John watches the front façade of 221b Baker Street slide into view through the grey curtain of rain that's streaming down the cab window. The sky has darkened until it's just a little lighter than the rooftops, swirls of smoke and mist and black twisting across the slash of sky he can barely see between the rows of houses.

Home. Finally.

One year back in the trenches, one year of saving lives and rediscovering himself, one year of kicking his own arse for missing the one chance he thought he'd had. Ten weeks of realising that sometimes life gives you all the second chances you ever hoped for.

Sherlock throws open the door as soon as the cab stops, tossing the cabbie some cash and dragging John out into the rain with a maniacal grin on his face.

"Come on, come on, we'll get our things later; just leave it all there in the hall." Sherlock's pointing and kicking open the door and shedding his coat at the same time. John steps inside, water dripping from his jacket, and breathes in. For as short a time as he spent here, it still smells like home.

Before John can hang up his coat Sherlock pins him against the wall at the foot of the stairs and kisses him wantonly, desperately, sliding his hands around John's waist and down to give his arse a little squeeze.

"Good God, I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do that, exactly right there," he murmurs when they part.

John laughs with the sheer pleasure of it. "Probably about as long as I have. Let's get upstairs. We've been going almost 15 hours now; I'm knackered."

"Not too knackered, I hope?" Sherlock asks, smile turning a bit lascivious.

John shoves him toward the stairs. "You get me before I fall asleep, I'm all yours. Up you go, gorgeous."

Sherlock leaps up the stairs two at a time, the muscles in his arse flexing under his rather well-fitting jeans. John decides to hell with his tiredness and chases him, trapping him against the wall next to the sitting room door.

"Oh, look what I caught," he says, nuzzling at Sherlock's neck. "The rare and elusive genius in his native habitat."

"Not elusive," Sherlock says, trying to grind his erection against John's hip. "Not for you, not ever."

"Good." John starts unbuckling Sherlock's belt, unbuttoning and pulling the zip so he can insinuate his hands into the front of Sherlock's trousers, making him gasp and tip his head back against the wall. "Let's get inside."

Sherlock simply nods and reaches around behind his back to grasp the knob and open the door. They stumble through the doorway, John still with his hands in Sherlock's underwear, kissing and giggling and generally acting like teenagers.

"Bedroom," Sherlock pants. "Want you spread out for me."

John just grips his arse harder, pushes him backward toward the hall. "Next time, I'm having you over the sofa, just so you know."

"Not before I have you in the kitchen. Ow! Careful!" Sherlock complains as he bumps his head into the door frame. John manoeuvers Sherlock back to the bed and strips him efficiently, too eager to get on with it for it to sink in exactly where he is, what he's doing and with whom, for the first time ever in the home he left a year ago.

When it hits him, an hour later in his post-orgasmic haze, he realises he doesn't care.

He just knows he's finally there.

The strangeness of sunlight streaming through Sherlock's bedroom window wakes John the next day, the echo of satisfaction in his body making him smile even as he's yawning. Sherlock simply grunts and snuffles something that sounds sort of like agreement into John's shoulder and settles back into sleep. John kisses him on his curly, dishevelled head and slides out of bed to head for the kitchen, hoping against hope there is fresh tea, at least.

John wanders through the sitting room and into the kitchen, looking over the sparkling piles of perfectly clean glassware on Sherlock's lab table, gleaming worktops, and stacks of dishes and glasses in the rack, obviously washed in anticipation of his homecoming. It won't stay like this for long, he thinks fondly, so he better enjoy it before Sherlock happens to it.

There is tea and a packet of biscuits, so John puts the kettle on and snags a tray. When he reaches for the mugs in the cupboard, the light catches on the silver ring on the fourth finger of his right hand and he smiles, a ridiculous grin he can feel stretching his cheeks. Yes, things certainly are much, much clearer than they were the last time he was here, off-kilter and afraid, packing his bag for an assignment he wasn't even sure he'd come back from. Now he's home for good, no more deployments to throw his life into upheaval for years at a time. He's somewhat surprised to be looking forward to it, after spending most of his adult life believing he'd retire or die in service to his country. He almost managed one of those things.

He brings the tray back into the room and balances it on the bureau. Sherlock is still sleeping, warm, sunlit curls cascading over his forehead, reminding John of his year-previous self. The scar on Sherlock's head that necessitated shaving his hair off is barely visible now, a fine silvery line that curves around his skull. John can still feel it slightly every time he threads his hands through Sherlock's hair and has a hard time suppressing a shiver.

All in the past now, he reminds himself, and slips his hand over the warm swell of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock blinks awake and smiles sleepily.

"Morning," he murmurs and tips his chin up for a kiss.

"Morning, you," John says, kissing him lightly. "We said we were going to the registry office today, and since we don't have much by way of breakfast here, I thought we could stop on the way."

Sherlock stretches, opens his eyes fully, the glint of blue in the green catching the sunlight and making his eyes glow unearthly bright.

"I can think of a few things I'd rather have than breakfast," Sherlock says, trailing his fingers down John's arm.

"Still so insatiable," John chuckles, and catches Sherlock's fingers to press them against his lips. "We'll look back on this time so fondly when we're eighty and watching the bees in the garden."

Sherlock smiles, bright and blinding and so, so happy. "I'll hold you to that," he says.

When John gets dressed, his hands automatically reach to straighten his tags across his neck. The bare skin that meets his fingers is almost a shock, the weight of the chain that had rested around his neck for the last year—well, over 10 years, with only a few months break last year—now just a ghost, a thin white line across the back of his neck.

