They were at John and Mary's, celebrating the Twelfth Night for the benefit of the Little One – as he persisted in calling his godchild and honorary niece – when he received that text message.
Big Brother would like to know how serious it is between you and the Ugly Duckling.
None of his business, Andy, he quickly texted back. He can talk.
Live and let live, Goldilocks. Honestly, I thought you'd go for the Irish Selkie.
She's a good sport, but she's of no use on a crime scene.
Well, there's no accounting for taste, is there?
He smiled between himself and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
xxx
"How's your old man, Nibs?" Mary asked him as she served the punch – which was completely drug-free this time around.
"As chipper as he ever is," he replied with a shrug, the hint of a smile playing about his eyes at the memory of Father's quiet perceptiveness. "He sends his love, by the way."
"Be good to him, he's such a dear old gentleman."
"I am – most of times."
"Fibbing, Sherlock."
They both grinned; John was quite right – they were two peas in a pod, always would be.
And against all odds, they had both managed to settle into some sort of domestic life in the end.