Back by popular demand, here's the sequel to Chapter One, If an Agent Asks for a Favour…

James reloaded the .22, smiling. "This Sherlock bloke of yours, he sounds insane."

John laughed from his place a lane over in the shooting range. "He is," he admitted, "but it keeps me on my toes. At least I'm never bored."

"And what is it that he does again? He's some kind of private detective?"

"A consulting detective," John corrected. "Never call him a private detective in his presence."

James chuckled. "And the two of you solve crimes together?" John nodded. "Sounds a bit grim."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, what do you do for a living again?"

James laughed, "Fair enough." He glanced over to John's target, and whistled. "Still a crack shot, I see. I don't know how you do it."

"You're not too bad yourself," John laughed. "Now, tell me about this Q fellow."

James smirked. "That's classified information, you know."

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

He laughed, "I guess not. Q is more of his code name, I suppose. It stands for Quartermaster. He's the head of the TSS here. Bloody genius, that's what he is. Chances are he's probably listening in right now." James smiled and waved to the camera in the corner.

John's brows rose. "And he's how old?"

"He's not as young as you might believe. Besides, I said nearly the same thing when we first met, and you know what he said?"

"Hm?"

James quoted, "'Age is no guarantee of efficiency.'"

John laughed. "Bugger threw your age back in your face!"

"Oi! I'm not that much older than you, you arse."

"Hey, remind me again what the mandatory retirement age is for a Double-O. I thi-" James reached over and slapped him upside the head. "Ouch!"

James sniggered.

"You think that's funny?" John asked, setting his gun down.

James mirrored his actions. "And if I do?" They both stared at one another, sizing the opponent up.

"No balls?" John asked.

He nodded. "No balls. First to get the other pinned wins?"

"Sounds fair. Come and get me, old man."

James charged. John took off towards the sparring mats, James hot on his tail.

A leg kicked out at John's ankles, and John immediately went into combat mode. Dodge, punch, block, kick. He revelled in the feeling of power.

James fought like John remembered – mostly offensive, using his size and strength to his advantage. John fought using his medical knowledge; he remained mainly on the defensive side, except for a few well placed hits that were meant to cause maximum damage.

James growled, "I swear, John, if you go for my kidney or liver one more time, I'll put a bullet in your other shoulder."

"If it hurts that badly, then maybe you shouldn't drink so much," John panted, and then hissed in pain when James tackled him to the ground.

They both grappled on the floor for a while, each trying to pin the other.

"You're still in very good shape," James managed to get out.

"Thanks." John swung at James' temple, but was deflected. "My secret workout is jumping over rooftops in the dead of night."

"Not bad," James said. "I rode a motorcycle over the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar."

John paused, "You what?!"

James used the distraction to get the upper hand, quickly placing the doctor in a headlock.

"Damn you, James." John hissed, trying to wriggle out.

"Call me old again," James threatened.

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry. You're not old, you're… vintage. Now let me up."

James released John, who winced as he flexed his shoulder. "Just for that, you're buying dinner."

Sherlock felt his phone buzz as he hunched over the bodies. His suspicions were confirmed.

"Yes, this is obviously a double murder-suicide," he said to Lestrade.

"How many times do we have to tell you, there's no gun," Donovan hissed.

"Well then you'll have to do a little detective work and find it, won't you?" Sherlock snapped. He turned back to Lestrade, "The husband killed himself. It's the only thing that makes sense."

Anderson scoffed. "Right, I see. So the husband killed his wife and this man, and then shot himself. But, while he was bleeding out, he decided to hide the gun, just to make our lives harder. It makes perfect sense," he mocked.

Donovan joined in, slapping her forehead. "Oh, of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Doing his best impression of Sherlock, Anderson looked down his nose at her and said, "Because you're an idiot." They laughed.

Sherlock stayed silent, before realising that he was waiting for John to defend him. He frowned as he thought of his partner. Honestly, the man was overreacting. It was only a dinner; they could have hundreds more like it. It wasn't that important.

