Happy holidays all! Hope you're safe and well.

4.

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes!" John said, roaring with anger and frustration and just wanting Sherlock to shut the hell up. Sherlock froze with wide eyes. The whole room fell still. Rosie was crying, only two-years-old, on the couch. John let out a breath, relaxing.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He kept his gaze lowered as he spun away.

"Thank you." John scooped Rosie up and bounced her around until she stopped crying. Sherlock began cleaning up his experiments, which had gone from the kitchen counter to the dining table to the living room floor. Sherlock had been irritable all week from the lack of cases. "Will you stop playing your violin at three in the morning too?"

Sherlock stopped. Then he let out a sigh. "Fine."

"You keep waking Rosie up when you do that," John said.

"She must not appreciate my music then," Sherlock said with a snort. John rolled his eyes, patting Rosie's back. "You don't get to do it again, though."

"Do what?" John glanced at him.

"The-" Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "Name thing."

"Using your full name?"

Sherlock nodded. His back was to John, so John stepped over to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's face. It was impassive but there was a knowing glimmer in his eyes. John couldn't help the smile on his face. "Did your parents ever use your full name when they were yelling at you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your mum seems like a sweet lady, though. Can't imagine what it'd take to get her angry," John said.

"Hm… Say that to Mycroft," Sherlock said.

John chuckled. "Maybe I will. What's Mycroft's full name then?"

Sherlock shook his head again, curls bouncing. "If I tell you, he'll kill you."

"Sure," John said. Sherlock looked him in the eye, and the smile vanished. "Seriously? He cares that much about it?"

Sherlock nodded. "As much as he cares for his sweets, if not more."

"Wow." John kissed Rosie's forehead. "Well, Rosamund Mary Watson, let's hope I don't have to say that often, hm?" She giggled and he kissed her forehead again.

3.

Sherlock was being his rudest self to a victim. When the man burst into tears, John couldn't hold back anymore.

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes!" John said, cutting off Sherlock's harangue. Sherlock froze, eyes flashing at John. John used his sternest voice, which had grown increasingly ineffective against Sherlock over the years. "Apologize to this nice man, now."

Sherlock cleared his throat and stared at the man's chin. "I'm. Sorry."

The man sniffled and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, it's okay. I'm just extra sensitive right now cause of what happened-"

"Perfectly understandable," John said, nodding. "Sherlock's just being an extra git right now."

Sherlock harrumphed and swept away, hands tucked in his pockets. Greg stepped over to John's side, and said, in a low voice, "Did I just see what I saw?"

John nodded. "It's surprisingly effective."

Greg smiled. "Do you think I could give it a try?"

John shrugged. For some reason, he didn't really want anyone else calling Sherlock by his full name. "Well, if we use it too often, he'll get used to it, and it won't be as effective."

"Hm. True." Greg nodded, hands planted on his waist. They watched as Sherlock laid on his face, examining the ground near the body. "Save it for desperate times, huh?"

John agreed. "It is a rather desperate measure."

2.

Sherlock jumped into the Thames after the suspect. He jumped in, coat, scarf, and all. John swore and jumped in too - coat, jumper, and all. He resurfaced, grasping Sherlock's arms, both gasping for air.

"I almost got him, John," Sherlock said, pushing against John's grip. "He's got rocks in his pockets and boots. Let me go. I saw him. I have to go and save him, or he'll be too deep under."

"He's already too deep under. You can't go and save him, you idiot!" John said. Sherlock fought him off and dove back down. John swore some more and chased after. When they resurfaced again, the police had arrived with an ambulance. They were sending people down to retrieve them and the suspect, who'd sank deep within the Thames.

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes!" John said, yanking Sherlock towards the nearest boat launch. Someone had tossed down a life buoy, which John grabbed and threw towards Sherlock.

"I can swim, you know," Sherlock said with a snarl, but he followed John out of the river anyway. They were shivering, and their lips and skin were tinted blue. John stripped Sherlock out of his coat and his collared shirt. "I can undress myself, you know," Sherlock said and pulled John's coat and jumper off.

