Fingering the bottle of wine he carried, the doctor knocked on the door. There was no answer.

"Holmes?" No answer. "Holmes?" Still no reply. He opened the door a crack. Surprisingly, the room was clean, and didn't stink of drink or smoke. The windows were open, letting in the freezing night air, the violin lay on the paper-free desk, and for the first time in it's life the dog had been confined to the hallway. Holmes was staring out the window, wearing no jacket. Watson shivered as dirty snowflakes blew into the room.

"Holmes, please."

"Leave."

"Holmes..." The figure by the window didn't move. "Holmes, come on." Watson deposited the wine and glasses he carried and guided Holmes away from the window and into an armchair. The man was amicable enough, but refused to look at him.

The doctor sighed.

"Holmes, please. You know it's necessary." There was still no response, no recognition, so Watson kept talking. "It had to happen sometime. We can't both remain bachelors forever." That produced a slight twitch, but the detective was still determined not to look at the other man. "People would start questioning, wondering. Mary's a lovely lady, you could really get to enjoy her company." The floorboards could have been scorched by the glare Holmes sent them. The doctor stared at him, silently begging, requesting even just a glance. Nothing. Watson sank into a chair, still staring intently at the other man, heart constricting in his chest.

"Please. Please? Holmes, please?" The other man turned his head even further away. "Sherlock..." The man seated across from the doctor flinched as if he had been touched by a red hot poker, and turned to face the other man for the first time, but still not looking directly at his face. He started talking, almost mildly, friendly.

"You no longer have the licence to call me that."

Spite and hurt surged through Watson. "Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." The detective's eyes flashed.

"Enough! Is it not bad enough that you are here to torment me with demons of my past-"

"Demons now, am I?" Holmes banged his hand against the arm of the chair.

"Don't you dare turn this around to be about you-"

"Forgive me, as I was under the apparently misguided impression it already was!"

"Watson-"

"John." The two men furiously eyed each other off.

"Watson-"

"John."

Holmes swallowed. "Not once have you called me Sherlock unless engaged in severely questionable acts. The few times I have tried to call you by your christian name you have warned me in no uncertain terms to desist and never make that slight again, and now, when you are just about to go off and wed a whore, you dare-"

"Holmes please! You're being utterly-"

"You- you dare tell me to stop, to calm down, when you-"

"I DID WHAT I HAD TO!" The two men stopped, breathing heavily. Somehow, during their argument, Watson had stood up and was no in severe danger of knocking over the coffee table. Holmes broke his gaze and started fiddling with the cuff of his right sleeve. The stillness broke with the eye contact, and Watson sat down slowly, staring at the bottle of wine sitting between the two.

"I had to. You know it was time for the one of us to move out, you know people were beginning to question why two very eligible bachelors were still living together."

"One." The doctor sighed.

"Holmes..."

"One. You know anyone would be an idiot to stay with me." He briefly looked at Watson, then back down. "And you know how I detest idiots."

The doctor felt a contracting in his heart. "Holmes, I promise you. This has nothing to do with you. It's... it was time. Come, don't you want to be respectable?"

"No." The doctor smiled at the childish declaration. Truly, there weren't many who could put up with the man for long. How could such a genius resort to such degrees of infancy and substance abuse? He had long come to the conclusion that such undertaking were how the detective could live in such a world that was so unchallenging for him. He leaned forward and placed his hand on the others forearm.

"Come Holmes. It will continue exactly the same as it had before, we'll just-" Holmes shook off Watson's hand and hunched as far back in the chair as he could go.

"No, it will never be the same."

"Holmes-" The exclamation was filled with hurt and disbelief.

"No. It won't. You'll be married to her, and it will always- it will always be an inescapable presence."

"Says the man who has a picture of a first-class thief on his desk." His voice was completely hollow.

"You know that is purely for pretence."

"For whom?"

"Anyone who comes in here. Better me loving someone on the other side of the law than-" Watson smiled bitterly.

"And that's why I'm marrying Mary."

Silence. For the longest time. Finally Holmes nodded, just once. Watson cleared his throat.

"Can we- may we-" Again, Holmes nodded. Watson relaxed with an exhalation and his face broke into a smile. "Excellent." He waited a moment before practically leaping up. He strode towards the windows and shut them, then closing the curtains. He stoked up the fire, all the while explaining to Holmes how he'd sent Mrs. Hudson home, how Mary was at her parents and wasn't expecting to see him until the ceremony tomorrow, how dinner was sitting in the oven downstairs, if they felt like eating at some point in the night. Holmes just sat there, eyes following Watson listlessly. And, after Watson had lit the candles, closed and locked the door, loosened his collar and sat back down in the armchair facing Holmes with a tea stain on the seat, he finally roused himself enough to ask one simple question.

"What do we do now?" Watson looked up from pouring the wine into two glasses.

"We- we save tonight."