He huffed at Anderson and Donovan. "Are you two quite done yet?"

They continued to laugh. Anderson sneered, "Honestly, Sherlock, just give this one up. It's obviously a triple homicide."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Perhaps, if you simply did your job and observed for once, you'd find that the husband's wound was clearly self administered. Plus, there's the obvious fact that he has gunpowder on his hands – rather incriminating, don't you think?"

They were finally silent. Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "The man in the kitchen was the wife's lover – you can tell from his shoes. The husband probably came home, caught them together, and shot him in a fit of rage. The wife witnesses and threatens to call the police. By now, the husband was probably panicking – nasty business, isn't it? Emotions? – and he ended up killing his wife as well." His mobile vibrated again. "Then, feeling guilty, he kills himself next to her dead body. Domestic. Boring."

"Okay, but where's the gun?" Lestrade asked.

"Think, Detective Inspector. It isn't that hard."

Lestrade floundered. "Uh- I mean, considering where he shot himself, th- the gun would have landed… here," he gestured to an empty stretch of floor.

"Wrong. He was kneeling when he shot himself – blood on his knees confirms this. So, if he was kneeling, the gun would instead have hit the bed post and slid…" he bent down, reaching under the bed, "here." He pulled the gun out, smiling triumphantly, but there was no cry of 'amazing' or 'brilliant'. He frowned.

Lestrade sighed, "Alright, Sherlock, you've proven your point." He waved Anderson over, "Bag it." Anderson sulked, while Donovan rolled her eyes. Lestrade's eyes flickered to his watch.

"That's the twenty-second time you've checked your watch since we've arrived," Sherlock pointed out. "It's beginning to get annoying." Lestrade seemed flustered. "You obviously have a date tonight." Sherlock grimaced, "Though I can't imagine how anyone can stomach Mycroft long enough to date him."

"Careful there, Sherlock. I'll still take a swing at you. Besides, where's your partner in crime today?"

Sherlock waved his hand, avoiding the question.

"Oh, come on now, where is he?"

"He's fine," Sherlock snapped.

He tried to walk away, but Lestrade caught his arm. "Is he alright?" he asked, worried.

"I'm afraid John's a bit mad at me at the moment."

"What happened?"

"It's just a silly argument. We were meant to go on a date tonight, but I opted to come here instead. He didn't agree."

"That was tonight?" Lestrade asked, eyes suddenly wide. Sherlock looked confused. "Sherlock, John's been planning this date for weeks. He wanted to, well, he's been saving up for a while to be able to take you out."

"That's ridiculous. I could easily pay for both of us."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not the point, Sherlock. He wanted to take you out. Part of that being he's the one who pays." He glanced at the time. "The reservation was for seven. If you hurry, you might still have time."

Sherlock's mobile buzzed again. "Oh, what is it?" he hissed. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. His brows rose. Mycroft had called twice and texted three times.

Message received. 6:35 PM.
From: Queen Mycroft
You really should keep better tabs on your blogger.

Message received. 6:41 PM.
From: Queen Mycroft
Don't ignore me, brother dear.

Message received. 6:53 PM.
From: Queen Mycroft
It's obviously a double murder-suicide. Answer your phone.

Sherlock frowned. The phone rang again in his hand. He answered, "What do you mean, I need to keep better tabs on John? He's at home."

Sherlock could hear Mycroft's smirk. "No, brother dear, I'm afraid-"

Sherlock cut him off. "Then where is he?"

"It seems our John is more interesting than one may have believed." Sherlock bristled at 'our John'. Mycroft continued, "The man just walked through the back door of MI6."

Sherlock started. "What? That's insane. Have you tried calling-"

"Yes, Sherlock, that's the first thing I did."

"And?"

"And Quentin is apparently in on it as well. Well, either that or John's taken the entire building hostage. It's hard to tell," he said dryly.

