A/N: I give you the civil union. This is not necessarily the last installment, despite the title making it sound that way.

(I'm shameless enough to admit that this is making ME smile unstoppably.)

Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John platonic romance.

The Unlikely But Entirely True Happily Ever After

Sherlock cannot stop himself from smiling as he stands in front of the full-length mirror he keeps in his bedroom. He's picked one of his more elegant black suits, paired with a pale blue shirt that brings out his eyes. A silk handkerchief the same hue as the shirt peeps out of the left breast pocket in his suit jacket. No tie, he dislikes ties, and he doesn't own cuff links. He is wearing his good shoes, however. (In other words, the pair he doesn't abuse at work on a daily basis.) He thinks he looks rather dashing, not that he would ever let on to other people that he puts any value in physical appearances, especially his own. He admires himself in the mirror for a moment, before sweeping out.

John's waiting in the living room, also wearing a suit-undoubtedly his best one, which is somewhat pathetic in Sherlock's opinion-but with a tie. Sherlock makes a mental note to take all of John's good clothes to his tailor in the near future. And throw that tie away.

"Ready?" John says.

"Indeed."

"Nervous?"

Sherlock half-smiles at him. "No. Are you?"

"Not at all. Questioning how I wound up here, perhaps-but I know what I'm doing."

They look at each other a few strides apart, a warm and intimate eye contact, and Sherlock can already feel what he has come to recognize as happiness gently flowing through him.

He puts on his formal coat, full-length like his every day coat but sleeker, black and made of fine material. He hardly ever has occasion to wear it, and he's glad. From now on, whenever he looks at it or wears it again, he'll remember today. John puts on his good jacket, hands Sherlock the pale blue cashmere scarf Sherlock bought a week ago precisely for this occasion, and they file out of their flat and down the stairs, calling out for Mrs. Hudson.

They stand side by side in front of a wooden table at their local register's office, with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade standing nearby as witnesses, and the registrar-a man Sherlock estimates is 58 years of age, in a casual, dull brown suit and tie-recites the brief and standard procedural speech which informs the applying couple what they're agreeing to. On the table is the form, just one page. John signs at the bottom in the first space, and Sherlock signs next to him. The registrar congratulates them, shakes John's hand and then Sherlock's, and it's done.

Sherlock and John look at each other and don't say anything, Sherlock beaming with a rosy glow in his face and John smiling back at him. Strangely, neither one of them feels the need to make a big show of affection here; they're still on about privacy, after all. And it's not like kissing is something they do, anyway. The look is enough.

"Well, congratulations, I guess," says Lestrade. Sherlock knows he finds the whole thing crazy and bizarre, but at least he indulges them. "Now if you don't mind, I have a job."

Mrs. Hudson coos in their general direction and dabs at her eyes. John goes to pat her on the back and guide her toward the door.

Sherlock can't think of anything worth saying, as he follows behind them; he's just happy. He certainly didn't need this; it isn't legal trivialities that please him. He's happy because John is serious enough about staying to do such a thing as proof. And proof is something Sherlock appreciates.

Upon arriving home, they find a plain white box on their kitchen table, tied with a bow, and an envelope propped against it. John takes the envelope while Sherlock pulls the bow loose.

"From Mycroft," says John, reading the card. "Congratulations, many happy years together, etcetera."

He closes the card and slips it back into the envelope, then tucks it inside his jacket. Sherlock knows his brother left a check inside the card for an exorbitant amount of money, but he doesn't care enough to say anything about it. Instead, he looks at the cake inside the box. A small round cake, pale butter cream frosting, without script or flowers or any frivolous decoration that Sherlock would hate. He has to at least give his brother credit for that.

"Kind of him," John says. Sherlock hums and moves around him toward the cupboard next to the refrigerator, deciding to brew a pot of coffee. John takes off his suit jacket, arranging it on the back of his chair, and sits down at the table. They are silent for a bit, listening to the coffee pot bubble, and when Sherlock returns to the table with two mugs in hand, he does not sit down.

He pulls from the inside of his suit a small wrapped gift and offers it to John. John looks up at him, surprised, and takes it. He picks apart the wrapping paper carefully, snaps open the blue velvet box, and finds... a silver pocket watch. The exterior has an elegant design, decorative but tasteful, and when he pops it open, he finds an engraving on the inside cover:

All my Love

S.H.

