A/N: Pure, unabashed fluff. Prepare for cavities, my dears! :)

"John," Sherlock mumbled, numb with surprise. "You…you got me a book on beekeeping?"

It was the morning of Sherlock's thirty-sixth birthday and the two of them were sitting on the kitchen floor unwrapping presents—the stools had been the latest collateral damage in an experiment on termites, unfortunately—and though the tiles were cold and Sherlock's legs were cramped from being folded, this was easily the best birthday he'd ever had. Before John, he never actually celebrated his birthday with anyone—save for his parents who gave up on the 'repetitive, tiresome' act of acknowledging his birth after two years. It was quite nice to be around someone who cared enough to bother, for once.

"I did," John agreed, smiling. "I remembered when you were going on about how bees were 'ten times better than most humans' a few months ago. Can't recall what your exact argument was, but I know it had something to do with 'simple minds' and 'ridiculous social rituals.'"

"Both of those in reference to humans, yes."

"Right. Well, I talked to one of Mike's friends who used to be a librarian in Edinburgh and it turned out he had a bunch of things on bees. Anatomy textbooks, research journals, theories, experiments, histories—all that good stuff. I ended up buying this one because I figured you already knew all there was to know about bees, except maybe how to keep them."

"I…" Sherlock let the sentence trail off, at loss for what to say. It was rare that he was rendered speechless, but to be fair, it was also exceedingly rare for him to receive a present he treasured so immediately. He never cared about cufflinks or tie pins, or even well-tailored suits; he liked gifts that meant something, as maudlin as it was, and this book said more than words possibly could about his and John's friendship.

Apparently, though, he'd been silent for too long, because John frowned and began to look doubtful. "Oh. Do…do you not like it? I mean, I could probably call him up and get it exchanged for something better if you'd like."

"No, John, that isn't it at all," Sherlock replied hurriedly, clutching the book to his chest. "I just…I love it. A lot. I'm simply surprised that you remembered the bee conversation, given your propensity to forget things."

John playfully swatted at his shoulder. "Just hush up and be grateful for your damned book."

Warmth and affection pulsated though Sherlock's chest, spreading out to his fingertips like liquid gold. "I am."

"Good."

"Happy Birthday to me," he said happily, wiggling his toes against the tile.

John chuckled and stood, extending a hand to help him up. "Yes, Happy birthday to you, Sherlock."

He and Lestrade were in the middle of a heated debate regarding Anderson and whether not it was scientifically possible for him to somehow become even stupider (a position only Sherlock appeared to be supporting) when Lestrade stopped shouting suddenly and dropped his gaze to whatever was sticking out of Sherlock's bag.

Apparently no longer interested in yelling, Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the satchel. "What's that?"

That turned out to be the top half of A Beginner's Guide to Beekeeping, which Sherlock had been carrying around with him and reading religiously for weeks. Though he'd finished it the day after receiving it, he found it quite soothing to read over the familiar words and sink into the comfortable, easy existence of a beekeeper. Their lives consisted of tending to the bees, studying their behavior, and basking in the sweet (literally) taste of success when the creatures' work came to fruition.

The fact that the book was so haphazardly stowed in his bag (rather than treated with the care it deserved) was due to a particularly hasty exit this morning, which had come as a result of his blowing up the kitchen (again) with some terrible acid or another, and then having to clean it up before John ambled in and had a heart attack at the sight of it.

"John's birthday gift to me," Sherlock announced proudly, pulling out the book so Lestrade could see it better. "It's a complete guide to beekeeping."

Lestrade gave him an odd look. "You're looking to become a beekeeper, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged, a casual gesture he seldom indulged in. "I like the notion, but I don't believe I'm quite ready to retire to that sort of life. The descriptions in this book make it sound lovely, though, so perhaps one day I will."

"That's…interesting," Lestrade decided after a minute. "Though I'll admit, I never pegged you as the type who'd be content to move to the country and live among nature."

"I like bees," Sherlock stated simply. "In fact, I would prefer their company to most people I know."

"You like bees," Lestrade repeated, leaning back against his desk and mulling that over. "And why's that? I would've thought insects would be beneath your interest, seeing how most humans fall under that category."