This time feels different, but not in a bad way. His life isn't tied to that of the Army any more, his commitment to them worn around his neck like a stainless steel wedding band. Besides, he has a new commitment to wear, shining silver and wrapped around his finger, and this one he's certain is forever.

To that end, he's determined to acclimatise to civilian life as quickly as possible. When he and Sherlock leave the flat, they strike out toward the south, looking to find the greasiest, best, full English possible, and when they do, even Sherlock orders enough to make the waitress' eyebrows rise. They both sort of slither from their chairs when they're done, laughing a bit at each other and the massive amount of food they'd managed to consume, John knowing heartburn is in his imminent future.

He's just happy to be here, walking down the pavement next to his best friend, his love, stuffed to the gills on a beautiful spring morning in London, his home like nothing else has ever been, and it thrills him.

Sherlock walks differently here, loose-limbed and with a swagger. John watches him striding a few steps ahead, hands outstretched to brush over parking meters and lamp posts and mailboxes, absorbing London into his bloodstream through his fingertips. The very air is changing him, transforming him into something at once familiar and new.

Sherlock turns back to John after a few steps, one black eyebrow raised in mock annoyance. "Getting cold feet already?" he asks.

John smiles and reaches out to tangle his fingers with Sherlock's. "You're extraordinary," he says, feeling a tugging at his heart – the sensation of holding something wild, willful, in his hands.

"I am," Sherlock says loftily. "As are you. Come, John." Sherlock folds John's hand more firmly in his own and guides them both along the pavement.

John smiles, and resolves to keep his grasp as loose as possible.

….

The Registry office is a bit crowded for 9am on a Monday.

"We'd like to register for a civil partnership, please," John says politely, trying to keep one eye on a wandering Sherlock circumnavigating the room and taking in every detail of the office, the patrons, the staff, and their families, too, probably.

"Sherlock, come on," John hisses, taking the paperwork to a small table and starting to scratch away with a cheap pen. Everything about them deemed necessary to tying his life to Sherlock's, listed in black and white on two sheets of cheap A4. John slides the paper across, watching carefully as Sherlock quickly jots down everything with the occasional eyeroll and sigh.

Sherlock reaches the point where all that's left is to sign, and his pen hovers over the paper.

John bites his lip, then breaks into a smile when Sherlock glances up at him with a twinkle in his eye and signs with a flourish.

Three weeks and counting.

"You do realise that if you put the lab upstairs we can possibly cut a vent for a fan, right?" John gestures with his fork toward the ceiling. "It would definitely be better than leaving your acetone and such on the counter. The ether almost killed us last time."

Sherlock takes a bite of his chicken and chews slowly, eyes darting down toward the floor.

"What? No use pretending; I know that look."

Sherlock puts down his fork and heaves a sigh. Then he sits bolt upright and says quickly, "I don't want to move our things together yet." He slumps back in his chair and stares at his plate resolutely, his arms crossed over his chest.

John's confused. "You don't? Why on Earth not? Is this one of those things where you don't want to share a room, keep our own space and such?"

"No, I don't mean never, just … not yet."

John puts his fork down on his plate and crosses his arms in a mirror of Sherlock's pose. "We have three weeks of public notice before we can actually sign the papers. We just got home. I don't have a job yet. It's the perfect time to do this. Especially with that disaster you call a bedroom." And Christ, it's time to do something to get his new life off the ground, he thinks.

The frown on Sherlock's face deepens to a bit more like a pout. John reaches out across the table and holds his hand out in invitation. "Hey," he says softly. "What is it? It'll be fine, whatever it is."

Sherlock reaches out and traces his fingers over John's palm. He's stalling, John knows it.

"I want to wait until we're … official," he finally says. "I know it's ridiculous and it's just a piece of paper and it's not like we haven't had lots of really spectacular sex but I would really … like to wait," he finishes lamely. His ears are pink and John is fighting the urge to launch himself across the table into Sherlock's lap to kiss him senseless.

"It's not just a piece of paper, you know that. Otherwise you wouldn't have asked me. It means something to you, and to me, so if that's how you feel, we'll wait." John squeezes Sherlock's hand quickly and smiles against the disappointment he can feel swirling in his stomach.

Sherlock smiles back, oblivious to John's frustration. "Good. Thank you."

A few nights after their visit to the registry office, John wakes up with a gasp, heart pounding, stomach clenching, fear rocketing through his body until he realises that it's the stillness that's woken him. No generator hum, no helicopters, no alarms for incoming wounded. It's so quiet John can hear Sherlock's soft breath next to his head.

He still feels like he's either putting on the civilian or taking off the soldier, and he can't decide which yet.

The last days have been quiet and peaceful, for which he is extremely thankful. Since they're not moving rooms, they've been spending their time pottering about the flat or in bed, Sherlock starting to branch out into "experiments" on John's body, usually involving endurance of some sort or another that leave John incandescent with pleasure. Or they'll walk for an hour, maybe two or three, in some random direction just to see where they'll end up. John loves those walks, listening to Sherlock pontificate, teasing him about his store of archaic and useless knowledge, kissing his pout away on a public street.

But all the while as he slides into domesticity, John feels like he's waiting for something more. Not a large, lurking something, but just … something. Something that should happen, that hasn't happened yet, and will push them out of the quiet, retired life they'd been leading since they've been home. It's not their wedding, he knows this, but something like nervous anticipation, a flash of memory of their lives before and he still pauses occasionally, feeling like he's crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for it to explode.

A week later, it finally breaks.

Fifteen days after they stepped off the plane, Sherlock's mobile vibrates off the table at four in the afternoon. He snatches it up from the floor, flicks through his messages, and leaps up with a shout.