John swallows, an unexpected wave of emotion coming over him. Sherlock continues to stand, watching his face, waiting for a response. John looks up at him and says simply, "Thank you," his voice thick. Sherlock gives him the faintest little half-smile and sits down. He cuts two slices of cake while John composes himself, the coffee steaming and the smell of it filling the kitchen. John slips the watch into his coat pocket, holding it in his hand for a moment there, the metal already warm.

When they go to bed that night, Sherlock lies on his side and faces John, who mirrors him. They stare at each other for a long time, not saying a word, seeing each other's eyes despite the dark. Sherlock lays his hand over John's and curls his fingers into it. His mouth flickers in and out of a smile, and John is unreadable. Sherlock scoots closer and presses a kiss to John's hairline, hand cupped at the back of his head, and John's arm slithers over him. They embrace, close and warm.

"I promise I'll be good to you," Sherlock whispers. "As good as I can."

John doesn't answer, except for his hand solid on Sherlock's back.

In the following weeks, Sherlock finds that life continues on as usual, for the most part. The biggest difference, from his perspective, is his own state of mind. John goes out occasionally to meet a woman, and they still don't talk about it. They work, John accompanies him on cases when he can, life in the flat proceeds as usual. They don't wear rings, nobody changes his name, the world at large has no idea anything's transpired.

But Sherlock has evened out further. It is difficult for him to articulate even in his own thoughts; he feels calmer, more at ease somehow. Truth be told, this whole civil union business is a kind of climactic event in the transformation of Sherlock's view on his own life and person. He had never stopped to ponder anything other than work for very long, but if he had, he would have found himself without any expectation whatsoever of another person truly loving him or seeing him as a source of personal happiness. That John would meet both items of criteria enough to legalize their relationship for the sake of Sherlock's inner peace does nothing short of turn Sherlock on his head.

It's what he thinks about in the mornings when he's getting properly dressed in front of his own bedroom mirror and he listens to John banging around in the kitchen or hollering about what Sherlock wants for breakfast. Sherlock had never allowed himself to really feel his desire for companionship, always brushed loneliness aside as a stupid and dull waste of time. Now that it isn't so much a problem anymore, he can think about it more seriously in retrospect. Perhaps there was always something more to his black moods than boredom or a neurological chemical imbalance.

Sherlock lounges at the kitchen table with tea and the newspaper, and John gives him a quick kiss on the head as he leaves for work. Sherlock smiles long after the front door shuts. It's so much easier to be happy now than it ever was; maybe he's less of a sociopath than he thought.

One day, John and Sherlock are walking side by side down a busy street, their pace leisurely. They aren't on a case, just going for a stroll and hardly speaking because sometimes, silence is the best thing. A man going in the opposite direction—big, burly, mean-looking fellow—knocks into Sherlock as he passes them by.

"Watch where you're bloody going, ye fuckin queers."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, hands in his pockets and shoulders straight.

It takes him a couple steps to realize John's no longer next to him. He turns around to see him and the stranger facing each other, John clearly giving the man a piece of his mind. Sherlock pauses, face crinkling in surprise. That's not the first time someone's mistaken them for a gay couple, though perhaps the first time it was suggested in a derogatory manner. John's never gotten angry about it before. Sherlock watches him speak to the stranger and the stranger's expression of apathy and incomprehension, until finally the stranger walks away, leaving John huffing behind him.

"Dare I ask what that was about?" Sherlock says, once they're continuing on their way, side by side. John's breathing as if he's just finished having a fist fight, hands almost clenched into fists at his side.

"It was a bloody inappropriate thing to say, that's what."

"John, if I had a pound for every time we've been mistaken for homosexuals since our meeting, you wouldn't be able to take pay for my work in spite of my own refusal. It's never been more than an annoyance to you before; what's changed?"

"Implying it's one thing, but that git was downright—"

"So the nature of your anger isn't personal but based on your belief in universal human respect."

"Yes. No. Well, yes, of course I'm offended when people use language like that, in such a manner. It's indecent."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, both of them still staring straight ahead as they move. "For once, I'm not seeing the logical progression of your response."

John gives a long, loud sigh. "Maybe I am sick of everyone thinking we're like that."

Sherlock stops. "Oh?"

John stops too, a few paces ahead of him, and turns around to face him. "Not because there's anything wrong with it."

Sherlock looks at him, waiting for him to explain.

"It's just, we're not, Sherlock. I like shagging women. When I'm in the mood for a shag, that is. And you don't care for it at all."

