"You're late."

John could make up ten thousand different excuses why he was running late that afternoon but he knew Mycroft would see through every one of them.

"Yes." John said simply taking the seat across from Mycroft. He winced slightly as he sat down. John anticipated Mycroft's subtle glance away from him, the pursing of his lips, and the slight shaking of his head. Mycroft pressed his fingers to his right temple and tapped as he looked over the menu.

"Twenty years." Mycroft hummed. John nodded. "And after all this time, you can't seem to come up with an idea for a gift." Mycroft hummed.

It was their eighth wedding anniversary but John counted the years of discontinuation and therefore remarked it as their twentieth anniversary. In his mind it made it more impressive.

No, I haven't been putting up with Sherlock's nonsense for eight years: I've been putting up with it for two decades, thank you very much.

"I hear business is booming." Mycroft said into his menu.

"Yes well… we have your… um." John paused awkwardly. "We have the Detective Inspector to thank for that."

"Not a fan of the publicity?" Mycroft chuckled softly.

"Yeah well… people talk."

"They do little else, John." Mycroft put his menu down. "Honestly, what the press says shouldn't worry you so deeply."

"The press will turn, they always turn, and they'll turn on Sherlock."

"Oh, the Boffin Holmes will be the light of the public's eye for years to come."

"I just wish he'd keep a low profile."

"Worried they'll make him out to be a fraud? That they'll say he's stupid or wrong?"

"That would just make them stupid and wrong. I know he's for real. Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

Mycroft held back a smile. "Why must you put so much weight on this anniversary, when you know he could care less?" John frowned and let out a sigh.

"He may not care, but I do." John said in a 'so there' manner. "He deserves something special."

"Like a swift kick in the pants." Mycroft mumbled under his breath. John fought back a laugh.

Yes he does.

But he wasn't about to go admitting it to Mycroft.

"He really does hate my father's ring, doesn't he?" Mycroft asked looking at John's hand.

"Yes well… he tries pinning it on me. Saying I'm the one who can't stand to wear it, when I know he can't stand the sight of it." John fiddled with the well-worn ring on his finger. Mycroft stared at it pointedly. John nodded and slid the ring off his finger, placing it into Mycroft's outreached palm. "I take it you have a place for it?" Mycroft nodded. "Congratulations." John forced a grin.

"Resentment?" Mycroft asked, pocketing the ring.

"No." John thought a moment. "Just find it hard to wrap my head around."

"In time, you'll come to accept it." Mycroft reassured.

"Just… I never really came to full terms… what exactly my feelings for you were." He blushed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's weird seeing you move on, you know?"

"While some men become trapped in time, others must move forward."

"I just don't want to see you hurt is all." John felt an uncomfortable awkwardness creep into his consciousness. "You're not made of ice you know." John let out a deep sigh.

"I appreciate your concern, but I believe I can manage."

"He has five kids you know." John reminded him.

"Yes, I'm aware."

"You hate kids." John put simply. Mycroft looked at him half-lidded. "Plays football." John added. "Last time I checked-"

"Yes, I know, I hate that too." Mycroft let out a sigh. "So I don't approve of everything."

"Kind of hard not to approve of his children." John said nonchalantly.

"John, don't talk me down from this because a terrible little part of you so desperately wants to see me alone and miserable for the rest of your life."

"It's not you." John looked at his menu, not wanting to meet Mycroft's gaze. "It's him."

"You believe you couldn't handle seeing your childhood friend and your first true boyfriend together?" John shook his head. "Imagine how I feel seeing you with my brother."

"Touché." John mumbled.

"We are men." Mycroft stated. "We will never get over our old scores and resentments. It is these grudges that define us and we will carry them to our graves because we were never meant to be."

"I don't hate you." John said looking up from his menu.

"Nor do I, you."

"Then it's settled." John said setting down the menu and letting out a heavy sigh. "But don't come limping to me when things don't go your way."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Like you've come to me today?" John blushed slightly, hoping he wouldn't bring it up. "You've been without a limp for five years. Yet today-"

"All right, all right, you've got me." John said dismissing the awkward topic. "But in my defence… it is our anniversary."

The rest of the lunch date went on without much conflict. They resorted to talking about less touchy subjects, like politics and religion.

John left Mycroft with an awkward handshake and another half-hearted congratulation. He set his mind to the task at hand and made it his mission to hunt down the perfect anniversary gift for Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wouldn't care, but it was worth a shot. All the sentimental mush made Sherlock highly volatile. Sherlock hated homo-normativity. He despised complex gender roles and wished to remain ambiguous.