"Lestrade. Beheaded victim. Need to find the head! Oh, it's perfect! Coming? What am I saying, of course you are! Come on, John, let's go!" Sherlock's bouncing on his toes, and John laughs. He really shouldn't laugh, there's some poor sod without a head somewhere in Southwark, and John hurriedly pulls on his boots and coat and follows Sherlock, who flies down the stairs three at a time. They dive into a cab as soon as it pulls up to the curb and they're off.

"How did Lestrade even know we were home? I hadn't emailed yet," John says, settling on the seat.

"Texted when we landed. Don't want to miss anything interesting, do we?" Sherlock grins wildly, and John heaves an affectionate sigh. Here we go, he thinks, the adrenaline making him buzz with anticipation.

The scene is a grimy, grim house perched in an alley that was probably laid down more than three hundred years ago. The house looks like it has been abandoned for quite a while, the paint peeling and the varnish on the front door lifting off in sheets. The police tape around the front door and the flashing lights give it a creepy, dreary air, and John shudders, thankful they weren't called there in the middle of the night.

Lestrade meets them at the front door, hand outstretched. "John!" he calls, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back. "Welcome home. Sorry I haven't seen you before now - it's been just an absolute pile-on or I would have had you out for a pint."

John shakes his hand, pleased to see him, one of the few people in the world who could commiserate properly on the perils of being involved with Sherlock Holmes. They'd exchanged emails a few times while he was in Afghanistan, and hearing Lestrade's reports of the insanity of the Yard, the football, and all sorts of interesting gossip from home, had made him feel a bit closer to the life he'd started with Sherlock before that horrible moment in the pool, facing Moriarty down the barrel of a gun.

"No hello for me?" Sherlock complains from where he's crouched down on the stoop with his magnifier. "You haven't seen me for almost a year, either."

"You spent an entire year off god-knows-where, and did I get the courtesy of an email? No. So shut up, you great idiot, and help me find this poor bloke's head." Lestrade reaches down and ruffles Sherlock's hair, stepping out of the way when Sherlock growls and takes a swipe at him. "Now, gentlemen, I have things to discuss with you later—" the significant look he sends John reminds John of the last email he sent to Lestrade, the day after Sherlock arrived in Qurya. "—but for now, we have important things to do."

Lestrade beckons them to follow him into the house and up the stairs before pausing in the hall outside what looks to be the bathroom. "It's been a while for you, Sherlock, and John, I know what you're used to. But this is pretty gruesome by London standards." Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. "None of that. I know what I think happened to this guy, and if my suspicions are correct, his last minutes on Earth were pretty horrible."

John nods curtly, bracing himself. He can already smell the blood, a sweet, metallic tang that's starting to go off. Sherlock takes a deep breath beside him, glances at John out of the corner of his eye, and they file inside.

The torso of a slightly overweight, dark-skinned man in dark blue coveralls is suspended over the edge of the bathtub with his hands and feet tied together, a startlingly red slash the only thing left where his head should be. The bathtub itself is full of blood, but as Sherlock indicated earlier, the head is nowhere to be seen.

"We aren't even sure who he is, yet, but he looks to be in his 50s or so, maybe an electrician, going by the uniform," Lestrade says, pulling on a new pair of gloves and handing a pair to John and Sherlock. "Have a look, if you will, John. Let me know if you think I'm right. Carson says no, but I want your opinion."

"Just don't touch anything," Sherlock snaps, pulling his gloves on. "I don't know why I'm even here, honestly, if you want John to have a look first." Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms, but steps back. John rolls his eyes. Glad to see things are back to normal, then.

John approaches, careful not to touch the body or anything around it, and examines the wound.

It's clear from the striations in the flesh and the jagged edges, the fits and starts of a long, serrated knife, that it took quite a while to accomplish the damage he's seeing here. The flash of understanding makes him swallow against the bile rising in his throat, and he steps back quickly. Sherlock's eyes are bright, understanding almost instantly what John sees without the benefit of a close examination.

"His head was, um, sawed off. To put it bluntly," John says.

Lestrade puts a hand on his shoulder. "That's all I needed to know. Sherlock, have at it. We're currently looking for the knife."

"He'll have it with him, he won't have thrown it away," Sherlock starts, and John steps back. As Sherlock continues about the particular plastic-coated wire used to tie the victim's hands, John feels himself start to go slightly fuzzy around the edges. He needs to get out of that tiny bathroom, the smell overwhelming his senses and making him tremble.

"I'll be back in a minute," he says, patting Sherlock on the arm and stepping swiftly into the hall. He continues along the corridor and down the stairs, not stopping until he's outside and breathing the cool spring evening, filling his lungs with clean, sweet air that smells of nothing more sinister than car exhaust and the Thames.

Christ, he thought he'd be more inured to the smell, the sickly odour putting him on instant alert, throwing him back into heat and sand and middle of the night calls for incoming wounded. He looks down the alley and thinks he might just have a quick walk to calm his racing heart. He probably has a good ten minutes before Sherlock notices he's gone.

John sets out along the side passage between two houses, narrow and dark in the falling dusk. The alleyway is a bit damp and smells horrific, and he's just deciding it's time to choose another route when he hears a low moaning and a slight rustling sound behind him. He stops stock still, the adrenaline he'd been trying to burn off flooding back in a full, heady rush. His shoes creak slightly as he spins on his heel and looks back down the alley, squinting his eyes against the dim light. There isn't much there except a few bins and a small pile of debris, mostly paper and rags. He strains his ears, listening, but nothing else seems amiss. Probably a rat, he thinks, and starts to turn back.

