(14/01/12 Well, here's the chapter that I uploaded a few days ago and then deleted ;-; thanks to those newly reviewed and those who reviewed again.. still, I miss my thirty reviews for two chapters XD oh well, serves me right for being stupid)

First of all, thank you for all the reviews :) didn't expect all the positive replies at all. Here's a second chapter as promised - it's not as long and mostly dialogue. The updates are just going to be little one-shots in this verse so they might turn out to be longer, analytical pieces or short, dialogue fuelled ones like this.

Wow, I never know how to end this author note things :/

It takes Mycroft exactly twenty three minutes and the legwork of a covert faction of the British Government to definitively conclude that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not in a romantic relationship.

The elder Holmes sighed, flippantly dropping the conclusive report onto the mahogany table. He supposed that it would not be uncalled for, in this singular case, for him to take partial fault, having failed to register the many indications of the good Doctor's frankly poorly-constructed ploy. The quick twist of a lip, the flicker of a hand. It was all too obvious now.

His brother's involvement, he mused entertainingly, was perhaps not entirely uncharacteristic. Sherlock was petty. As the older sibling, he was most certainly not. Still, as a representation of the British Government, it would simply not do to encourage this behaviour.

One does not engage Mycroft Holmes in folly.

xxx

Text received: 08:26
From: Gregory Lestrade

Double homicide – several witnesses,
all with different accounts of killer.
Stumped, interrogation at the Yard?

John approached Scotland Yard with a mixture of relief and trepid excitement he admittedly placed as a 'bit not good'. He felt, however, that in his case it was entirely justifiable. The Universe owed him. There had been a lull in underground London of "interesting" criminal activity, resulting in a week of increasingly ridiculous exploits and what John regretfully referred to as the Cludedo incident. Like a visual representation of what had been the atmosphere of 221B, the board game hung jack-knifed to their mantelpiece, courtesy of the mutual anger of both flatmates (Sherlock, at the game for being illogical and rendering the powers of deduction far from applicable as was otherwise promised to him, and John, at the creators of Cluedo for creating Cluedo and making it possible for him to introduce the game to bloody Sherlock Holmes).

The text from Lestrade was more than welcomed.

Ding

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, the Doctor looked at the text message on the screen.

Text received: 08:42
From: Mycroft Holmes

Congratulations.

MH

Frowning, John looked up to see Sherlock doing the same.

"Text message from Mycroft?"

Waving a hand dismissively, Sherlock reached for the heavy glass door to Scotland Yard with fervour.

"Ignore it. No doubt he's figured out our little ruse the other day by now and has done something to irritate me, like presenting me with an earldom again or bribing you with the same to inconvenience me. Either way, Mycroft is dull, a double homicide and a chameleon killer is Thanksgiving and Christmas all at once. Come on, John!"

John scoffed, following Sherlock through the doors. Of course, he would see being given the title of an earl as a chore.

The first thing that makes John suspect that there is no double homicide is the loud cheer and confetti that rain down upon he and Sherlock as they enter Scotland Yard. The second is the bloody banner that hangs breezily from the ceiling with the word 'congratulations' in large, stand-out letters.

The Doctor looks to Sherlock for a logical, deducted explanation. At the same time, the consulting detective looks to John for an explanation of whatever social convention he seems to be missing.

"The men of the hour, congratulations!"

Confused, John allowed his hand to be shaken by the Detective Inspector. Sherlock however, met Lestrade's hand with a glare.

"Where is my double homicide?"

Lestrade ignored him, enthusiasm unfaltering.

"Your brother told us. Was a bit of a right surprise but I guess we all saw the signs, eh?"

"What signs? WHAT IS A SURPRISE?" asked John, somewhat hysterically, with a horrible suspicion.

The D.I quirked his mouth, gesturing to the wall behind him, "We've got a framed copy and everything. Set it up right next to the photo of Sherlock in a shock blanket."

John calmly excused himself, walking over to the aforementioned framed certificate with a soldier-like gait.

CERTIFIED EXTRACT OF AN ENTRY OF CIVIL PARTNERSHIP
Date and place of Civil partnership registration:
Thirteenth December 2012 Old Marylebone Town Hall
John Hamish WATSON Sherlock HOLMES

Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes, turning away slightly before looking back.

Nope.

It was still there.

Mycroft Holmes. I will kill you.

Drinks in hand, Donovan and Anderson approached with a slight awkwardness.

"Well, congratulations I guess," started Sally, still unsure how to feel about the freak finding someone before her.

"I don't know how you put up with that frea—, sorry," she winced, "Sherlock, but you're decent John, not like he is. Just don't let him change you, yeh?"

With practiced precision, John inhaled deeply, his voice calm and clipped but containing a certain tremulous force that he had reserved for his army days.