The word 'husband' would set him off. There was no 'husband' or 'wife' in their relationship, nor were they 'husbands'. John had made the mistake of bringing home fresh cut flowers one day. They were immediately plunged into a vat of liquid nitrogen; then shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen table.

"You might as well have given me a terminally ill puppy!" Sherlock shouted. "Here! Enjoy this while you still can! Before it withers and dies!" John would never spend twenty pounds on a bouquet of flowers again.

Sherlock had a strong opinion about anything slightly romantic and usually such acts were met with great detest. Sometimes he just wanted sex and John was much obliged to skip over the romantic foreplay and just indulge the insatiable detective.

Their relationship was confusing at best. Sherlock alternated between giving John the cold shoulder and not speaking for days to not shutting up for hours on end and clinging on to the poor man for dear life, and begging him to never leave. He confused John greatly. He was unpredictable and wild.

Sherlock was so wildly unpredictable you couldn't even predict that he would be unpredictable and sometimes he'd do exactly what you would predict a person to do. For example: one day John was thoughtful enough to stop by the morgue on the way home and pick up a bag of human thumbs that Molly had set off to the side for him. Sherlock actually thanked John like a decent human being and gave him a peck on the cheek. It was times like these that John became highly concerned that Sherlock was experimenting with drugs.

Sherlock not only confused John to no ends; he also took great joy in messing with the weak and feeble minds of the Scotland Yarders. His favourite target, of course, being DI Lestrade.

"So… it was the boy's father what did it?" Lestrade asked after Sherlock spelled out a long and mind-numbing description of the murder.

"Yes. Unless he wasn't the boy's father, then it wouldn't be."

"Wouldn't be what?"

"It wouldn't be the father that performed the crime."

"But it was?" Lestrade asked confused.

"Yes. Or at least he thought he was."

"You mean to say… it was the boy's father that killed him, only it wasn't." Lestrade tried to clarify.

"Exactly."

"Now hold on. How could he…" Greg stopped and tried to gather his wits. "Is he the boy's father or not?"

"Of course he isn't the boy's father, look at the turn-ups on his jeans." On that note, Sherlock left the crime scene, leaving Lestrade to fill out the paper work.

John couldn't imagine the Detective Inspector and the British Government together, he really couldn't. Mycroft was more convoluted and mysterious than Sherlock, although the thought seemed impossible. Sherlock was the epitome of mystery but his brother defined secrecy, making him far more enigmatic.

At least with Sherlock there was some hint at what was going on in his head. John could almost read his mind at times. He knew when Sherlock meant the inverse and when he meant what he said.

"John, I can't possibly sleep now. I'm in the middle of a break through!" Really meant "John if you don't get me to bed now, I'm going to keel over from exhaustion and I'll blame you in the morning for not putting me to bed sooner." And when Sherlock stated he thought a woman's time was better spent in the kitchen, well unfortunately, he meant Mrs. Hudson should give up at her sad attempt at a love life and make him dinner.

John knew when to read between the lines and when to leave things well alone. They were truly made for one another.

With Sherlock, John was never bored. He'd forget all about his leg when they were on cases together. They were absolutely inseparable.

John could never stay mad at the man for very long. He'd banish him to the sofa, only to find him on top of him the next morning, leg wrapped around his torso, moaning loudly in his ear. He was madly in love with Sherlock.

That is why, on this particular day, he was going to find the perfect gift. Mycroft had given him inspiration, taken away his ring, which suggested he should purchase another. However it didn't seem like that proper solution to the conundrum.

What could he give Sherlock that would floor him? Make his clothes explode of his body, not that they didn't already. John rattled his brain, searching for a solution. He stopped in front of a costume shop. Thought a moment and went in.

When he returned home, package in hand, Sherlock met him at the door. He looked at the parcel in John's hand.

"Present." He said snatching it away. He looked at the brown wrapping, very confused. John couldn't help but smile.

"Know what it is?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows and concentrated. He took great pride in being able to deduce the contents of packages, but this one had him baffled. He looked at John, then the package, then back at John again. He looked absolutely puzzled. John was elated.

Curiosity got the better of him and Sherlock finally ripped open the package. "It's a hat." He said looking it over. He was thoroughly perplexed. "What kind of hat is it anyway? Is it a cap?" John smiled and took a seat on the sofa while Sherlock started turning the hat over in his hands. "Why's it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker." John held back a laugh and started thumbing through the day's newspaper.

"How do you stalk a deer with a hat? What are you going to do, throw it?" Sherlock took a stance and made a throwing motion without releasing. "Some sort of death Frisbee?" John was quite pleased with himself. "It's got flaps. Ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John." He threw the death Frisbee to John who caught it between his hands. "I hope you don't expect me to wear that."

