typical teenager’s bedroom: bed, desk, hamper, closet. There was a door leading to her own bathroom, and Sherlock spent a lot of time there. That’s where the blood-red stain was, there on the blue-white tiled floor. There was also what looked like soap in the sink. John took the room itself. What intrigued him, however, were the books on the desk: Greek poetry, history textbooks, and a journal. He didn’t want to pry into the girl’s life, but he thought Sherlock probably would, so he handed it to Sherlock upon his entrance from the bathroom. Before he could read it, however, Lestrade butted in: “Have you got anything, you two?”

“No blood,” Sherlock said, putting the journal  down on the bed. “Unless she bleeds pomegranate juice. Is that plausible, Doctor?” he asked of John.

John almost giggled. Almost. “No. It’s not. There could be a lot of vitamin C in the blood, but… something tells me that’s not the case here…”

“Pure pomegranate juice,” Sherlock replied, grinning for about a second at his partner in… solving crime. “I’m off to the kitchen.”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called, but Sherlock was all ready down the stairs.

He smiled at John after a few minutes, “It’s nice to see you two together. We’ve missed you on these cases since he’s returned.”

Incidentally, John had still been called on a few cases when Sherlock was gone, and he had to take them mostly for the money. Since Sherlock’s return he hadn’t exactly been working. Harry had tried her best to keep her older brother fed, but she forgot often, so often John had gone without food. And yet he had stayed in London. Perhaps for the memories.

“Well. The poor sod practically begged,” John said, ‘in his own way,’ he thought.

“John!” Sherlock called.

“My master calls me,” John said, making an interesting face before trotting down the steps.

Sherlock pointed to the fruit bowl, “No pomegranates.”

“Good observation, Sherlock,” John replied, nodding and trying to hold back a scoff.

“What does that have to do with my daughter?” came a voice from the back door entrance.

A stiffly-dressed and postured woman was standing there, her pale hands on her hips.

“Mrs. Braddon?” Sherlock asked, “Sherlock Holmes. I’m with the police. Do you buy pomegranates often?”

“What?” Mrs. Braddon asked.

“Please, Mrs. Braddon. It’s important,” John said, once more acting as a translator for his odd friend.

“No, we don’t.”

“And the note. Typed or handwritten?” Sherlock asked.

“Typed.”

“Normal paper?”

“I… I guess…”

“Which school does your daughter attend?” John suddenly asked, remembering the books on her desk.

“Farringham’s Boarding School.”

“Co-ed?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Any boyfriends?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” Mrs. Braddon replied, rather sharply.

John remembered another book, one on the top of the stack. “Girlfriends?”

“Mary Abbot and Jessica Parker,” the woman replied.

John blinked, “No… female…” John scratched his chin a bit, “Female lovers.”

Mrs. Braddon gasped, but covered her mouth. “How dare you call my daughter a lesbian!”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, and he turned to John, who caught his friend’s actions and turned back.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Braddon. We’ll be in touch,” Sherlock said, and left the kitchen. They didn’t even say goodbye to Lestrade and his team.

*****

“I figure you got something from the room, John,” Sherlock said as they were riding in the cab.

“She had a lot of books on her desk. History books, mostly, but one book on the poetry of Sappho.”

Sherlock smirked, “Oh, she is a clever girl. The ransom note references ‘Joan of Arc,’ as well…”

“But Joan of Arc wasn’t a lesbian.”

“Yes, but she dressed in boy’s clothes while in battle,” Sherlock replied.

John blinked, “Are you saying…”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Sherlock replied, jumping out of the cab as it stopped.

John noticed they weren’t at 221b Baker St, nor were they at his ratty little apartment. They had stopped at an organic food seller somewhere outside the city.

“The rinds in the sink were pomegranate; scored rinds to get to the seeds. I managed to get the sticker off it. Something about an organic company and the region,” Sherlock explained. He walked up to the fruit seller and asked, “Hello. I’m doing a survey for the college of agriculture. How many people frequent this place?”

The man blinked, but leaned over one of his tables and replied, “Not many people come out here, sir.”

“Well, can you give me a rough seasonal estimate?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, about 20 people a day in summer. More in autumn, winter and spring, but that’s because of Farringham’s over there,” he replied.

Here Sherlock gave a meaningful look out toward where the man was gesturing. “Thank you. And are there any people who come regularly?”

“Students, mostly.”

“Any teachers?” John suddenly asked.

“You are in rare form, John,” Sherlock commented suddenly, chuckling.

“I’ve always been in this form,” John replied, “You just haven’t been around much.”

Sherlock stopped laughing, and his expression turned guilty. “Yes, any teachers?”

“Just one,” the man replied after some time, “Young woman, dark hair, light eyes,” he said as way of an explanation. “Never got her name, or what she even taught. I just overheard her talking to one of the students about an assignment. Figured she was a teacher.”

“And do you have helpers?” Sherlock asked, looking around.

“A boy. But he only started about a week ago, when school got out,” the man replied. “He’s not here at the moment. He only works late mornings and early afternoons. I let him off around five this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and went back to the waiting cab. “We’ll probably be back tomorrow!”

John smiled at the man, bought a pomegranate from him, and joined Sherlock a few minutes later.

*****

Sherlock dropped John off at his apartment, but told him to be ready to go back to the area around the school in the morning. “Why should I?” John asked as the cab was idling outside his ratty building.

“Because I know you want to see this entire thing through,” Sherlock replied, one of his enigmatic expressions on his face.

John sighed, “You’re right. Should I be ready for you early or late?”

“Late morning,” Sherlock replied, “We’ll visit the teacher, but first I’d like to see that helper of the fruit seller’s...”

John nodded. “See you then,” he said, and hopped out of the cab, waving absentmindedly at his friend as he dug in his pockets for his keys.

He knew Sherlock would tell him what the heck was going on when the case was finished. Which looked like it would be finished the next day…

Chapter Text

The next morning John was up and ready for whatever Sherlock was going to throw at him. It took a few hours for Sherlock to turn up, but in the meantime, John texted back and forth with the self-proclaimed sociopath about many elements of the case. So far he learned that they wouldn’t be staying at a hotel, so John could take as little as he needed. It was just a day trip out to the countryside outside London proper.

A day holiday, if you want. SH

The breath caught in John’s throat at this, and he would have blushed had his phone not beeped again with an afterthought or something from his brilliant friend:

Come down. I’m here. SH

Comforting. John texted back, but grabbed a jacket just in case it was over-air-conditioned wherever they were going and met the cab his former roommate had been sitting in.