"You never were good at jokes, Mycroft, please don't start now."

Mycroft ignored his jab. "I wish I could say I knew what they were up to, but your brother has blocked my access to the camera feed."

Sherlock snorted. "He's your brother, too." He ignored Lestrade's cry of 'What?!'

"He's yours when he's up to something."

Sherlock smiled. "Quentin is always up to something."

"Yes, I'm well aw- oh, hello."

"What is it?"

"It appears that Dr. Watson and an unknown man have exited the building and are driving away."

"Well, where are they going?"

"Hm, it's hard to say for certain, but my guess would be out to a restaurant. Dr. Watson does have reservations, after all."

Sherlock paled, "John wouldn't do that." Those were their reservations. John wouldn't use them with someone else.

"We'll see. I'm working on the identity of the other man now, but I'm convinced Quentin is slowing down my computers."

"Very well." Sherlock hung up.

Lestrade was immediately on him. "You have another brother? And neither you nor Mycroft thought to tell me about him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Technically, he doesn't exist. Well, he's made it to where he doesn't, anyways. Mycroft occasionally tries to rectify this, but Quentin always manages to delete himself again. I, however, have the hard copy of his birth certificate locked away, along with several embarrassing childhood photos."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're going to send me to an early grave – you and your brother both." He muttered, "This much stress can't possibly be good on the body."

Sherlock pocketed his mobile and began to make his way out of the house.

"Oh, Sherlock," Lestrade called. Sherlock turned. "Be sure to pick up some flowers on the way, yeah?"

Confused, Sherlock tilted his head. "You think I've done something wrong."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You have done something wrong, you nitwit. Now go," he shooed Sherlock away.

James and John sat across from each other in the restaurant, chatting. James glanced around. "Well, this is a rather secluded place, isn't it?"

John smiled, shaking his head. "This was meant to be a date for my boyfriend and me. Of course I wanted it secluded."

James laughed. "John, you sly fox." John kicked him under the table.

The waiter came by, handing them their meals.

"So, why am I your fill in date?" James asked.

"Well, you know how Sherlock and I solve crimes together, right?" James nodded. "I've been planning this night for weeks, trying to get everything perfect." He paused. "It's the anniversary of the day we met. I doubt he even remembers."

"Sorry, mate," James said.

John shook his head sadly. "He saved me, you know." He sighed. "I came home from Afghanistan – they wouldn't take me because of my injury, and none of the surgeries here in London would take me cause of my tremor. I don't blame them. I'm worthless as a soldier and doctor."

"John-" James started, but John cut him off.

"And then – by accident, really – Sherlock and I met. An old friend of mine introduced us. He took one look at me, knew my life story, and cured my limp." He chuckled dryly, "No more than twenty-four hours later, I killed for him."

James laughed. "Love at first sight."

John smiled. "For me it was. It took him a little longer to come around, but I eventually got to him." He shrugged. "Anyways, as I was saying, we were on our way here when he turns the cab around to visit a crime scene. He gets out and practically cancels our date."

James winced. "Ouch. Why were you leaving so early?"

John pointed to the museum across the street. "We were going to kill time there. This weekend, there's a poisons exhibit. It's got bodies and everything. Only comes around once a year."

"I'm sure he would have loved it." James smiled, but then turned and looked curiously towards the front of the building.

"What is it?" John asked.

James hummed. "Not sure. I thought I heard shouting." From their position in the building, it was hard to see the hostess' station clearly.

John frowned. "Odd. Well, whoever it was must've left."

They continued to eat, but a hostess soon came back and scurried to their table. "Dr. Watson?" she asked, looking between the two of them.

John raised his hand. "Yes, here."

"Right," she seemed flustered. "I'm very sorry to interrupt, but there's a man in front. He's demanding to see you. I'm not sur-"

Sure enough, Sherlock rushed into the back of the building, pushing past the other employees trying to hold him back. He scanned the crowd, nodding when he saw John. He rushed over. "John, I require your assistance," he declared.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" John hissed.