He's almost to the front of the house when he hears it again, and this time he doesn't mistake that long, piteous sound. He's heard it enough - the last moans of the dying ring in his head some nights, a cacophony of sound he can't turn off. It's the guilt that accompanies them that makes him bolt back down the alley and start tearing apart piles of rubbish with his bare hands, upending bins and tossing aside boxes until he uncovers the pale and trembling body of a man, eyes wide open and frightened, and with a hand clutching his neck. Bright scarlet drips from between the man's fingers.

"Oh, fuck," John breathes, and the man flinches, his body so lax he's barely capable of even that involuntary movement. "It's all right, I'm a doctor," he says, and he pulls his jumper over his head before taking off his tee shirt and pressing it against the still-flowing wound.

"Help!" he shouts. "Please, it's an emergency!" He hopes his voice echoes well, because Sherlock borrowed his phone on the way over in the taxi. "You stay with me," he says to the man, whose half-lidded eyes are starting to glaze. The blood is beginning seep through the shirt, and John feels a wetness a moment later that means he's kneeling in it. Jesus. Not much time, then.

"Help!" he calls again, and this time pounding footsteps herald the arrival of a constable, who takes one look at John's bloody, half-naked form crouched over a prone figure and recoils in shock. "Get an ambulance, Sherlock Holmes, and DI Lestrade, in that order!" he barks out, and the young constable flinches. "For God's sake, don't just stare at me, right now!"

"Yessir," he says and almost trips over himself in his haste to follow John's orders.

John's heart is hammering, the pulse ringing in his ears. He only has a very short window of time, based on the amount of blood he can see on the ground, to get this man to hospital before he bleeds out on the pavement. He's just considering what else he can use to stop the bleeding when a hand on his shoulder makes him look up. Sally Donovan.

"What can I do?" she asks, and her calm, brisk manner is a blessing.

"Hold this against his throat, not too tightly, or he'll lose blood to his brain. Here," John presses her hand with the correct pressure until she nods curtly and shifts to kneel in his place. John jumps up and runs to the alley entrance, coming face to face with a near-panicked Sherlock and a worried Lestrade.

"John!" Sherlock shouts, then wraps him up in a swift embrace. "Are you hurt?" he demands, smoothing his hands over John's arms and neck, desperately searching for wounds.

"No, Sherlock, stop, please, I'm fine." He catches Sherlock's hands in his own. "There's a man in the alley, looks like another victim. The ambulance should be here any second." At that, John can hear the sirens in the distance, and he squeezes Sherlock's hand before stepping into the street to direct the ambulance, and as soon as it stops moving, John jerks open the back doors.

"Grab gauze and a few towels, you'll need them," he starts, and the paramedic's shocked face looks back at him for a moment. "Victim has a 4cm cut across the neck, nicking the carotid artery. He's ready to crash any minute."

"Who the hell are you?" she demands, while climbing out, readying the trolley.

"John Watson. I'm a doctor. Get the paddles, too."

She eyes him up for a moment, and belatedly John thinks he must look a mess, shirtless and blood to his elbows. But she still does what he asks, dropping the paddles on the trolley while as her partner reaches the back end and yanks out the stretcher, dropping the wheels to the ground.

"Where, doc?" he asks, and John leads the way back past the small knot of officers, including Sherlock, and into the alley where Sally Donovan is crouched like a statue, holding John's bloody tee-shirt with one hand and brushing the man's hair back with the other.

"He's out, John," she says. "He drifted off a minute ago. Still a pulse, though." Sally waits until John drops in her place and takes the shirt away. The blood is still pulsing feebly from the wound, the man's heartbeat thready and slow.

"His pressure has crashed. IV," he snaps, and the paramedic quickly slips a line into the man's pale forearm. "Let's get him up. Gently, please." They sort out getting the victim on a backboard, then lift him to the waiting trolley. John straps a heavy pad of gauze against his neck and walks next to him, counting his pulse as they wheel him toward the ambulance. They load him in and strap down the trolley, and as John starts to climb in, the paramedic in the back puts out her hand. "We've got him, doctor. Thanks for your help – we'll be there in less than ten. Go get yourself cleaned up, yeah?" John nods, slamming the doors closed and tapping them to signal that they're ready. The ambulance pulls out in a blare of sirens and flashing blue lights.

John turns back to the scene only to see Sherlock staring, his lips parted and eyes shining. Lestrade is staring too, and John realises that this is the first time either one of them have seen him actually being a doctor. He thinks about his CV, sitting half-finished on the computer at home and his lack of motivation in getting it finished and sent out. John reaches up, straightens a chain that is no longer there. The drying sweat on his bare neck is cool, and Sherlock's intense gaze makes him shiver.

"Could you get my jumper, please, Sherlock?" he says, and suddenly he's tired, completely exhausted by the evening's events and ready to collapse.

Sherlock darts into the alley and comes back with John's jumper. He hands it over silently, and as soon as John pulls it over his head Sherlock leans down to kiss him gently, slowly, right out in the open in front of everyone.

"Well done, Doctor Watson," Sherlock says quietly, and John smiles, feeling his spine straighten and his psyche slot back into its proper place.

John sluices off most of the blood in the shower and runs a warm bath, determined to soak the aches from his body. It's only five minutes after he settles in the warm water when Sherlock pushes his way in, stripping down and insinuating himself in the bath between John's legs, leaning back against his chest with a sigh.

"Just couldn't leave it, could you?"

Sherlock idly traces his fingers over John's knee. "No," he says simply.

"Why are you even back here? Thought you'd be out all hours."

"Things are simmering. I made time."

"I'm submitting my CV to Bart's and St Thomas' tomorrow."

"Good."

"I won't start until after the ceremony – well, two weeks after."

Sherlock turns his head and presses a kiss to John's throat. "Acceptable."

"Just acceptable?"