"Most humans are dull, Lestrade. Bees, however, are complex, logical creatures that think linearly and execute desired tasks. In fact, during the summer they work so relentlessly that they rarely last longer than six weeks—they literally work themselves to death. In the winter, though, they live for a long nine months, as the cold slows them down and forces them to complete their work at a more gradual pace."

"Was that in the book?"

"Yes, it was in the introduction, actually," Sherlock said, running his thumb absently over the book's spine. "The author opens the guide by informing the reader of the bees' steadfast, dogged work ethic. Personally, I would have begun the novel by discussing their many contributions to science—did you know Melittin, a substance found in bee venom, can help combat the HIV strand?—but I cannot begrudge Mr. Ivan Gonzales too much, as their commitment to labor is an equally intriguing facet to explore."

"Right," Lestrade said, clearing his throat. "Well, now that that's settled, do you think we could get back on topic, Sherlock? In case you don't remember, the only reason we're in here at all is because you berated Anderson in front of the whole Yard again, even though I explicitly told you—"

"No need to reiterate, Lestrade" Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I was there, I remember. However, this subject is far more important." He flipped open the book with a look of finality. "Would you like to know how weather patterns can affect the quality of the honey produced?"

Lestrade sighed and visibly threw up a white flag. "I don't, but I suspect you're going to tell me anyway?"

"Excellent deduction, Lestrade," Sherlock praised, and then proceeded to spend the next half hour going over every details of chapter nine: Mother Nature's Effect on The Hive.

"Right now, Sherlock?" John hissed from precisely three centimeters away. "You're telling me about the longevity of worker bees right now, while we're crouched behind a dumpster waiting for our sodding demises like fish in a barrel?"

Perhaps John had a point—they were hiding in a filthy alleyway and the men outside were armed and violent—but that didn't mean he needed to be quite so fussy about it.

"I merely thought you could use the distraction," Sherlock hissed back, his legs starting to cramp from being crouched so long. "Pardon me for not wanting to sit here in silence for another hour."

"It's a stakeout, Sherlock! You're supposed to be quiet. Not chatting about bees," John snapped. "If you had just listened to me three hours ago when I said not to follow those men without contacting the police, we wouldn't be here right now!"

Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye. "You're not enjoying yourself?"

If John weren't endeavoring to stay quiet, Sherlock is quite certain he would've laughed out loud at that. "I pray to god that is sarcasm, Sherlock, because surely even you can figure out I'm not pleased right now."

"It wasn't sarcasm," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm having fun, aren't you?"

John just looked at him as if he were insane. "How is any of this fun for you?"

Well, that was an easy question. It was fun because John was crouched next to him and their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to thigh. It was fun because adrenaline was singing in his veins and the warmth of John's skin was soaking into his coat like rays of sunlight. It was fun because it was the two of them against the rest of the world, just how Sherlock liked it.

Aside from the terrible smell of the dumpster and the possibility of being gunned down by angry arms dealers, Sherlock was having a rather good time.

Instead of answering, though, Sherlock changed the subject. "Do you think we're going to die?"

John didn't seem fazed by the conversational tone Sherlock paired with the phrase. Instead, he chuckled wryly and he shook his head. "Considering our line of work, I doubt a few commonplace criminals are going to be our downfall. At most, you'll sprain an ankle and I'll get a few bruises—nothing we haven't faced before, I'm sure."

"I agree." A beat of silence passed before he followed up with, "I texted Lestrade an hour ago, by the way, so he should be here in ten minutes with reinforcements."

John whipped around to look at him with a mixture of exasperation and anger. "You didn't think to mention that sooner?"

"It didn't seem relevant."

"It didn't seem—alright, fine," John said, visibly endeavoring to lower his own blood pressure. "Didn't you say earlier that we didn't need anyone's help?"

"We don't. But I figured you wouldn't want to sit here all night, so I told Lestrade to come by and pick up the criminals. Despite their trade, the dealers are fairly inept, so it shouldn't be any trouble taking them in."

"So, what now? Do we just sit here and wait for the Yard to show up?"

"Indeed."

"Huh," John said, his shoulders relaxing. "Well, that's a bit anticlimactic."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Apologies, John, I'll make sure to bring the fireworks and nuclear weapons next time so we can spice things up."