"No, but I knew it'd have you entertained."

"On second thought." Sherlock walked over and grabbed the hat. He put it on and walked over to the mirror.

"You aren't seriously considering-"

"I could perhaps pull it off… if only just." Sherlock grinned at his reflection. His face turned sour after a moment. "Well it's the thought that counts." He said taking of the cap. He gently set it on top of the skull on the mantel. "Finally did away with that ring, I see." John looked at his finger as if he'd forgotten.

"Oh yes." He said, trying to play it cool.

"Mycroft must be devastated." Sherlock said taking a seat in his chair.

"He was the one that took it back."

"Oh." Sherlock said raising his eyebrows. "Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of this week?"

"I would think not." John admitted. "It's Greg, he'll never go for it."

"My brother is used to heart break." Sherlock said casually. He went to grab his violin.

"Wait." John interjected. "The hat isn't all I've got for you."

"Did it come with a matching pipe?"

"Nope."

"Monocle?"

"Give it a real guess." John chuckled.

"What else would a costume shop carry?"

"Didn't get it at a costume shop." Sherlock stood up and made his way over to John. He grabbed the parcel's wrapping once more.

"You got it near a costume shop… in Battersea." Sherlock looked over the brown paper packaging. He stepped close to John and started sniffing. John laughed. Sherlock brought his face close to John's shirt. "You didn't." Sherlock said with an air of disgust. He stepped back and looked John over.

"You said-"

"I know what I said but honestly John. It is a big responsibility, one that I don't believe you are ready for."

"Plenty of couples-"

"You should have asked!" Sherlock looked at him. "God I hope it isn't terminally ill."

"I swear it isn't. The vet has had him all checked over, he's up to date on all his shots."

"They just say that so you'll pay the fee, no questions asked." Sherlock sneered. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing! I swear." John crossed his heart.

"Why would it be in a dog rescue then?"

"He's retired."

"Retired? It's a dog…"

"A former police dog."

"Bloodhound?" Sherlock asked with a hint of excitement.

"Sort of." John shrugged.

"Send it back." Sherlock said turning away.

"Sherlock." John whined.

"Oh God. Don't tell me you've already formed an attachment with the horrid beast." There was a rap at the door. "Mrs. Hudson! Go away! I don't want the stupid thing." Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a sad looking basset hound hobbled in. "Some present." Sherlock huffed crossing his arms. "I suppose it came with a name." Sherlock scowled.

"Gladstone." John said.

"Toby it is." Sherlock said defiantly. John laughed.

"You can't rename him! He's six years old! He won't know what to make of it." John let out a sigh. "All right… you name him whatever you want, he's your dog."

After Dumb-arse passed away at the ripe old age of seventeen, there was an empty feeling to the flat. Sherlock would never admit it, but he adored that stupid cat. John thought a dog would fill the void. He was already trained, well behaved, and docile. He would make the perfect companion when John was away, though he didn't leave often.

"What does it do?" Sherlock asked after a long silence.

"What do you mean, what does it do? It's a dog for Christ's sake!" John laughed. Sherlock knelt and lifted each of Toby's large droopy ears. Toby sneezed. He gave Sherlock a worn out look.

"He has your likeness John."

"I look like a droopy old hound dog?" Sherlock didn't respond. John took that as a yes. "Thanks, love you too." John said and resumed scanning the newsprint. Toby sprung into action, or rather toddled into action, he put his nose flush to the floor and started exploring his new surroundings.

His ears were so long they near dragged on the carpet. His short stubby legs moved with an odd grace as he bounced along the floor, wagging his tail.

"Think he's on the trail of something?" John asked putting down his paper to watch the hound dog, who had stopped in front of Sherlock's chair. He planted his bottom firmly on the ground and let out a howl. Sherlock was intrigued. He walked over and shifted the chair across the floor to reveal a stale biscuit that had obviously been there quite some time. Toby gobbled it up and Sherlock plopped down in his chair, severely disappointed.

John couldn't help but laugh at the two. Toby seemed exhausted from the excitement, he lay down with a loud 'oof' and his eyes immediately started becoming heavy. Sherlock rested his feet on Toby's back and like that, they had a new member of the family.

Toby wasn't the loyalist of dogs or the bravest, but he was highly intelligent. He knew how to pull at John's heart strings and was a well fed fellow. John spoiled him rotten while Sherlock tried to shape him in his image of the perfect bloodhound.

