Hello, everyone. :) So, I don't exactly remember the last time we spoke, so if it's been a while, you have my sincerest apologies. If it hasn't been a while, well then welcome and good to see you again.

Let's get this road on the show, shall we?

Five Crows for Silver

Have you ever had this feeling in your gut that something isn't quite right, even though you can't pinpoint exactly what is wrong? It kind of feels like a weight sitting somewhere in between your heart and your liver like a piece of lead. Sometimes it stirs up unexplainable butterflies in your stomach and you can't remember or imagine why you've got them. You are constantly looking over your shoulder for the person that's never there even though you can feel their eyes on you. Your brain feels buzzy with a buried tension that you can't give a name to.

That's how John had been feeling for several days, and it was starting to make him very edgy.

John surmised that this vague dread buried deep in his brain had something to do with the fact that Sherlock had been acting very strange as of late. And to say Sherlock was acting strange is of course a misnomer because Sherlock is always a little strange. But in the past few days, he had been acting strangely even for his standards. It had started with the milk.

John had come home from the clinic with a dreadful migraine and a slight crust of vomit still on his shoes where a grown man had enthusiastically (and later apologetically) been sick on him. He had climbed the steps to 221 B and made it inside the door, longing for a nice cuppa and a handful of aspirin. As he shut the door behind him, a sudden thought struck him. They were out of milk. Again.

John sighed in frustration but slunk into the kitchen anyway. He started up the kettle and dug a mug out of the cupboards just as he heard a muffled thump coming from upstairs. Ah, so Sherlock was home. The detective had converted John's old bedroom into a lab since John himself was… no longer in need of a separate bedroom. John smiled a little despite his raging headache as he reached for the box of tea, plucking a pyramid of the bergamot scented leaves and tossing it into his cup. The kettle whistled at him and he poured the boiling water into the cup. As he set the kettle back down, he instinctually opened the fridge for milk, realising too late that there wouldn't be—

A container of milk stared back at him from inside the fridge. John frowned and shut the door, waited a minute, and then opened it up again. There it was… the milk. John slowly grasped the container and pulled it out, opening it and pouring it into his tea. When he turned around to replace it in the fridge, he saw Sherlock standing at the threshold of the kitchen, the man watching him with an upturned eyebrow.

"You got the milk," John stated.

The detective snorted. "Obviously, John. You just poured it into your tea."

A sudden thought struck John. "What did you put into it?" he asked with a tone of suspicion in his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John…" He frowned at his partner and said, "There's nothing in the milk, John. Why must you be so suspicious? And don't say because of the sugar in Dartmoor," he interjected as John opened his mouth. "There was nothing in the sugar."

"I wasn't going to mention the sugar," John retorted. "I was going to apologise and say thank you for getting the milk."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh. Right, of course… well." He cleared his throat and stepped over to the doctor, sliding his long arms around John's waist and bending his head to kiss him soundly on the lips.

"Welcome home, then," Sherlock said as he pulled back, placing a kiss to John's nose as he went.

Now, this may not seem like atypical behaviour for flatmates (even flatmates-turned-something-more-than-flatmates). And even Sherlock bloody Holmes was fully capable of going to the shops and picking up a carton of milk. But normally, the man was so caught up in all the goings-on in his life that he couldn't be arsed to do it. A carton of milk or a tin of beans could never stand up to a triple homicide or an experiment on lactic acid levels in leg tissue or the darkened recesses of his mind palace. It was never the fact that he couldn't do the shopping, but merely a matter of the fact that it was such a mundane task that he could come up with almost five alternative ideas to avoid it. So the fact that Sherlock had gone out of his way to pick up some milk (and some other items) was… well, it made John wary.

In the weeks following the milk incident, John took care to observe Sherlock's actions more carefully. Perhaps the man had accidentally swallowed one of his own damned experiments and was succumbing to a reagent that was slowly melting his brain. And so the days passed and Sherlock was Sherlock in all his manic glory; he went to crime scenes, deduced, argued with Anderson, ran around London, performed experiments, kissed John, antagonised Mrs Hudson, and all other manners of Sherlockian normality.

But there were also isolated incidences of Sherlockian abnormality that were not totally insane, but just enough out of character that it made John stop and think, often when he was in the middle of something else, long after the incident had occurred. First off, they'd gone to a crime scene involving a rather bizarre stabbing and discovered that one of the new crime scene technicians had accidentally dropped a bag of evidence in a pool of blood after being startled by a mouse. Sherlock noticed and instead of cursing out the young man for contaminating the crime scene, he instead went over and informed him about the standard operating procedures in a calm but firm voice. Anderson had yelled at him more than Sherlock had, a fact that didn't escape notice.