John huffed a laugh and knocked his shoulder good-naturedly into Sherlock's. "Nope, a nice cup of tea when we get home will do just fine."

"That can be arranged, if…" Sherlock trailed off, raising a brow.

John humored him. "If what?"

"If you let me talk to you about bees now."

At that, John chuckled and his eyes began to look distinctly fond. "You know you haven't shut up about bees for months, right? I got you that book ages ago and you're still trying to tell anyone who'll listen about honey and queens and the varying stages of hive-building."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed proudly. "That is true."

And it was. Sherlock hadn't stopped talking about beekeeping since that book graced his hands six months ago. There were of course lulls in his obsession—briefly, he'd been distracted by a promising experiment or an interesting murder or two—but at the end of the day, the guide remained in its honorary place on his nightstand, ready to be read before sleep just like every other night. John often asked him why he didn't buy more books about bees since he was so bloody fascinated with them, but Sherlock could never find a way to logically explain why the one book he had—the one book John had bought for him with kindness and affection in mind—was all he needed. His love for the subject was expansive and he'd certainly done external research when the information in the guide was not deep enough, but his attachment to the book stemmed primarily from sentimentality, and that was something any other book simply wouldn't capture.

"Fine," John decided, leaning into Sherlock as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. "Tell me about the bees, Sherlock."

"Well, most people do not realize this, but a beekeeper has many occupations," Sherlock began. "Landlord, mediator, inspector, and even doctor. During the busy spring months, a keeper will spend most of a weekend day working with the bees in his hives, whereas he may not look at them for months during the winter. That's okay, though," Sherlock continued, "because the bees are fairly self-sufficient during the colder months. In summer, however, the bees…"

"I fear perhaps I'm getting old," Sherlock admitted on the evening of his thirty-seventh birthday.

Much like the year before, he and John were sitting on the kitchen floor, except this time it wasn't because of broken chairs. This year's campout on the tile was because Sherlock had accidentally dropped his birthday cake (John leaping from around the corner and shouting 'surprise!' did not inspire firm grips on platters) and John, too amused to be annoyed at the mess, had simply sat down and stuck a candle in the chocolate lump it had become. "It's not like you were going to eat it anyway, right?" John had said, as he lit the lopsided 'thirty-seven' candle.

It was after blowing out the small wick that Sherlock felt a small pang in his chest. He was thirty-seven years old. He was getting old and as odd as it was to think so, it had never occurred to the detective that he wouldn't be young forever. He closed his eyes and pretended to make a wish; surprisingly, the shutter of darkness was quite comforting, so even after a few moments had passed, he decided to just keep his eyes shut.

From beside him, John nudged his bare ankle against Sherlock's, prompting the detective to crack one eye open.

John was smiling at him. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

Sherlock looked at him askance. "And why is that?"

"Because you think you're old!" John laughed.

Sherlock moodily closed his eyes again and leaned back against the cupboard. "I am."

"Please," John snorted, batting away Sherlock's statement like a fly. "Enjoy your thirties, they flee faster than you think. Besides, if anyone here ought to be worrying about age, it's me."

"John, you are forty-two, not ninety-two," Sherlock groused, snapping his eyes open completely this time. "Grant me a birthday wish and stop speaking as if you're fit for a nursing home

"Fine, but only if you do the same," John said sternly, patting Sherlock's pajama clad knee. "Now, would you like to see what I got you this year?"

Warmth flooded Sherlock's chest. Deliberately, he closed his fists and bit the inside of his cheek, endeavoring to tamper down the jolt of excitement. "I told you not to buy me anything, remember?"

"I know," John said with bright eyes. "I didn't buy your gift."

John was being cryptic and Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "You didn't?"

"Nope," John announced proudly. "A friend of mine invited the two of us to visit his cousin's bee farm in Liverpool after I told him how much you loved bees. Rosewood Farms, I think."

"You—we're—a bee farm?" Sherlock managed to wheeze out after a full minute of stunned silence. "We're going to an actual bee farm?"

"Yup," John announced, pleased as punch. His eyes looked as if they were filled with stars. "Do you like it?"

Sherlock watched John stand and then numbly followed suit when John offered him a hand. "John, I…" he tried, the words bunching up in his throat and sticking there. "I don't really know what to say," he finished honestly.