“You ever heard of buzzing in?” he asked, once he was seated next to the friend in question.

“You don’t have a wonderfully kind landlady anymore,” Sherlock replied. “In fact, I’m a little uneasy about your landlord in general.”

John didn’t ask how the other man knew his landlord was male, or that the man in question was a little seedy. To be fair, John’s landlord was also a bit… absent. John had been putting aside his meager rent on the counter for about three months, but the man hadn’t been round to collect it. ‘I hope he isn’t dead,’ John thought absentmindedly.

“He’s not dead, John,” Sherlock said, doing that mind-reading thing again.

John chuckled, “Oh how I’ve missed you, Sherlock.”

Half of John’s statement was true. Actually, it was all true, but John had meant it to sound facetious. Sherlock merely chuckled, gave the address to the cabbie, and went to dreamily look out the window. After a few moments of silence, Sherlock finally said, “The flat really isn’t the same without you. There’s been toenails soaking in water in the sink for three weeks, and no one’s said anything.”

“The skull’s used to it, I’m sure,” John replied.

Sherlock let out a breath as a smile graced his face. They both looked at each other, and then looked away, bursting out into childish laughter.

“Give me some more time, Sherlock,” John then said, once their mirth had died down a bit.

“I hate waiting,” Sherlock replied, still a hint of a smile in those ethereal eyes, “It’s dull.”

John smiled, “Oh, Sherlock… I’ll just need a couple more days. Tops.”

But John had made up his mind the night before. He wanted back in to Sherlock’s life. The way it had been before Reichenbach. He would endure the experiments in the flat and on himself. He would endure Sherlock’s snide remarks and his habits and everything. He loved Sherlock. Loved him as a friend, as a colleague… and rather as something more than those, he came to realize. Sherlock’s deception had hit him badly because he thought Sherlock and he were friends, yes, but it also hit hard because he thought Sherlock had trusted him, that they had some sort of connection that transcended the bounds of friendship.

“I’ll try and wait then,” Sherlock replied. “Actually… I’d…”

But he couldn’t get it out, whatever he’s ‘actually’ do. He bit his lip, turned from John with his whole body, and looked out the window, his thoughts delving back into the case.

John smiled sadly. ‘Right. “Married to his work,”’ he reminded himself. He’d never compare to it.

*****

 They got to the fruit stand about twenty to twenty-five minutes later. Sherlock paid the cabbie this time, and let the car drive off. “How are we going to get out of here?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled, “You have a phone. I have a phone. I’ve got the cab service number in mine, so we may have to use my phone. You’re calling them, however.”

‘Duh,’ said the smarter part of John’s brain.

When they approached the fruit stand, the man from yesterday was indeed there, but he was chatting up a customer. His employee, however, looked uncannily familiar to John: brown hair under a baseball cap, beautiful green eyes, freckles on his face. He could be Alice Braddon’s twin.

“Alice?” Sherlock asked, nodding his head.

The boy was taken aback, and John was as well, but as the boy took off his cap, the brown hair now cascaded down the ‘boy’s’ back. “I’ve been found out, Mr. Hardy,” she said to her employer, who gasped in shock. John had a feeling Mr. Hardy knew that his employee was actually a girl, and was part of whatever deception was going on.

“Don’t tell her parents, please,” Mr. Hardy whispered, shooing the customer away. “They’d call the police on dear Miss Henderson!”

“You’re rather bad at interrogations, Mr. Hardy,” Sherlock commented. “And I won’t tell your parents, Miss Braddon. I just want to have the truth.”

Alice stepped out from behind the stand, “Let’s go. There’s a grove of trees over there near the lake, we’ll walk toward that.”

John and Sherlock fell into step with the young woman, and as she walked, she told them the story of her sexual awakening and the conflict it had with her mother’s Christianity and her father’s blatant homophobia.

“I couldn’t stand my father’s comments about the homosexual couples we would see walking down the streets or my mother’s shock when she would catch me watching Will and Grace or something like that,” Alice explained. “I fell in love with my teacher, Miss Henderson, and she with me a few years ago. She told me we had to wait until I was older, that my crush would probably go away by then. It didn’t. So I devised a plan for us to be together without my parents knowing. I left that ransom note and made it look like someone had kidnapped me.”

Sherlock nodded, “And you came up here.”

Alice nodded, “I’ve been living with her in her apartment. She often bought fruit from Mr. Hardy, so she suggested he take me under his wing, at least until we got out of the country. She’s thinking of teaching a summer course in Spain, and she wants me to come too…”

“That’s sounds lovely,” John commented, “But… why pomegranates, specifically?”

“You know the story of Hades and Persephone?” Alice asked.

John nodded, but Sherlock had a confused stare on his face.

John smiled, “Hades was the Greek God of the Underworld. He fell in love and kidnapped Persephone, but felt sorry for her when she was moping around. He told her she could go up to the surface for six months, but he made her eat a pomegranate to ensure she came back. Because if you ate anything in Underworld, you had to return.”

Alice nodded, “But Gabrielle and I ate the pomegranate to signal our return to each other every term. Three times a year.”

“That’s… very sweet,” Sherlock commented. “What do you plan to do next?”

The three had just reached the edge of the grove of trees, and Alice stopped walking. She went up to the nearest tree and put her hand on it before turning to the two men. “I’m going to send another note saying my ‘kidnapper’ got tired of me and killed me.”

Something stirred in John: pure panic.

“No! No you can’t!” John cried, then put his hands over his mouth.

“Gabrielle is with me on this plan,” Alice replied nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulder.

“It is a bit extreme, Miss Braddon,” Sherlock replied. “Couldn’t you just… disappear for a while and contact your parents once the police investigation dies down?”

“Well… yes. But the police won’t give up, I think…” the young woman replied.

Sherlock smirked, “With me helping them they sure will.”

“Oh! Oh thank you, Mr…”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well… thank you,” Alice said, shaking the tall man’s hand vigorously. She then looked around. “Uhm… where’s your friend?”

Sherlock panicked then. “Dammit. John!” He turned to Alice, “Go back to Gabrielle and tell her your new plan and mine. Have a nice trip to Spain.”

Alice nodded, and was off toward the school.

Sherlock looked around frantically for a while until he just picked a direction and went to search for his friend that way.

*****

John had found the lake. Or what he thought was a lake. It certainly was long and wide like a lake of some sort. It might have just been a very large pond. But he was alone, and that was all that mattered.