"Well, you're an idiot who jumps into the Thames in October," John said, as the paramedics wrapped them up in warm towels and blankets. "I don't trust an idiot like that to do anything." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John rubbed the towel through Sherlock's hair. "If you catch a cold, I'm the one who has to deal with it."

"What, and you won't catch one?" Sherlock said.

"No, because I don't abuse my body like you do," John said. They took a seat within the heated ambulance. The paramedics were busy with the suspect, who was frighteningly pale and wasn't breathing. Sherlock wouldn't stop shivering, and it was worrying John. "Look, come here." John pulled Sherlock into his arms, hoping his body heat could warm Sherlock faster.

"You're cold and wet," Sherlock said.

"So are you," John said.

"People are going to talk, John. Aren't you worried?" Sherlock's tone was harsh and mocking. His whole body was trembling.

"I'm more worried about you dying of hypothermia," John said. "Idiot." Sherlock was quiet. The shivering stopped, and John relaxed. Sherlock would be alright.

"Sorry," Sherlock said.

"It's fine," John said with a smile and patted Sherlock's back. "I'm just glad you're not dead."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thanks."

1.

"Sherlock." John smiled, after hanging his coat up. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock stopped twirling in the living room and glanced at John. There was classical music playing, and John had thought it was Sherlock on his violin. "What does it look like?"

"You're dancing," John said.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded once and continued to sweep across the room, arms outstretched as if he had a partner.

"By yourself?"

"Rosie wouldn't dance with me," Sherlock said. "She's throwing a fit right now in your room." So John went upstairs to check on Rosie, who cried to him about her awful day because Carol said something mean to her and Matt agreed with Carol.

"It's all cause Matt likes Carol," Rosie said.

"So what's the big deal then? It's not like he really meant it, and I'm sure Carol didn't mean it either," John said, hugging her.

"But it was really mean," Rosie, almost five-years-old, pouted and started sniffling. John headed back downstairs when she'd calmed down, only for Sherlock to grab his hands and start spinning them around the room.

"Sherlock," John said.

"It gets boring by myself," Sherlock said and lifted John's hand to his shoulder while placing his own on John's shoulder blade. "Dance with me, John."

"Why..." John decided not to continue that thought. "I was going to cook dinner, though."

"I already cooked dinner, and Rosie's not hungry. You're not very hungry either. We can eat in another 10 minutes," Sherlock said.

"Wait, you cooked dinner?" John's forehead creased in disbelief. He glanced towards the kitchen to make sure nothing had burned down. There were plates of what looked like curry on the table.

"Yes, John, I cooked dinner, so reward me with a dance," Sherlock said, stepping closer.

John grinned. "William Scott Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock missed a beat, and they stumbled over each other's feet for a second. His eyes darted up to John's, and John could see that he was worried he'd done something wrong. "You lovely human being. I'm going to tell Greg and Molly that you cooked dinner. They're not going to believe it."

Sherlock smiled. "Please, John. You're the one who taught me how to cook."

John was beginning to get the hang of this, although it was strange to be dancing with another man. They were in 221B, and no one would see. So John didn't mind. He'd done crazier things, he supposed, than dancing with another man.

"I didn't know you liked to dance," he said.

Sherlock smiled again. "I love it."

1+

"Will you, John Hamish Watson, marry me?" Sherlock said.

John looked at him. "You realize that we're not in a relationship, well, in that kind of relationship, and if we get married for the benefits that that's illegal?"

"Oh please." Sherlock faced the ceiling, rolling his eyes. "I'd kill and die for you. You'd do the same. We love each other more than some married couples. We live together, cook together, share expenses together. I take care of Rosie as if she were my daughter. She even calls me Father, so there's no reason not to in that regard. The only thing that makes you think we're not in that kind of relationship is the lack of sex. But, then again, there are plenty of spouses who don't have sex with each other. Why else do they have so many affairs?"

John swallowed and stared at the book in his hands. "Right." Sherlock did have a point, as always.

"Will you consider it?"

"Yeah, sure," John said and pretended to read some more.

"For how long?"

"Wait until tomorrow evening at least."

"Alright."

The next day, John said yes.

Thanks for reading! :)