The spring had only recently finished melting the snow off the branches of Hyde Park. Our furious winter finally gave in, its stormy clouds pushed back by the warm April winds as grass began to poke up through the dirt. I had always loved the weather around this time of year, looking forward to the first time I can leave my coat home and roll up my jumper sleeves. Spring was a breath of fresh air, and I drank it in.

You lasted a whole seven hours in the hospital before insisting to be released. You seemed to be recovering fine, there were no complications and all the charts were normal. You were just bored of sitting around and preferred to at least sit around somewhere where you could entertain yourself. The hospital staff bent to your loud demands, but requested that you would at the minimum put up with riding in your wheelchair until we reached the door. You agreed, begrudgingly tucking your coat underneath you and holding your head up high.

Once we reached the door, you stood. I could tell that it hurt you to walk, but you refused any kind of crutch for the sake of your own pride. You groped slowly out the door while I hailed a cab, letting you enjoy your little moment of freedom.

"This is going to be a long four-to-six weeks." You grumbled, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The paper stand outside the door caught your eye, and you waddled over to a to strip off a copy, turning it over in your hand. "John, did you see this?"

A cab had just pulled to the curb, and I opened the door for you only to see that you were still several paces away. I jogged over. "It's time to go, Sherlock."

You started walking, the paper still in-hand, and the stand-owned shouted at you. "Hey, he needs to pay for that." He said, narrowing his eyes at us.

"Oh, sorry. I'll just." I glanced at you and pulled out a bill. "C'mon, Sherlock, the cab isn't going to wait."

"There's no rush, John." You murmured, flipping through the news. "Four-to-six weeks."

I nudged you toward the car and let you get in before I ran to my own side. You took your time reaching for the buckle, and the cab driver just watched you out of his mirrors. I didn't want to complain, but I was running on a ridiculous lack of sleep and I wanted to get home as soon as possible, both for the sake of my own sanity and for your health, too. I glanced over to the paper you had grabbed. "As soon as we get home, you're going to bed," I stated, setting in my chair. "Since when do you read the news, anyway."

"Look at the cover." You put it in my lap. " 'Entrepreneur Pleads Guilty: The True Face of the Lecuyér Industry'."

"Lecuyér?" I picked it up. "Seems like we closed that case ages ago."

"Four months. The courts are getting slow." You leaned to look over my shoulder. "Did he get life?"

"He got life."

"At least they're still somewhat reliable."

"I'm just glad that case is closed." I sighed. "Let's keep it closed."

"Agreed." You folded up the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your coat. "Let's select a different topic, then, shall we?"

I nodded. I was tired and a bit distracted by the street, so I didn't catch your meaning right away. But, after a brief moment of silence, I turned to glance at you, and upon seeing the look in your eye I realized exactly what you were alluding to, and did not like it.

I grunted. "We've already talked enough about the wedding, alright? None of your arguments are going to phase me."

"If you'd just tell me why you insist on putting it off, I wouldn't have to keep arguing."

"You'll always keep arguing."

"But I wouldn't have to."

"I already explained it to you, Sherlock." I frowned. "I don't want to move too quickly."

"Sounds like a perfectly good excuse for having cold feet."

"I don't have cold feet."

"I'm a detective. I know things. You have cold feet."

"I don't have cold feet!" I rubbed my temple. "God, Sherlock, I swear. I told you - I just want more time. We didn't even date before we got engaged, and that's a big jump by itself. I want to make sure the relationship will stand against time before we make such a huge commitment. A wedding isn't just a 'coming out' party. It changes everything."

"No it doesn't."

I made a face at you.

"It doesn't change anything that our engagement hasn't already changed."

"You really are a twat, you know that?"

You sighed through your nose. "I don't want to wait, John."

I paused, pursing my lips. "I know you don't. In all honesty, I don't want to wait, either. But think about who we are. We're not just two people, we're adrenaline junkies who get into too many situations way too fast. I don't want this to be just another whirlwind of poor choices and clever deductions that gets our blood pumping for a while and then becomes nothing but a blog post. I want this to last. So can you please stop being a five-year-old and behave like an adult."

That shut you up for a little while. You quieted, thinking, the gears turning in your head while the cab buzzed along. Maybe I had finally gotten though to you. I mean, I didn't say anything I hadn't said before, but maybe it was because I threw "clever" in there this time. You always had a soft spot for compliments.

We reached the curb of 221B and, just to spite me, you murmured "Still sounds like cold feet." before kicking your way onto the sidewalk.

"You are actually five." I growled, and paid the cabbie.

As I opened the door to our flat, I was hit square in the face with a wave of atrocity. The smell of flesh nearly made me double over, it was so strong. The headache was immediate. "Sherlock."

You came up the stairs after me, still waddling slowly along, plugging your nose with a little smile. "John."

"What the hell is that."

"I didn't intend for the fingers to sit out in the sun."

"Fantastic."

I covered my nose with my sleeve and stumbled into the kitchen. You moved into the sitting room and took a seat in your armchair, consciously avoiding the desk, where a pile of human fingers sat directly in the light, yellow and brown with bacteria. I nearly threw up trying to sweep them into the trashcan.

"You know, you really should be the one cleaning this up." I grumbled.

You pointed to your stomach. "I've just had major surgery."

"You were just complaining because Lestrade wouldn't take you to his crime scene."

"Major surgery."