He knew Alice Braddon would be talked out of the second note, but of course the very idea had struck a chord in John. John put his hand over his heart and his free hand on a tree nearest him. He keeled over like he had been punched in the gut: which of course, metaphorically, he had. He stood there hunched over like that for the longest time before he heard a twig snap behind him and whirled around.

“Sherlock.”

“John,” Sherlock replied calmly.

It was summer, so Sherlock wasn’t wearing his long coat. It was a shame he wasn’t, but even without the collar of the coat popped, he looked rather mysterious in the purple button-down shirt and black pants.

“This case has suddenly struck a chord with you. I should have never asked you to come,” Sherlock continued, his arms behind his back. He looked away from John and out over the water.

Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. He was a genius, for god’s sake. A detective. He would know that this was what Alice was planning on doing. And yet… Sherlock hadn’t told him, hadn’t warned him.

John was suddenly irritated. “Hang on, Sherlock,” he said, his voice going up half an octave, “Just because some… some silly girl threatens to… to fake her own death and it strikes a deeper chord in me… it doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to come!”

Sherlock turned his head ninety degrees or so. “You’re upset.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” John shouted, wringing his hands and then violently pulling them apart again. Sherlock was silent, and John slowly calmed himself down. “I was… I was so heartbroken when you died, Sherlock. Heartbroken. You told Moriarty you didn’t have a heart back at the pool, but unlike you, I have one. And Moriarty…  I thought Moriarty had burned mine when I saw those footprints and… and read your email,” he took a ragged breath in before continuing. “And when you came back… at first I was confused, and then I was delighted, and then I realized that you had deceived me for a good three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years!”

A thick silence came over the two until Sherlock spoke. “I do have a heart, John,” he said slowly. He turned his body toward his dear friend, his eyebrows dipped in worry. “I never meant to hurt you. But if I had stayed, you would have put in grave danger,” he took a step closer to John, who flinched away, a soldier’s instinct, before he let Sherlock’s arms circle around his waist and pull him close. John’s arms stayed close to his body, and he made no move to hug Sherlock back.

“John,” Sherlock murmured. “If you were hurt, in any way… then my heart would have been burned. Burned and broken. You are my heart.”

John let out a shuddering breath, and let the tears fall from his eyes. Finally: the release of the torrent emotions that had been running through him since Sherlock’s return. He finally circled his arms around Sherlock’s chest and tightened them.

*****

Alice and Gabrielle wrote to them from Spain after reading John’s blog about the affair. Of course, Sherlock had made Scotland Yard run around like mice in a maze before Lestrade finally gave up and closed the case. John’s blog itself made no mention of Alice’s whereabouts, either (at least not until Alice contacted her mother and father, once she had turned eighteen, that she was safe, alive, happy, and never coming home).

John moved back into his rooms at 221b Baker Street, and he was happy he did. His other flat was starting to smell worse. Not that the interesting smells wafting through the flat at 221b Baker Street were any better… but at least he could ask what exactly was going on.

Sherlock and John didn’t speak about what had transpired near the pond/lake/random body of water again after it had happened. But every look and touch that transpired was full of the exact same feelings the confessions had been delivered with back there near the water.

Chapter Text

John was once again goaded into getting the groceries again. It really was like Sherlock had never left him for three years. When John came back, he wasn’t surprised to see Sherlock on his laptop… again. “Sherlock, what did I tell you about using my computer?” he asked.

“Must have deleted it,” said Sherlock pensively. “Clients are coming. Something about a missing bridegroom.”

“When?” John asked, setting his bags down in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson came in with the rest of them, and John gave her a thankful smile.

“In about ten minutes,” Sherlock replied.

John looked out from the kitchen at him. He had been wearing his dressing gown when John had left, and now he was wearing his usual button-down shirt and black pants. ‘You see, you just don’t observe,’ came Sherlock’s voice in back of his head.

“Well, unless it’s the queen, I think I’ll be ready for them.”

Sherlock chuckled, “I think a sheet is just fine for meeting the queen.”

John couldn’t help but smile as he busied himself with putting the groceries away. Sherlock finally closed the laptop and set it on the table. He then opened a book on the couch.

When the clients entered, John was just finishing up in the kitchen. He came out to have a look at them.

A woman entered, followed by a man. They looked rather old, maybe in their 60s, but they looked rather wealthy, or at least upper-middle-class. The woman had a stern look on her face, but it was masking worry. The man had his emotions out on his sleeve, so to speak, with his eyebrows knit in worry as he looked around the rather messy flat. The woman had greying blond hair, and her husband’s hair was pure white. She turned to Sherlock with her green eyes. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock replied, putting the book down and standing, extending his hand, “And John Watson.”

At Sherlock’s gesture to him, John took the gentleman’s hand firmly to shake it before the two flatmates switched guests. John bid them sit, and they both sat on the couch, the woman near tears at this point.

“You’ve heard a bit?” the husband asked.

“Yes, Mr. Stamford,” Sherlock replied.

John blinked, “Hold on. Stamford? Any relation to a Mike Stamford?”

Mr. Stamford chuckled a bit through his worry, “Silly boy. He’s my nephew. My older brother’s boy.”

John nodded, “Ah. Do go on…”

He and Sherlock moved their armchairs so they were facing the couch, and listened as the woman started the story:

“Our son went off to university a few years ago; Oxford. There he met a wonderful young woman named Virginia, from California. They were both actors, and they were very good to each other. Well, they were married only three days ago and now… and now our dear Georgie’s missing!” the woman explained.

“Details?” Sherlock asked as John moved to get the woman a tissue.

The man continued for his weeping wife, “Well, at the ceremony, we had an altercation with a man who burst in. He didn’t get to far down the aisle before some men got him out, kicked him out, and locked all the doors. We didn’t get a good look at him, either.”

“Do you have a photo of the couple?” Sherlock asked.

Mr. Stamford looked at his wife, who took a photo out of her purse. Sherlock looked at it before handing it to John. There was a certain contrast between the bride and groom in the photo: the woman, a lovely creature with long red hair and hazel eyes, looked up at her husband with a wry smile on her face, like she knew something but was afraid to ask. She was wearing her wedding clothes: a pearl and diamond lined dress that showed all her curves and angles. She was a rather lovely woman.

The man, in contrast, had a certain feminine quality about him, despite his crisp wedding suit and bowtie. He was staring at the camera (or rather, the photographer) with a look of startled guilt. He had brown hair that was long enough to be styled back into a ponytail, and his eyes were a cutting grey.