James spoke up. "Wait, you're Sherlock?" The resemblance between him and Q was uncanny.

Sherlock turned and sneered at him.

'Oh, and they even have the same glare!' James thought.

"Yes, and you are? Wait, don't tell me." He stepped back, eyes scanning over James.

"Oh, god." John placed his head in his hands.

Sherlock hummed. "John, are you aware you're currently on a date with a SIS operative? My, he has a lot of blood on his hands."

John winced. "Yes, Sherlock, I know who he is. And it's not a date."

Sherlock glanced around, taking in the candle lit table and secluded location. "Are you sure? John, my social skills may not be up to par, but this all appears to be a set up for a romantic date."

John slapped his hand to his forehead. "Because it was meant to be a date, Sherlock, but with you, you git. James is just an old friend." Sherlock froze. "Did you honestly think I would do that to you?" John huffed.

Sherlock searched for words. "I… but…"

John scoffed. "Besides," he waved his hand at James. "This one here is trying to get with your brother."

The detective frowned. "Strange, I thought Mycroft was dating Gary."

"It's Greg, and he is. I'm talking about your other brother. You know, the one you never told me about."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh, yes. You, erm, you know about him?"

"I do now, no thanks to you. How could you not think to tell me that you have another brother?"

Sherlock glared. "How could you go on a date with another man when I'm not available?"

John snapped, "It's not a bloody date! I have been planning this night for weeks, Sherlock. Weeks!" He began to raise his voice, gaining the attention of some other patrons. "And yes, I was – I am – upset that you blew me off for a stupid crime scene. But James is no more than a friend."

Sherlock began, "John, I-"

"No, Sherlock. I can't believe you think that I would – that I could – ever cheat on you. You obviously don't know me as well as I thought you did if you believe I'm capable of something like that."

John stood, placing his napkin over his half-finished meal. "James, thank you for the target practice and the dinner. I have to go."

"John-" Sherlock tried, but John held his hand up.

James said, "It's been a great evening, John. We'll get in touch soon."

John nodded, throwing a few notes down on the table and making his way out the building.

Sherlock was right on his tail. "Please, John."

"Come on, Sherlock, we're going home." John's jaw was tight as he hailed a cab.

Sherlock faltered. "You mean… you're not… leaving?" he asked timidly. Gathering a bit of courage, he asked, "You're not leaving me?"

John's eyes softened slightly. He stepped closer to his boyfriend. "No, sweetheart, I'm not leaving you. We're having an argument. It's what couples do. It's healthy, even."

Sherlock still looked unsure.

John lifted his hand and cupped the younger man's face. "Breathe for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He met John's eyes hesitantly.

"There we are." John gave a soft smile. "There are those beautiful eyes. Let's go home."

Sherlock nodded, and they slid into the back of the cab.

"221B Baker Street, please."

Gregory Lestrade sat at the table set for two, his hands folded awkwardly in his lap. The restaurant that Mycroft had told him to meet him at was admittedly more posh than anything Greg was used to, but he was willing to stick it out if it meant he would get to spend time with his boyfriend.

It didn't seem like that was going to happen tonight, though. Mycroft was forty-five minutes late to their date.

Greg tapped the table with his fingertips, picking at the basket of breadsticks. He checked his phone again, hoping for any messages. None. He sighed.

A waitress walked up to him, slightly timid. "Sir," she asked, "is there-"

Lestrade held up his hand. "No, no, he'll be here. I promise."

The woman smiled sadly. "Alright, dear." With one last sad look, she left him.

Greg sat, cheeks burning. He could feel the pitiful stares from the others around him, and hated it.

Five minutes later left him in the same position, and he clenched his jaw angrily.

Another employee, a man this time, approached him. "Sir, I'm very sorry, but we're going to have to ask for the table."

