Hi, everyone! This is the first time I write something in english, even if it is only a translation of one of my current works. I'm very nervous about all of these. And I've just found a fantastic Beta (Hoodoo, tank you again) which helps me with the translations, so I'm very, very happy right now.

I just wanted to say thank you for reading this silly thing that one day came out of my mind like popcorn.

Actually I'm working on this fic in the original spanish version, and translations will take me some time, so maybe the updates in this one wouldn't be as frequent as I wish them to be (and translating and the corrections of my Beta take a bit of time, so please, be patient)

And now, I let you proceed. Thanks again and please, excuse me for my possible mistakes!

Costa Alegre

When I woke up the Thursday's morning and walked downstairs, I found Sherlock dressed with his coat and his scarf knotted around his neck. I was surprised when I saw that, next to his feet, rested a huge suitcase. The only suitcase that the detective had in his wardrobe. If I had had a cup of tea in my hand, I would have dropped it in surprise. Of the few times that we had to travel, I had always had to pack for the two of us. As is the Baskerville case.

Outside, the soul of London awakening sounded with energy: cars circulating through Baker Street, car horns of disgruntled drivers, people calling for a taxi, the busy tide of citizens eating breakfast outsidethe door of Speedy's. I could see the crimson glow in the window we had in front of the fireplace. The leather's suitcase smell and the aroma of Mrs. Hudson's tea in the flat under us were a certainly exciting combination. One that promised danger, a new case and an imminent journey to only God knew where.

Suddenly, his voice took me from my reverie. Clearly, it was too early for my mind. My head didn't seem to want to cooperate, of course not at that early hour of the morning. Maybe after a cuppa. But not before, of course. Everything was better after tea.

"John?"

Sherlock stared at me as if I had just turned lime green, and I could not hide my surprise in any way. Although that was probably a too human expression to be applied to him. I could swear that he would have given anything that was at hand to put me on the kitchen table (I'll admit I wasn't thinking out loud, because a lot of images came to me, and not very scientific ones), and he would have examined me carefully, as if I was another of his multiple experiments.

"Going on a journey?"

It was the least I could say. In fact, I felt very proud to pronounce the sentence without a single, incomprehensible babbling, because in my state, I didn't believe that this would be possible.

"It seems obvious. Come on, John. I know it's a bit early in the morning for you, but don't be so like Anderson. What has betrayed me? The suitcase?" he mocked.

I still couldn't hide my amazement. I thought for a moment that Mrs. Hudson, our sainted landlady, may have been the one who prepared Sherlock's baggage, but then, a revelation came to me. She was not Sherlock's nanny, so there was no way that she would have done it. However, the alternative seemed so strange, that I wasn't able to even imagine it.

"Oh, come on. You can't be like these just because I packed my own luggage," he chided, with a smug smile appearing on his lips.

I only could blink, feeling extremely stupid suddenly. He was an adult in full use of his faculties. Of course he could pack his own luggage. I opened and closed my mouth like a fish looking for some water.

"Come on, go upstairs and get yours. We're leaving."

"We?" I gasped, although a part of me was giving emotional jump at the idea that I was included in the trip. "Where? How long? Sherlock, I have a job! I cannot leave whenever I want without warning first!"

He looked at me, raising an eyebrow, reading my soul better than myself could. For me, the work was only a source of income. I felt well at the hospital doing the profession I loved, that was true, but between the monotony of a health club and the uncertainty and the adrenaline rush of a new case, the soldier and lover of the danger side of me always won the battle. I almost enjoyed the adrenaline rush in cases as much as Sherlock did and he knew it. Both of us did.

I thought he would say something else; that he would make a scathing remark with a strong dose of irony about my professionalism; about always putting my obligations before what I really wanted as he had so many other times when I had refused. However, he got his hands in the pockets of his coat and sighed.

"This time I need you, John. I can't do this alone."

I was taken aback, and maybe something more. Sherlock Holmes was not someone who needed people. People needed him, not the other way round; never the other way round. And to make matters worse, he said it directly.

He needed me.

