A/N: I see these one-shots all the time, so I thought I'd write my own just for the hell of it. AU, John and Sherlock are engaged, and Mycroft brings John home early and to a crime scene to meet his husband to be.

"Already? Can't we do this without the freak? Really?" Donovan asked, exasperated already.

Greg Lestrade shook his head. "In case you haven't noticed, Sally, we've got three bodies and nothing to go on."

She huffed. "Maybe he did it just to get you to let him in on it…"

"Sally…" he warned as a black cab pulled up, letting out the tall and lanky detective. He flipped his collar against the icy wind and headed toward Lestrade.

"You should have called me to the first one, detective inspector," he said irritated as Lestrade let him under the tape. "I hope the other crime scenes are still sealed?"

Greg nodded his head and led the man into the house. He looked around, ignoring Anderson as always. He circled, then started zeroing in on things individually. He checked over the body and the room and then stood.

"Cause of death the same for the others?" he asked.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, blunt force to the back of the head. All left on their backs, pennies on their eyes, and the blood used to draw out wings on the floor under them."

"Paying the boat," he muttered, examining the coins closer.

There was a thunking sound at the door causing everyone but Sherlock to look up. The clearing of a familiar throat only elicited a snort from the detective. Greg stared at him, refusing to acknowledge. Sally and Anderson were staring openly at the newcomer who had just waltzed into their crimescene without a word from their DI.

"Sherlock…" Greg said.

"Piss off, Mycroft. I'm busy. Don't you have a country to blow up?" he said finally, kneeling and using his pocket magnifier on the neck of the body.

"Brother, mine. Please. Now is not the time for petty bickering."

"I said. Piss. Off. Now please do," he said, moving to the other side and putting his back to his brother.

"Sherlock, really, you are so childish sometimes," he said rolling his eyes.

"At least I don't randomly kidnap your friends and companions and cart them off to warehouses and keep them in handcuffs while I interrogate them," Sherlock said, standing and glaring at him.

"I apologized to the detective inspector for that, and that was long ago."

Sally and Anderson glanced at him. Lestrade shrugged. "Comes with hanging around Sherlock. You deal with his brother."

"Last time, Mycroft. Get out or I'll start quoting Anderson about contaminating crime scenes," Sherlock growled, crossing his arms.

"Sherlock, now, now, you know I don't come to crime scenes though I absolutely detest the fact that you do this," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "True. You don't need to with the cars you have follow me around the bloody city already. Don't think I didn't see him yesterday! You need to hire better people if you want to tail me."

"Brother, if you weren't always putting yourself in danger, I wouldn't have to have you followed. You've only been kidnapped, what seven times?"

Sherlock shifted. "Eight."

"Eight?" asked Mycroft.

"I got out myself, so don't worry about it," he said, rolling his eyes.

Mycroft sighed deeply. "You're going to be the death of me, Sherlock."

"Well, then go die somewhere, and leave me alone," he said, stiffening.

"I'd love to, but I have someone who wants to see you waiting in my car. It's why I came here after all," he said.

Sherlock stopped. "What?"

Mycroft smiled. "You heard me. I'm sure you can deduce who would be important enough for me to escort personally to you at three a.m. in the bloody morning."

"But…no. That can't be, why?" he said. "Something's wrong."

"Nothing serious, medical discharge, but he won't be going back to Afghanistan again because of it," he said smoothly, only to find himself pushed aside roughly as Sherlock practically ran from the room.

Mycroft smirked at them. "You can come too if you want to meet him."

Curious, Greg, Sally and Anderson came outside to find there was a black car parked near the curb and a man with blonde hair was leaning back against it. Sherlock had stopped, at the tape, and then the man started to walk toward him. Sherlock ran up to him and wrapped him in a tight hug, then proceeded to snog him, hands cupped on both sides of the shorter man's face tightly. The shorter man had both hands planted on Sherlock's waist tightly gripping into the Belstaff coat he wore.

"Who? I didn't think he…" Greg started.

"That's John, Sherlock's fiancée. They've been planning to get married as soon as John was discharged. He's been away the last three years almost," Mycroft supplied. "We expected him in a couple months, but he was discharged early after being shot in the shoulder."

After a minute of close, murmured conversation when they finally released each other for air, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and drug him over to Greg, a grin plastered to his face. He rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, I'm terribly sorry for my rude behavior," he said. "I know you are only looking out for me because I'm completely incapable of doing so for myself without John here," he added, with an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, thank you, Sherlock. I have missed John being around, now I take it you can catch a cab?" he asked.

"We'll be fine, Myc. Please, give Anthea or whatever she's going by now my greetings," he said, waving him off. "So, are these the one's you're working with?"

"Oh, yes, yes, everyone, this is John. John, this is the detective inspector Lestrade. He let's me work cases. And this is Sally Donovan, and Phillip Anderson, and I don't see anyone else. I'll have to take you to the morgue, I've got a triple!" he said exciteably.