Embarrassed, Greg felt his eyes well up slightly. "Right, yes." He cleared his throat, and blinked the traitor tears away.

"Can I call someone for you?"

Greg waved away their concern. "No, I'm fine."

He began to walk towards the exit, but a gentle hand caught his elbow. "Sir, I'm afraid we still need you to pay for the wine."

He sighed, feeling a migraine about to come on. "Yeah, alright. Lead the way."

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office chair, staring intently at the computer screen.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Not now," he snapped.

"Sir," his PA's voice called. She sounded slightly nervous. "He's here."

Mycroft poured himself another glass of bourbon. "Who?"

"Your-"

The doors slammed open, banging against the walls. Greg strode in, looking furious.

Mycroft suddenly remembered. "The dinner," he breathed. He felt like smacking himself.

"Yeah," Greg flashed him a tight smile, hands curling into fists at his side. "Yes, the dinner. You forgot about that, didn't you? Do you know how I know you forgot about the dinner? Because I didn't forget, and I was there, by myself, for nearly an hour. Waiting for you."

"Gregory, I apologise, but the Korean-"

"One text. One simple text is all I needed. I would have been upset, yeah. But we could have made it up some other time, and I wouldn't have been sitting completely alone, stood up by my boyfriend of seven months."

Mycroft winced. "Gregory."

"You know, it's hard to believe that in that brilliant brain of yours, you forgot about a simple dinner."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gregory, as I tried to say, there was a crisis with Korean officials-"

"Are they more important than me?"

Mycroft froze. "What?"

"I said, are they more important than me?" Greg took a deep breath. "Is your job more important than me?"

The ginger stood, quickly crossing the room to stand in front of his partner. "No. No, please don't think that."

"I mean, I'm trying, My, I really am. I know how demanding a job can be. And-" his voice broke, and he looked around the room awkwardly. "I'm trying not to be needy or demanding, but damn Myc, a little consideration would be nice. You left me to pay for a two hundred dollar wine!"

Mycroft immediately retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. "Here, I can easily-"

"I don't want your money! Damn it, Mycroft, I want you. I want your attention. When we set a time and place to meet, I want you to keep to your word."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, eyes cast downward. Finally, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Gregory."

Greg sighed. He walked over and gathered the taller man in his arms. "What is it with you Holmes boys getting my name wrong?" he whispered into Mycroft's neck. "It's not Gavin, or Gerald, or George or Grant or Gretel or Gandalf, or even Gregory. It's Greg."

Mycroft paused. "But I like Gregory better."

"Of course you do." Greg sniggered, nuzzling into his partner's collarbone. "Fine, you can call me Gregory," he said the name with mock disdain. "But only you. I swear, if your brother calls me Gregory, I'll deck him. You know I will."

Mycroft laughed, a sound that Greg wasn't gifted with often.

He suddenly pulled back, smacking the younger man's chest. "No, I'm mad at you."

Mycroft looked bewildered. "I thought I was forgiven."

"How could you not tell me you have another brother?"

Mycroft blinked. "Quentin?"

"Oh, is that his name? You see, I don't know these things because you've never told me about him."

"Technically he's not supposed to exist."

Greg swore his eye twitched. "Sherlock said the same thing."

"Yes. You see, Sherrinford works for-"

"Sherrinford?" Greg asked.

"Sherrinford is Quentin's first name. We began to call him by his middle name after our father passed. Sherrinford was also our father's name, and it upset our mum to hear it so often."

"Right. Carry on."

"I'm not supposed to tell you this." Mycroft murmured. Greg wrapped his arms around him. "Anyway, he works for the government."

"He works for you, then?" Greg teased.

Mycroft chuckled. "He certainly doesn't see it as such. He runs the technological department of MI6."

"Christ. Is everyone in your family a bloody genius?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Generally, yes."

"God."

There was a pregnant pause, before Greg asked, "Did you know that Sherlock has you in his mobile under 'Queen Mycroft'?"