That was what the photo looked like to John. Unlike Sherlock, he had missed the red mark on the man’s hand, which had settled on his bride’s shoulder with the top of it facing the camera.

“This was taken before or after the wedding?” Sherlock asked.

“About a week before,” the man replied, taking the photo back and handing it to his wife.

“What was the bride’s reaction to this man at her wedding? The one that had to be thrown out?”

Mrs. and Mr. Stamford looked at each other, and then the man responded, “She was only curious.”

“Did she show any signs of knowing him?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“And the groom?”

“Shock?” Mr. Stamford asked, looking at his wife. She blinked, realizing something, and nodded.

“Has your son ever brought girlfriends home?” Sherlock asked.

The wife smiled sadly, “No… to be honest, Sherlock... we always thought our son was… gay.”

“Which would have been all right… but… we just never had the courage to ask him…” Mr. Stamford added.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “And your son wouldn’t have given you a straight answer.”

“He was… embarrassed?” Mrs. Stamford asked.

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Stamford,” Sherlock replied. “But I will inform the bride, and find your son. He is not dead, if you hadn’t guessed…”

“Oh, thank goodness,” the wife cried, and would say no more, even as Sherlock hustled them out.

The man turned, though, “Careful, we have the police on this.”

Sherlock smirked, “Well, I’m glad you came to me on top of all that. I will be as discreet with Scotland Yard about this, if that is what you would like.”

“That would be… well, just for now, if you will…” Mr. Stamford replied.

Sherlock nodded, and Mrs. Hudson saw them out.

Sherlock turned to John, “Well… this should be interesting. I must be off to the young lady’s…”

But his thoughts were interrupted by Lestrade’s pounding footsteps up the stairs.

“Ah, Sherlock,” he said, a little smug. He was wet from head to toe, and was holding a sack of some sort. “And John. Hello.”

“Hello, Inspector,” John replied, still turning the facts of the case over in his head.

“This is prime time to turn to fishing,” Sherlock commented, taking in Lestrade’s… wetness.

“Shut up,” Lestrade replied, and put the wet bag down on the table. “Behold! Evidence of George Stamford’s kidnapping!”

He opened the bag, and pulled out the wedding clothes that Sherlock and John had seen in the wedding photograph. Sherlock smirked some, “That explains the wet clothes, Inspector, but it does nothing to convince me of any kidnapping of Mr. Stamford the junior.”

Lestrade looked at the consulting detective with a slight scowl, “Given this evidence, it is clear that the American woman had all ready had a lover who was determined to stop the marriage. She feigned curiosity at his arrival at the ceremony to throw everyone off. Then, as part of their plan, the man lured George Stamford from the house. He then murdered the young man, separated his clothes from his person as an attempt to hide the identity of the man, and is now waiting for Virginia to join him.”

John blinked, trying to put this interpretation of the facts against those that Sherlock had all ready deduced. He noticed, though the Inspector did not, that Sherlock had found something of worth in the pocket of the trousers, and had pocketed it himself.

“Very good theory, Inspector,” Sherlock said, clapping an arm on the police detective’s shoulder. “Why don’t you continue on that thread?”

“But what am I missing?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock blinked, “Oh… you’re a smart man, Lestrade. Why don’t you go with your theory on this and at least pretend you’re a good detective.”

Sherlock was off after that, without John, to go to Virginia at her in-law’s house.

Lestrade looked to John, who looked a bit put off that Sherlock hadn’t even asked him to come with him. “He’s a right bastard, isn’t he?” Lestrade asked.

John shrugged, “Yeah, but he’s my right bastard, Lestrade. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” and then Lestrade was gone too, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

His phone rang, signaling someone had texted him. He went to the kitchen where he had left it and opened up the text.

Sorry to have left you. I need to prep Virginia before unveiling her husband. I’ll text you later and we’ll meet up. SH

John smiled despite himself.

All right. I trust you, he texted back.

Chapter Text

All right. I trust you.

Sherlock nearly blushed at these words. It had taken them a couple of months, but John and he were nearly back to the way they were before Reichenbach, with John holding on to his every word, and leading him into the light of humanity. He was the emotional pathos to Sherlock’s clockwork logos, and Sherlock had missed that a lot in the three years he had been away in France, and the two or three months it had taken John to return to his life with Sherlock.

The cab dropped him off in front of the Stamfords’ house, where Virginia was staying while her husband was… away.

Mrs. Stamford was surprised to see him so soon, but let him in the house and called her daughter-in-law downstairs to meet with him.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the redheaded woman said. She was more stunning in person, but Sherlock felt nothing for her.

“Virginia Stamford,” he said, shaking her hand.

“He’s gay, isn’t he,” Virginia said almost right away.

Sherlock smiled, of course she’d be clever.

“Yes. May I ask… how did you know?”

“Woman’s intuition?” Virginia asked, leading them to the sitting room. “And I’m a bit bisexual myself. Georgie and I met at university, and we were friends long before we were married. I always had an idea he was using me as his beard, so to speak.”

“He was just too embarrassed to actually tell you he was gay?” Sherlock asked.

Virginia nodded, “He never had an actual girlfriend. He never flirted with girls. He never flirted with anyone mind you. When he asked me to marry him… I don’t know what went through my head and made me say yes…” she shrugged. “And he was always disappearing for days on end. When we returned to London and started living under the same roof as his parents he almost never came home. Why are men to stubborn about coming out of the closet, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was taken aback, “If it helps, Mrs. Stamford—“

“Virginia.”

“… If it helps, Virginia, I like men a little more than I like women… actually, I like… I love…” Sherlock failed then, his heart pittering against his chest like a caged bird itching to be set free. There was something about this woman that just made him want to confess.

“It’s okay, Mr. Holmes,” she said, putting a hand over his and smiling. “Anyway… Georgie’s got a boyfriend, doesn’t he?”

“Yes… and… and he’s a transvestite… at least,” Sherlock added, regaining his cold demeanor again.

Virginia shook her head, taking a sharp breath as she did, “That bastard. He could have told me and I would have been fine with it… Stupid men and their stupid pride.”

“Would you like to tell that to his face?” Sherlock asked, taking out the receipt from Lestrade’s catch.

“Oh! That’s what the red mark on his hand means!” she said, grabbing the receipt. The logo on it matched the faded mark in the photograph. “The Three Queens Bar…”

Sherlock nodded, “I’m glad… I’m glad you’re so understanding. What are you going to do now?”

“If he wants a beard, he can keep me,” Virginia replied, shrugging. “We’ll just have a very open marriage. Or we can just get a divorce in three or four months. Either way, I hope we can remain friends.”

