A/N: This story is set post-series 3, but I've made a couple of changes to the general storyline. First of all, Mary isn't pregnant. In this universe, Sherlock did kill Magnussen, but I'm just going to pretend that Mycroft got him off without any charges, because I'm completely ignoring everything that happened in HLV post-Appledore, including the whole Moriarty cliffhanger.

I'm not sure how many chapters this will end up being, but I've got about 20,000 words written so far. This first chapter is a bit slow, more of an introduction really, but things will pick up in chapter 2


Chapter 1: Celebration

"Remind me again why I'm preparing to waste an entire evening socializing with some of my least favorite people."

Sherlock and John are standing in the living room of John and Mary's flat, both dressed up in their formal tuxes. Sherlock is staring at himself in the mirror on the wall, occasionally ruffling his hair with his hands.

"You're doing this because you need to make nice to Scotland Yard if you want them to let you in on anymore cases."

"Shouldn't they be 'making nice' to me? After all, their incompetence did drive me to an early grave."

At the shadow that comes over John's face, Sherlock pauses and asks, "Too soon?"

He was hoping for a good-natured A bit too soon but there isn't any trace of humor on John's face—a bad sign—although no punches have been thrown—always a good sign—and the tension in his face is quickly replaced by a warm smile as Mary enters the room.

Mary and John share a quick kiss, and John holds his arm out for her, which she gracefully accepts.

Mary then directs her attention to Sherlock, extends her arm, and smiles warmly when Sherlock makes a show of gallantly planting a chaste kiss on the top of her hand.

She then asks, playfully, "Will you be escorting us to the ball tonight, Mr. Holmes?"

"It would be my honor, Mrs. Watson, although I believe it would be more appropriate to say that you are escorting me. I certainly can't imagine any other reason for your husband to fetch me and bring me back here, when it would have been much more efficient for us to arrive separately."

"But this is much more fun," Mary responds, cheerfully.

"And this is the only way I could make sure he would actually show up," John adds under his breath.

"I heard that."

"You hear everything."

"Come on, boys, we're running late as it is without you two getting into a pissing match."

Without any further delay, they leave the flat, and head out to the street, where they get in a taxi that takes them to their destination.

When they arrive, Lestrade is waiting for them out front. The first thing he says is, "I was afraid you lot weren't going to show."

John responds immediately with, "We would have been here sooner if someone didn't have to waste so much time on personal grooming."

Looking over to Mary, Lestrade says, "Ah, well, can't complain too much then. You are looking very lovely tonight, Mrs. Watson."

"You're too kind, Greg, but John wasn't talking about me."

When Lestrade looks over to Sherlock, the man in question shrugs.

"John told me I was supposed to look presentable."

"I meant wear a suit."

"You should be more specific then."

"You knew what I meant. You were just wasting time."

Mary's breaks in with a warning of, "Boys—"

And that's enough to end it.

The four of them enter a hall filled with multiple circular tables, seating eight people each. Already most of the seats are occupied by men and women clad in formal attire, talking in hushed voices.

To the other three, Greg says, "You lot are at the table up front."

"How about this table in the far corner back here? Much better view."

Ignoring Sherlock's protests, John gives him a shove in the appropriate direction.

As they take their seats, Sherlock is scanning the room and, as ever, deducing.

Formal attire, no one's died, no annual event, no signs, not an awards banquet, no birthdays, no retirements

"John, why exactly are we here tonight?"

"I told you, Sherlock—"

But before John can finish his sentence, Lestrade makes his way to the stage in the front of the room, where he stands in front of the microphone, and starts to speak.

"Good evening, everyone. I appreciate you taking the time to join me for this special event."

Special Event. That sounds ominous.

"It's my great pleasure to be here tonight to make a tribute to my good friend and colleague—even if he still doesn't know my first name—"

Everyone in the audience laughs appreciatively, except for Sherlock, who sends a fierce look John's way, before preparing to bolt out of his chair. John is faster though, grabbing Sherlock by his shoulder and shoving him back down.

"Behave, Sherlock."

"You brought me here under false pretenses."

"Yeah, it's not like I had any other choice."

Giving up any hope of escape—for the time being, at least—Sherlock returns his attention to Lestrade.

"All of you know who I'm talking about. Some know him by reputation alone, but many of you have had the honor—and at times, misfortune—of working with him."

Another laugh, another glare from Sherlock.

"Now, if everyone would raise their glasses, I'd like lead a to toast to Sherlock Holmes, one of the best men I've ever had the privilege to know."