I did not think at that time that it could be another of his manipulative wiles. The bloody bastard had plenty of ways to control my will in a thousand ways, making me believe that what I did was by my own initiative, and not because he wanted it at some undetermined time. Nor did I think that it could be part of a twisted experiment with subject John Watson, or why he had not given me any data regarding what was the case about, when normally he gave more information than I needed or wanted to know, before I asked for it. I also didn't consider asking about any of it until it was already late to backtrack. This was how strong the domain he exerted over me. I simply climbed the stairs two by two to my room and, still in pajamas and robe, took most of my clothing out of the wardrobe, included of changes of underwear and dumped it all in my only suitcase. I moved so fast that I thought that I had dreamed everything, and returned downstairs like I was flying.

When I arrived, he was still waiting at the same position. The only difference in his appearance was that he was looking at his phone, reading something carefully.

"Come on, the flight leaves in twenty minutes, and traffic is brutal near Buckingham."

I rushed down the stairs after him, shouting a hasty "goodbye" to Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared at the entrance as soon as he heard the noise of the suitcases crashing against the steps. I called Sarah as fast as I could, and let her know that something important had arisen and I required a few days off. We had the immense good fortune to be able to take a taxi towards the airport, with a nice driver who got us an alternative route. We got there with enough time to pass through securtiy with peace of mind, and entertain us with breakfast at one of the bars of the seating in the duty-free area. Meanwhile, already without cumbersome suitcases, Sherlock shoved his hand into his jeans' back pocket, and pulled out a ring. For a stupid moment that I'm ashamed to acknowledge, I thought it was one of those toys of the Lord of the Rings merchandise, but then I remembered that Sherlock wasn't very fan of sci-fi, adventure books or films.

"Until we get on the plane, there are a couple of things that you should be aware, John. In order so you're not bothered."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes and snort. I was bothered by nothing. And if I was, it was because he refused to tell me what he had in mind. I waited for him to continue.

"The plane will land in Cardiff, where we're taking a cruise," he said, looking at me.

I almost choked on my coffee. A cruise. We were going to take a cruise.

"We'll be incognito, in addition, so our names aren't safe anymore. I thought that we could use Hamish for you and Scott for me."

"Incognito? What kind of case is this, Sherlock?" I asked, intrigued by what he was saying.

He gave me a small grin.

"The truth is that all of this is because of Mycroft. I owed him a favor, and as he despises field work—"

When he saw the incomprehension on my face, he sighed, and expanded a little more. "MI6 has received information that the Costa Alegre may be dealing with weapons on the black market from Morocco and bringing it all to England. On the last trip, cameras equipped with facial recognition recorded the crew in a discreet way, and saw that several of its members had been in the past accused of terrorism in both countries, and that the captain had old charges for trafficking. Yesterday, Mycroft made me accept to replace him in the mission. Apparently, the favors my brother gets in the British Government have a price. And so he decided that it was time to collect a debt."

"Are they afraid that they are arming a terrorist cell in the country?" I guessed.

Sherlock tightened lips.

"What most worries them surely is the buying and selling of weapons, but yes, that is a possibility" he said, turning the ring over in his fingers.

For the first time, I saw the one that he wore a mate to the ring, understated and golden, clean and polished. My heart almost stopped. It could not, in any way, be what I was thinking. I said nothing, afraid of being wrong, so I waited, feeling that at any time I was going to faint, which, by the way, would be even more shameful.

"The trip is two weeks long, so we have time to investigate and tie all the loose ends. And that's where this little bauble comes in action," he said, hoisting the ring in front of him, squinting a little while watching it.

My suspicions were becoming increasingly stronger by the moment. That was clearly a wedding ring.

"The cruise is for couples, for that ridiculous celebration of St. Valentine's Day. Of course, single people can also be looking for a partner, but someone alone just always draws more attention than a couple," he added.

And under my stunned look, he picked up my left hand, and slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger. My ring finger. As if we were couple. I checked, astonished, and discovered it was my size. I opened and closed my hand, testing how it felt to have that piece of jewelry in my finger, testing the idea of announcing an attachment that said so much and so little at the time. Even I wasn't sure if that suited me well or not. I was not gay.