Sherlock smiled and stood, “Well… we’ll see if you can, all right?” He took out his phone, “Just let me text a friend and we’ll meet George and his mystery man at the Three Queens… I think they’ll be having a drink there before they disappear completely.”

Virginia nodded, and Sherlock texted John: Three Queens Bar. Meet us there in forty minutes. It’s about the case. SH

*****

John was prompt. Sherlock knew that was from his years in the service. Outside the bar there was a long line, but Virginia was a clever girl, and dropped a few names to get them in. Sherlock was about to use Mycroft’s, but Virginia’s way was just as good. The music was thumping in the back, where a dance floor was set up, but in the front of the bar there was a place with tables. The bartenders doubled as waiters here, still only serving drinks. Virginia sat them down and introduced herself to John.

With her woman’s intuition, she figured out who John really was. She smiled at Sherlock, and with her eyes and face, conveyed the message, ‘What a catch.’

They ordered drinks: whisky for the lady, wine for the detective, and a scotch for the ex-soldier. Then they made idle chit-chat until the final unveiling.

“So, how did you two meet?” Virginia asked, her American accented slightly laced with British…ness. John had to remember she had gone to school here, and so was pretty exposed to the culture after that time.

“A mutual friend introduced us,” John replied, feeling the effects of the young lady that Sherlock had: a blind need to confess almost everything. It was a wonder George Stamford had resisted such charm.

“Smart man,” Virginia commented, raising her glass some.

“How did you and George meet?” John asked.

“He commented on my outfit at a party,” Virginia replied.

“You should have guessed he wasn’t exactly heteronormative just by that,” Sherlock replied drily.

Virginia giggled, and that made a chain reaction: first John, and then Sherlock burst into giggles. It was a bit reminiscent of the post taxi-chase from A Study in Pink.

Sherlock, who had his eyes on the door, cut their giggles short when he suddenly stopped giggling, a frown forming on his face. John and Virginia’s eyes wandered over, and John swore he suddenly saw the man from the wedding picture… only more feminine. Longer hair, make-up, and jewelry graced this version’s person, and not only those, but a rather sexy red dress with a slit up one side. The man next to her; tall, dark, and handsome, had a smug smile on his face like he had won something. To be fair, he sort of had…

Virginia wiped that smile on his face by standing and beckoning them over. Even though she had a kind smile on her face, the couple became sheepish as they sat down at the table.

The normal introductions were made on Sherlock and John’s part before Virginia asked for the newcomers’ identities:

“Is it still Georgie?” Virginia asked.

“Yes… but short for Georgina,” the woman replied, “And… this is Colin Parker.”

Virginia glanced at him, “You’re ‘class partner’ from physics? And our wedding photographer, by the looks of it…”

Colin looked ashamed, but Virginia only laughed, “Georgie, I’ve lost my confidence as a woman in your presence.”

George Stamford—the female version—let out a breath she had been holding. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Ginny…”

“My, it’s like we’ve stepped from a lively drag bar to a funeral. I’m okay with this. But your parents had a feeling you were less than straight, so I’m not sure what use I’ll be anymore…” said ‘Ginny.’

Georgie laughed, “Well… we can’t exactly get a divorce right away… And I do want to keep you close, Ginny. You’re my best friend.”

“So you keep your little transgender thing, come out to your parents, and tell them we’re keeping the marriage together, only it will be open. Polyamory at its best,” Ginny replied, clapping her hands together. “We’ll still have the honeymoon in France to look forward to… you don’t mind if I bring my own guest?”

Georgie was taken aback, but she laughed anyway, “Oh, Ginny. You’re the absolute best.”

“Don’t I know it, Georgie. Now, I’m not sure if you knew this, but I’m in a drag bar and I’m more bisexual than I was at the wedding. If you excuse me, there’s butch woman at the bar making eyes at me, and I like the way she looks.” With that, Ginny got up and made her way to the black woman in the corner.

John chuckled, “Well… I’m glad that all worked out,” he commented, draining his glass.

Sherlock saw his friend’s uneasiness and tugged at his sleeve, “We should be going.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Georgie said, putting her hand out for him to shake. Instead, he kissed it.

“Your wife is a splendid woman. Don’t be afraid to tell her anything. You too, Mr. Parker,” he said, turning his cutting grey eyes to the other man.

And with that, Sherlock walked out of the bar, John following on his heels.

*****

It had been a few days since the closing of the case. Mr. and Mrs. Stamford had come out to the police, so to speak, about the true details, as Virginia, Colin and Georgie had wanted. The three in question were indeed spending their so-called ‘honeymoon’ in Nice, and Virginia had indeed taken a female lover with her. She wrote to Sherlock in an email how it was nice to be with her best friend, but also that it was nice that she could have a close relationship with other people despite being married.

(She also made some comments about Sherlock and John’s progress, to which Sherlock blushed and slammed his laptop shut. Thank goodness John was out of the flat).

Sherlock wasn’t sure what was going on at this point. It wouldn’t be for another few cases that he would final figure it out: the Case of Unidentified Relationship (between John H. Watson, M.D. and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective). He was sure, however, that it would all come out to a head in the coming weeks…

Chapter Text

Sherlock had had a steady stream of cases for the past few days. So much so, that John felt he didn’t get to see Sherlock as much anymore… which was odd, because John always followed him on such cases and then typed them up on his blog with Sherlock on the couch next to him, either sleeping or putting his own notes into some coherent form.

The one comfort John had was his constant texting with Virginia Stamford, who was still married to her best friend Georgina, and it was still a very open marriage. She was a steady stream of jokes, innuendoes, and advice.

After a rather… interesting conversation about the types of noises her husband and her husband’s lover made at night, John was having a cup of tea as he surfed the internet when Sherlock’s head popped into the living room from where he had been experimenting. “Forgot to tell you. I got a personal call from someone needing our help. He’s recently lost his lover and I wanted to give you a heads up. It’s another queer case.”

It wouldn’t be the first ‘queer case’ of course. Alice Braddon, Virginia and George Stamford, as well as several other cases had had ‘queer’ aspects of them. John guessed what Sherlock had to convey was the fact that this man had recently lost his lover…

The man that entered the flat was indeed in the worst of spirits. He was tall, blonde, and very handsome. But his blue eyes conveyed a sadness that cut John to the core. He remembered, about five years ago, that he too had looked in the mirror and seen that sadness. He had lost the one person he had loved, this man had.

