From: Sam Murray

To: John Watson

Hullo Johnny,

Just wondering how you're doing? How's Harry? I saw her down town the other day, didn't have a chance to say hello but let me just say…phoah…really, if only she wasn't a lesbian…Ah well.

I would ask what you're up to but you're blog is pretty much informing the world about you and that Sherlock Holmes bloke. He seems…great. I didn't know you were…you know…inclined that way.

Why'd you never mentioned it? Mind you, I always did think you were giving me the eye.

Denial…it's a terrible thing, John.

I'm just messing with you but if you are…you know…batting for the other team, then let me just say that it's all fine, alright? I'm happy for you mate, genuinely. We all need someone in our life to drive us mad. I got Cathy (who, by the way, is going to be Mrs. Murray in a short space of time) and you got Sherlock Holmes.

Anyway, I've just finished my tour and was wondering if you'd like to meet up?

I completely understand if it's too soon so I won't mind if you decline (you soppy git) but if you do then it would be great to see you again (not so much of a soppy git).

All the best mate,

Sam

'Denial', John thought. 'You can talk you gobby bastard.' But there was still a telltale grin on his face. He crossed his arms and stared at the laptop screen, trying to think of what to reply.

He'd just gotten up twenty minutes before and had just made himself a cuppa before switching on his laptop when he saw the email. He hadn't even gotten dressed yet, he was still in his blue dressing gown…with boxers.

"John? I said good morning."

John looked up startled and he saw the form of his flatmate standing in the doorway. Sherlock looked fairly well rested for a man who never slept and still in his pyjamas, but John could hardly blame him, he'd had insomnia for eight days straight. John had to all but drug him to get him to sleep…well, John did drug him.

Still, Sherlock held no visible grudges, in fact, in looked quite perplexed at the fact that John had only just noticed him.

"Sorry, morning."

"What are you reading?" Sherlock asked, actually asked.

"I…uh…I got an email from an old mate of mine. He's just come back from tour and asking if I'd meet up with him."

"Oh…will you go?"

"I dunno."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa. "Why not? Your therapist said it would be proactive if you met up with a few of your former army friends –"

"He was the one who saved my life." John interrupted.

He didn't dare look at Sherlock; instead he stared at his fingers on the keyboard as if willing them to write for him. Truth be told, he genuinely wanted to see Sam but it wasn't sure if he could.

The last time John had seen Sam Murray was two and a half years ago in the scorching Afghan desert, when Sam had been pressing down on the fucking gaping hole in John's shoulder. Not the greatest memories to hold of one of your closest mates.

"Ah." Sherlock whispered. "I can see why that would be painful for you." Sherlock winced slightly at his poor choice of words.

John simply hummed in agreement. The two sat in companionable silence for a long time. John stared at the keyboard and Sherlock stared at John, noting how his shoulder (left –injured) twitched slightly and how he tapped his foot against the table leg as he tried to decide.

Sherlock knew John had decided when he relaxed back into his chair and crossed his arms, still staring at the screen.

"Are you going to accept?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

John took a deep breath and rubbed the stumble on his jaw. "Oh fuck it," He sighed. "After all, the bastard did save my life."

John leant forward and began to type. What he didn't see was the smallest of smiles on Sherlock's face as the Consulting Detective threw himself onto the sofa and laid there with a newspaper inches away from his face.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"You know when you're finished, make me a cup of tea, there's a good man."

Sherlock noted the slight pause in typing as his words sank in and grinned behind the newspaper when John huffed in annoyance.

From: John Watson

To: Sam Murray

Hello Sam,

I'd love to meet up.

It's good to hear from you again, really.

You know the Horse and Hound down Henley Road, how about there?

I'm not bad thanks, well, better than you'll be when I tell Harry that. I'd tell you what's been going on with Harry but I have a certain number of characters available.

Even if I was gay (which I'm not) I wouldn't be eyeing an ugly bastard like you up, I have standards, you know.

Oh yeah, and congratulations mate, I'm genuinely pleased. You took fucking long enough, I thought you'd never propose.

You can choose the time and day.

John

John pressed 'send' before the monotonous voice in his head (which, to be fair, was had all but disappeared since he did have rather a penchant for endangering his life) talked him out of it.

He stretched slowly and groaned when practically everything he moved clicked.

"John?" Sherlock asked, head still buried in the newspaper. "I want tea."

John rolled his eyes. "And why can't you make it?"

He knew there was no real point arguing, both men knew it was only really for the sake of his pride.

"Busy."

"Doing what? Lying on your back reading," John leaned over and turned the front page towards him. "The Sun. Sherlock, why the hell are you reading The Sun of all things?"

"Data." Sherlock said evenly.

John snorted. "Christ, I bet you'll be reading Nuts next because of its 'articles'"

At that point Sherlock did look up from the newspaper. "John, I shall have you know that last month they printed a rather interesting article of swords, one that helped me solve the case I was working on at the time."

At that point John burst out laughing. "Oh for God's sake Sherlock, I know Irene – sorry, she called you 'The Virgin' but you don't have to make up some bollocks about a sword article just so you can have a wank."

Sherlock scowled, his lips were dressed together in a thin, straight line, his eyebrows were practically knitted together and his eyes – good God, if looks could kill, John would've been smouldering ash on the carpet.

Just as Sherlock was about to open his mouth to reply, John's computer dinged.

From: Sam Murray

To: John Watson

That's great.

You doing anything tonight? Say about seven-ish?

"Sherlock? Are you – and by that I mean you plus you dragging me, anywhere tonight?"

"No." Sherlock huffed.