I sighed and tied off the trash bag, coating it in a thick layer of air-freshener. "You're useless, you know that?"

You nodded, then glanced around. "Where's the dog?"

"Mrs. Hudson probably took him downstairs. I'll find him." I lifted the trash bag from the can (after wheezing off the sheer volume of the smell) and made my way downstairs.

Sure enough, as I crossed the foyer I could hear Gladstone's little yowl coming from behind Mrs. Hudson's door. His little paws thumped their way up to meet me, his eyes bright and mouth open. I warned him about the smell, but he sniffed the bag anyway and jumped back whimpering. Mrs. Hudson giggled at him.

"The poor pup's been missing you boys all morning," She said, smiling. Her expression changed, however, when she caught a whiff of the bag. "Oh, my, what is that?"

"Sherlock's latest 'experiment'." I sighed. "Don't go up to the flat, it's even worse. C'mon, boy."

I pushed the door open, and Gladstone darted out between my legs. I was only letting the trash out, but he and I were so accustomed to going out together that I hardly noticed. He was good company, and it was good to know that he would always be more suspicious of strangers than I was.

The poor thing probably needed a walk, too. But, looking at the sky, it didn't seem like much of an option. Dark stormclouds were rolling in, bringing a chill along with them. The air was charged, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the storm. It was a shame; it seemed so nice just a little while ago. Keeping my eyes on the front, I knelt down to scratch Gladstone's ears. "Look at that, boy." I nodded to the sky. "Looks like something coming, doesn't it? Awful."

He yowled, licking my face. I patted him and ushered him back inside.

Now that the upstairs door was hanging open, the stink had begun to come down the stairs. I grumbled going up, favouring my leg a bit where it was necessary, and as I ascended I plugged up my nose with my palm. The air-freshener was in the kitchen, so I bypassed the sitting room, but as I went in I found you, bent over and moving large stacks of books from the shelves. That wouldn't do.

"Hey, Mr. Major Surgery, go lay down." I scolded, taking the books from your arm.

"I was looking for my-" You almost lost your balance as you straightened. "-timekeeper. I have to keep track of-"

"No experiments until you're healed. Bedroom or sitting room?"

You huffed and turned toward the sitting room while I put your books on the table. I went to grab the air-freshener from beneath the sink, but I realized that it was still secured with a lock, and that the key to that lock was on the top of the bookshelf, a place only you could reach. I grumbled and scowled at the bookshelf before dragging a chair across the room.

"Do we need to lay down some rules of engagement?" I asked, climbing up.

"I don't think that's necessary," You replied.

"Your doctor gave me specific instructions when he let me take you home. You'll take your medicine three times a day, you'll eat all your meals, and you'll rest as long as is needed. I can pull some pillows from the bedroom upstairs and let you stay on the sofa, but you'll need to be horizontal. It's not good for you to be upright until all the tissue has healed."

"And how long will that take?"

"At least a few days."

You rolled your eyes. "Lestrade needs me on his cases, he's got leads."

"Lestrade can call. You're not allowed on any crime scene for at least a week."

"Purgatory."

"Should've thought about that before you decided to run after those criminals unarmed."

"You were there too, John, you enabled me. And why weren't you hurt?"

"I did, I got cracked over the head."

"You didn't lose any organs. At least, not that I heard about."

"Not that I heard about, either."

I unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the freshener, spraying it in a thick cloud all over the kitchen and into the sitting room. You covered your face with your scarf and hacked, squeezing your eyes closed against the spray. I made sure to get all around our desks and into the sofa, which I was sure would stink for ages anyway. The wood paneling in the fireplace was probably bad, too.

"Jesus, John, are you trying to suffocate us?" You coughed.

"It was your fault, leaving those fingers out." I set the can down and looked over the fireplace. "Is it safe to burn the smell out?"

"Not now," You said. "Prop open the windows."

I shot you a glare and bent around the desk, unlocking and pulling the windows open. "We won't be able to leave them for long, I think there's a storm coming in."

"That might help. Open the back too, so there's airflow."

"Yes, sir."

You shook your head, then laid it back against your chair. I walked back into the kitchen, closing the door to the sink as I passed and pulling the curtains away from the window. It was even darker out there, over the roofs of the neighboring houses. I unlocked the window, being sure to press the security key as I slid it upward. The wind blew into the kitchen, carrying with it the sharp smell of rain that was very much appreciated rather than the combination of air-freshened and decomposing hands.

Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and stepped into the living room, her face contorted with the smell. "Boys- Ooh, John, you weren't kidding about the smell."

"I wasn't." I came back in.

"The air freshener made it worse," You complained.

"Your damn fingers made it worse," I argued.

"Boys, there's someone here for you, downstairs," Mrs. Hudson continued.

"It isn't exactly a great time," I said, sitting down to rub my thigh. "Tell them to come back a different day, or maybe shoot us an e-mail. We're not taking clients right now."

"Well, this boy, he says he knows you."

"Everyone knows us." You said.

"No, not both of you, he said he knows John."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's his name?"

She tapped her lip and stammered while a shadow followed her onto the landing. She didn't realize he had followed her, but he stood within the doorway with his eyes still a bit wide, fingers drumming nervously. Something struck me immediately - his bronze skin, dark hair, hazel-brown eyes, the little quirk in his brow and the X-shaped scar at the bottom of his jaw. His eyes met mine and hung on tight, boring deep and dripping memories.

"Dr. Watson?" He asked.

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