"Are you proposing to me, Sherlock?" I asked, my voice somewhere between stunned and teasing.

My companion laughed, rising from the table when a woman announced via the loudspeakers it was time for the passengers of our flight to board. I followed him, paying the exact amount for breakfast, and we walked together to the corresponding terminal.

"We dated for three years," he began to explain, in a low voice to minimize the risk that someone could hear us. "You work at St. Bart's Hospital, and I work at the University, teaching chemistry. We have been married nine months. You proposed to me. The ceremony was held in July, only close relatives attended—"

"Wait," I cut in, raising a hand. "Why did I ask you? And where did you get these rings?"

He squinted, exasperated by my interruption.

"You asked me because it is clear that of the two of us, you're more emotional and sentimental. And rings are Mrs. Hudsons'. I asked her for them this morning, and she agreed to let them us if we promised to return them whole. She thought that they would serve us, and she wasn't wrong."

Heat flushed my cheeks as I blushed. It was rather odd that our landlady thought that we were together, and let us pretend to be a couple. Maybe she thought that Sherlock and I were fleeing to Las Vegas to get married secretly... God, what a shame.

"Okay... how did we meet?"

Sherlock smiled approvingly at my return to the course of the mission.

"It would be best not to leave much of the truth. A mutual friend presented us when you came back from being abroad. We were both looking for a roommate. I surprised you with this trip to celebrate our first Valentine's as a married couple. Although there may be some discussion, clearly the dominant one in our relationship would be me—"

We entered the plane, and put our bags in the compartments over the seats. We found our seats, Sherlock near on the window and I on the aisle, and I saw him a smile when he saw my astonishment.

I was no way positive I went that way. Jesus, he wanted be so clever and thorough about this that we had to also go into the detail of sex? I didn't even know if he was gay, straight or bi! He could be perfectly asexual. He had never told me. We hadn't spoken about it, and now he wanted to invent these roles that supposedly had each one of us had in a pretend marriage, when I had not a single clue of his sexual orientation, or if he even had one!

This was so, so Sherlock.

"I don't think we have to go that deep undercover," I grumbled, buckling the seat belt. "And it is not clear that you would be the dominant one."

The truth was that flying was not what I liked the most in the world. I have seen helicopters flying over the area in Afghanistan crashing to the ground in a ball of fire enough times to convince myself that it was better to be with your feet on the ground. The time that Mycroft sent one of those devilish machines to get me and take me to the Palace by Adler's case, I thought that I wouldn't not be able to get in without having a panic attack.

"John, give me the black bag."

I growled when I heard it. I have just sat. He could have asked me while I was standing. I was tempted to stay still, as if I haven't heard him, but I finally got up, opened the compartment, and took out the bag.

"No longer needed," he replied, wagging his hand in the air with his iPod.

I gritted my teeth, trying to contain the desire to give him the worst right hook of his life, and shoved the bag back into place. I repeated the procedure of sitting and clasping, and when I was ready again, Sherlock turned towards me, with hands entwined in his lap. He had a smug smile on his face.

"And now that we have clarified the point that your military training includes obeying all my orders (and have found that I would be dominant, obviously), can we continue with what is important, John?"

I took a deep breath, by holding it inside my lungs, and expelling it even more slowly, in an attempt to calm myself. Committing murder on an airplane was not right. And particularly when everyone believed that the victim was your husband.

Husband. The word sounded odd even in my head. I decided not too think about it too much, or I would go crazy.

We sat in silence for a while. I thought that Sherlock had lost the interest in trying to clarify our cover, but that was impossible. It seemed that bothering me was one of his favorite activities when he was bored. The plane filled more and more, and I did not see the moment of which took off, only to know that soon we were in the air, before we land. I was very much looking forward to kissing the asphalt as soon as we got to Cardiff. I prayed for the weather being favorable, and there would be no turbulence.

"Why nine months?" I asked, in need of a bit of conversation that made me forget the discomfort of being in the air.

He seemed to find my question very interesting.

