Mike Stamford couldn't understand some things. He couldn't understand quantum physics. He couldn't understand the appeal of rap music or saggy pants. He couldn't understand his friend being purposefully, willfully, arduously, blind.

He and John Watson had coffee every Thursday and met for pints every other Wednesday. For a year and a half after he had introduced them, he had heard a constant litany from the good doctor about his genius friend. His genius best friend. His mad bastard flatmate (said with an affectionate gleam in his eye to be sure).

Then John had shattered. Mike had insisted on keeping their coffee and pint engagements if for no other reason than to make sure John hadn't done something stupidly permanent. The gleam had been gone from his eyes. There had been no litany. Indeed, there'd been hardly words at all. When John had spoken, his voice had sounded rusty, as if it hadn't been used since their last meeting.

Mike had been glad when John met Mary. She was nice. But she wasn't him. No one was him.

Then he came back. It was rocky at first, but the gleam was back, and the words.

Mike declined the wedding invitation. He couldn't bear to see John marry someone other than his boyfriend.