On the complete other end of Mrs. Hudson's crowded living room, through billowing clouds of tobacco smoke and cloyingly-floral perfumes, over an array of poorly-reasoned bets piled on the coffee table and even-more-poorly-concealed hands, and moreover past a disturbing hyper-awareness of the sex-lives of the little old ladies present, Sherlock Holmes was coming to the realization that John Watson had gotten him there under false pretenses.

And that John Watson was unendingly stupid and annoying.

And that John Watson only drank beer now and that John Watson was never going to shut up about that pointless, time-sucking honeymoon in India.

Sherlock shifted his cards slightly. In a chair next to him, Mrs. Rothschild smirked and pressed the glasses up her nose. Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye.

"John, shut up about India. It's boring," he said.

John brought his gaze reluctantly to Sherlock, adjusting it as he went. Blue, warm eyes eclipsed minutely by lowered brows and irritation. It was physical, that look. It was like being pushed backwards. It expressed an appalled, compulsive need to chastise the aberrant element. John was giving him that look because time turned people normal.

"Sherlock, you're clearly the only one not listening at all, so how the hell would you know if it's boring?"

Then John's smirk breaking through the boring and predictable. The smirk that said 'I know. But I still really know.'

Then: "No, he doesn't have a tell, Mrs. Rothschild. He's doing that on purpose."

And the ladies tittered in response. The drinking had made John even more gregarious. When John smiled, he looked younger than anyone should be allowed under gray hair. Sherlock huffed and sank back to rearranging his hand, a small, corresponding smile on his own face. His heart was busy trying to explode in his chest.

He scooped the chips to his corner without a word, flopping his cards back into the pile. The conversation simmered around him like he'd left the radio on. John laughed while joking about his Mary's cooking, then started talking about how they'd met.

There had probably been a banal segue in there, which Sherlock hadn't felt like hearing. The happy couple had bonded over a shared belief in Sherlock Holmes. Irony. He'd known that before, couldn't even delete it. It just kept coming back.

Mrs. Feint dealt him two aces. He genuinely didn't care. He just swallowed and shifted, placed an appropriate but slightly misleading bet. He glanced up again and John was still smiling, watching him now.

Every time John passed Sherlock to get another beer or to help someone make their way to the door, he ran his hand along Sherlock's back. It was confusing. It tickled and made him angry and he didn't want it to stop.

Sherlock. I miss you. Very much. I really wish you'd respond. JW

Watson. SH

Stop calling me that. JW

But that's your name. There's a party at Mrs. Hudson's in an hour. Something about a baby or a marriage. SH

Or divorce possibly. SH

Maybe a wake. SH

Right… you're asking me to come or you're saying you're busy? JW

She told me to invite you a week ago. SH

Prick. Tell her I'll be there. JW

… This is a very strange party. SH

I said I'll be there. JW

I think it is a wake but I can't figure out whose. They've mentioned at least nine different dead people within a span of ten minutes. SH

Don't you dare leave, Sherlock. JW