"Because, although we are in a particularly sunless locale, and therefore, will be pale by nature, if we'd been wearing our rings for a longer period of time, the skin of the finger would have become visibly tanto a curious and appreciative eye. And because, despite our acting skills, adapting to a life change often leads to uncontrollable reactions, as they would in this case be the skin. Nothing serious, but itself visible. So nine months seems like an acceptable time in this case."

I blinked, surprised, and I couldn't help but think that, if Sherlock decided one day to commit a crime, there would be no creature on the face of the earth who can stop him... except perhaps his brother, if he deigned to do the dirty work himself rather than relegating it to his subordinates.

"Sherlock."

He turned his head to look at me, question, and I played with the ring on my finger.

"I've just realized that I do not know what your favorite color is."

He smiled.

"Grey, John."

"Grey? It seems a little... sad."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Grey is a resulting mix of black and white color. Black is the darkness, the mixture of all colors. White, on the other hand, is the absence of all of them. According to the theory of color, this is only the reflection of the light that emits an object, the reflection of the intensity which cannot absorb. Grey is an intermediate of everything and nothing. It is the balance, to put it in some way. Grey is a mixture of all colors, instead of black. Because white is also a color," he explained. "The truth is that I have never stopped to think of something as banal as my chromatic preferences, but I guess, if any, it would be that".

Silence came between us again. I don't know which answer I was expecting, but for sure, that was not it. On the other hand, it was really something typical of the Holmes. I was internally wondering if he believed that he was white, rejecting it all, leaving empty, and believed that grey was an intermediate color. If it was what he wanted to but could not reach. A harmony between all that had normal people, full of all things black, and absence that he had. If so, he had given me the most intimate and sincere confession that he had ever made. But I had no way of knowing it. At the end and after all, we were just talking about simple colors. There was no complex psychology in that— right?

"Do not want to know which is mine?"

He laughed.

"At this point in our relationship for you to not know that I already know it offends me, John. Clearly it is green."

"Why is clearly green?" I asked.

"Green is a very lively, very natural color. You could even say that emotional. And you have a lot of clothes of different tones of green. The wall of your room is green. The sofa we purchased is green. Everything points to the green, John."

I noticed how the plane began to move, turning to position itself on the track, and I held firmly into the arms of the seat. The instructions were given to wear the seat belt, and to pay attention of the stewards of flight. I did not pay attention. I closed my eyes as hard as I could, wanting it to happen soon. The takeoff was the worst part for me. Once in the air, it would be easier to forget that we were to know who how many kilometers of height, but not while the plane was tilted mostly vertical, ascending. Humans had no wings, and was for a reason.

I noticed that a hand glided within my own and squeezed mine. I knew that was Sherlock's, even if I had never touched him that way. I squeezed it back, unconsciously, clenching my jaw. He should know that I hate flying. It was an irrational fear, because in theory, the safest transportation was the air, but... it was like trying to reasoning to get an agoraphobic out on the street, or to a claustrophobic that elevator walls would not closing in around him.

After a while, he began to tell me again about our cover, giving me more data, and when that ended, about the case that we had at hand. He spoke almost nonstop. The entire time, until they turned on the green light indicating we could unlatch our seatbelts, and a friendly young lady announced that we could turn on our electronic devices. At that time, Sherlock ended his chatter, and was silent, looking out of the window of the plane, and I realized that he had been talking me to keep my mind busy. I had barely noticed when we started to take off. I relaxed a little in my seat, without unfastening my belt, and looked down. My hand was still held by his, and he did not seem to be hurry to remove it. I was surprised myself not wanting to release it. His contact was... comforting, somehow.

That made me realize that I had not put up any kind of resistance when he put the ring on my finger, and he imposed upon me—because we were not talking about a suggestion; it had been a clear and distinct order, without any chance of protest—to be his husband. I had not even said my now commonplace, "I'm not gay."

For the first time, I didn't have the least idea where that left me.

