Chapter 21

John followed Sherlock onto the crime scene, doing his best not to grin at the slowly decaying corpse beside the dumpster. A swarm of police sectioned off the area and Sherlock ducked under the tape, turning back to beam at John, no such concern for propriety.

Sherlock clapped his hands together at the sight of the corpse and leaned back, breathing the air, looking for a moment like a man caught in prayer.

"Christ, but it's good to be back," he stated, smiling fully at Anderson, who grimaced at him predictably. Donovan started for them, actually notglaring at the two of them. John had still not quite puzzled that mystery out.

"We thought we were dealing with another gang murder," Donovan told them, pointing at the graffiti mark sprayed onto the alley wall. "But the corpse is identified as a Mr. Harold Shrew, no connection to any of the rival gangs."

Actually informative, John thought, surprised again, his eyebrows rising.

"Thank you," Sherlock stated quietly, and John cocked his head slightly. Donovan smiled back at him and nodded.

"Sure," she stated.

"-What happen?" John signed, gesturing between the two of them. Sherlock looked confused for a moment before his face brightened with realization.

"She felt guilty about further damaging my bad name and thought that it had something to do with why I jumped. She helped find you during that shishkobab case," Sherlock answered, gesturing at the scars on John's back before he strode toward the corpse. Donovan blinked rapidly, looking vaguely disturbed.

"Accurate enough," she stated finally. John nodded. That at least explained the shared meal in the diner. Still, John could barely imagine the woman badgering his rather obnoxious lover into eating.

Alright, he accepted. At least it meant they didn't have to deal with her temper.

"I am not going to put that title in my blog," he said instead and Sherlock scoffed out a laugh. Good, they could laugh about this; they could get over it. John smiled back at him.

"So, is it true that you are together?" Anderson asked sharply, glancing between them as John followed his partner toward the corpse. God, but it smelled.

John didn't bother answering, focusing instead on the body laid out in front of them. Time of death was Anderson's job.

"Dead between six to twelve hours," Anderson stated and John nodded, seeing the rigor and liver mortis.

The officers were staring at them fairly openly and John felt his back twitch, not liking the feeling.

"Why is everyone staring?" Sherlock asked bluntly, glancing around the officers. Donovan shifted quietly.

John glanced around and saw Lestrade glaring at all of the officers in the area, already starting to look brassed off at them. Apparently he'd decided they were attempting to remain closeted.

"I'm fairly certain they're trying to determine whether or not we're fucking each other," John stated. Sherlock nodded swiftly, taking that in, and turned back to the corpse.

I'm wondering the same thing. They had not even kissed since they'd both gotten back to 221B.

"It's not related to the gangs," Sherlock stated, pointing toward the gang sign. "Look at that graffiti tag," he stated.

John looked at it, a yellow and red series of letters that looked nothing like an English word. Sherlock glanced at him, looking nervous.

"-I -need -tell -you -why -or -no?" he signed, clearly uncomfortable.

"-Just -danger -not -hide. -Danger -I -don't know -about?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"-Not -likely," he answered. John nodded.

"Okay then," he said aloud. Anderson grimaced.

"Great, now they have a code," he growled.

Sherlock smirked slightly.

"-Go -finger yourself," he replied, before turning back to the crime scene. John barked out a laugh at the graphic sign and returned to glancing around the alley, trying to be useful.

Jesus, this is like old times, John thought, glancing around the filthy space. He felt...numbed. Like he was supposed to feel happier, but it only ever came in waves.

He wanted to hold onto Sherlock and never let go.

"I'm guessing that wasn't complimentary," Donovan replied, sounding amused. John searched her face, surprised again. She sounded going on friendly now.

Lestrade was looking at them, smiling quietly to himself.

"Boring," Sherlock declared, turning around. "John?" he asked and John nodded.

"God yes," John replied, turning to lead the way away from the corpse, back to 221B.

~~/~~

They'd barely gotten out of the street before Sherlock had turned around and pressed him back, stopping just before the wall. Sherlock hesitated, his face hovering over John's and John smiled.

We're going to be okay.

Sherlock smiled at him, looking thrilled for a moment, before he lowered his face and kissed him. John felt the man's hard body push against his own and smiled against his lips.

"Not the back," he warned, kissing back and pressing forward. Sherlock stepped back, letting out a frustrated groan and John smiled again. "You're alive," he whispered.

Sherlock pulled his head back, his eyes haunted.

"I'm alive," he agreed and John pressed his forehead against the man's chest.

"Good," he stated.

"Food?" Sherlock asked and John grinned.

"-Starving," he signed.