Sherlock turns the best he's able to look John in the face. "You told me in Qurya this is what you want. I understand. You need to be engaged, John, just as I do."

"I do. And you need to order your equipment. I'm having my parent's bedroom suite delivered the day after the ceremony."

"I arranged for the hood and lab table to arrive Saturday, or at the latest, Monday."

John tightens his arms around Sherlock and pulls him back down into the warm water. "You're a bloody miracle, you know that?"

"I do try."

John responds by stroking his hands down Sherlock's sides, tracing down ribs and hipbones before cupping his palms around the blades of Sherlock's hips. "I know," John says, "and that's what so miraculous."

Sherlock quirks the corner of his lip up, and John feels an answering smile stretch his own mouth. He loves Sherlock like this, warm and pliant, and when he slips his hands lower to massage the cut of muscle around Sherlock's groin, he loves the low rumble of pleasure he hears even more.

Sherlock places his hands over John's, pressing his body more forcefully into the space between John's legs. John arches into the smooth skin of Sherlock's back, feeling his cock growing hard just from this, this barely-intimate contact. That's all it seems to take, still, after three months of having sex on a near-daily basis, and while his self-control has increased, his desire hasn't waned in the slightest.

"Come up a bit," he whispers against the shell of Sherlock's ear, and feels Sherlock shudder slightly before he allows John to help pull him up so he's sitting more in John's lap than between his legs. It's a tight fit, two grown men in a bathtub, but John wants to succumb to the moment, the slow, sweet, languid need that the heat and steam and Sherlock himself has brought on. He needs gentle tonight, something quiet and slow to soothe the burn of adrenaline in his veins and wash the smell of blood from his nose.

Sherlock seems to tune in to John's mood immediately, rolling his hips decadently, catching John's cock slightly in the cleft of his arse before leaning back to drape himself across John's chest, his head leaning on John's shoulder.

"Like this," he says, and grinds down a bit on John's cock, "Let me—" and he reaches out with one pale, dripping arm to snag a bottle of lube they'd stashed under the sink. Sherlock presses a bit out on his fingers then lifts up, positioning his knees either side of John's legs, water cascading down his body. He leans forward slightly and begins to prepare himself, right in John's direct line of sight .

"Christ, Sherlock," he breathes, watching Sherlock's long fingers pressing inside himself, making his body slick and ready. Sherlock flicks a look back over his shoulder, a seeming question.

"Yes," John says, catching at Sherlock's thighs and pulling him inexorably down, pressing into him slowly, gently, brushing his lips across the taut skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

Sherlock settles softly, bracing himself on the sides of the tub until he comes to rest against John's hips, releasing a pent-up sigh as he leans back again, damp curls tickling John's forehead where they spiral at his nape. John kisses Sherlock's neck, his jaw, until Sherlock turns his head and John can kiss him properly, deeply, as he begins to rock with tiny, soft motions against Sherlock's body.

"Beautiful," he says when Sherlock arches back and turns slightly, hooks an arm around the back of John's neck so John can see a long, pale line down Sherlock's chest to his flushed cock. John wraps a hand around it, stroking in time to his slow, rolling thrusts, waiting for that moment when Sherlock teeters on the brink of orgasm and his muscles go taut, singing like a high-tension line.

"Together, please," Sherlock groans, and John can feel him start to quiver, balanced on a knife-edge, and the desperation in his voice pulls John to his own brink. John presses up into Sherlock's body just a little harder, a little faster, and the tension breaks, John feeling Sherlock shake above him as he loses himself in the haze of his own release.

They stay together a moment before Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the bathwater. John only hugs him tighter, then helps Sherlock to stand so they can get sorted out in the shower.

As he leans back in the spray to wash the shampoo out of his hair, he feels Sherlock's fingers trace the pale skin on his neck. John's eyes snap open to see Sherlock studying him intently.

"You're still an extraordinary doctor," he says.

John places his hand over Sherlock's and tips his forehead down to lean against Sherlock's chest. He can feel the last fetters of his country's claim on him washing away under the warm water and it leaves him feeling calm, ready for his next life— and no more waiting to begin it.

The next morning John wakes to find Sherlock is long gone, sleeping (he's guessing) for an hour or two before scuttling off into the night to try again to find that poor man's head. That ought to keep his attention for a while, and when John checks his texts, Sherlock has only left two—The Met forensics team has been trained by monkeys, and I'll be a while, please meet at Barts 2pm—which means he has some time.

John lifts his hand to admire his ring. It really is quite beautiful. Sherlock really did well choosing something John would be pleased to wear, finding a ring that is striking and masculine without being gaudy or delicate. And the inscription, always visible if generally unreadable by almost anyone, makes him pause slightly whenever he sees it.

You know, it really is a shame that Sherlock didn't buy two of these while we were there, he thinks. Finding a ring that fits Sherlock as well as his fits him isn't going to be easy. His dithering has left him less than seven days to find it, much less have it sized and ready for the ceremony next Friday. It's a short time, but he thinks he can still make it work, and Sherlock's rather convenient absence will help things along nicely.

He hastily jerks on his jeans and catches up his mobile from the bedside table. He sends a text to Harry, inviting her to lunch at 12:30, then jumps in a cab for Hatton Garden.

Two hours later he's only made it through three shops, and his lunch with Harry and his appointment at Bart's is looming fast. He's looked through case after case of rings; white gold, yellow gold, silver, platinum, until his eyes are blurry and crossed. They all look the same after a while, little gaudy shining circlets that John can in no way see adorning Sherlock's long, graceful hand.

It's at the fourth shop that he sees it; a ring with a dark grey stripe in the middle and lighter grey along either side; a clean, sharp dark line that John can immediately see slipping over Sherlock's finger.

