Last year, I was preparing for my wedding at this time and as a consequence missed the birthday of one of my dearest Internet friends.

LA, you are a support and inspiration to me. I hope that you enjoy this multipart story, which I submit to make up for last year.

Sincerely yours

KnightFury

As we exit the house belonging to our (until now) most obvious suspects, Beth gives a shudder which – I suspect – has little to do with stepping out into the wet street. "I don't think I've ever been so glad to be outside – even if it is pouring rain, right now. That house stank!"

She is not exaggerating. I myself had been anxious to leave, for the smell within that vile hovel had been enough to make my eyes water and to cause my stomach to turn over. It was putrid. The visit was also fruitless – the Oyston family clearly have nothing to do with the stabbing which took place near their tenement, last night.

"Those poor kids," the inspector shakes her head. "They shouldn't have to live like that. It was freezing in there, too, and they were half-naked."

I sneeze – not that it expels the lingering stench from my nostrils – and open the car door for my partner.

"Thanks," says she, as she gets in. She then waits patiently for me to scramble into the passenger seat and close the door, before speaking again. "You OK?"

I choose to ignore the question. She should know that I am perfectly well. "They were wearing shorts and T-shirts, Beth; not exactly indecent clothing. Impractical, I grant you... Incidentally, did you notice the marks on them?"

"On the clothes, or on the kids? I didn't notice anything – not with all the dirt on 'em. What marks?"

"Bruises, Beth. Some quite old, others very fresh. I am sure that you know the implications."

She nods and starts the car with her usual gusto, sending it leaping into the air. "Yeah, I know the implications, all right. We need to get 'em outta there. Fast."

"Quite so. The sooner the better."

"Well, we can't do anything on our own, much as I want to take 'em with us right now. First step, I guess, is to contact their school, family doctor, get a social worker involved…"

I regard her pensively.

"What?" the Yarder turns to frown at me. "I know that look; what's on your mind?"

I shake my head. "If we are to interfere with the boys' future, I should like to know that it will turn out for the better – that they will be safe, cared for and not divided."

"We don't get a say in what happens to 'em, Sherlock. It doesn't work that way."

Well, it should! "Supposing… How does one go about adopting children, these days?"

She swerves suddenly, almost hitting a lamppost. "You've gotta be kidding me! It's not like taking on your Irregulars for a few hours a week, Sherlock – you'd be responsible for everything: what they eat, what they wear, what they do, whether or not they learn stuff…"

"I do take responsibility for those things, where the young people who make up my team of Irregulars are concerned – I saw that Wiggins, Deirdre and Tennyson went into higher education and found work, did I not?"

"Well… yeah… but this is different. You'd be responsible for 'em all the time – not just when they're with you or working for you. It's hard work. 'Sides, those kids are younger than your Irregulars. I'd say the oldest has to be about six, at the most. The younger one probably isn't even old enough for school, yet. He might not even be properly toilet trained, so that'll be more work for you."

She is right, of course.

"And you work. You can't stay home all day and you can't take a kid to work with you. So, how's that gonna work? What happens when one of 'em gets sick?"

"I was not asking for your opinion on the probability of my making an adequate single parent," I snap, impatiently. "I was asking whether it is possible for me – a single man – to adopt children, whom I know to have had a dreadful start in life."

"I haven't got a clue, but I can find out. Maybe we can discuss this hare-brained idea o' yours over dinner, huh? It's been ages since we went out. What would you like? Greek? Italian? Indian? Chinese?"

"Hum… Thai, I think. I have not had Thai cuisine in an age – Watson prefers Indian to Oriental."

"Thai it is. And this one's on me – you paid last time. Actually, you paid the time before that, too. And I'll choose the restaurant – I know you'll just try to find somewhere cheap, if I'm paying."

I feel my ears turn hot and look away. That she knows me so well that she can be absolutely correct is somewhat discomfiting.

When I pick Lestrade up in my own hovercar, she has obtained books, leaflets and printouts. She gives me the basic facts, while I drive and watch the road.

"Basically, you can't adopt a kid if you aren't married or in a stable, 'living together' relationship," says she. "The kids need stability."

And yet, it is perfectly acceptable, these days, to start a family and to then divorce – or to start a family whilst in an unstable relationship. I frown at the double standards.

"Sherlock, hasn't it occurred to you that maybe it's for the best? I mean, you were saying yourself that you want them to go to a good home…"

"I could give them a good home!"

She huffs. "You can't do all the stuff you'd need to do as a single parent and work. Not the way you like to work. There aren't enough minutes in the day."

"You have already said very similar."