"We're not married."

Anderson regarded the Doctor with a knowing look, "Already regretting it then?" he quipped.

"You can't regret something that hasn't happened!" shouted John, military enforcement forgotten.

By the exchange of looks between the two yarders, John could tell he had lost.

Burying his face in the palm of his hand, the Doctor sighed.

"Why is there even a party going on," he groaned, "it's not as if Sherlock is one of the favourites around here."

"Betting pool haul," replied Anderson, slightly raising his glass, "Lestrade and a bit more than half of the yarders bet you two were shagging."

"Right."

Military gait resumed, John walked towards the drinks table.

At the same time, Sherlock, having already drawn the conclusion of his older brother's doings, stood disdainfully to the side, taking inventory of the several wallets and ID's he had pickpocketed from the unknowing officers.

Sensing the presence of an approaching figure, (female, average weight and height, slight hesitation to the step. Ah, Molly) the consulting detective glanced sideways to confirm his deductions.

"Hi."

Sherlock sighed. He would have to talk to her then. How pedestrian.

With a quick glance, he took in the figure of the forensic pathologist.

Smiling, although it's absent from her eyes. Faking it then, most likely upset but hiding it for the sake of being a part of the ridiculous party thrown by the force to celebrate their own stupidity. Eyes bear signs of tenuous rubbing, tear stain still evident on right cheek, so she's been crying. Ice cream stain on left sleeve where she's used it to wipe her mouth, an educated guess at chocolate judging by the remains on the corner of her mouth. Conclusion, something has rendered her upset in which she wishes not to share with her co-workers.

"So," continued Molly with a mock playfulness, "you and John then. You. Like John."

Sherlock frowned, unsure on the nature of the conversation.

"I enjoy his company," replied Sherlock cautiously.

Molly let out a mournful chuckle, "I should have known. I mean, you two were always together, serves me right to lose the sixty pounds for betting against it."

In the silence that followed, the pathologist reached up to twirl her hair before abruptly stopping.

"Oh god," she moaned, "what am I doing, you're married now."

Sherlock sighed. So this had been the goal of the conversation. How dull. It was obvious that the partnership between he and John was a fabrication. John was directly exhibiting the behaviour atypical perhaps not of one in a unionship but definitely of one in a unionship as new as the proclaimed one and neither of them had ever, to his knowledge, alluded to anything sexual between them.

"We're not married," stated Sherlock with an air of boredom.

"Oh right, sorry, civil partnership then," winced Molly, walking away as John Watson approached.

Sherlock turned his head, acknowledging his friend.

"I don't suppose we could burn the certificate, file for an annulment."

Sherlock shook his head, "No point, Mycroft will just reinstate it."

John groaned, "Isn't there any way you can, you know, reverse this? Do one of his cases or something, pull some of your power as his brother."

The consulting detective arched his fingers beneath his chin.

"We could trap him. Set up a large container, prop it up with a stick attached to a string and put a cake underneath it," he mused darkly, earning a small fit of giggling from both the detective and the doctor despite themselves.

Mike Stamford, an occasional medical consultant of his own for Scotland Yard, approached the pair, Lestrade and a small group of other yarders in tow.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze.

"I take that you don't actually have a case for me?"

Lestrade shrugged, grinning, "Nah, well we just needed a way to get you two down here for the party."

Scowling, the consulting detective turned around, coat ends whirling behind him.

"Hey, where are going?"

"Home." Sherlock intoned, heading towards the glass doors.

The group chased after him, Stamford pulling him aside.

"Aww, come on, you've just gotten married, come have a pint with us."

"We're not married," pipes John, although it is largely ignored.

Sherlock curled his lip in disgust.

"Do you really think that's wise? The group of you aren't exactly over capacitated in the brain cell department."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, turning instead to the more bearable of the partnership.

"John, you up for a pint? My shout."

The Doctor, deciding that one, he needed something alcoholic in his system, and two, he may as well pull a free drink out of what was a lost cause, nodded in defeat, "Yeh actually, I could go for a drink."

"No," shouted Sherlock, halfway out the door, "there's tea at Baker street."

John sighed, "Not the same thing Sherlock. "

No doubt he wanted him to help him with an experiment or bounce his ideas off him. Either way, he needed a drink and the last thing he needed was to encourage the idea that they were married by obliging like a married man.

The consulting detective turned around, frowning, "But I require your assistance tonight and you don't perform as well when you're drunk."

Around them, the yarders sniggered.

John, feeling sorry for his existence, drooped in resignation and headed out the doors of Scotland Yard before tackling his taller flatmate to the ground.

A little fast-paced and slightly cracky, I know I know, but other than that tell me what you think?

(and yes, I do enjoy making fun of Mycroft. Make no mistake though, I love him)