Hi, lovely readers! This is the promised sequel to Games of Broken Stars, which I wanted to release before the series finale on Saturday. I wrote this back in April before I knew that the final episode would deal with this same plot point, so I wanted to get my take on the Doctor's name out there before it became non-canon. I hope you enjoy it!

Need your assistance immediately. Very dangerous. Bring weapons. SH

Where are you? JW

Florist's. Mycroft is forcing me to pick flower arrangements for the reception. SH

I'll bring your revolver, then. JW

Much appreciated. Make haste, if you will. He's talking of hydrangeas. SH

Hydrangeas, John. SH

John? SH

John still received the panicked texts but decided to let Sherlock squirm for a bit. Each message made him smile—that familiar smile that told everyone exactly who he was texting. The surgeons at the hospital recognized it. Molly had come to loathe it against her own principles. It was the quintessential Sherlock-Is-Texting smile that told everyone how insanely smug John Watson was that Sherlock still needed him around.

But that was to be expected for the average fiancé receiving a text from his intended.

John, respond if not dispatched. Otherwise I will leave the florist's and avenge you. SH

He chuckled at Sherlock's best attempt at flirting.

We can't have that, can we? Calm down. I'm literally a block away. JW

Hurry up. Bored. SH

You're always bored. JW

Flowers, John Watson. SH

Not Watson for much longer, darling. JW

We did not discuss the issue of last names. You are sorely mistaken if you believe that I would ever change my name to Sherlock Watson-Holmes, or any variation of our two surnames that involves hyphenation. I don't expect you to do it just to spite me. SH

He'd been teasing Sherlock for weeks that he expected them to change their last names together, to his fiancé's endless chagrin.

John could see him texting furiously on his phone through the shop window and couldn't help but laugh at the sight of Sherlock Holmes in some posh, girly store, surrounded by arrangements of roses and carnations. His brother, Mycroft, looked even more out of place.

The bell tinkled as he opened the door and walked into the floral shop, overwhelmed by the heady scent of overripe flowers, and answered Sherlock's text in person. "I'm not expecting you to change it in public, dear—it would ruin your business cards. But in private, you should know that I'm going to call you Mr. Watson-Holmes."

Sherlock turned around and looked mildly annoyed, but John could read his relief in his posture. "And what will the others call you?"

"Doctor Watson-Holmes."

"And what will I call you?"

"Oh, definitely Captain," he said with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock gave him a wink for good measure, and Mycroft cleared his throat.

"If you two are quite finished, let's keep the sweet nothings to a minimum," he sniffed, twirling his umbrella against the floor. "Sherlock, John, we do have business to attend to."

"I didn't think we'd see you today, Mycroft," John said in greeting. "This really doesn't seem like your sort of thing."

"The wedding of a government official's brother, especially one as famous as Sherlock Holmes, is a state event," clarified Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This is why I never involve you in anything."

"Dear brother, I'm only trying to give you the wedding of your dreams. Is that such a crime?"

John interrupted. "Mycroft, we only wanted to have a small ceremony with close friends and family in attendance. We only let you take over because you insisted. Let's keep it cordial, yeah?"

"Quite." Mycroft turned to the shop girl and had her bring out several huge arrangements of flowers. Everything seemed to follow the theme of white—there were white orchids, white roses, white peonies with pussywillows, and Sherlock's dreaded hydrangeas. "All right, men, which one do you prefer?"

John frowned at the influx of blinding flowers. "Er, I don't really know. You don't have to spend so much money on flowers, really. We're fine without them."

"Nonsense. The flowers are an integral part of the ceremony."

Sherlock huffed. "Ignore him, John. He's only fretting about this whole wedding business because he's invited some very important foreign diplomats from the East, and he wants to impress them."

Mycroft got red in the face and blustered. "I—I am simply worried—concerned—I want this to be—"

"Right, it's fine." John pointed to the peonies. "These'll do. Roses are rubbish, anyway. All right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked mollified. "Take care of it, Mycroft. I daresay this wedding business is easy for us two, since all we have to do is pick the flowers and show up. Come on, John, Lestrade has a serial killer for us."

He grabbed his hand and all but ran out of the shop, already texting Lestrade that they were on their way and hailing a cab.

"Blimey, Sherlock," John wheezed as he tugged him into the cab. "I have a shift down at the hospital in a half hour."

"Unimportant."

"Yes, important. Remember, we talked about this?" John crossed his arms as the cabbie took them to Scotland Yard. "You have your work, and while I love joining you on your cases, I do have a job of my own. And I have responsibilities."

Sherlock looked back through his memories of the past few days. "I might have deleted that conversation."

Earlier on in their relationship—hell, even their friendship—this would have driven John up a wall. But after two years of being in a relationship with this impossible man, John had truly learned the value of patience. It rewarded him well. "Well, we talked about it. If we're going to be married, we still have separate lives apart from each other."

"I know that," Sherlock said shortly. John waited for the inevitable 'but'. "But I don't want to. I mean, I don't want to be separate. Bad things happen when we're separate."

John remembered the events that happened years ago, clear in his mind despite the time gone by. He thought of finding Sherlock with the cabbie, of being kidnapped by Moriarty, of watching Sherlock jump. Of jumping into an impossible box, getting attacked by a rogue Cyberman, getting kidnapped by Moriarty once again and falling to his near-death with Sherlock, and according to the Doctor, his actual death in another timeline. He understood exactly what Sherlock meant and reached out a hand to take Sherlock's pale one in his own.

"Hey," he said quietly, "I didn't mean that. I understand. You know that I don't want to leave you, ever. I only meant that…well, you'd go mad if I was always about. Alone time is good, sometimes."

Sherlock squeezed his hand. "Whatever you say, darling," he said, his voice tingeing with sarcasm.

"Do you remember how you proposed to me?" John smiled brightly at him, changing the subject.

"I recall you saying it was 'the most bloody twisted idea of romance' you'd ever seen."

"Oh, I was just shocked. I never thought you'd actually ask me to marry you. You don't think much of it."

"I don't," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It's an outdated, sentimental tradition and a waste of money. But Mycroft's paying for everything, anyway."

"Darling…"

"Sorry. I don't think much of marriage, but you do. Which is why I asked you to marry me—I do want to make you happy, you know."

John got a secret burst of pride at Sherlock's sacrifice. "You know you don't have to do that for me. I would be happy just being with you for the rest of my days, no marriage required."

"The marriage license will come in handy when it's time to draw up adoption papers."

John choked at that, which Sherlock ignored as the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Scotland Yard. "Are you quite all right?"

"Sherlock, did you just say—"

"Hold that thought—I've got a text."

John grumbled and stepped out of the cab with his fiancé, who swatted at his arm as he read the message.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything, Sher—"

"You're thinking too loud. It's annoying."

-Afternoon, gorgeous. What are you up to?

Sherlock smirked.

Nothing that can't wait. Are you in town? Can we meet? SH

-When will you be free, sweetie?

Serial killer with John, then an evening of writing vows. SH
-Ahh, marital bliss. Your flat at 6?

Bring milk. John won't get any until I write my bloody vows. SH

"Who're you texting?" John asked, a tiny bit concerned. "Not some boyfriend you've been hiding, right?"

"Oh, John, what must it be like to be you?" Sherlock sighed, kissing the tip of his nose. "We're getting a visitor tonight. Let's try and not get our hands dirty on this one."