"I know a shortcut," Sherlock stated and John groaned, following him back onto the street.

~~/~~

"There's a case for you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson stated as she walked up the stairs. John set down his paper, interested.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows raised.

"A bunch have prison murders, found to be connected. There's a right mystery for you," she explained, putting down the tea tray she carried on the end table between them. John grabbed a digestible and smiled at her.

Sherlock took the newspaper from her and smiled, his eyes darting over the front page.

"A note! Excellent," he said, shooting up from his chair. John got up, adrenaline rocking through him.

God, yes, he thought, running for the door, his back barely twinging.

~~/~~

They caught the man packing his bags, ready to drive to god-knew-where in a blue minivan. John pummeled the man and got his gun from him, only to hold him against the van until the police arrived.

He had dreams at night, nightmares of Mike and hot metal, mixed in with his dreams of Afghanistan and images of Sherlock falling, the crunch of skull hitting concrete. More memories that kept him chasing after adrenaline, the life constantly on the edge of action that proved that he'd lived through it and had come out stronger on the other side.

He released the bastard into Donovan's handcuffs and leaned against the warm car, glad as hell to feel the sense of power rushing through him.

Sherlock grinned at him, triumph shining through his eyes and John grinned back, just before the man swooped down, pressing him back against the car. John kissed the man back before Sherlock pulled away, hiding his face in his shoulder and inhaling his scent. They had never made any decision to come out but John found himself grinning, glad that apparently, they'd decided to do so. Or more, simply not to hide. There did not seem to be much point of making an announcement; the rest of the officers certainly didn't call conference room gatherings for their relationship changes.

Sherlock stepped away, his eyes alight.

"Really, really didn't need to see that," Sally grumbled and John glanced at her, knowing she was joking. Now that Sherlock had faked his own death and John had killed a man strung up by a wiretie in an abandoned mall, she trusted them. The woman had twisted priorities, apparently.

God knows how Mycroft got that one to go away. John did not much care. The man owed them far more than that. And knew it, apparently. He had only come around once, and had not said a word. Sherlock had made his violin scream until the man had strode back down the stairs.

The other officers were politely looking away, knowing better than to voice their opinions and John went back to beaming at Sherlock Holmes – his lover, once again.

"Dinner?" he asked and John grinned.

"Starving," he answered.

~~/~~

"Do you know why people marry, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his microscope like marital relations had something to do with the horse flesh he was looking at.

"-Not -really," John signed right-handed without putting down his coffee mug as he drank.

"I want assurance that I won't be alone," Sherlock stated finally, staring into his microscope again. John put down his mug slowly.

Did you just-

"So does everyone," John agreed.

"Asinine. I want to be with you in particular. Everyone else is intolerable," Sherlock clarified, barely glancing up from the slides.

"Alright," John replied slowly, glancing around the kitchen table.

"Excellent," Sherlock declared. John blinked.

Did he just...?

"Yeah..," John answered, still confused. Sherlock nodded sharply and said nothing more. John felt himself blink heavily but let it go. Sherlock was rarely one for sentiment, and held no regard for tradition. John had decided a long time ago that that was fine.

~~/~~

John knew it was Mycroft by the time he heard the man on the second step. The footsteps and slight creek of the umbrella digging into carpet stopped at the top of the stairs at the open door to the living room. John glanced at Sherlock who was pretending to be too caught up in his latest -dead-something-in-Thames-water experiment to notice. Mycroft had left them alone for months now. Enough was enough, John thought.

"Come on in, Mycroft, we're in the kitchen," John called and Sherlock shot him a quick look of approval. That he'd known who was there, rather than that he'd invited him further inside, John guessed, smiling back quickly and turning to fill the kettle.

"Well. This is quite a glimpse into old times," Mycroft said simply, standing before the kitchen table and glancing at their setup. The kitchen had finally been restored into a proper laboratory, complete with body parts, and John still liked to look at it all and just stare, praying he could keep it.

"Yes, do try not to ruin it this time," Sherlock replied and Mycroft winced.

"Tea?" John asked, holding up the full kettle. Mycroft nodded and John put it on the stove before he turned back to face the pair. Mycroft stood, looking actually uncertain in the threshold of the kitchen, his umbrella held limply in one hand.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded. Mycroft smiled thinly, looking vaguely ill as always.

"Simply to invite you both to grandmother's one hundred and first. You are properly excited, I hope," he stated.

John felt his eyebrows furrow.

"Us both? Why would I-" he started and Mycroft turned to him to stare at him, his eyebrows raised.

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten to welcome you properly to the family, John. Congratulations," he stated, rolling back on his feet slightly and John felt his eyebrow lift.