"This one, please," he says when the salesperson steps over with an inquiring expression. When she hands it to him, he weighs it in the palm of his hand. It's so light he can barely feel it when he tries it on his little finger. "What is it made of?"

"Titanium. Very strong, resists scratching and scuffs," she says, while pulling out a few other trays for John to look over.

John doesn't take his eyes from the ring. It's absolutely perfect. Featherweight and strong, able to take careless bashing about while at the same time understated and elegant. He can see the future in the catch of light across the smooth, polished surface, watching it flash and shine as Sherlock waves his hands about in a flurry of indignant explanations. "How quickly can I have it sized?" he asks, rubbing his finger over the cool metal. "Because I need it in six days."

Lunch with Harry goes almost exactly like John expects.

She bustles into the restaurant in a sleek dark suit and expensive bag, ruffles his hair, and drops into the seat across from him with an overwrought sigh and orders a "bloody" before John can even blink.

"Christ what a day," she says, crossing her legs. "You're lucky you don't have the day to day grind, brother mine, truly."

John rolls his eyes. "Glad you could take some time, sister mine. You know, since I haven't seen you in a year and all."

"As if that's been any different than the last ten years. You've been in and out of country for a decade, John. Aren't you glad I'm used to it and not fussing over you every time you're home?"

"Yeah, well, this time I really am home for good. I'm out."

Harry looks completely unconcerned, glancing over her menu. "That's what you said the last time, and you'd been shot. Hm, the salmon salad looks good."

"No, Harry," John says, and his tone is serious enough she glances at him over her menu. "I'm discharged, out, for good this time. I'm applying to work in an A&E a shift a week." He takes a deep breath, steadies. "And I'm getting married."

Harry's eyes grow wide, staring, and she puts her menu down across her lap. "I know you said Sherlock managed to find you on base out there, but I never thought—are you telling me you're marrying Sherlock?"

"Thanks for the overwhelming note of support there."

"You've been with him, what, three months?"

"Around that, yeah," John says, fiddling with his napkin. "I know its sudden, but Christ, Harry, he's … everything. I can't imagine anything that would make me happier than life with him does."

Harry narrows her eyes slightly and cocks her head. "And running around causing mayhem with that maniac, risking your life, that's the life you want now? You wouldn't quit the army even when mum begged you to, after you were sent to Iraq."

"I couldn't live my life for her, Harry."

"You're being naïve, John. You won't chase criminals forever, and then where will you be when he moves on?"

John rakes his hand through his hair. Fucking typical, always ready to see the worst. "When we're old and grey we'll retire and keep bees and I'll write my memoirs. But can't you at least attempt to be happy for me? I don't know what forever is supposed to look like, but for me, it looks like him. Always."

"Just, well, perhaps you could wait a little longer. I mean, Clara and I were together for years before we—"

John drops his fist against the table. "Dammit, Harry, we've waited. I waited for him for almost a year with no word, he waited for me to finish my tour before we came home. I've been fiddling around London for two fucking weeks waiting for my life to start. I'm sick and tired of it. It's time."

Harry sighs, roots around in her handbag for a moment, then puts it back down and fixes John with a resigned gaze. "Well, far be it from me to lecture you about how to make a marriage work, but if this is really what you want, then I'll be behind you. But good God, John, please be careful."

John smiles at this unexpected turn of events. "I will. It'll probably be me holding him back, you know that."

"Yeah." Harry looks thoughtful for a moment, then looks up at John with a twinkle in her eye. "So," she drawls, and John braces himself. "How's the sex?"

John laughs. Harry, always and forever his troubled, overbearing, slightly crass, and loving older sister. "The best I've ever had," he says, and grins.

John's curled up on the end of the couch later that night when Sherlock finally makes his way home. They'd identified the severed head of Mr. George St. Clair, and Sherlock had a few things to finish up before he could leave. John really just wants a quiet night, so when he gets home he opens a beer, flips on the telly, and does his best to relax.

He doesn't want to admit it, but Harry's questioning this afternoon has him thinking. The circumstances that threw him and Sherlock into the emotional and physical upheaval of the last year were incredibly intense, and despite John's resolve to get his new life started, he does wonder if perhaps they'd be better off pushing off the wedding little while. Not forever, no—he'd not been lying when he told Harry he was tired of waiting for his life to happen to him—but even as he resolved those weeks ago to keep his grasp on Sherlock as loose as possible, he's starting to wonder a bit if he should have any sort of claim on him at all.

From what he can see, Sherlock had always been free of the ties that bind, never given a hostage to fate. He's sure that Sherlock loves him, there's no way he could mistake it. But what if Sherlock, in his panic over their relationship a few months ago, decided to take a step that seemed logical and suited to his purpose, which was keeping John happy.

He's being ridiculous. The life they're finally building is everything he wants, a life of joy and hard work and love and purpose, a partnership with the one man on earth who understands him on a deeper level than anyone ever has. Sherlock Holmes —his love, his torment, his light, his obsession— leaving his life redefined, their bond unshakable.

The door opens and Sherlock finally swans in, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair. John looks up at him and smiles, still breathlessly enchanted every time.

"There you are. Started to wonder if I should find a dog, go after you."

Sherlock sits down on the other end of the couch, kicks off his shoes and tucks his toes under John's leg. "Bit more than I expected. But all taken care of, now. Mistaken identity, if you can believe it. I've never in my life seen a more incompetent hit man. Thought he was taking out a dealer's enemy and got the electrician instead. Then tried to get the actual target, and was scared off." He eyes John critically for a moment, that quicksilver gaze raking over him, probably deducing everything he'd done all day today and the day before, at that. "You had lunch with Harry today," he says. "Before you came to Bart's."