"We've chosen each other for a life partner," Sherlock says, brows now furrowed together in confusion and slight hurt.

"Yeah, but that doesn't make us a couple like that."

Now, Sherlock really does look hurt. John makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a grunt, stepping toward him and gesticulating.

"I'm not saying what we have is less…. serious or whatever, than if we were in a sexual relationship, I'm just saying we're not and since we're not, people are bloody wrong for thinking we are."

"Yes," Sherlock says, attempting to decipher what he means. "They are technically inaccurate about our sexual orientations and the physical nature of our relationship."

"Well," John says, arms spread out around him. They talk as if there's no one else around. "Don't you want them to get it right? I'd expect you of all people to be offended by a daft conclusion."

Sherlock half-smiles for a second, hands still in his coat pockets. "They have no evidence with which to make an accurate one," he says. "I think that would require t-shirts on our part."

John snorts, hands on his hips now. "They wouldn't believe us anyway."

Sherlock watches him quietly, as John looks absently at the shop window to his right.

"Does some part of you wish you were a part of something like that?" Sherlock says.

John looks at him, makes firm eye contact, letting Sherlock read him.

"No," he says, after a moment. "I have what I want."

Sherlock steps toward him, hooking his arm around John's, and they begin to walk again.

"You can't expect the world to understand," he says. "Most people are idiots, remember?"

They're silent for a few blocks, until John says playfully,

"You weren't asking me for a shag back there, were you?"

Sherlock smiles outright this time. "I wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if I asked such a thing, now would I, Doctor?"

"No, you wouldn't. You'd be an ordinary, sane person and I wouldn't want anything to do with you."

Sherlock wears that smile for the rest of their walk.

He wakes up unnaturally fast and knows right away that something is wrong. When the initial disorientation of unconsciousness wears off, he is sharply lucid and he feels….. good. He remembers this, the delicious mental clarity and light and whole-body euphoria, his heart beating fast as if he were chasing a suspect through London or on the verge of a revelation. Cocaine injection. If he weren't so high, he would be angry; he's been clean for years, an unspoken promise to John now broken.

There's a man sitting in a chair across from him, a gun in his right hand and a black sock mask with eye, nose, and mouth holes pulled over his head.

"Thought I would give you a little treat," the man says. "Feels nice, don't it?"

Sherlock then vaguely remembers a fight and a punch to the face that must've knocked him out. "Who are you and why are you doing this?"

"I don't think that's any of your concern."

"You're him, aren't you? Martin Crouch."

The primary suspect in Sherlock's latest case.

"I'm no one special," the man says. "Not like you, Holmes."

Sherlock leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks into Crouch's small eyes. He's about to say something when they both hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, someone coming up the stairs.

John stops on the landing a few steps outside the open door to their flat. Sherlock and the gunman both turn their heads to look at him.

"Not really a good time to drop in right now, John," Sherlock says.

Crouch points his gun at John and tells him to, "Get in here."

John obeys, not saying a word, walking into the flat but leaving the door open behind him. He glances at Sherlock, then back at Crouch. "We haven't any money," he says. "You take what you want from the flat but I doubt there's anything of much value."

Sherlock snorts. "Clearly, he isn't here for money, John. He wants me out of his way. I've been trailing him for a week, after all."

John sees Sherlock's left hand shaking. Whatever he thinks is the reason, he's likely wrong; it's just that Sherlock hasn't been high in quite a while.

Crouch yells at Sherlock to stand up, which he does; next, to come over to him. When Sherlock's within reach, the gunman yanks him by a fistful of his suit jacket over Sherlock's bony shoulder and pulls him into a tight grip against him.

"Please," John says, voice cracking, hand outstretched in front of him. "Please, don't."

And Sherlock, with the gunman's arm under his chin and hard against his neck, looks at John with his blue eyes shining and smiles a bit.

"It's all right, John," he says. "It's all right."

The man presses the barrel of his gun into the side of Sherlock's skull, the metal hard and solid there. John hisses in a breath, almost moving forward but reining himself in place, and Sherlock just looks at him placidly and keeps on smiling. They stare at each other, only a few paces away from each other but with no way to close the gap, to touch. The whole world is reduced to this one place, this one moment, when it seems John is about to be robbed of everything best in his life.

He will never know what it was Sherlock was thinking behind that smile, if he was expecting to die with John in his view or if he had some clever plan of escape no one could have guessed. Either way, it doesn't matter. The upper pane of the window behind them breaks with a sharp blow, and the gunman lets go of Sherlock, gun falling away, body slumping to the floor. Blood leaks from a hole in his head.