"Then don't say anything," John said with a soft smile, cupping the side of Sherlock's face in his palm. Affectionately, he pressed a short kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Just make sure to pack tonight because we're leaving tomorrow morning."

…

Somehow, the air at Rosewood Farms tasted sweeter. For miles, there was nothing but bright green lawns dotted with white chickweeds and pale blue forget-me-nots. The grey, overcast sky was broken up by shafts of sunlight, birds tittered in the trees, and the clouds moved unhurriedly along, like silverfish swimming down the stream.

As for the site itself, there was a shed where the keeper stored his uniform and supplies, an open area near the hives where the keeper presumably made notes, and a modest two story farm house with a navy blue trim and red peonies spilling from every opened window. This was where the keeper and his wife, Lorraine, lived.

The bee section, however, was its own kind of fascinating.

The hives looked like a small village of yellow houses, all lined up and organized as if the bees had their own little neighborhood separate from the farm. Inside the wooden huts, Sherlock watched worker bees busily build the hive, feed their queen, and work with a single-minded focus he couldn't help but admire. The sound of buzzing and the scent of honey lingered everywhere, and Sherlock loved it.

"This is incredible, John," Sherlock breathed hours later, as they walked along the dirt paths outside the farm house.

"You're having a good time?"

That question seemed quite silly to him. Sherlock was lucky enough to be in the company of nature's most spectacular offerings and the best man he'd ever known, how could this day have been anything but wonderful?

"Of course, John," Sherlock gushed. "It has been absolutely perfect."

John beamed at him and reached for Sherlock's hand, his face glowing in the afternoon sunlight. "Good. You deserve this."

They walked for a while longer, before John squatted down and plucked a flower from the grass, rolling the stem contemplatively between his fingers. He raised his blues eyes to meet Sherlock's, suddenly, and said, "I like seeing you like this, Sherlock."

"Like what?"

His eyes brimming with affection, John brushed Sherlock's hair to the side and tucked the small flower behind his ear. "Happy," he explained simply, and smiled.

"You're tired and you need to sleep," John announced one night after a particularly taxing case. It was sometime after three in the morning and Sherlock had been playing the violin nonstop for hours in an attempt to burn off residual adrenaline from the case. Though that had been accomplished ages ago, for some inscrutable reason he was still playing, despite his aching fingers and fatigue-induced headache, unwilling to admit defeat.

That was, until John stepped behind him, carefully pulled the instrument out of his hands, and guided him to couch.

"I'm not tired, John," he mumbled, which wasn't all that convincing since his eyelids were already dropping shut.

"I know," John placated, sitting down on the sofa. "But why don't you humor me for a minute and take a break?" He kept staring expectantly at Sherlock until the detective finally collapsed beside him, limp as a ragdoll.

"M'fine," Sherlock insisted, sliding down the couch so that his head was tucked comfortably into the crook of John's shoulder. His nuzzled contently at the side of John's neck. "Not tired at all."

"Of course," John murmured, running his fingers lazily through Sherlock's curls.

"John, d'ya wanna know something?"

Against the top of his head, he could feel John's face contract in smile. "Sure."

"During winter months, the active bees—yawn—form clusters around the queen bee, keeping her at a toasty 92 degrees."

"Do they now?"

"Mmhm. And if there isn't enough honey left after harvest time, the keeper adds sugar so the bees can convert it to honey," Sherlock mumbles into John's shoulder.

"That's nice."

"Mm."

"How about you tell me all about bees in the morning, though, yeah?"

"Mmkay," Sherlock agrees, nestling closer. His last thought before falling into a deep sleep is that John smells quite sweet, almost like honey.

"You know, would it kill you to clean up your acid experiments before the chemicals set in, Sherlock?" John ranted, throwing his bedroom door open with very little regard for the precarious card tower Sherlock was building in the middle of the floor. The resulting gust of wind swept away what could have easily been the most esteemed piece of architecture known to man.

"John!" Sherlock admonished, eyeing the ruins of his tower with horror. "That took three hours."

But John just ignored him, as John was wont to do when he was hot-headed about incomplete chores. "Last week's 'tests' alone burned three holes in the kitchen table and now, thanks to your little experiment with bloody sulfuric acid, we no longer have placemats. Or spatulas, as I recently discovered.

