It has been years since the incident, of which I'm only now just writing about, took place and yet I'm still apprehensive about writing about it. For the longest time I worried that if I wrote about 'it', even as a private post or scratched out on a scrap piece of paper, maybe on the back of a paper bag, Sherlock might get his hands on it, as he does with all of my wordly possessions, and be offended or worse: he may leave again.

I suppose it all started from the beginning, as most stories do. Well I guess not that far back in the beginning. Well, let's start where Sherlock comes in, or rather back in, I should say. Sorry, it's all a bit confusing. That is to say, unless you already know the story. His story. Sherlock... that is.

Let me start again. Sherlock was dead and then he wasn't. He came back, and not in any normal sort of way, not that there is a normal way to come back from the dead. Sherlock, and I still can't figure out why in God's name he did this, came back dressed as a French waiter, accent and all, and crashed my dinner-date with Mary. Not just any dinner-date, no. It had to be the night I was going to propose.

Well to make a short story long, he came crashing into my life once more and I acted how any normal human-being would: I chinned the man. I ended up leaving with my soon-to-be fiancée and in the taxi, I can still remember it to this day, she said to me, "I like him."

Red flag!

That should have been my first sign. I should have put an end to it right then and there, nipped it in the bud. End of story.

Oh but no. Then she started reading my blog. And not like as an interest or, "Hey, I've got nothing better to do, might as well pick up my boyfriend's blog, give it a read, see if I like it."

No.

That woman scoured my blog like it was 50 Shades of Grey. She read into everything like it was pure pornography. I even caught her sneaking her hand down the front of her pants a few times while reading it. TMI, I know, but it gets worse.

Then all these ideas started popping into her head: wild sex fantasies; some of them involving Sherlock and I.

I know, right?

I knew when she was thinking about us together because she'd bite her bottom lip and blush and pretend to be all coy and cute, like she thought I didn't have a clue what was going on in that head of hers.

I thought she would be the last person on Earth that I'd have to convince I was not gay, but there you have it.

"You know who we should invite out to dinner?" she asked me one afternoon over tea.

"Erm," I thought to myself, I knew it was Sherlock, but I thought I'd toy with her a bit. "Mrs Hudson?" I ventured.

"No," her voice was low and tantalizing. She was quite obviously thinking about something other than dinner.

"Greg?" I asked, matching her sultry tone.

"No."

Things were starting to heat up. She started playing with her lower lip, running her fingertips over it softly. She had a smile on that would rival the Cheshire Cat. I was stupefied by her charm and most likely had a dopey grin plastered on my face. I chuckled low and throatily like a perverted teenager.

"Well, who then?" I asked dumbly.

"You know who," she teased.

She stretched her leg out under the table and when her ankle met mine I made a sound that could only be described as, "Duh," followed by, "I dunno. Sherlock Holmes?" We both giggled like school girls.

Looking back on it, it was a shameful moment: me a grown man, acting so stupid, all because of a little flirting across the table.

"Why don't you ask him?" she asked, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

"He'll say no," I said.

"You haven't asked," she shrugged.

"Because I know his answer."

Now one thing I'll say about women: they have the mentality of a feral cat in heat. One moment they're rubbing up against you, keen on having at it, the next, they're clawing your eyes out and trying to tear your head off.

"Call him," she said with a deadly serious tone.

"Alright, alright," I said, fumbling to pull my mobile out from my dressing gown's pocket. It was Tuesday, telly, takeaway, and tantric sex-day, not invite Sherlock out for dinner-day. Why was she so intent on getting together with Sherlock all of a sudden?

I started typing away and immediately Mary was down my throat.

"Call him," she said with an exasperated tone and an overly-dramatic sigh.

"I'm sending him a text; he always replies to my texts," I explained.

"For God's sake, John. Give me that," she demanded, wrenching the phone from my grip.

"I was-"

"It just says 'Dinner' question mark!"

"Well, you know, I thought I'd keep it simple," I said in my defence.

"It doesn't say where at, what time-"

"Well we haven't... wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm calling him," she said, standing up with my phone.

"No, Mary, don't. That's my-"

I reached out for my mobile, trying to swipe it from her grasp. She held it up to her ear and turned away from me.

"Sherlock!" she said with an overly-enthusiastic tone.

"Mary," I whispered, "Mary, give that back."

"Oh, no, John's fine. We're all fine here. Say, listen, Sherlock, what would you say to dinner? Say eight o'clock?"

"Mary," I warned in a voice, only slightly above a whisper. And can you believe it? She shushed me! She even put her finger to her lips and everything, like I was a bothersome child and not her soon-to-be husband. Well, I wouldn't stand for it. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, reached out my palm, and said in my most unyielding of voices, "Mary, you give that phone back to me, right this instant."

She gave me a look, from head to toe, and then walked off with my phone, chattering away with Sherlock like they were best of friends, while I stood there like a git with my feet together and my hand out like a beggar.

There was nothing I could do but stand there with my hands on my hips, giving her a stern-look, while she waltzed around the kitchen with Sherlock on the other end. If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought she fancied him.

When she finally got around to hanging up the phone, suffice to say, I was cross.

"What was that all about?" I asked trying to keep my face void of expression.

"Have you named a best man yet?"

"No," I said with a long drawl, not sure where she was going with this. She just looked at me and she kept staring at me, trying to speak to me telepathically, and after a full minute of awkward silence, she demanded I get dressed and go name my best man.

"Now?" I asked, hopping into my jeans.

"Yes, right now, it has to be now."

"We... have... time," I grunted, trying to button my jeans closed.

"John."

I continued to struggle to make the damned jeans fit. I sucked my gut in as far as it would go, and when I finally managed to button them up.

"John, those are my jeans," Mary informed me.

I looked down at the jeans I had managed to squeeze into, "So they are," I said nonchalantly.

Mary tried to conceal her smile but ended up snorting a laugh and then couldn't calm herself down. I swear she was still laughing long after I left. (With my proper jeans on, of course).