Molly held the wedding invitation loosely in her left hand. The cup of tea that had been clutched in the other was tipping over slowly, spilling tea on her dress, but she didn’t notice. She quickly scanned the invitation again. You are invited to the wedding of John Watson and Mary Mortstan. Molly shook her head in disbelief. How had this happened? What about Sherlock? John loved him. Why was he getting married? A scalding sensation on her thigh drew Molly out of her reverie, and she set the invitation aside. She would wonder about this later. For now, there were brains that needed dissecting.


2. Part 1

3 Months ago...


             John Watson sighed. He should have known that Sherlock remembering to pick him up was impossible, but there was always that slight hope that maybe, just maybe, he meant more than a saliva coagulation experiment did to Sherlock Holmes. Apparently not. Sighing again, he heaved up the groceries and started the long trek home.


‘Oh, you’re back already.’

Sherlock Holmes was lying on the floor with his hands in the air, giving the room’s newest occupant a blank look. John, yet again, sighed inwardly.

‘I’ve been gone for three hours, because someone-’ he glared at Sherlock ‘forgot to pick me up, even after I’d specifically asked them to.’



Sherlock slowly turned his head. ‘You’ve been gone two hours, and you shouldn’t have taken Elm Street. It would have been quicker not to.’

John groaned, dumped the groceries and flopped down on the sofa. ‘Go on. Stoke your ego and tell me how you knew I had taken Elm Street.’

Sherlock smiled. ‘Elm street is one of three places between this flat and the shop that sells Chinese food. You smell like Chinese, so you took Elm Street, Winchester Street or Locksley Street. Locksley Street is closed for repairs, so it wasn’t that one, and Winchester street has covers over that walkways, but you’re wet from the rain, all of which points to the fact that you took Elm Street.’

John ground his teeth. ‘If you’re so clever, you do the shopping, make the meals, hoover the floor, remove fingernails from the microwave-’

‘Those were for a very important experiment.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘How loudly you would scream when you found them.’

Had John Watson not been a man of extraordinary patience, Sherlock Holmes would have now been finding it very hard to breathe.


‘God, I’m bored. John, do something interesting.’

John Watson peered over the top of his newspaper. Sherlock was lying draped over the arms of a chair, his head flung back dramatically. John considered. Anything to make him shut up.

‘Go and find three people that have a massive secret that no one else knows, then write it on here.’ John handed Sherlock a blank pad. ‘That should keep you busy for a few hours.’

Sherlock stood. ‘Five minutes.’


‘If I can do this in five minutes, will you do something interesting?’

John rolled his eyes. He may be Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn’t that good.


Sherlock gave a smile that would have had Chuck Norris running for cover.



1:37. Sherlock weaved in and out of the crowd, searching. That lady with the hat? No, her husband knew that she was cheating on him. The shopkeeper with five years to live? Nope, common knowledge. Aha! That woman! Judging by her clothes, she worked in a big corporate office, but she had no tea or coffee stains on her teeth, so she wasn’t English and she had a vague accent... German? No, Russian. That napkin she was holding was too stiff to have ever been used, but quite old judging by the edges, which meant she was taking it out of her pocket regularly. She was holding it close to her mouth... a miniature walkie-talkie! She was a corporate spy! Sherlock smiled, snapping a quick picture of her, and jotting down his findings in his notebook. One down, two to go.

2:50. What was happening to England? Why didn’t more people lie and cheat and steal? Sherlock frowned and glared at the crowd of people moving past him as though they had done him a great personal wrong. Did that man’s girlfriend know he was gay? Yes, she did, but she was going to cling to him till the end. Was the Chinese shopkeeper aware that his daughter was skimming off the profits? He’d known for ages. God, why were so many people so annoyingly truthful? Sherlock suddenly sat up a little straighter. What was that in the road worker’s pocket? Why did he look so furtive? Ah ha! A thief! Sherlock smiled, snapped a photo and jotted it down in his notebook. Finally, someone bad.

4:01. John watched Sherlock through the apartment window. He looked a bit frantic, his head bobbing up and down through the crowd as he searched. Suddenly, he stopped. John frowned as he watched him race through the door and heard his feet slapping on the stairs. If Sherlock thought he could get away with making up the third entry, then he was going to get a piece of John Watson’s mind.

Sherlock burst through the door, panting and waving his pen in John’s direction.

‘You- you-’ He took a deep breath. ‘You think that I don’t know what you think every time someone thinks that we’re... you know.’ He made a wafting gesture between them with his hands. ‘You think I don’t know how much you want to not correct them.’

John swallowed. Damn it. He had noticed. ‘So, three big secrets in five minutes. Must be a record.’

Sherlock grinned. ‘Now you’ve got to do something interesting. Go on. Something I won’t expect.’

John studied Sherlock carefully. He knew just the thing to wipe the smile off his face. Leaning forwards, John began to close his eyes... and slapped Sherlock hard. He staggered back slightly, an expression of hurt on his face.

‘I thought you were going to kiss me!’

John smiled serenely and settled back into his armchair with the newspaper.


Sherlock shook his head and flopped into the chair opposite his roommate’s. He leant forwards till he was on the edge of his seat, craning his neck to see what John was reading. The paper was still too far away, so Sherlock simply removed it from John’s hands. John slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘You could have asked.’

Sherlock shook out the paper contentedly. ‘It would have taken too long.’

John resisted the now familiar impulse to strangle the man sitting opposite him, and instead studied him through half-closed eyes. The sunlight streamed through the window behind him, creating a golden halo effect on Sherlock’s mop of curly brown hair, and sending shadows flickering across his ridiculously high cheekbones. John wondered vaguely what they would feel like if he ran his thumb over them, then mentally shook himself for being ridiculous. God, he needed to get out. Standing up once more, he glared at Sherlock for being such a beautiful bastard, grabbed his coat, and stalked out the door. He wondered if that girl at the clinic wanted someone to buy her dinner.

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