John should have known he wouldn't be able to hide this. "Yeah, right before."

"And she said something."

"She did. But it's nothing. She's fine, really."

"No, she got to you. Thinks we're moving too fast, probably."

John stares, then says carefully, "Well...are we?"

Sherlock stills. "No. I love you, and I want to marry you. We've been delayed so long already." Sherlock glances down, his surefire tell for internal turmoil.

John feels like a complete arse hearing his own defence from Sherlock's mouth. Six days until the day, and damn Harry all to hell. "That's exactly what I told her. And I love you. I just … well, I just want to be sure this is what you want, that's all." And if he's building spun-sugar castles in the air, Sherlock's exactly the kind of rainstorm that could melt them all to nothing.

"You're worried." A flat statement, not a question, and John's heart constricts.

"Yes," John says carefully. "But only because I want you to be certain. You're … I can't even describe it. Impossible to capture. I don't want you to feel pressured."

Sherlock shifts, straddles John on the sofa in a quick movement, and places his hands on either side of John's face. "Stop this. We've been through all of this already, and it becomes tiresome. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be, and believe me, I want to be. We'll get married Friday morning, we'll have lunch, I'll shag your brains out Friday afternoon, and Saturday your bed upstairs will be summarily taken down and replaced by a fume hood. All right?"

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and holds him close, presses his cheek against Sherlock's slim chest. Idiot. He's a complete idiot sometimes. " 'M sorry," he mumbles, and feels Sherlock's arms around his shoulders and a kiss on his head.

"You should be. I can't believe you'd pass up a chance for a post-wedding romp because your sister can't keep her opinions to herself."

John smiles at that, knowing his weakness is forgiven. Feeling much better and just a little high with relief, he grabs a nice double-handful of Sherlock's delectable arse. "How about a little practice for that post-wedding romp?" he says, and delights in Sherlock's breathy gasp.

Friday rockets toward them faster than John had ever expected. He and Sherlock had spent the last few days sorting and organizing all of their things—well, John had been sorting and organizing, Sherlock was like a child that had uncovered all of his favourite toys. More than once John had found Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room with an open box and complete focus on whatever object he'd pulled out, a drift of crumpled papers surrounding him and more things strewn across the floor than when he'd started. It was a long few days with a lot less progress than John had hoped.

In that same six days, John had been surprised to receive a call asking if he'd come in for an interview at St Thomas' Hospital. He was even more surprised the next day when they'd called back, offering him a position as a staff physician in A&E, one rotation a week, 36 hours at a stretch. It was so perfect John dropped the phone on the floor and tackled Sherlock on the sofa, snogging him breathless.

Everything seems to be falling into place, so when Friday dawns clear and bright, John takes it as his due. He bounds out of bed, leaving Sherlock rumpled and sleepy next to him, blinking awake in the early morning light.

"Wake up!" he says, ruffling Sherlock's hair, "We're getting married today!"

Sherlock groans and rolls over, burying his head under the pillows. "Not until ten," he says, "and it's only seven."

John rips the duvet off with a flourish, leaving Sherlock completely naked in the middle of the bed.

"And we have plenty to do before then. So get your gorgeous arse out of bed and get ready to become Mr. Sherlock Holmes-Watson."

Sherlock turns over, crosses his ankles and puts his hands behind his head, stretching his lithe body and putting everything on display to its best advantage. "Is my arse the only thing you're interested in?" he asks and John bites his lip, getting a lovely eyeful of Sherlock's slim stomach and half-hard cock. He pauses a moment, then dives on top of Sherlock, kissing him and using the distraction to tickle his sides until Sherlock is gasping with laughter.

"Never," John says, "Everything I want is all up here—" he taps Sherlock's head "and right here—" he taps his chest, "and all right, maybe a little bit here." John pinches Sherlock's arse and darts for the shower, a laughing Sherlock close behind.

They mess about and eat and chat and snog so long that it's barely 15 minutes to spare before they get into the cab on the way to the Registry office. John struggles a bit to settle into his new dark suit, carefully smoothing down his sliver tie and praying he didn't drip anything on it. He glances at Sherlock, resplendent in his perfectly tailored black suit, his black tie knotted just so around his slim throat. Sherlock catches him staring and smiles.

"Change of plans, driver," he says and John looks at him sharply. "Can you take us to Heron Tower?" The driver looks in the rear-view mirror and nods, and executes a quick and highly illegal u-turn in the middle of the street.

"What's going on?" John murmurs through his teeth. "Something you haven't told me?"

"Little surprise for today. Trust me."

John rolls his eyes. Whenever Sherlock asks John to trust him, something odd always, always happens.

The cab pulls up in front of the new, sleek, high-rise office, and Sherlock takes John's arm to lead him inside, across the gleaming and expansive atrium, and toward a private lift that says "To Restaurant and SkyBar" over the door.

"We have an appointment, Sherlock, as of five minutes ago, with that kindly old man that was going to marry us." Sherlock simply nods and guides John into the lift. "This better be good, damn you. It took a week to finally get a date and time settled on." The elevator glides to a stop, and the doors open into a breathtaking space, a restaurant and bar with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of London as far as the eye can see.

"This way," Sherlock whispers, and takes John through the restaurant and around a corner where John slows to a halt, allowing Sherlock's hand to slip from his arm. The alcove they're in has been set up with a few small tables gathered comfortably around an open space next to the windows, and seated at the tables are their friends: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mike, Molly, Harry, a woman with Harry that John has never seen, and Mycroft. And, wonder of wonders, Mr. Currant, the justice of the peace they had the appointment with. John turns to Sherlock, completely agog.