"Yeah. Only now, I've got stuff written by other people, to back me up. I'm not being mean; I'm just telling you why you won't be able to adopt." Her mouth quirks, ever so slightly. "At least, not on your own."

I suspect that I know at what she is getting, but I say nothing. The onboard navigation is telling me that we are nearing our destination, anyhow, so I hand over control to the autopilot and permit the car to park itself (my parking is still my weakest point).

This Thai restaurant is a favourite of mine. The food is delicious, the interior nicely decorated, the lighting subtle, the temperature just right and the prices high enough to ensure that the clientele is select and quiet.

By the light of the candle, which is shining brightly at the centre of the table, I take Lestrade's hand in mine. "My dearest Beth, did you mean to say that you still wish to marry me? You must have come to realise by now that I am as far from an ideal husband as a man can be. I am not at all good at showing affection – I am most certainly nothing like the men in most of the films that you like..."

"Let me stop you right there," says she. "First off, I'm not like those girls, either – apart from Calamity Jane, maybe. I watch movies to escape from reality, not to dream about getting swept off my feet. OK? Zed! Where the zed d'you get your ideas from?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I just know what I am not and feel that you deserve better."

She stares at me angrily. "I've never heard such a load o' zedding crap. What makes you think I want to marry an 'ideal' husband? Besides, don't you know how hard they are to find?"

"Well..."

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I loved ya even before I had you brought back to life (not that I knew it then) and I'm sure as zed not gonna give up on ya now. So, yeah, I still wanna marry you, so long as you're still interested."

I nod mutely. Yes, I am still interested. I have lived one lonely existence and I cannot survive another. Besides, I do want to give the Oyston children a good home and, it would appear, we have to be married first. But this is why I want to be certain that this is what my fiancée wants – I cannot say that my reasons for wanting to marry her have ever been borne out of love for her. I do love her, of course, but not really as a fiancé should; not romantically and certainly not physically. At least, I don't think so. I think that I must become confused by the chemicals in this rejuvenated body, sometimes, and then I know not what I want – I fear that I might easily become carried away, then.

"Hey! Are you listening to me? Snap out of it!"

I blink. "Hum? Oh. My apologies. I was lost in thought."

"Huh, yeah, I noticed. You OK?"

I squeeze her hand. "If I am truly the one that you want, shall we select a date and venue?"

Her eyes light up. "You mean it?"

"Of course, I mean it! Beth, I want to spend the rest of my days with you. I just want for you to be sure that this is what you want."

With her violet eyes still dancing, she kisses my cheek. "I love you, too. So, tell me… are you a Christian?"

"Yes, of course," I reply, surprised by the question. "England was a Christian country, in my day, and my school was incredibly religious."

"Yeah, I thought you'd say something like that. So, you probably want to get married in a church, right?"

"I had not really thought about it, but, yes – that would have been the only place to wed, in my day."

She nods. "I thought so – 'specially if you wanna invite Mycroft. Think he'll come?"

I smirk. "Were I to kidnap him in Machina Temporibus Peregrinandis, he would not have very much choice in the matter."

"No. I guess not. What about my ancestors? Are they invited?"

Does she need to ask? "Naturally, my dear! As are your cousins."

"And Jeremy Brett? And David Burke? You do get on OK with 'em, don't you?"

Now. "Jeremy has already invited himself, anyway. You know what he is like. Now... Modern guests. Watson and John, obviously; the Winters family... Emrys Jones... Then there are the Irregulars, of course..."

"You should probably invite the PM and maybe even the king," Beth suggests.

I cringe at the thought and dearly hope that she is joking. "Must I?"

"It'd probably be expected. Don't want to insult your most distinguished clients, do we?"

"The king would no doubt want for the wedding to take place at Westminster Abbey, or somewhere equally ridiculous. That is not for me – I very much doubt that that is what you want, either, if I know you at all."

She chuckles and pats my hand. "You're right. 'Course you are. We'll leave clients out of it altogether."

Very wise.

"Got a church in mind? We'll probably both have to start going regularly, before we can be married there. That's usually the way it works. I need to go find a dress, too – and a good flower shop. You've got it easy – I'll bet you've already got a suit that'll look the part."

I probably have, but still I want to purchase my clothes specially for the occasion – I shall probably opt for a silver-grey suit tinted to complement the colour choice of the flowers and dresses. It will be the finest that I can find, with matching top hat and long tails. A smart cane and gloves to complete my attire is also a must.

We agree to visit as many local churches as possible, over the next few weeks. In the meantime, Beth will decide upon flowers, choose her bridesmaids and select the colour schemes and dresses. I have to ask Watson whether he would be my best man (I only hope that John the Compudroid will not be too put out, but I can hardly ask the both of them).