"John, if you would just—"

"And, since you also decided to use the nice cooking utensils Mrs. Hudson bought us to stir your damned mixtures, our ladle is now just a handle. That's right, Sherlock, you melted our bloody ladle. Are you happy?"

"John—"

"I swear, if I didn't love you, I would have kicked you out on your arse a long time ago, or at the very least hired a twenty-four hour maid to keep an eye on you and your mad experiments. Maybe that way our cupboard would be filled with actual dishware, instead of the plastic utensils and paper plates we currently have, courtesy of your weekly adventures with metal-eating acids."

It took a beat of silence for the words to settle in, before both of them realized what John said.

"You—" Sherlock started.

"I—" John said at the same time.

"Love me? You love me?" Sherlock asked faintly.

For a moment, John looked cornered, then shocked, before finally landing somewhere along the spectrum of awkward. "Er, I…said that aloud, didn't I? Yes. It appears I did. Well, heh, I guess the cat's out of the bag, Sherlock," he said, trying and failing to sound lighthearted. Apparently he didn't even sound convincing to his own ears, though, because he stopped pretending and cleared his throat. With squared shoulders and a significantly more confident demeanor, he stated, "It's true, Sherlock."

"That isn't possible," Sherlock insisted, though his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. "That can't be right."

John frowned at him. "Of course it's right. I love you, Sherlock. I do."

Sherlock gripped handfuls of blankets in his fist and resolutely looked at the floor. "As friends?" he asked tightly.

John joined him on the bed and sat far closer than he ever had, his thigh pressed flush against Sherlock's. "No," he said simply, without shame. "In a romantic way."

Sherlock closed his eyes. His brain felt as if it were on the brink of implosion. "I…I'm afraid I don't understand."

Carefully, John cradled the side of Sherlock's face in his palm and steadily met his wide, terrified eyes. "There's a lot I'm sure I could say, Sherlock, but the gist of it is this: even on your worst days, you are the best person I know. I never get tired of you, and I highly doubt I ever will. When I say you're brilliant, I don't just mean you are intelligent—though, you obviously are. I mean that your entire being—your mind, body, and soul—are utterly luminescent to me. You glow in a crowded room like a sun."

With John's hand still gently cupping his face, Sherlock blinked rapidly and tried to think of what to say next. Thousands of possible responses surged to the forefront of his mind: words that had been rehearsed in the quiet darkness of bedroom for years but were never uttered aloud crowded in his mouth and stuck in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he was dying to tell John, but what he ended up blurting out was: "The beekeeper must monitor the hive throughout the year for illnesses, viruses, fungi or parasitic mites, and then treat the bees as necessary."

"Pardon?"

"I don't know why I said that," he babbled, dropping his twitchy gaze to the comforter. "But it's true, it is one of the keeper's primary tasks to maintain the well-being of the bees, especially since certain hives are more susceptible to illness than others, depending on the health of the queen, the location of the farm itself and—"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed, feeling that he might float away if John let go of him. "Yes."

"You're talking quite a lot about bees right now," John pointed out, stroking his thumb soothingly over Sherlock's cheekbone, "but I'm not sure if that's what you're really trying to tell me. Is there something else?"

Hives, queens, keepers, honey, farms, freedom, happiness, John, John loves him, John actually loves him for all of his odd quirks and black moods and he's promised multiple times never to leave and—

"You love me," Sherlock said slowly. The words tingled on his lips. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

"I see," Sherlock said shakily. He swallowed a few times to try and rid himself of the lump in his throat. "My mind is moving at a million miles an hour right now, John. I'm not quite sure what to do next."

"That's easy," John said. "Just do whatever feels natural. First thing to pop into your mind—do it."

So Sherlock did just that. Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed John by the front of his jumper (the terrible yellow-green one with argyle print down the front) and pulled him down on top of him. John indulged in a single, chaste kiss, but lightheartedly refused to meet Sherlock's lips when Sherlock craned his head off the pillow and arched for another.

"Kiss me," Sherlock begged. "Once wasn't enough."

John only hummed affectionately and stroked a warm, rough palm over Sherlock's forehead and into his hair. "I only just came to terms with the fact that I'm in love with you two minutes ago. Don't you think we should take our time?"