What the devil? John had forgotten how nice it was to have the dramatic man too remorseful to step foot in their home.

Sherlock snarled into his latest jar of horseflesh and twisted the cap off with an ugly pop.

Mycroft smiled again tightly and tapped his umbrella.

"Well. On that note, I do hope you both can make it," he ordered, and strode for the staircase.

"Charming," Sherlock snarled and John clicked the stove off, figuring neither of them would actually want it.

"I'm off to the store, then," he stated. It always was better off to leave Sherlock alone after one of Mycroft's dire visits.

~~/~~

They were invited to the Scotland Yard autumn happy hour every year, though Sherlock scowled at Lestrade whenever the man mentioned it. John could only gape at his genius lover when he declared at 8:00 that he did, in fact, wish to go that night. Still, John grabbed his coat and gloves and led the man out of their flat.

The bar was actually fairly quiet and the officers of Scotland Yard gathered around a large table at the center of the room, making far more noise than anything around them. Sherlock snarled at the mass of people as he entered. John glanced around the room, looking for whatever target or contact that Sherlock was really here for before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to have to play guessing games anymore. That had ended quite spectacularly badly and they had a deal. An equal relationship, regardless of genius.

He tapped Sherlock's shoulder and the man turned.

"-case -things -you -not hide -from me," he reminded the man, holding up his eyebrows. Sherlock shoved his hands into his pocket and grimaced. John glared and he nodded seriously.

"This one time, John. I promise it's not dangerous," he stated. John held his gaze, feeling fear rush through him.

I'm not supposed to be left out, he thought, but Sherlock looked desperate and excited, and...happy, somehow, and John wondered what the hell this was about, but he was more curious than nervous.

"Okay," he agreed, focusing on Sherlock again. "No danger?" he confirmed.

"Shouldn't be," Sherlock agreed and John relaxed again.

Sherlock led him to the group of officers gathered around a round table. They stared at their arrival but Lestrade and Donovan both moved to pull chairs up to the table for them. All of the officers scooted closer together to make room.

"Thank you," Sherlock greeted, settling down in his chair to watch the crowd, as always.

John grinned, catching the tail end of a story he'd heard and leaned forward, reminded of a time a prat of a soldier had tried to give him carpet burn with his newly-clipped hair. The group of officers and inspectors had always appealed to him, all with a mix of military and middle-class backgrounds, and John felt himself incorporated into the group again, swapping stories as he'd always loved.

"John," Sherlock stated suddenly, when John was starting on his second drink, somehow gaining the attention of the whole table. "I'm told I did this wrong," he said, frowning, looking nervous and a bit too pale. John felt his eyebrows furrow, wondering what on earth was wrong with the man. Sherlock rarely looked concerned about social moorings at all, much less nervous.

"John, I want to be with you and no one else for the rest of my life, and I will make any vow you'd like to make that happen," Sherlock stated, before getting up suddenly and pulling his chair out of the way. The officers table went suddenly, utterly silent.

Oh. Christ.

Sherlock lowered himself to one knee beside his chair and stared up at John's face, his eyes darting over his face.

"Oh good," Sherlock stated suddenly, smiling like a maniac and started to get up.

"-Ask me, -idiot," John signed, pushing a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Why? From the set of your-" Sherlock started and John kicked him. Sherlock grinned at him and rolled his eyes. He opened a jewelry box John had never noticed him having in his hand. Inside was a simple gold band, almost unadorned. Perfect.

"Just ask," John ordered again aloud. The men on the table threw back their heads and laughed, apparently catching on to the exchange. The whole room was staring at them now.

"John Watson, will you marry me?" Sherlock asked and John grinned, knowing full well he looked like a besotted fool.

"God, yes," he stated and Sherlock snapped the box closed and stood, grabbing his hand.

"Now that that's done," he stated, striding for the exit. John saw Donovan take her fingers to her mouth and whistle in an earsplitting catcall and the whole group started pounding on the table, cheering and laughing.

"Right," John stated, feeling a blush rise up to his ears as he allowed himself to be pulled from the pub.

The End

A/N: This Series has two endings. This ending is currently being reworked into an unrelated hurt/comfort story titled To Kill A Mockingbird in which John Watson discovers Sherlock's deception in TRF before he is captured via Moriarty's contingency plan. The second alternate ending is titled Actions Speak Louder. Find Actions Speak Louder on my author's page and subscribe for updates on To Kill a Mockingbird or read it on Archive of Our Own by pasting the following link after the Archive Of Our Own URL.

/works/2685221/chapters/6007166

Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

Gwendolynn