"Sit Toby." Sherlock commanded. "Sit." Sherlock repeated. Toby stood defiantly. He started to pant. "Oh you…" Sherlock growled. "Is this how you get your kicks? You are a mockery!" He shouted. "How dare you call yourself a hound!" Sherlock put his hands on his hips and scowled at the beast. "I've seen better obedience from a cat!" Toby's ears perked up. "Yes that's right, a mangy little feline has… Toby!"

Toby walked away from Sherlock and to John who was in the kitchen tearing open a fresh packet of treats.

"Sit Toby." John said gently. Toby sat. Sherlock growled. He walked over to the sofa, threw himself on it, and began having a proper sulk. "Sherlock if you'd-"

"Stop inflicting your opinions on the world!" Sherlock shouted and pressed his face into the cushion. He let out deep sighs and John ignored him. The sighs rattled in Sherlock's throat and turned into groans. John turned to look at Sherlock who appeared to be in turbid agony.

"Sherlock." John complained. Toby whined at John who was holding the treat in his hand. "Sorry boy." John said feeding him the treat. Sherlock grumbled something from the sofa. "I do not love the dog more than you!" John shouted handing Toby another treat. He patted Toby's head and Sherlock started groaning incessantly loud and whining. "Well if you listened half as well as Toby, perhaps you'd get…" John checked the package. "Lamb and beef liver treats." John made a face and looked at Toby who was licking his chops. "Yum." He grimaced.

John walked over to Sherlock with Toby in tow. "Want one Sherlock?" John teased. Sherlock rolled over and glared at him. He grabbed the bag from John's hand and looked over the back.

"Key ingredients: Lamb, lamb liver, beef, and beef liver. Thirty-percent moisture." Sherlock read. He looked up to catch a glimmer of something in John's eyes. Sherlock grinned in response. John licked his bottom lip.

"You gonna eat that?" John giggled. Sherlock smirked, John knew he couldn't back down from a dare. He threatened to pop one in his mouth and John stopped him. He felt like his ribs were going to split from laughter.

The two men were forever teenagers at heart.

They would eventually retire on a small farm on the Sussex Downs. Sherlock would fulfill his lifelong wish of living among the bees, however he won't do so as a hermit as he had once wished. Nor will he have amassed his small fortune from drug smuggling and prostitution. He will set aside the dull and dreary task of financial upkeep to his trusted companion, John of course.

Sherlock will get in a huff when his book, the Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, will fail to meet the mass market he intended. Sherlock won't be upset because of the public's lack of interest in the bees, but rather will be cross at their seemingly unwarranted interest in John's book, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. In which he details all of their greatest cases, including the unsolved ones.

"Oh, why'd you have to go and mention the unsolved ones?" Sherlock will whine.

"People want to know you're human."

"Why?"

"Cos they're interested."

"No they're not." Sherlock will pout. "Why are they?"

"Look at that. Eight hundred ninety-five copies sold, since just this past Tuesday. This is your living, Sherlock. Not twenty thousand species of bees."

"Nineteen thousand, two-hundred. Do your research."

For now, Sherlock and John seemed light years away from bickering about books and bees. They had a good many years ahead of them and many adventures to fill the pages of John's book.

John reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair and Sherlock matched his movements, running his long fingers through John's short sandy hair. Toby grabbed the packet of treats and tottered off with them to give the men some privacy.

John leaned down and caught Sherlock's lips in his own. Sherlock's pocket buzzed and both men groaned. Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

His eyes flittered across the screen a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. John grabbed the newspaper on the coffee table and let out a sigh.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four." Sherlock smiled.

"And there's something different this time?" John inquired.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did." Sherlock sat up quickly. He was practically wiggling with excitement.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Sherlock bit his bottom lip to hold back a squeal of joy. He jumped up and on to his feet. "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He made fast pace to his coat hanging on the back of the door. He started wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"So you're off then?" John asked with a hint of hurt in his voice.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!"

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." John held back a smile at Sherlock's rambunctiousness.

"Who cares about decent? The game is afoot!" Sherlock threw on his coat and turned up the collar. He grabbed the deerstalker cap and fitted it snugly on his head. "Come, Toby!" Sherlock shouted with a whistle. Toby begrudgingly hobbled over to Sherlock's side, his tummy was full of treats. He yawned as Sherlock fixed the lead on his collar. Sherlock opened the door and started to head out. He turned on his heels in the doorway. "Well?" he asked.

John looked around. "Well what?"

"Coming?"

"If you want me to…" John said sheepishly.

"Of course." Sherlock grinned brightly. "I'd be lost without my husband."

In that precise moment, all was right with the world, and everything was as it should be.

Because now when someone says Sherlock Holmes, the first thing that comes to mind is

John Watson