Sherlock was out of the kitchen in a minute. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he breathed, taking the man’s hand and leading him to the armchair across from John’s.

John smiled at how compassionate his flatmate had become in the fourteen months in which John had returned to their flat at 221b.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” the man said. “I am—“

“Fredrick Croft, I know,” Sherlock said, settling down on a stray footrest. “You said you suspected foul play?”

“Friends call me Freddy, gentlemen,” he said, before showing off the silver wedding band around his left ring finger, “My husband, Elliot Clay. He was a soldier, deported when the Afghan war started in 2001. We were just out of university then, and when he said he had to go, he gave me this ring as a promise. I was a lousy ‘Army wife,’ as old Uni friends called me. I hardly wrote to him, and I avoided his webcam calls. When he came back in 2006, I thought he’d never want to see me again. He came home because a bomb had exploded quite near where he was stationed, and the blast nearly took out his hearing. He was invalided home mostly to get the ringing out of his ears, as well as for PTSD.

“When he got home, I was the first person he wanted to see. I was absolutely overjoyed at this. Once he was discharged from the hospital with a hearing aid in one ear and a promise that he would one day be able to hear without it, we got a civil partnership, and I moved us away from the metropolis back to the town where we had gone to university. There we have stayed since.

About a year ago a friend, Russell Carter, came to live with us, and some seven months ago my Elliot’s brother came to stay with us as well. Russell is one of my friends, and so I was delighted with him staying with us, but Walter—Elliot’s brother—is a known homophobe, and I always wondered why Elliot allowed him to stay. I’ve theorized that since Elliot was so weak, his brother bullied him into taking him in, just as Walter has bullied him into doing everything else for him when they were children growing up,” Freddy took a sip of water and caught his breath for a moment. John felt his palms grow sweaty. An ex-soldier like himself. The only difference between Elliot and himself was that Elliot actually married the love of his life (and he had lost him, but that was beside the point)… and John’s love was sitting on a footrest so close to him and yet they seemed miles apart.

Freddy continued, “A couple nights ago, I had gone down to check on him, as he was heavily medicated with painkillers and anxiety soothers, and he had asked to stay downstairs for a while longer. When he hadn’t come up to bed, or had Russell help him up, I panicked and went to check on him. When I saw him there was a red mark around his neck. Walter awoke to my screams, and as soon as the doctor proclaimed his death a suicide, Walter accused me of his suicide and kicked both Russell and me out. Russell was luckier than me because he owns a flat here in London, and he allowed me to stay there a while. But I have a feeling Walter just wanted me out because of his homophobia and… other psychological problems…”

“Intriguing,” Sherlock mused. “Would you like me to find hard evidence, as I bet you won’t be facing that stupid brute again?”

Freddy sniffed a bit, “Well… that would certainly be nice… I would mostly like you to find the other one…” he said. He took the ring off and showed John and Sherlock the inscription written on the inside: Gardi Li Mo; ‘Guard it well.’

“His must say ‘A Vila Mon Coeur,’” Sherlock replied, handing it back to Freddy once both he and John had taken a good look at it.

‘Here is my heart, guard it well as the saying went,’ John thought, shuddering inwardly as the day by the pond after Alice Braddon had reminded him of Reichenbach made its way into his memory.

“A very vintage set,” Sherlock added a little later.

“Oh, it’s not because the set is valuable,” Freddy nearly snapped, but Sherlock put up a hand.

“I know. I will find it. I know first hand what it is like to… to lose someone you care about,” Sherlock replied, standing to show Fredrick Croft out.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Fred said, the gratitude like a mighty wave.

Sherlock only nodded as he showed Fredrick out the door and turned to his friend, “Well, John. The game is on again.”

John stood up, “Will we be going to the brother’s new house right away?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I have reason to be suspicious of the other house guest. Russell lives here, so we might as well go there…”

“Are we following Mr. Croft?” John asked, blindly following Sherlock as they made their way into the street. It was spring again, but the rain was fairly torrential. It was still the time for that damned coat of Sherlock’s, and John’s sturdy beige one as well.

“No… I believe Mr. Croft is taking a tour of the city in his grief. But the Internet is a great place to get most of the information one might need,” Sherlock replied, turning his coat collar up in that infuriatingly sexy way that he did.

They took a cab to the place in question, but instead of going up and knocking on the door, Sherlock sat on a bench and looked around a bit. John joined him, “I hate how you still don’t tell me anything.”

“You’ll see, John,” Sherlock replied.

They watched the door for a while, until a man exited. He was shorter than his friend, with brown hair and a rather feminine look. He looked over at John and Sherlock and Sherlock suddenly put his hand on John’s, turning to him and pulling at John’s face with his free hand. John immediately became uncomfortable, but knew what was going on about a second later.

“You’re not actually going to kiss me. Couples don’t do that,” he hissed.

Sherlock grinned, his eyes conveying something akin to wild infatuation, “Ah, but John, they do sickeningly look into each other’s eyes. It’s almost indecent the way they look at each other.”

“I think the term is eyesex,” John replied.

Sherlock only chuckled, looking down demurely before looking up again. John’s heart caught in his throat and he tried not to choke on it as he swallowed it back down.

Once Russel Carter had walked down the road, Sherlock was once more on his feet and following him, carting a dazed John behind him. ‘Bloody genius idiot and his bloody stupid eyes and his bloody stupid humanity that he saves for poor fawning stupid me…’

They followed Russell down the streets, through some alleys, and to a pawnshop. John and Sherlock looked to each other before Sherlock ducked in, motioning for John to continue following Russell.

John didn’t want to leave Sherlock, not since the Fall, anyway, but he nodded and trusted that Sherlock would find him. Knowing Sherlock would find him.

John followed Russell as discreetly as he could, making it look like they were just headed in the same direction. Russell would have made a terrible spy, the way he wasn’t checking behind him and everything.

Russell finally went into a spa, and John paused, getting the name of the spa. The Persian Cat. John took a picture and texted it to Sherlock. He then went inside and looked around.

It was a massive place, built like the Taj Mahal on the inside. There were steam rooms and massage areas galore. John thought he had lost Russell when Sherlock came behind him, shrugging off his coat and taking John’s hand firmly, lacing their fingers together. “We had a couples’ massage,” he told the receptionist.

She blinked, but her fingers flew over the computer and she nodded. “With Russell Carter and Joseph Prince, yes. Room 3 to your right, please.”