Then, there was the infamous cake incident. It was Mrs Hudson's birthday and John wanted to hold a small celebration for her, a surprise party with just the two of them, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs Turner. John had left for work that morning and instructed Sherlock to go to the shop and pick up a cake for her. Now, John knew that no matter how much Sherlock cared for Mrs Hudson, he wouldn't go to the shops for a cake, but he also knew that Sherlock wouldn't dare make a mess of her birthday. John figured that Sherlock would text Mycroft and Mycroft (or his assistant) would have something delivered for them. Therefore, John was shocked to come home and find Sherlock in the kitchen with an apron tied around his waist and a smudge of flour on his cheek. Sherlock was baking. And surprisingly, he was very good at it (it's all chemistry, John!) and the cake turned out beautifully. Mrs Hudson was delighted and it was marvellous.

And then one day, he came back to the flat looking very tense and wary, one hand clenched in the pocket of his jacket. He had ignored John where he sat in his armchair with the newspaper and swept up the stairs to his lab without even taking the coat off. When he'd come back downstairs, he'd only stopped to peck John on the cheek before taking up his violin and spending the rest of the afternoon swept up in a chaos of frenetic concertos. John had left after the impromptu concert had finished in order to meet up with Lestrade for drinks, where he confided in the detective inspector over his domestic issues.

"Sherlock always behaves oddly," Greg said. "How can you tell the difference between now and his usual shenanigans?"

John took a swallow of his pint and set the glass back down with a dull thunk. "That's what I'm saying, Greg. I don't know what it is, but something is off. I can't figure it out but I feel it in my gut. Something's… up." John frowned into his glass and then eased up and chuckled, turning to face the detective inspector.

"What?" Greg asked.

"We didn't come here so I could bother you with my domestics," John offered. "Let me buy the next round."

So they finished their drinks and kept an amiable and animated chatter going between them, eventually pulling the bartender into an exhaustive debate about global politics and rugby. John and Lestrade left the pub a short while after, John feeling satisfactorily buzzed and less stressed. They were only a couple of blocks from Baker Street and had walked over, so now they headed down the quiet streets.

"Thanks for this," John said. "That was fun."

Whatever Greg was going to say after that was interrupted by the simultaneous and insistent buzzing of their mobiles. John's flashed Mrs Hudson's number and Lestrade's was reflecting Sherlock's. The two men stared at one another for an instant before answering the ringing devices.

Mrs Hudson: "Oh John! There's some awful racket going on upstairs! It sounds like Sherlock's in trouble, you better hurry home, dear!"

Sherlock: "Lestrade! There's a man in—'''

John and Greg were running towards Baker Street almost immediately after, Greg shouting orders into his mobile to a Met squad. John was praying to the unseen deities that Sherlock would be able to hold off for a moment longer and thanking his stars that they weren't far from the flat.

They burst into 221 Baker Street moments later, John leading a charge up the stairs to 221 B, where the unmistakable sounds of a fight were issuing forth. John wrenched the door open and he and Lestrade dashed in to find Sherlock pinned on the floor, grappling with a hulking man who was wielding a long knife in one hand above his throat. Blood was coursing down Sherlock's hands and wrists from where he was gripping the steel and pushing it back.

Without thinking, John launched himself forwards and tackled the bear of a man from off Sherlock. He caught the intruder around the waist and they both were knocked over, with John landing solidly on top of the man. Lestrade shot forward and pulled Sherlock out from the fray as John began to wrestle with the stranger. Fists and legs were flying wildly and John, despite his rage, was overcome by the man's strength and overpowered by the stranger's additional height and weight. John found himself quickly pinned underneath and on the receiving end of meaty fists before he saw Sherlock and Lestrade dart forward in tandem to attack.

It was all a bit of a blur after that, considering that three grown men were trying to fight off one bulky intruder, who had fortunately lost the knife somewhere in the midst of the fray. Suddenly, there were more shouts as the Met arrived and then…it was over. The policemen subdued the man and half-dragged him out of the flat, leaving Sherlock, John, and Lestrade gasping on the floor with the promise of medics on the way. John, using the adrenaline that was still coursing through his veins, sat up and ignored his own injuries and crawled over to where Sherlock lay on the floor.

"Sherlock," he breathed as he positioned himself next to the detective. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John and then over to Lestrade, who had taken up a position on Sherlock's other side.

"John, Lestrade," Sherlock acknowledged, his voice low but breathy. "About time you showed up."

The doctor and the detective inspector stared back at him for a whole four seconds before all three of them burst into a fit of manic giggles, which confused the medic who had just bounded up the stairs and into their flat. They spent the next few minutes being patched up and checked out. Sherlock had some deep cuts on his hands, but they'd not needed any stitching (he insisted the knife had been very dull). He was also sporting some bruises and some rug burn on his lower back. Lestrade had a rather fantastic black eye and some small cuts on his hands. John was also bruised and had a rather nasty bite mark on his left arm.