"But I want to do this right now," he complained, nuzzling his face into the warm of curve of John's neck.

John hummed appreciatively, but remained where he was. "Let's just enjoy this for a bit, yeah?"

Perhaps John was right, they should savor this. Everything about this moment was lovely and soft, like sweet white wine or billowing, nimbostratus clouds. The air smelled like clean skin, laundered sheets, and traces of John's spicy-sweet aftershave. Above him, John watched Sherlock with unhurried, adoring blue eyes, the sunlight spilling through the window and framing his outline like a halo. The surge of affection Sherlock felt at that moment—the pure gush of desire and gratitude and wonder—struck him like a bolt of lightning and nearly left him speechless.

"Will you kiss me now?" Sherlock whispered, afraid of shattering the fragility of this moment by speaking too loudly.

Instead of answering, John ducked his head down and pressed a small, sweet kiss to his bottom lip, then his top lip, then both, in short, wonderful sips of kisses that eventually burgeoned into something more when Sherlock groaned and tugged John closer.

"Say it again, John," he begged breathlessly, in between fevered kisses. "Please."

"I love you," John murmured into his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

This, Sherlock decided that following year, was what it felt like to be utterly, completely, and irrevocably happy.

"Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?" the agent asked, capping her blue pen.

Sherlock exhaled and felt all doubt leave him in one giant gust. "Yes."

"Well then," she smiled, "I am pleased to say you are now the proud owner of Black Ridge honeybee farm. Congratulations and I wish you the best of luck."

"Would you be opposed to our retirement?" Sherlock asked one afternoon as he scrolled lazily through their blog, his legs tangled with John's on the sofa.

John peered at him over the top of the Gazette's sports section. "You'd be okay with retiring this early? You're barely forty two."

"Well, perhaps it wouldn't be a complete retirement," Sherlock conceded. "I'm sure we could find cases anywhere. I just meant, would you be okay if we left London and moved elsewhere?"

"Did you have anywhere specific in mind?"

The words welled up in his throat, sweet and thick like honey. "John, if I told you I purchased a farm out in Sussex without telling you, what would you do?"

John took a long, contemplative sip of tea. Then, after satisfying both his thirst and his desire to keep Sherlock in suspense, he said, "I would tell you that my suitcase has been packed for days."

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped. "Does that mean…?"

John only smiled and put down the paper. "Does that mean I knew about the farm? Yes. Does that mean I love the idea? Yes. Does that mean I want to spend the rest of my life out there with you? Yes. Now," he said, curiously sliding from the couch and onto the floor on one knee, "since I've been kind enough to say 'yes' to all of your questions, do you think you could do the same for me?"

From his back pocket, John produced a handsome silver band.

"John," Sherlock whispered, moisture springing unexpectedly to his eyes. "I…"

"Now, I know you don't like flowery nonsense and poetic babble, so I'll try to keep it simple." He grinned and took Sherlock's hand, pressing a chaste kiss to knuckles. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you more than you could possibly know. I will follow wherever you go for the rest of our lives. You are the most precious thing I've ever had the unimaginable luck of stumbling upon and I never want to let you go." He took a deep breath and met Sherlock's eyes. "So, would you do me the honor of marrying me?"

And with that, Sherlock's mind palace exploded.

"J-john," he said shakily, unable to form any other coherent words. "John, did you just…did you…are you…?"

John smiled and held Sherlock's hand even tighter, patiently waiting for the detective to process his words.

"You just asked me to marry you," Sherlock said finally. He took a few very deep breaths before it occurred to him that he'd yet to respond. "Christ, John, the answer is yes," he blurted out hurriedly. "You knew that, right? I didn't mean to hesitate, it was just a lot to process all at once and I couldn't think straight for a moment there and I—"

Still smiling, John surged forward and kissed the words right off his lips. "So we're getting married, then?"

Sherlock threw his arms around John's neck, pressing several clumsy kisses against the side of John's face. "Yes, yes of course we're bloody getting married. Yes, yes, yes, Christ I can't even say the word enough."

"Well then, what do you say we start the rest of our lives, Mr. Holmes?" John grinned. "I hear Sussex is incredible this time of year."

A/N: Thanks for reading, loves! Feedback would be fabulous, let me know what you think! :)