John shook his head, “You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock,” he said. “You did that before Mr. Croft came, when he mentioned the name in his email?” The fact that John completely accepted the fact that Sherlock had put them down as a couple was very telling to Sherlock (and John).

Sherlock smiled, and his face once again conveyed pride, sort of like a peacock fanning out his feathers.

They went into the room, where Joseph, a very well built man with bright green eyes and flaming red hair pointed to a Japanese screen. Sherlock and John slipped behind it, only to find Russell was all ready there.

John tensed up slightly, but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

“I believe there is something you want to discuss with me in private?” Russell asked, gesturing to his office.

Sherlock followed the smaller man in, and John only went because he was worried about Sherlock’s safety. Russell closed the door behind John, giving him a leer as he did.

“Well?” he asked. “I’m not sure I like skinny blokes like you, but I would fancy a go with your friend if he’ll have me,” the male said.

John blushed, but he felt Sherlock step closer to him. “That’s not what we’re here for. I have reason to believe that you’ve stolen from one of your best mates.”

“What proof do you have?” Russell asked, clearly guilty of something.

Sherlock took out a ring box and opened it. John gaped as he saw it was the second ring of the set that Elliot Clay had made for him and his husband Fred.

“I didn’t kill Ellie! He was already dead when I checked on him. I didn’t want to be accused of killing him, so I didn’t raise the alarm, and I took that ring because he wouldn’t be needing it anymore!” Russell cried.

Sherlock nodded, “No need to panic, sir. All I wanted was answers. But next time you answer my questions, don’t hit on my blogger. I might hurt you next time.”

John was taken aback by this statement. He had been working under the illusion that Sherlock only saw him as a dear friend. This new statement was a bit more like a jealous lover than a dear friend.

He thought about it all the way back to Baker Street, trying to figure out if Sherlock did like him, well, perhaps love him as John had come to love Sherlock. Not just platonic love, but romantic and sexual love. He remembered the adventure involving Alice Braddon: the confessions on the lake. But after that Sherlock hardly showed any feelings of anything besides platonic love to John.

Once they had trekked inside the flat, and Sherlock went to the kitchen to wait for the next train to Oxford—the University town that Fredrick and Elliot had lived and where Walter still stayed—John sat on the couch and continued to think.

He didn’t have enough evidence. He needed to test this hypothesis because his recent observations weren’t really helping him.

Sherlock shook him out of these thoughts by handing him a cup of tea. “Penny for your thoughts?” he asked.

John suddenly laughed.

“What?” Sherlock asked, put off a bit.

“You. Using clichés and acting human around me… acting human toward people in love. You never used to do that,” John explained.

Sherlock stood up straight and crooked his head to the side, “Well… people change, John.”

John stood up, putting his mug on the tea table before he approached Sherlock. He was glad Sherlock wasn’t holding his own mug in his hands, because what he did next shocked even him: He stood up on tiptoe, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt to crash their lips together. It was a bit like kissing a brick wall at first, but Sherlock didn’t pull away. After a few seconds, Sherlock’s hands found their way to John’s face, and he was caressing his cheeks before he pressed his lips into the kiss, making John moan a little in reply. John was surprised by how much space was between their bodies and stepped closer, his arms pulling at Sherlock’s waist to pull the two bodies closer. It took another minute or so to realize that Sherlock was making whimpering noises, and John wanted to tell him he’d been waiting a long time for this too. Instead, he showed Sherlock by lightly licking Sherlock lips, and Sherlock nearly obliged him by opening his mouth for John when they had to gasp for breath.

They were silent for a moment, all ragged breathing and flushed faces, until Sherlock swept off, grabbing his coat and thumping down the steps. The door creaked open, and then slammed shut. John was too shocked by Sherlock’s bad after-kissing etiquette to follow.

Chapter Text

That night John got no sleep whatsoever. Sherlock was late coming home from his post-kiss walk, so he told John they would leave first thing in the morning on the train to Oxford. “Can’t wait,” John muttered. Sherlock must have deleted John’s little experiment from his mind.

John went to bed, trying his best to forget the experiment as well, but he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He began to sweat with memories from the kiss, all the fantasies he had put himself through since moving back in. It really was painful to learn that Sherlock just didn’t want that kind of relationship with him.

That being said, John was groggy when Sherlock banged on his door to wake him up. “John! I made breakfast!”

John was still dreaming. He had to be… Sherlock? Make breakfast?

But when he indeed got down the stairs after a quick shower and throwing his clothes on himself, he saw that Sherlock had made breakfast. Toast and eggs.

“I had to feed myself somehow in the three years you weren’t around to…” the consulting detective quipped when he saw the look on John’s face.

Sherlock was quick to set the example for John by digging in to his one egg and half a piece of toast, but John was still done before him, even with double portions. Then they set off for a day trip to Oxford.

They reached the address in question and Sherlock this time knocked on the door. A brutish man opened the door and gave them a growl, “What do you want?”

“Only to come in, sir.”

“The police have all ready crawled up and down. It was suicide. Go away,” replied the man.

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, “And the ring around his neck? Is that just a symptom of overdose?”

Walter Clay looked around with shifty eyes. “Yes.”

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?” Sherlock asked.

John gulped slightly, his hand fingering the gun he had managed to bring along. “No. Everything is internal with an overdose.”

Walter suddenly sprang out at the pair, but John pulled out his gun and had it on Walter’s temple long before he could actually attack. “You don’t want to try anything, my friend…”

They heard sirens a few minutes later, and the police got a confession straight out of Walter a few days later. Fredrick got his ring and his house back, but he never quite got over his loss.

*****

It had been a week since the close of the case when Sherlock came home from another outing. John was just finishing a cup of tea in the kitchen when Sherlock burst in. He breathed heavily in the doorway for a moment, just staring at John. John’s eyebrow rose, and he delicately slipped passed his roommate into the living room. “You look a bit manic, Sherlock. Do I need to get morphine ready or something?”

Sherlock scoffed, turning around and following his roommate with his eyes. “Hardly.” Then he coughed, “John. If I had a star for… every time you brightened my day, I-I would have a galaxy in my hand.”

John paused where he was, trying to sift through his papers. “What?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock growled, now embarrassed. “But…

“O, you doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems you hang upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lord o'er his fellows shows.
The measure done, I'll watch your place of stand,
And, touching yours, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night…”

John now turned to his raving mad roommate. “Romeo and Juliet, Sherlock? I thought you didn’t trifle with that sort of thing…”

“I’ve changed, John. You’ve changed me somehow…” Sherlock replied. “You came along and… became my heart.”