At first, John and Sherlock don't move, standing absolutely still and looking at each other, then down at the dead stranger. When the body doesn't stir, they make eye contact again, pausing as if they're going to move on from what just happened in perfect nonchalance.

John rushes at Sherlock and pulls him into a crushing, desperate hug. And Sherlock hugs back, not afraid but glad, his brain flooded with cocaine and adrenaline. He lets out a shaky breath, almost laughing, but John trembles against him, pulse as fast as Sherlock's. He doesn't know what to do with himself, which emotion to feel, he feels like he could cry and throw up and laugh and faint all at once. He doesn't know which one of them is holding the other one on his feet; it seems like neither of them should be upright.

"Jesus," he barks, when he finally finds his voice. "Sherlock."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Fucking Christ."

He breathes in Sherlock's smell, feels light-headed and more overwhelmed than he knew he had the capacity to feel. Sherlock's palms are warm on his back, and they both hear the door to the building open and Lestrade calling out Sherlock's name and several pairs of heavy boots pounding up the stairs to their flat. Police pour into their living room, but Sherlock and John still take a moment to pull apart. Sherlock keeps one hand on John's shoulder to steady him, looking past him at Lestrade who asks if he's all right. Sherlock nods. John still feels sick.

Sherlock gives John a penetrating stare. "Are you all right?"

John doesn't respond right away but eventually nods.

"I think we should have some tea," Sherlock says. "Do you want tea?"

John can only nod again, the weight of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder the only thing keeping him from losing his legs. Sherlock glances down at the dead body, which is already being approached by the police, and tells John they'll go out for a cup.

"Later," he says to Lestrade as he guides John out of the flat. Lestrade lets them go.

They take a cab. John keeps his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, and Sherlock rubs his back without speaking.

They drink good tea in one of Sherlock's favorite cafes, neither of them saying much. By now, Sherlock's come down from his high and feels much more somber. John doesn't try to say anything, so he doesn't either. They take their time. Sherlock looks out the window. It's gray outside.

Not until they leave does John stop right outside the door to the café and looks at Sherlock again for the first time since they left the flat, catching him by the sleeve of his coat. He doesn't say a word, and Sherlock waits, unable to read him.

"I can't," John says, shaking his head. "I just can't—"

His voice breaks and he sounds like he might cry. Sherlock's hardly ever seen him like this, in almost six years since they met. He cups one gloved hand over the back of John's neck, pulls him into a soft hug. They stand there on the pavement, ignoring the passersby. Sherlock cannot tell if John is weeping into his coat, but just in case, he doesn't let go.

It begins to rain, just a drizzle. John stands back a bit, their arms still around each other, and looks up into Sherlock's face. Sherlock offers a small, encouraging smile.

John struggles to find the words: "You—you're—I—"

"I know," Sherlock says, his face full of such warmth, as only John can evoke in him. His eyes gleam, and he smiles gently. "It's all right."

He takes John's hand in his and together, they set off down the street, paying no mind to the water.

One Sunday morning, when there's work to be done and the sunshine comes into their sitting room butter yellow and cheery, Sherlock and John lie together close and warm on the sofa. Sherlock's reading, John resting with his head on Sherlock's heart and an empty mug still clutched in one hand. The sound of Sherlock's heart beating fills John with utter peace, so Sherlock never protests.

"We should retire to the country," John says after a while.

Sherlock gives him a skeptical, sideways glance. "Retire?"

"You won't be able to run around all over London like this forever."

"The country's boring."

John smiles. "You'll have to find something new to occupy you."

"And you?"

"I'll be quite content to do nothing by then, I suspect."

Sherlock smiles in turn, for all that the words imply. "How appallingly cliché."

"What is?"

"The whole growing old together sentiment."

"I think it sounds quite nice, actually."

"Will you still be trying to pull with our elderly widow neighbors?"

John chuckles at that. "Will you still keep severed heads in our refrigerator?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "One time and you still won't let it go."

He lies there with John long after he's finished reading and in their quiet, he contemplates the conclusion he's made recently: that John really is happy here, just as happy as Sherlock is, and if Sherlock could read John's mind precisely, he would not be surprised to find John looking back upon their civil union decision as the best idea he's had to date.

That such luck should belong to Sherlock Holmes is, in his opinion, completely absurd.

And he isn't arguing.