A/N: This is dedicated to silverwolf04, who put the idea in my head. Set right around the time of "Our Mutual Friend", awhile after "Things We Know". I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy the fluff.

This was maddening.

He felt as though he'd been all over London, defying the cold November weather, risking his brother monitoring him on hijacked CCTV cameras, as though those cameras were not there for a better purpose, to keep people safe, to record crimes, to ensure that pedestrians and motorists were not wreaking havoc on one another.

Sherlock considered scowling at the cameras, but instead put his considerable mental energy to judging their blind spots, and using alleyways to evade them, catching cabs in areas where a camera was not readily available, being dropped off blocks from his destinations, taking roundabout routes on foot to get where he was going.

Really, this was also madness. As if he didn't have enough to worry about. Why should he have to feel like he was evading his own brother as well as James Moriarty? Or Jim – Sherlock sneered. What a feeble name for someone who purported to be frighteningly intelligent, in a very lunatic sort of way.

Someone like Sherlock, but without the benefit of one important thing.

John.

Mycroft and Moriarty be damned – he had more important things on his mind. Sherlock almost wished both of them could know this, could understand that they were less consequential than John and always would be. How could they command more of his attention than the doctor, who brought so many things to life inside of him? Mycroft was a constant annoyance, an overbearing older brother who simply couldn't accept that Sherlock had reached adulthood some sixteen years previous.

And James Moriarty (Jim? Sherlock repressed a snicker), who was a psychopath, adept at evaluating Sherlock's reactions, as Sherlock was adept at evaluating his. But not understanding. No. Sherlock understood what Moriarty wanted – an opponent of equal strength, a true nemesis, someone matching him in intelligence and resources and interest in and desire for the game.

All of those things were true, but past this, Moriarty could not comprehend Sherlock. Sherlock understood there was little else to his arch-nemesis, beyond cruelty and desire for power.

Moriarty had correctly judged that John was Sherlock's heart, but he could not actually understand that. He had no means of knowing how that felt, nor could he ever do so. The difference between a psychopath and a sociopath, no matter how much John disputed Sherlock's assessment of his mental state.

John was his heart, Moriarty was right.

But Moriarty thought this was a weakness.

Sherlock had never felt so strong.

How could he explain this? Would anyone understand? Did others feel this way about the ones they loved?

He himself had never felt this way, never felt like he was soaring quite so high, yet at the same time, so securely tethered. Never felt like someone else's desires might matter. He had never found himself evaluating someone else in terms of their facial expressions or body language or words and wanting to ensure that these were all right, that they represented happiness, contentment, satiation.

He had never cared before about someone else's well being, not like this. He had never stopped to consider his own habits, if they were acceptable or irritating, and how to change them so as not to bother John if they were the latter. He had never once consented not to play his violin whenever he pleased, even for his mother, but had stopped doing so when John was trying to sleep, at John's request.

Sherlock had never thought about what someone else might want before, no more than in passing, and even then only if it pertained to him.

He thought about John all the time.

John was like a drug.

Only, this time, Lestrade could not conduct a drugs bust. John wasn't illegal. John could make him feel high without the DI or any other member of the London Metro Police calling him on it, threatening to tear apart his flat or worse.

And, even better, Sherlock elicited the same response in John.

It was astounding even now, a year later, to see John's eyes light up at the sight of him, to hear John purr when Sherlock's hands found favourite places on his body, to hear John gasp his name in a moment of passion. To curl up sleeping next to John (and Sherlock slept better now, with a warm, familiar, and desirable body snuggled up against him in their bed at night), to watch John wake up in the morning, to lean against him on the couch, enjoying a morning tea or coffee.

He loved the way John felt, smelled, looked, sounded, even when John was being annoying or dense or insisting that Sherlock eat something.

He loved the feel of John's hand resting against the back of his head, his thumb stroking Sherlock's scalp, draining away all tension, replacing it with security and desire.

No game Moriarty wanted to play could match this.

To be sure, the game was still fascinating, and Sherlock could not refuse, or perhaps he could, if John asked him to. So far, John had not.

This made John all the more desirable. He understood Moriarty needed to be stopped and that Sherlock was the only one in London who could do so.

But this was not the reason he evaded the cameras insofar as he could, nor was it the reason he was prowling London today, while John was at work.

John, in the early November dusk, facing him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, looking anguished and befuddled and confused and regretful. Trying to smooth over something that didn't need smoothing over – never would. Misinterpreting Sherlock's response, until Sherlock smiled, lips twitching upward and said:

"Yes, John."

And then understanding dawning in John's eyes.

Sherlock had been expecting the question, although not precisely the time nor the place in which it had been asked.

He'd left the restaurant, knowing that if he didn't, he'd throw himself bodily at John then and there, in full view of the other patrons, which was uncalled for. Some dignity needed to be maintained, and it was, at least until John closed the space between them and kissed him hard, passionately, on the street, as if the pedestrians moving past them and the vehicles on the road didn't exist.

It had taken less than half a second for Sherlock to forget about them, too, pulling John closer, returning the kiss, never wanting to let go.

He thought he had been to every jeweller in central London, and none of them met his criteria. Everything was so utterly dull. How was he to impress the man who was about to be his husband – the word still sent a shiver of eagerness down his spine – if everything that was available was so standard, so boring?

John wasn't standard.

John wasn't boring.

John was extraordinary.

Sherlock understood John was quite traditional in some respects. He hadn't quite worked out if John was actually bisexual or one of those rare people who could love the person they were meant to love regardless of gender. It didn't matter. John was his. He was John's. Let psychologists and behavioural scientists try and classify the dynamic nature of human sexuality – Sherlock didn't care a whit, because he had who he wanted.