"Mmm, yes. He changed it sometime around the Irene Adler case. I can't imagine why."

Greg laughed.

Sherlock was gathered up in John's arms in the back of the cab, searching for reassurance that John wasn't going to leave him.

Sherlock spoke into John's shoulder, "Lestrade said I should have brought you flowers."

"Did he?" John mused.

He could feel Sherlock nod. "Mm. But I wasn't sure which kind you would have liked, and the lady at the flower stand was being unnecessarily rude."

John smiled. "What did you reveal about her personal life that she didn't want uncovered?"

"Why do you always assume tha-"

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock sniffed. "Simply that she was a homophobe. As soon as I said that I needed a bouquet for my boyfriend, she tried to shoo me away."

There was a slight pause. "And?" John finally asked.

"And I may have implied that her prejudice against gay couples stems from her repressed feelings for her husband's sister."

John chucked. "Oh, Sherlock."

The cabbie pulled over to the kerb. "Alright, boys, here we are."

John smiled at him, passing over the money. "Thank you."

The old man nodded, eyes twinkling.

Sherlock and John made their way upstairs. Sherlock chuckled flatly. "I don't deserve you. I don't know how you manage to put up with me."

John grabbed the younger man, folding him into his arms. "No, Sherlock, you've got it all wrong. I'm constantly worried that you'll be the one leaving me."

Sherlock buried his face into John's cropped hair. John was growing it slightly longer than usual, he noticed absently. "Impossible."

"I'm so afraid, Sherlock, that you'll get bored of me one day. That you'll find someone better, smarter, more interesting."

The brunet shook his head. "You, John Watson, are daft. You are quite simply the most interesting person I have ever met. By far. I can't fathom why you've chosen me."

John pulled back. "We'll just have to remedy that then, won't we? Come on," he tugged Sherlock toward the couch.

Sherlock gracefully sat down, while John climbed into his lap. His brows rose. "John, is this really the time f-"

John smiled, and kissed his forehead. "Shut up."

Sherlock complied, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

"This," he said, tapping Sherlock's unruly hair, "is your hair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, I am awar-"

John placed a finger over the younger man's lips. "Shush. As I said, this is your hair." He ran his hands through it. "I love it. It's dark brown, but a lot of people think it's black. I know you hate it. I know that you think it's too out of control and tangled. I know you don't really like it this long, but-"

"But it looks like absolute shit if I cut it," Sherlock finished softly, smiling.

John nodded, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock's hair. "Mmhm, just so." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and John whispered his lips over them. "These are your eyes. I love them, too. They're beautiful. Exquisite. They are endless in their depth, and so very expressive. They simply light up when you've solved a crime."

Sherlock murmured, "You should write poetry."

John ignored him. "This is your nose." He bopped it playfully. "I love it as well. It's slightly crooked, from when that arsehole broke it about half a year ago, but we both know I put him in the hospital for that." He giggled softly, "And your nostrils flare when you're angry. It's endearing."

He moved over and gently bit the shell of Sherlock's ear. "These are your ears. I love them. They're the first things to get red when you're embarrassed. You tug on them when you're tired, or thinking."

Finally John kissed Sherlock tenderly on the lips. He spoke against them, "These are your lips, your wonderful lips. I absolutely love these. They're flawlessly shaped. I know you think they're too thin, but I think they're perfect. They slot right into mine. See?" He kissed him again. "You bite your bottom lip when you're trying to solve a hard case, and I always know when you're thinking of me, because you lick them at least ten times a minute."

Sherlock smiled.

John kissed his neck next. "This is your neck. I love it. It's long, pale, and ticklish, even though you'll never admit it."

Sherlock grumbled at that. "It's too pale. It takes forever for your hickeys to go away. I'll be wearing my scarf throughout summer at this rate."