John’s memory flashed to the pond outside Farringham’s again. He put his hands over his mouth for a moment before he took them down again and felt Sherlock’s arms encircle his waist. Sherlock took up John’s hand, pressing his and John’s together:

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

John shook his head, “No, Sherlock. I don’t remember Ninth Year English. I wasn’t in the school’s production of this show, either. Please… please don’t.” He was on the verge of tears. Not tears of love, though that was certainly part of it. Tears of laughter. This was too much.

Sherlock wasn’t getting it, though,

“Dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair…”

He went to kiss John, but John suddenly began giggling again. “I’m not going to kiss you Sherlock, until you stop quoting the sappiest love stories of all time!”

Sherlock was a bit put off. “But… you like all this romantic stuff!”

“I do, Sherlock,” John said, cupping his roommate’s cheek, “But this is just too much! Coming from you!”

“I love you,” Sherlock said. “You’ve been doubting it since I returned to you, but don’t you see? I came back because I loved you. And not just platonic, you’re-my-best-friend love… though that was part of it. I honestly love you, John.”

John’s smile faded, and he looked up at his friend with awe. “So… why did you leave me after I kissed you?”

“Because I didn’t know how to actually tell you. I went to the library every day this week since that day, memorizing scenes from romantic movies and plays, and even looking up… tacky pick-up lines!” Sherlock explained, pulling away from John now.

John blinked. “You know the only line I used at your funeral was from Hamlet? ‘Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and may flocks of angels sing thee to thy rest…’”

Sherlock turned to him, “I didn’t go to my own funeral. I waited for a few days, saw you and Mrs. Hudson talking at my grave, and then left the country.”

“I know,” John replied, stepping close enough to Sherlock to take his hand. “You’re not the only one who memorized Shakespeare.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s hand entwined with his, and looked back at John’s face, specifically his lips. John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s before he whispered—

“Doubt thou the stars are fire; 
Doubt that the sun doth move; 
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love…”

--against his lips.

Sherlock made a satisfied noise and kissed him again, turning them so they were front-to-front. His arms were at John’s hips, pulling him as close as he could get him to go. John’s hand slipped from Sherlock’s, but he clasped them around Sherlock’s neck and pulled his taller friend down to deepen the kiss.

“I owe Virginia a lot of money,” John whispered once they had parted.

Sherlock trailed gentle kisses down John’s neck as he answered, “Did she bet you too?”

“I bet we would never get together…” John confessed.

“Ah, I believe she might owe me, though,” Sherlock said.

“Did you make the same bet?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock chuckled, “I bet her I could get you into bed.”

“But… you haven’t gotten me into bed, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only gave John a pouty stare before he started, “You know, I think it’s a crime for you to be this adorable. I think I should call in Lestrade…”

John blushed, “Yes, then you can get me into handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs? Then you wouldn’t be able to return to heaven. I bet the other angels are missing you…”

John laughed, “Sherlock! You’re ridiculous!”

Sherlock kissed John’s collarbone, “I know. But you’re like my cat nip: you’re making me crazy!”

John scoffed, “Okay, Sherlock!” he cried, kissing Sherlock fiercely before tugging him into the nearest bedroom.

Chapter Text

It had been a year since Sherlock and John had gotten together, five years since Sherlock had faked his own death. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Anthea, Lestrade, half of Scotland Yard, and even Angelo suspected a happy engagement any day now.

But first, Virginia and her wife were in town, along with Colin, Georgie’s lover. John and Sherlock were going to dinner at Angelo’s to catch up.

They got a booth near the back, ordered some of Angelo’s finest champagne, and talked and laughed and ate for hours.

About halfway through the meal, however, Sherlock elbowed John lightly in the ribs, “Isn’t that Alice Braddon and Gabrielle Henderson?” he asked as the two women entered the establishment.

Then John noticed another familiar face, “They’re meeting with Freddy Croft!”

John got up and beckoned Freddy to come join them, and by extension Alice and Gabby. Gabby and Freddy apparently had gone to University together, and Gabby had been one of the friends that called Freddy an ‘Army wife.’

More tables had been added to the party’s booth, and more wine was poured. Introductions were made. Everyone had to know how everyone knew each other, of course, and they all had said they knew Sherlock and John. Glasses were raised to that, and hearty laughter followed.

John had a feeling Sherlock was antsy, though, and squeezed his hand under the table. “Too many people?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, “No…”

So he hadn’t known that Alice, Gabby, and Freddy were to be there. That was a first.

Once all the food was eaten and everyone was on their last legs, the boisterousness of the table died down, and the silence was thick. It was a comfortable silence, but Sherlock still had to fill it. It was now or never. He picked up his half-full wineglass and said, “Ladies and gentlemen. I have to confess that I wasn’t being entirely truthful about coming here to have dinner with Ginny, Georgie, and Colin… and then Alice, Gabby, and Freddy,” he gestured with his glass at all of them once he had said their name, “I came here so that I could have witnesses. Because I don’t always have an audience for when I do crazy things…” John grumbled something, and Sherlock rolled his eyes light-heartedly, “Okay… when it comes to the man sitting to my right here, I don’t usually have witnesses for some of the crazy stuff I do because of him.”

He turned to John. “John Watson, I love you. You know I have loved you since perhaps the first day I knew you. Of course, being the stubborn bastard I can sometimes be—“ Alice and Virginia playfully raised their glasses at this “—Thank you, ladies… Being the stubborn bastard I can sometimes be, I didn’t really know that it was love I felt for you until… well… until I had to lose you.”

The corner grew solemn. They had all heard the story of Moriarty and the Fall. But there was a happy ending to that story, a return, a dance, and finally, confessions of love.

“So I want to thank everyone at this table for being here to be witness to me…” Sherlock knelt down on one knee, taking a box out of his pants pocket and making everyone—everyone—gasp. “Will you, John Hamish Watson, marry me, and make me the happiness man alive?”

John put a hand on his chest and gasped, for he had been holding his breath as soon as Sherlock reached in his pocket. The ring was a simple silver band, but John didn’t care. He dropped out of his chair, tears in his eyes, and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling his close. “You bloody idiot, what do you think?” he asked.

“I think you should say yes,” Sherlock murmured against John’s collarbone.

“Not what I meant, Sherlock,” John replied, warning in his voice. He scoffed, however and said, “Yes, you idiot!”

The room burst out into applause as Sherlock and John stood up and sat back down in their chairs, Sherlock turning to his new fiancé to put the ring on John’s left ring finger.

FIN