If only he could now find what he wanted.

Some of the jewellers had promising material, but they either didn't quite meet his vague but set expectations, or he'd run into unnecessarily mundane judgments.

"What is the lady like, sir?"

"What size is her ring finger?"

"What does she prefer: platinum or gold?"

Even: "She must be a lucky woman."

What were these people, idiots?

He always felt it was quite clear where his preferences lay, although John had also initially asked Sherlock if he had a girlfriend. Sherlock was willing to forgive this, because it was John.

Of course, for some time, his preferences had trended toward work, not people, so maybe therein lay the confusion. But the jewellers were professionals. They should know. Sometimes, Sherlock despaired of humanity, he really did.

But then he'd think of John, and things would smooth over, at least somewhat.

He was going to persevere.

If only for the look on John's face when Sherlock found precisely the right thing.

He wasn't a genius and the world's only consulting detective for nothing. He could do this.

Another store, small, near the Strand, quite well appointed as indicated by the restrained nature of their window displays, the complete lack of price tags visible on anything. Sherlock was not concerned; his family was quite high class and he could easily afford anything he wanted. For some reason, John did not seem to understand this, but Sherlock never sought to clarify it entirely. It didn't matter, since John had a job that more than paid their bills, and if anything ever happened, they could rely on Sherlock's excessively generous trust fund. For the rest of their lives, if need be. But John did so like to feel useful.

He stepped inside and was immediately impressed. The place was lit to just the right illumination, not too bright, not too dark. Faint classical music played inside the store – Beethoven, one of Sherlock's favourites. Symphony number six, the Pastoral, a perfect complement to the muted air of the store's interior, and not too overbearing nor too soft. Not Mozart, no drums to cause tension or to energize overmuch. Very European, with a touch of the continent. A German composer, a connection to England's Germanic roots.

Even though the salesman, trim in his expensive suit, well groomed, dark eyed, dark haired, composed, was obviously French.

Someone who understood the psychology of his clients, then.

He nodded to the other man, judging him to be in his late thirties to early forties, perhaps the proprietor himself. Confident in his abilities, shoulders held back and down, bringing him to his full height, shorter than Sherlock, but by only two inches. Composed, not quite superior, having dispensed with any Parisian attitude. Sherlock was certain he was Parisian, he seemed too urbane for anything else, even though many areas of France were quite urban. Lived in London for some time, because he seemed comfortable with Sherlock's obviously British presence, and not at all dissatisfied with his adopted home.

"Bonjour," Sherlock said.

The salesman nodded in return, a smooth movement, assured, his dark eyes catching the light for a moment.

Sherlock was suddenly reminded of Charles, his French lover in university. Charles, with his dark, unruly hair, not curly as Sherlock's was, but as though it was constantly messed from love making, unwilling to settle itself down. His dark eyes, so bright and vivid, always laughing, somehow always languid. Charles, an image of beauty, really, like something out of a painting, not quite real, but always present. Charles, with his aptitude for languages, forcing Sherlock to improve his French while lying in bed in the afterglow, correcting him with a sharp non, non, non, écoutez! Turning to German once Sherlock's French had finally – and quickly – reached his standards, always rolling his "r"s, even when he didn't need to. Because Sherlock had enjoyed listening to the throaty sound.

Charles, who was nothing like John. Dark where John was light, incidental in Sherlock's life where John was central. Sherlock had never given much thought – or any – to falling in love, and it was not something he or Charles wanted from one another. Only the physical comfort of their bodies. Sherlock didn't even know where he was now, after he'd gone home to France following his graduation.

By contrast, Sherlock always knew where John was, especially when they were in the same space. It was as if John's presence radiated out from his body, so that Sherlock could always feel it. It was wonderfully distracting. He had not really cared when Charles had left to return to France, but he cared every day about John, feeling as though his heart was full, his chest was warm, his mind was content.

It was amazing.

Did anyone else knew what this felt like?

John must, he decided.

But no one else, no. Not Mycroft, certainly not Moriarty, not Lestrade. Because they didn't know John the way he did. Sherlock was happy to hold onto that, to claim this one thing as his own that no one else had. And happy to let John feel the same way about him in return.

"How can I help you?" the salesman enquired. The French accent was still there but it was more subtle than most – he wasn't dropping his aitches. He'd been in England some time, and had probably spoken English a fair amount before moving to London. Parisian, definitely, but likely came from a business family used to dealing international clients, particularly in the UK.

"I'm in need of wedding bands," Sherlock said.

"Certainly," the man agreed smoothly, then paused, evaluating Sherlock, dark eyes skimming him up and down, the way Sherlock would when assessing someone. Strange to be at the receiving end of a very astute professional gaze.

"Something close to traditional, then. Subtle, but not a simple gold band, non, I think not. Nothing fancy, no inlaid designs or engravings or stones. For you, hmm, absolutely no silver, your colouring is all wrong. Platinum, non, not that either. Too pale, it would lose itself against your skin. Gold, yes. But again, not simple."

He moved along the counter and Sherlock followed, feeling more confident in his decision.

"I have several ideas in mind. But tell me, monsieur, what is he like?"

Sherlock knew then that he'd found the right place. When the salesman showed him the rings, gold bands lined with thin bronze strips on either side, traditional yet not, simple yet sophisticated, subtle yet eye-catching, Sherlock knew he had found precisely what he'd been looking for.

Perfection.