John grinned, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of Sherlock's top. "This is your collarbone. I love it. You think it's too bony, but I disagree. The best part is that it has a freckle on it right…" he pulled Sherlock's shirt out of the way, "here. This is my favourite freckle of yours." He tapped it, before leaning down and kissing it.

Sherlock reached up to pry John off, but John caught his hands in his. He pressed a kiss to each of the palms. "Mm, these are your hands. I love these a great deal. They've saved my life countless times." John played with his fingers. "I love seeing these move when you play me a song on your violin. They're long and elegant, and one day – hopefully soon – this one in particular will look spectacular with a ring on it."

Sherlock suddenly looked up at John, eyes wide and shining. "Is this your way of asking me to marry you?"

John smiled. "I'm surprised you didn't figure it out earlier. Why do you think I wanted to take you out tonight?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled. "I'd rather have it this way," he said. "I don't want to share this moment with a restaurant full of insignificant plebeians."

John laughed. "Well then, I'm glad things ended up like this. And just so you're not worried, yes, I did ask your mum first. She was positively thrilled."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. "You're so old-fashioned."

"You love it," John teased. He reached back and pulled a ring out of his pocket.

"No box?" Sherlock asked softly, eyes fixated on the ring.

"You would have known immediately had you seen the box. Hiding just the ring was much easier." The ring was a simple design, just a silver band, not too thick or thin. It was perfect.

Sherlock held his hand out, unable to keep it from shaking. John slid the ring on, thanking the heavens when it fit perfectly. Sherlock pulled John down for a kiss.

When John finally came back up for air, he whispered. "I've my old army tags up in my room. I was thinking that maybe you'd like them, so you can have something to slip the ring onto when you're working."

"John," Sherlock whispered, "that would be perfect."

"Yeah?" he asked. Sherlock nodded reassuringly. John looked relieved. "Good. Now hush, I'm still not done. This," he said, resting his hands over Sherlock's forehead, "is your brain. I love it. It's brilliant. You're brilliant. It's what makes you, you. I admire you for your ability to think circles around everyone." He suddenly turned contemplative. "But, if by some reason you were to wake up tomorrow morning with an absolutely average brain, I would still love you. If you were to get sick, and you're unable to wipe your own arse, I would still love you." John leaned forward and whispered, "When we're old and grey, and you forget how to count to ten, you'll still be my whole world. No matter what happens, I will love you."

Sherlock sighed, letting the words rush over him.

"And lastly, here," John breathed. He placed his hand over Sherlock's heart. "Here is your heart. I love it a whole lot." He smiled down at his lover. "I know you sometimes say that you don't have one, but that's not true. I've seen it. You gave it to me for safe keeping, and I'll protect it until the day I die. Even after, probably; I've always been stubborn."

Sherlock laughed, but it was watery.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. You mean everything to me. You are my love, my life."

"John," Sherlock whispered desperately, tears beginning to well. "John, John."

"I'm here, love," John said. He rolled over, gathering the taller man into his arms. "I'm here."

"I love you," Sherlock shoved his face into the crook of John's neck. "I love you so much."

John held Sherlock to him, rubbing his back. "I know, sweetheart. I love you, too."

They sat there for a while, simply holding each other. Neither could tell how long they were like that; it could have been minutes, or hours.

Finally, John pulled back slightly. Sherlock protested, and snuggled back into him. John smiled. "One thing, though, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I demand to have dinner with your younger brother."

Sherlock nodded. "M'kay. He'll set the date – his schedule is much more hectic than ours."

"Do you have his number? You said he isn't supposed to exist, so does he even have a mobile?"

"Of course he does; he's very careful. But he's probably heard already. He has bugs in our flat, you know. I find most of them, but occasionally leave some in. It's quicker than trying to get in touch with him."

"Sherlock!" John cried.

"Oh, don't worry about it, John. Just don't say anything incriminating while you're near the toaster and we'll be fine." John got up, going to the kitchen to throw out the toaster. "Also, I recommend not walking past the skull in anything less than your pants."