Getting on the ship was the strangest experience, mostly because it was next to a Sherlock with a loose-fitting, red Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, sunglasses, despite the cold of the port of Cardiff. In his hand, heheld his suitcase, and I dragged my own, somewhat more sheltered than his, from behind. The salty and deep smell of the sea hit my nose with a sharp scent, as if I'd never smelled it before. The seagullscircled in the sky above us, looking for something to eat, screaming.

I had never been on a ship before, and stupidly thought you would notice a constant wobble, but nothing further from the truth. The truth was that it looked pretty much like stepped on mainland soil. We went to our cabin (clearly, it could not have been two, it would be suspicious), and we came from face to face with a suite. The room was large, spacious, had two bathrooms, and a large double bed with red sheets and blanketing of rose petals.

The extra touch would have been wonderful if I didn't have it in my head that one of us was sleeping on the floor. Or I would have to share bed with Sherlock Holmes. Although he rarely slept, and could be perfectly straight or asexual, so it wasn't like I was it was making a mountain of a molehill...

But, God. Sleeping with Sherlock. That was hard for me to take in. What do I say? Something titanic. That I, self-proclaimed heterosexual, "the single" (I hated that ridiculous nickname) John Watson, the I-am-not-gay-if-anybody-still-cares, with the most unique roommate in the world, well-integrated sociopath Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective, was sleeping with another man. The idea simply blocked my mind.

The thought of it made my insides squirm, but not in an unpleasant way. That, along with all of the above, were causing major stress in my brain. Perhaps had come time to contemplate the situation with calm and cool mind, and rethink many things which so far had given for granted.

"Who has paid it? It has to cost an arm and face. At least."

"An eye and kidney and a half, in fact."

When I looked at him, horrified, he laughed.

"Oh, come on. It was a joke. Mycroft has financed it. Although the right thing would be to say that his credit card did," he explained, with a boyish smile, pulling out a black credit card with the name of the oldest of the Holmes brother emblazoned in silver letters.

Really going to have to deal with his kleptomaniac trend. First were Donovan and Anderson's Scotland Yard ID cards, then Lestrade's wife's, and now Mycroft's cards. The next step is to plan a robbery on a large scale from the Treasury.

"Sherlock..."

He ignored me completely, surely deleting me from that bright mind. He left the suitcase, and studied the room carefully. He opened the porthole, sticking his head out to overlook the sea in the relative calm of the harbor. For a moment, I thought he would bring it back in, but the idiot was like a damn cat: wherever his head went, he went too. So he clung to the window and pulled himself halfway out. I swear it almost gave me a heart attack.

"Sherlock! You're going to kill yourself! Stop acting like a monkey!" I exclaimed, leaving luggage, and going over there. I took his legs without thinking too much about it, and I held him tightly, pulling him inward. Sometimes he seemed a five year old child.

He slipped into the cabin again, moaning and groaning because I had interrupted his research, and I let him fall on his back on the soft bed. I watched him bounce off the mattress, and my anger was gone as quickly as it came. Sherlock Holmes lying on a bed with lots of rose petals around it isn't something you can see every day. The image was most amusing. I stifled a laugh and he looked at me, frowning.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing. Do your thing, Sherlock."

"Scott," he growled, annoyed.

"What?"

He arose, and came to me, before approaching his suitcase, laid it on the top of the bed, and opened it to start to unpack it.

"Our cover, Hamish. Now I'm Scott, do you remember? These people are highly dangerous, so any slip up and we will have one foot in the grave," he said, and as soon as he did, I wished he'd chosen another explanation. Memories of a burial in winter, and blood on the pavement in front of St. Bartholomew's came to my mind clear and bright flashes. I saw him wince, and I turned to see my face now. I heard himclear his throat, realizing his lack of tact, surely. "Well, you know what I mean."