"I'm going to need a tetanus injection," John muttered as he examined the bite.

Eventually the medics left them and the policemen started to file out after they'd gathered statements from Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. According to Sherlock, the man had been the brother of the last criminal they'd captured. He'd apparently followed Sherlock home, waited for John to leave, and then went in hell-bent on exacting revenge (very tedious, he insisted). Sherlock had managed to figure out why he was there a split second before the man moved into action, using the spare seconds to call Lestrade. He'd reasoned that Mrs Hudson would hear the commotion and call John first, so it was only logical that he call Lestrade. Mrs Hudson herself had come up at some point through the hullabaloo and fussed over the three of them for a few minutes, leaving only when a policeman had come up to ask Sherlock for his statement. She'd pecked them all on the forehead and promised to bring some tea and biscuits round after the police left.

After the last officer left and the walls of 221 B were once again silent, the consulting detective, the detective inspector, and the doctor were all sitting on the couch, too tired to move and frankly not giving a damn that they were all squished together like brothers who had misbehaved and were forced to sit together until they got along. After a few minutes, Sherlock inhaled deeply and then slid off the sofa and kneeled on the floor in front of John. John watched him with a kind of weary wariness and even Lestrade abandoned his attempts to study his black eye in the reflection of his phone to watch Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock started, "you have to believe that I definitely had a better idea than this. But seeing as how a berserker Irishman could wander in here at any moment and off me, I really don't believe that I should wait any longer."

John raised his eyebrow. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?" Beside him, he heard Lestrade inhale sharply.

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his trousers with his bandaged hands and pulled out a small, black velvet box. John's heart stopped in his chest and he felt his mouth drop open on its own accord.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock opened the box and inside there sat a plain dark silver band, thin and shiny even in the dim light. He turned his face up towards John and Lestrade chuckled but he ignored him. Sherlock took a deep breath and launched into it.

"John Watson, I'm a right smart pain in your arse. I drag you to crime scenes and on chases around London. I experiment on human body parts that I leave in our fridge. I sulk and brood and play the violin at completely inappropriate hours of the day. I—I put you in danger more times than I care to admit. Frankly, you're completely daft for sticking around. And yet…you do, and I find myself in awe of that. You're the best man I've ever known—no offense, Lestrade. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me, John Watson. I—I love you with every particle of my being. It would be my great honour if you would marry me."

John Watson gaped at the man in front of him. Sherlock had the ability—no doubt—to absolutely shock the pants off you, but this… this was his best act yet. His heart was leaping in his chest. Sherlock Holmes had just asked for his hand in marriage. John felt as if his life was suddenly this romantic comedy film and at any moment a director would yell "cut!" and the scene would be over. But as the seconds blended by, there came no call and John realised that this was one hundred per cent real. He was going to marry Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"Of course," John breathed, allowing a smile to engulf his face. He laughed at the relieved look on Sherlock's face and leaned down to kiss the man soundly on the lips. He caught Sherlock's face between his hands and looked into his eyes. "Of course I will marry you, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled and slipped the ring on John's finger, setting the box down on the table behind him. He stood up and took John with him, enveloping the doctor into an embrace. When they broke apart, Lestrade stood up and joined them.

"Bloody hell," he chuckled. "Congratulations. That's… that's really spectacular!"

"Forgive me, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "I'm sure that was…awkward for you. I just couldn't wait a moment longer."

Lestrade laughed again and then reached forward to give them each a brief hug. "Don't worry about it Sherlock," he said. "It was an honour to be a witness for that."

At that moment, Mrs Hudson came up with a tray of tea and biscuits. When they told her what had just taken place, she squealed with delight and hugged them both like a proud mother. The four of them sat down for tea, the three men wincing as the adrenaline and hormone-fuelled high began to recede and their bruises began to ache.

Every time John moved his hand, the light glinted on the polished silver band and a similar gleam was reflected in the eyes of the two men that the ring bound together.

Huzzah! :) So, I've got a lot of pokers in the fire at the moment, not only in my personal/professional life, but also in my writing as well. I keep coming up with new story ideas and get so caught up in them that I forget to focus on the works that I've already started. So forgive my insanity and keep a weather eye out for updates, which will continue to happen even if they're more erratically timed. Your patience and support is very much appreciated.

On that note, I've started a break-off work of the last chapter of this story (Four Crows for a Boy). I really wanted to explore the dynamics of the relationship between Sherlock, John, and Cecil, and so I'll be posting the first part of that today as well. Check it out if you're so inclined!