"A triple this time? You're in heaven. Locked room?" he asked, arched brow.

"No, not as fun as that, John. Just they're all elaborate and staged. So you know. Piqued my interest, want to see?" he asked, smiling, and dragging John through the tape to the other side.

John gave an apologetic shrug and followed. The three Yarders walked in and saw Sherlock going over all the deductions in an extremely animated fashion, and asking John his opinon of what he thought on the body. John kneeled and snapped on a pair of gloves in his pocket and hummed. "Poison, yes?"

"Exactly!" Sherlock said, kissing his forehead when he stood up. "And this is why I need you!"

"What, poison?" asked Greg, frowning.

John sighed. "The blunt force trauma didn't kill them, of course it could have given enough time, but there isn't enough tissue swelling to have caused death. No, they've been dosed with a fast acting poison, injected underneath the thumb nail."

Sally waved her hands. "Wait, you're just letting some bloke off the street in here? Bad enough you let the freak in here, and now you let his partner in?"

Sherlock looked mildly uncomfortable as John stood up. "Please, John, I told you, don't bother, it's okay, just leave it…"

John took the two short steps to stand in front of the dark haired woman. "Excuse me? I don't believe you know who I am. Doctor John Watson. Just spent three years working under Mycroft Holmes overseas in the sandbox and about got my goddamned arm shot off two months ago. I have higher clearance than the entire lot of the Yard put together, and you're questioning if I can be on a crime scene? Not to mention insulting my soon to be husband with my oh so favorite insult."

"John…let it be…" Sherlock pleaded, now standing by Lestrade, looking between Sally and him. "I've told you it doesn't bother me…"

"Shut up, Sherlock. It bothers me," he responded, twirling with military precision on his heel and glaring at Sherlock. "How many times have I asked you to stand up for yourself? Seriously, you let everyone walk all over you, love."

Sherlock waved his long fingered hand dismissively. "But it isn't important, John. And if I stand up like you want me to do so badly I'd never get any work done."

John huffed. "Well, don't fret, I'll stick with you and do it for you. Then you don't have to do it. And I can manage to keep you from getting kidnapped. Do you have any idea how hard it is knowing you got yourself kidnapped seven times in three years?"

"Eight. But not like I do it on purpose, John! And honestly, the last three were after Mycroft. And the two before were after money," he said with a huff.

"Eight? Sherlock!" John said.

"Well, I got away, so it didn't count. I was only there three days," he said, rolling his eyes.

John scrubbed a hand over his face and released a deep and longsuffering sigh. "Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?"

"Take me home, I'd guess, I'm done here," he said, grinning at John. He turned to Lestrade. "Check with the man in the office next to the first victim. He'll have trophies of all three, and the pennies are to pay the ferryman at the river. He thinks he's creating death's angels and is quite insane, but looks fine on the outside. Show him the scene pictures and he'll fold like a house of cards. Now, if you'll excuse me, we have some catching up to do!"

John smiled and waved him on. "Go ahead, I want a minute with the DI here before we go," he said warmly and watched as he left the room.

"Greg, right?" John asked. Greg nodded, still slightly shell-shocked. "I wanted to thank you personally for what you do for him. Letting him solve crimes really does keep him from doing anything stupid. Though I've got to wonder how many body parts he has squirreled away in the flat by now…anyway, I really appreciate it. He needs something to keep his mind occupied, and Mycroft and I try, but it just isn't enough to keep him completely active."

"Um, if you don't mind, but how'd you two meet?" Anderson asked suddenly.

John smiled fondly. "We were at Cambridge together. I was getting my medical degree and Sherlock was in chemistry, physics and biology, I think. Maybe music too, I can't remember. Anyway, he started when he was sixteen, so he was constantly singled out by older students. I ended up beating up a couple in my class that had cornered him, poor kid. Broke his jaw and his collarbone, bastards. Ever since then, it's been me and him against everyone else. We had decided to get married before I left for the Middle East, and I proposed the night I left. Now I guess we have a wedding to plan, I'm sure he'll want to invite you all. He talks nonstop about you lot, so it's really good to meet you all. And I'll meet Molly soon, I'm sure."

"He talks about us?" Anderson asked, Sally still too scared of John's temper to say anything.

"Of course! He holds you all in high regard after all. I know he doesn't say it, well, ever, but don't mistake Sherlock for someone who doesn't care for his friends. And believe me, you are his friends. Even if you don't realize it. He'd do anything for any one of you in a heartbeat. Now, I better go, before he finds another clue and runs off without me," John said, waving at the group behind him.

Sherlock smiled and snuggled a head into the shorter man's shoulder, and the doctor placed an arm protectively around him and squeezed. Sally gaped, along with Anderson. The car pulled up and Sherlock got in, and they couldn't hear, but saw he was talking rapidly and gesticulating wildly with his hands until John caught them and kissed one and slid into the back of the cab beside him.