I crossed my arms, mentally counting to fifty and looking at the shelves inside the room. I thought about how we would divide them and I started distributing the clothes mentally. Again, I was struck by the feeling that what we were doing would not work. It was possible that Sherlock knew almost everything about myself with a quick glance, but I did not have that advantage. I had no idea what his favorite food was, if he was allergic to something, or who the hell was that Redbeard that his brother brought up to spite him. I knew nothing of his past, which he had studied (even if he had gone to college), where he had done, where his parents lived. He was so flippant in regards to normal things he had closed all of them off. We could hardly go through playacting a happy newlywed couple if all I knew about him was that he liked to play the violin at hours that were not normal, he composed music while thinking, liked coffee with two sugars and green tea with only one, that he locked himself in his mind palace to think, he could go days without eating or sleeping well if required for a case, and that his brother Mycroft Holmes (alias British Government) was a control freak that kept him guarded around the clock, three hundred sixty five days a year.

"I'm still not sure about this, Sherlock", I said, and when I saw him looking at me with his eyes narrowed, I corrected myself. "—I mean, Scott."

"A little late to go back, don't you think? Cold Feet, Doctor Watson? Or is the idea of being married to me what upsets you so much?" he teased, but I heard a tone of annoyance interspersed in his frivolity.

"No, it's not that—" Are you going to tell him you would like being married to him, John? Be honest, man. "I mean I don't know anything about you. And when I say nothing I mean nothing at all. And frankly, doesn't seem fair. You know everything about me."

Sherlock sighed, sat cross-legged, and looked at me with a stiff back like a cat. Rose petals were still around. This time, there was nothing overly funny in the scene, but—dark. Different images assed through my mind of Sherlock lying on his back, rolling on those roses, moaning and writhing, lost in pleasure, gripping the sheets tightly, asking for more with such as direct orders ... I gave an involuntary gasp, not knowing where had come all those pictures, or why. I felt small and helpless, lost and confused. What the hell just happened? I prayed I wasn't blushing.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" he asked, resigned, apparently oblivious to what just happened inside of me. "Besides my color preference, of course. I think I have already answered that."

"I do not know—right now, so—" I hedged, shifting from foot to foot. I knew perfectly well the first thing I wanted to ask but did not dare. Surely it was none of my business, but I needed to know to stay calm—but that's what I told myself to justify my curiosity.

"You're refusing to say something. You know exactly what you want to ask," he complained. He hated doing these things because he considered them unnecessary and boring, but if I ever stretched my reluctance, it all got worse. "I'm not asexual, John. Contrary to what many of you believe. Maybe my body is just transport, but it has some mostly annoying habits. I tend to systematically ignore them."

I blinked, shocked by the revelation. A four. Now there were only three birds on the air, and only one was correct. But which?

I heard him laugh quietly.

"Okay, I see that you cannot let this go. And if you have not learned in these four years, you'll never know. I am, what plenty of you commonly call, bisexual. But the truth is that sex has never attracted much my attention, but—I'm not a virgin, either, as Moriarty said."

I snorted, startled because he had been so straightforward. The big question finally discovered. Two of the big questions, in fact. Why, despite both being adults, it was so hard to talk about sex with my roommate? It was—absurd. But there it was. I decided to stop focusing on the subject, although I now many other topics arose I was dying to ask for, if only out of sheer morbid curiosity. I was becoming a bloody gossip.

"Allergies?"

He shook his head.

"None. Although I have a bit of asthma. Or had when I was younger. I inhaled butane gas by a small leak from the old kitchen, and my lungs are often irritated with the accumulation of a lot of steam. It's nothing serious." He shrugged.

I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing that this may be a long conversation.

"Got up inhaler?"

He pulled back on the bed, clasping his hands in his thinking pose.

"No. It is unnecessary and cumbersome. Next question."

I thought my next question as I noted in my mental list of things to buy, an inhaler. I would rather carry it and have it in a time of need, not have it and let him suffer.

"Did you go to college?"

" Sure. I did Chemistry at Oxford, of course. I find it very useful, but biology wouldn't have been bad. Always wanted to visit the swimming members of the University Hospitals. Molly gave me access to St. Bart's once, but has little else."

" Okay— wow. Okay, the next one— Who is this Redbeard guy your brother mentions from time to time? It seems that he really gets you upset with that".