Glasses are raised, clinked, and then returned to the table tops—except for Sherlock, who is sitting silently with his arms crossed.

After the toast, Lestrade continues. "I'm sure he's going to give me hell for this, but we've put together a tribute video, so without further delay, let's dim the lights—"

Lestrade pauses, looks in Sherlock's direction, catches sight of him trying to escape again, and adds, "Sherlock, don't make me handcuff you to that table."

John kicks Sherlock under the table for good measure.

"Is this event meant to celebrate me or punish me?"

"It's a bit of both."

Sherlock does his best to drown out the video playing in his honor by planning out the murder of each guest in attendance. He then considers feigning a heart attack, or trying to set fire to something, but before he can settle on a plan, the video ends, and Lestrade is back in front of the microphone.

"Now, I'd like to welcome onto the stage the man of honor."

Sherlock remains sitting in his chair, with his arms folded in front of him.

John gives him a shove, and says, "The sooner you get up there, the sooner this will all be over with."

Sherlock sends a pleading look in Mary's direction, but she just smiles at him and makes a "shoo-ing" motion with her hands.

With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the table and makes his way up to the stage.

Once he's on the raised platform, standing next to Lestrade, he looks out at the crowd, although he has to squint against the bright lights focused in his direction. He recognizes most of the people in attendance, including a table in the back filled with some members of his "fan club." He's less than pleased to see Anderson there, holding up an "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" sign. To make matters worse, when he catches Sherlock's eye, Anderson starts waving frantically.

After quickly breaking eye contact, Sherlock turns his attention back to the rest of the audience, and starts to wonder, is he supposed to be saying something?

Everyone seems to be staring at him expectantly, so he starts with, "Thank you Ga—"

He catches sight of John mouthing "Greg," which he chooses to ignore.

"Garrison, for ambushing me with this little tribute, although I'm not yet clear on whether this is your idea of a practical joke or a misguided attempt to curry favor with me."

Lestrade claps him on the back fondly, and then reaches under the pedestal, and hands Sherlock a package, wrapped in silver paper. "We got you a little token of our appreciation—"

"It better not be another hat."

More laughs, clearly no one realizes how deadly serious he is.

"No hat, this time. Why don't you open it up and take a look?"

After giving Lestrade a suspicious glare, he slowly opens the wrapping, and then pulls the lid off the box.

Inside, nestled in a tissue paper lining, is a magnifying glass. He picks it up delicately, and examines it.

Expensive, titanium enclosure it, well made, sturdy, attractive, but not ostentatious.

Quietly, Lestrade says, "Take a look at the other side."

Sherlock turns it around and catches sight of the engraving:

To Sherlock Holmes, with affection and admiration

He starts to say, "Well, this is—"

Before he can go any further, he sees John on his right giving him a warning look, and then he looks over to his left to see Lestrade looking hopeful, pleased, and just a little bit nervous.

He swallows his original response and instead goes with, "Thank you, Greg, the sentiment and the gift are very much appreciated."

Lestrade smiles at him broadly, while addressing the audience, "And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is probably the nicest thing you'll ever hear him say. Now let's give Sherlock a round of applause."

As everyone claps loudly, Sherlock says to Lestrade, under his breath, "I'm still not clear on why all of this is happening."

Lestrade turns off the microphone, before answering.

"Sherlock, you've done more good for this department, and for me, then we could ever put into words, and we—I repaid you by deserting you at the first sign of trouble. After everything that's happened, this is the least we could do."

"You really didn't have to."

"Yeah, but we wanted to."

Sherlock doesn't really know how to respond to that, so he only nods his head in acknowledgement.

Apparently that's good enough for Lestrade, who shoves him towards the stage exit and says, "Now go sit down. I know you're dying to get out of the spotlight."

The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. He does have to give his autograph to the more desperate members of his fan club, and he gets stuck in several insufferably long conversations with a few stultifying morons, but on the whole, he survives more or less unscathed, and as a reward for his (relatively) good behavior, John and Mary go with him to Angelo's for a late night snack. It's almost like the way things were before The Fall.

In the days and weeks that follow, Sherlock will often look back on this night with a certain measure of melancholy and nostalgia. Of course, at the time, he had no way of knowing what this night truly signified.

The calm before the storm.


A/N: Nothing like a hefty dose of foreshadowing! Thanks for reading the first chapter of what is shaping up to be my longest work to date. I hope you'll stick around for the rest of it. The first five chapters are mostly finished and the rest of it is all mapped out. Next chapter should be up very soon.