The World's Only Consulting Detective was now having a sulk on the sofa with his arms folded across his chest. John simply shook it off, it was hardly unusual, the man had more mood swings than a toddler in a sugar rush.

"Right, well Sam wants to meet me tonight and I'm going to say yes so please don't ring me unless it's a real emergency – and I mean genuine, life-or-death-situation kind of emergency, alright?"

Sherlock huffed again, a little louder this time, which meant 'fine'.

John replied quickly before Sherlock complained loudly that his tea hadn't been made yet.

From: John Watson

To: Sam Murray

7 o'clock tonight at The Horse and Hound.

See you there.

"John. I want my tea."


John arrived at The Horse and Hound a little earlier than seven but his reason was that at least he could shove a pint down his throat to calm him down before hand. He ordered a pint and sat in a table by the window.

He made patterns in the foamy head of his pint until someone plonked themselves down opposite him.

"God you look old." Sam Murray's smiling face greeted him. Sam looked exactly the same as John remembered him, same Ralph Lauren polo, same faded jeans and ridiculously spiked hair. His eyes shone with mischief making him look twenty years younger. John used to joke that Sam looked like that bloke that played The Master in the new Doctor Who.

The two men were the roughly the same age, give or take a few years, Sam being the younger but they'd joined at the same time, John in the Medical Corps and Sam in the Royal Engineers but both men had been assigned to 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. They'd been friends ever since.

"Nice to see you too, Sam. How have you been?"

"Yeah not bad…you know…just glad to be back really."

"What you drinking?" John asked, already getting up and digging a fiver out of his pocket.

"Uh…it's alright, I'll have one later."

"You sure? Not like you to turn down a free pint."

"It'll still be your round later." Sam grinned. "So…yeah, how is your sister?"

"Well…she got married about a year and a half ago."

"Really? I never thought Harry would settle down. I always pinned you to be the family man."

"She didn't. They divorced six months after they got married."

"Ah…shit."

"Yeah, precisely." John laughed.

"Still a lesbian?" Sam asked with genuine hope in his eyes.

"You haven't got a snowflakes chance in hell, my friend."

"Ah well," he shrugged. "I've got Cathy."

"Oh yeah, when's the big day?"

"Just a couple of weeks away…twenty…seventh. Yeah, it's one of those little country churches in Cath's home town."

"Good man –"

"I think I'll take you up on that pint now." Sam interjected. "All this talking is making me thirsty." Sam winked.

John stood up and dug a fiver out of his pocket and went up to the bar. He ordered the same as he had. Half of him was outraged at the price alcohol had become and the other half of him (the medical man) was quite pleased since it would reduce Friday and Saturday A&E calls.

He plonked the pint in front of Sam and sat back opposite him. Sam took a sip of the pint and grimaced slightly.

"Newcastle Brown Ale. How did I know? You've got an acquired taste haven't you, John?"

John simply smiled.

"So…tell me more about this Sherlock Holmes bloke…is he treating you well?"

"Piss off." John said with a smile.

"Oh come on! With those cardigans you must be gay. I bet your grandma is ecstatic."

John was about to take a sip of his pint when Sam spoke and he snorted into it.

"Oh shit…" He laughed. "That's rich coming from the nineties throwback."

The two men spent the next ten minutes or so conversing and swapping insults/compliments and generally getting used to each others company. It had been a long time since they'd seen each other and they had to get back into the swing of their friendship.

It was around the half-way mark of their forth pint when Sam stopped laughing and looked almost sheepish. By that point John had become more than a little bit drunk and had lost all inhibitions about talking freely to Sam.

"Sam? Mate? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, grand. Um…I wanted to ask you something, John…it's a bit personal and all that…"

"Medically or as a friend?"

"Friend, don't worry, I do have my own doctor. No…I um…I wanted to ask you…I know we haven't seen each other in a while, but, we're still mates right? I mean like, close mates?"

"Well…uh…yeah…"

"Would you…would you be my best man?"

Whether it was the alcohol that had clouded his mind or just rash judgement, John stared at Sam and before he even comprehend what he was about to say he said;

"Yes."

The relief in Sam's face was a picture and John could swear he saw a tear form in one of Sam's eyes but he just convinced himself it was a trick of the light.

"Well," John said, feeling a genuine happiness that he hadn't felt in a long time. "Looks like we've got another reason to celebrate." John lifted up his pint. "Cheers."

Sam lifted up his pint and knocked it against John's. "Cheers."


John knew he was getting old when he woke up at God only knows what time in the morning and felt as if he head was about to explode. He knew the problems he developed in the morning after heavily outweighed the enjoyment of the previous night.

John was barely able to lift his head from the pillow without a bolt of agony shooting through his skull. There was no way in hell he could get up. Even if it did feel like he was going to piss his trousers…if he was wearing any.

Oh he couldn't give a shit. Maybe when he got up he'd remember what happened or what he talked about or even what he agreed to…perhaps. Just a couple more hours…

"John! Wake up! Now!" John heard Sherlock's voice somewhere in the distance but he was just too tired to care…

He was yanked out of bed, roughly. His legs failed him as he fell to the floor but was caught by two pairs of hands. His eyes watered at the brightness of the room. Blurred shapes moved around him and Holy Jesus his head hurt.

It was then John could just about make out a shape of a man he knew. Lestrade… What was Greg doing here? He could hear Sherlock somewhere beside, or was it behind him? Anyway he was around and he was shouting. Actually shouting.

Lestrade's face finally swam into view as his vision cleared, he looked as haggard as John felt but he looked…upset. Why would Lestrade look upset?

"John Hamish Watson, I am arresting you for the murder of Sam Murray."