I felt how he tensed, and I thought maybe my curiosity had gone too far. He had said he wasn't a virgin and maybe that was the code name of one of his previous boyfriends. Maybe he would have left, or have been hurt, or it would have been a bad experience—all of that affected him, and I wished to apologize for it.

"It was my family's dog. He was killed when I was little. He was sick. Next question," he answered curtly, still tense.

I could not get over my astonishment. That seemed even tender. Sherlock Holmes had feelings. He missed the dog he had when he was a child. I hated Mycroft for bringing that subject only to antagonize him. Next time he did it in my presence, I would have some serious words with him. I meant something to cheer him, but I thought there was nothing I could say to make him feel better. Sherlock was too independent for all. I thanked him anyway his sincerity in silence.

We continued our "twenty questions" game until the ship's horn sounded, and the cruise began. From that moment, I wanted to or not, I was Hamish, Scott's husband. And we had to uncover a cell of arms trafficking. All in a fortnight.

Ah, of course. I forgot that also we would share this cabin, if not the bed.

Was there anything better?

Sherlock stood up swiftly. He closed his now empty suitcase, and put it under the bed.

"Come on, Hamish," he said, enthusiastically. I saw him walk to the door, and still could not get used to seeing him dressed like that. So—summery. As tourist. I figured I would have to get used to many different things during those two weeks. "We must see boat. We need to look at the deck activities schedule!"

"I'll be right in a moment. Go ahead. I'll catch up in two minutes".

When I went up to the deck, leaving my brown vest, blue shirt and long jeans in the closet, and taking some shorts and a shirt of white linen with a pair of sandals that Sherlock had gotten in the duty-free shop. It was all my size, of course. When I made it up to the deck, I couldn't have been more surprised. Everything was duly decorated for Valentine's day: there were hanging hearts and pink colored cupids throughout the area, and red heart balloons. Couples cuddling at every corner, and of all possible combinations. I thought Harry would have loved that place. There was no disapproving glances or critics. Love was in the air—almost in a literal asphyxia-tingly sense.

It could have perfectly take Sarah there. But I was with Sherlock, and we were married. And I was not even able to flirt. Per-fect.

"Hamish! Hamish, love! Come here!"

At first I thought it was not for me, but then I remembered my cover, and I appreciated that this was unquestionably Sherlock's voice, so I looked around the deck, between the bustle of couples. I saw his dark, curly head, and his white hand wave in the air. I walked over there, with the word "love" ringing in my head like a mocking echo. He was standing in front of a cork board with bright posters announcing the activities of that day and the next.

"There's dancing in the Poseidon room tonight!" he exclaimed excitedly, taking my arm. Too excited for my taste.

"You called me love?" I asked, unable to contain myself. I had very little access to the phone to record everything. Never would have better material than that one, and that certainly should stay for posterity. I held my laughter so tremendous that I stuck in the throat. It was so hilarious—

"Of course, silly!" he said, hitting my arm harder than it looked. No doubt he had read my expression, and I knew he was enjoying this.

His whole face under that mask of excessive romanticism said if you tell anyone I will kill you slowly and painfully, and then I'll experiment with your remains in ways that you certain don't want to imagine and you better be taking this seriously, or next time I'll leave you at home.

I knew I had to stay calm, but it was impossible to hold it back.

"All right, Scott. We will, if it makes you so happy. But remember what we've come for: you promised you'll teach me astronomy" I replied, trying to stop the charade and concentrate on the case. I was giving him an important clue I had achieved in the hallway on our floor, leaving the cabin in search. I found a map of emergency exits around the liner, and it was designated as the location of the captain.

He smiled, a mischievous smile which was actually real, and when he gave out some information that either knew, or thought he knew very little. He was satisfied that the work was, and what was more important: he understood my reference.

"Sure, sure. Maybe later when lights are out. Usually they shine so brilliantly we will see nothing," he replied, as he roved the area with his eyes, and added: "I think the bow is a good side. Not many lights."

I nodded. If we split, we'll meet there as deck lights get extinguished. All right. Something to do besides pretend we are lovers canoodling in a bed. That would give me time to clear my head, which lately was too confused.