"You … I mean, we said that we'd keep it simple …"

Sherlock grins at him. "I know, but I thought perhaps a little something to mark the day would be in order. Will this do?"

John lets out a disbelieving laugh. Will it do, he asks. "You daft idiot. Of course it will. Come on, let's get married."

They make their way between the tables, wave greetings to their friends, shake hands with Mr. Currant. John's heart is hammering; this is it, no going back, and when he sees Sherlock beaming at him, love and affection plain on his face, John squares his shoulders and speaks the words that have been tying people together for centuries. With fervent sincerity he promises to love, comfort, honour and protect, always remain faithful, and never in his life have such simple promises held so much weight. He can feel Sherlock's hand trembling ever so slightly when it's his turn, and the intense murmur of those same promises given wraps around his heart, squeezes, brings everything he ever wanted to say right to the tip of his tongue, and it chokes him, makes it hard to focus enough to fumble in his pocket and slide a darkly shining ring over Sherlock's finger when he's given his cue.

Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction, then he beams at John, a brightening of an already brilliant smile, and John knows he chose correctly. Sherlock slips John's silver ring onto his left hand without taking his eyes from John's, slowly repeats Mr. Currant, and when he reaches "All that I am, I give to you," he has to pause for a moment. John squeezes his hand lightly, then pulls him in more closely once they're proclaimed married, tipping Sherlock's chin down to kiss him, hearing the clapping and hurrahs from their friends and family.

"I love you," Sherlock whispers against his lips. "Look out the window." John turns, the whole of London spread out before him in the bright spring morning, shining with promise all the way to the horizon."This is my gift to you, an entire lifetime of chasing the nearly-impossible, with me."

"Nothing with you has ever been impossible," John says, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and looking across his city, their city. "Just improbable. And mad, and absolutely perfect."

Epilogue

John slowly climbs the steps up to the sitting room, wanting nothing more than a shower and to collapse between his sheets for ten hours. At this point, whether his husband is there or not is really a secondary concern; after being on duty for 36 hours, he's just ready to pass out for a while.

When he opens the door, Sherlock is there and has John's bag on the floor and his shirt off before he can react.

"Come on," he says, herding John through the kitchen toward the bathroom, "Shower for you."

"Yes, hello, what on earth are you doing?" John's a bit bewildered. Sherlock doesn't stop pushing, turning on the water and helping John strip off his shoes and clothes.

"You reek of hospital, you need a shower. Problem?" Sherlock tests the water, turns back and drops a clean towel on the toilet lid.

"No," John says, and decides to go with it. Tender loving care isn't really one of Sherlock's specialties, but John will give anything a go once. He climbs in and closes the curtain, starts to soap up. He hears the door close and shrugs.

When he finishes, Sherlock's in the bedroom with a tray of tea and toast and cheese, and John isn't sure he's not knocked out in an alley somewhere and this is all a strange, surreal dream. "What the hell are you up to? Did you set the bins on fire again?" Oh god help him if he has, Mrs. Hudson threatened eviction last time. Sort of.

"That implies I set them on fire in the first place. They were smouldering. Barely. Now, eat up, you can't have done in over ten hours, and you always are grumpy when you don't eat."

John sits down on the bed and takes a sip; tea's good, toast still warm, cheese lovely and sharp. He eats everything all under Sherlock's watchful gaze, and feels the tiredness he's been pushing off for the last 12 hours or so creeping up on him.

"Thank you, love. But I really am completely knackered. Are you planning to come to bed?" John asks dubiously, because Sherlock is completely clothed down to his shoes, and that generally implies he'll be up for quite a while.

"Not as such, no," he replies, and gently takes the tray from John's hands and puts it on the side table. He leans back over John, kisses him lightly, then slowly strokes a hand down over John's pyjama-covered cock.

John jumps in response. "I'm honestly not sure I'm up for … oh my god, do that again." Sherlock runs the tips of his fingers down the crease of John's groin, and he can feel himself growing hard. It's not like they hadn't had sex not too long before John went on shift, for heaven's sake. Forty-eight hours isn't their longest stretch by far. John starts to reach for Sherlock, bring him closer so he can start working on the mile of buttons down his front, but Sherlock simply smirks, kneels over John's legs, and pulls John's pyjamas down just far enough to free his erection.

"Let me take care of this for you," he whispers, licking a swirl around the head, and John swears, stars exploding behind his eyes at the feel of Sherlock's hot mouth. John's not going to argue with him, not when that talented tongue is doing things that turn his insides over, make him shiver and tremble. John looks down, almost undone by finding Sherlock watching him, an intense gaze that sends sparks up his spine, leaving sharp, sweet heat in its wake.

"Oh, oh God," John moans, losing himself in the feel of Sherlock's lips around him, sucking lightly, one hand wrapped around the base of John's cock and stroking. John feels his orgasm start to coalesce, and he gives Sherlock a warning tap on the cheek with his fingers. Sherlock shakes him off, continues to suck and lick and John comes, shuddering and gasping.

"Lemme," he slurs, the afterglow mixed with exhaustion making him feel almost drunk. "C'mere, want to."

Sherlock pulls up his pyjamas, kisses his forehead, and switches out the light. "Another time, husband. I'll see you in the morning. Sleep now."

Even in John's rather muddled state, a little curl of suspicion starts to unfurl. "Where you going?"

"Case, John. No time for sleep. I have a few things to follow up on. You have an appointment to see a body at 9:30 tomorrow morning with Molly. That leaves you… oh, a good eight hours. Goodnight." Sherlock kisses him again and swirls out of the room.

John lies there for a moment before the complete insanity of what just happened overtakes him, leaves him laughing into his pillow before he falls asleep, warm, content, and never happier in his life.