A couple approached us from behind and collided with me. I turned to apologize, and I couldn't help stare at them. Sherlock watched them too, prompt and attentive, and when I was about to leave, he waved.

"Oops, sorry. Hamish is a little awkward. I'm Scott, nice to meet you," he introduced himself. As soon as I saw that that was in no way a normal behavior, I decided to play along. He would have deduced something.

"It's true, I'm sorry. Not looking where I was going. Are you okay?" I asked, politely.

The girl, tall, dark and light eyes looked at us both and smiled.

"Oh, no," she answered. "Don't worry, it's all right. It's crowded. It's hard not to collide. I'm Anne, and this is Austin. We're from Brecon. And you?"

"I'm from London and Hamish is originally from Hampshire, but we live in London now," Sherlock replied, proudly showing the ring. My God, he seemed so enthusiastic about the subject of the couple, that if he kissed me, I would jump overboard just to make sure I was awake.

"Great! Do you care if we hang around with you? You seem like nice people, not—we don't know anyone here. Will you stay for dinner tonight?"

I was not sure I liked the new Sherlock. He was so outgoing, I felt like I was the sociopath. And to top it off, Austin seemed to be uncomfortable with our presence. Almost as much as I was.

I waited until Sherlock pulled away with a heartfelt but decisive declining, claiming that we had other arrangements for the evening (which made me blush, of course, remembering what I had thought in the cabin a time ago), and said goodbye. When we were left alone, Sherlock grabbed my hand and dragged me to one of the dining rooms, where they served the food. Before arriving, he pulled me until I got into a bathroom, and closed the safety latch.

"What have you seen?" I asked, curious. I had been so intrigued. It must have been something important, because he had dismissed the other couple so quickly.

"I think I've discovered one of the gang," he said, thrilled. His eyes shone with happiness. I've never seen him that way, looking like a child at Christmas opening gifts under the tree. He took my cheeks and my pulse quickened, thinking he was about to kiss me, thinking how close his face was to mine. "Oh, this is great. The first day and we have the first thread of the tapestry! I'm can't believe it, John!"

"Who is it? The girl?" I asked, frowning. He was pressing so hardly my face, that my mouth was crushed, and my voice while speaking sounded strange. He didn't relaxed the grip, though.

"No, no. She knows nothing about this. Hardly been dating one year. He is the black sheep. So he did not talk to us. Probably suspects everyone, and doesn't want to meet with any other people for fear of getting caught. And he won't explain her because he does not want her to get mixed up in it. It's a pickup, like many others, and it will not be there. I guess as the cruise ends and we are back in England, they will break up. I think he is the pack mule. He must charge a ridiculously small commission for it. He is also a drug addict. Surely he also spends a small shipment with weapons. I would say methamphetamine, but it could be something else".

"He consumed glass?" I was puzzled. I have had patients at the hospital who were in full meth detox period, and their teeth were rotting on the so sweet drink. By suppressing the appetite, glass made those who drank more soft drinks consumed, and fresh just blackening their teeth. That was a clear distinctive of consumption of that drug in particular: meth mouth.

"I know: his teeth. Take porcelain dentures. Probably pieces fell off long ago. He's older than it looks. Forties. She believes he's much younger, of course".

"Ah. That's—okay— Sherlock, could you let go of my face?"

He let me go, and I moved my jaw to both sides to relax it. Then I first saw the bathroom, a small place and cold, and heard the voices of people walking down the hall toward the dining room, looking for something to fill their stomachs. Mine growled. Besides a coffee at the airport, I had not eaten since yesterday's dinner, which consisted of a strawberry yogurt was in the fridge, just above the decaying head. It was a miracle that I had not starved yet.

"Come on. Now that we have one, we must follow the rest. We're going to get you to eat something, and then continue," he said, opening the door and out, arm in arm with me. We went down to the dining room. I got a serving of steak with fries and a beer, all while Sherlock was limited to drink some iced tea to keep up appearances.

Once we finished, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards the stairs.

"Come on. I want to visit the spa on the third floor. Don't you?" he suggested, with a smile.

And of course, I let him take me.