"This is a fantastic advertisement."

Scootching his bare bum more deeply into the sofa, Sherlock would not meet John's eye. Actually Sherlock was actively hiding behind his magazine. Being as Criminology Monthly is smaller than a sheet of A4 and Sherlock is significantly larger, very little of him was safe from the good doctor's gaze.

And, if I'm going to be entirely crude—and you know that I am—I'll say either gaze, because there is another part of the male anatomy that can seem to look at you with a cyclopsian stare and—

Okay, you got it. Fine. Yes. Moving on.

"The adver—what? I—what? Sherlock bloody Holmes what is this about?

The man being addressed was keenly interested in that page three enticement—which seemed to include a four-colour photo of an attractive man using a lock-pick kit with his mouth—and as such did not appear to hear his husband speaking.

This gave the man's husband time to pause and watch in brief fascination as Sherlock's penis finished the last of its orgasm. There were two spasms. A bit of a dribble.

When at last the only thing moving was John's tongue slicking across his lips, the good doctor shook his head and began again. "If I start to count—"

Sherlock bolted right on up from that sofa and shot noodly arms in the air to dramatically underscore his dramatic blamelessness. "It's Greg! He wants to have a thing! An event! A sort of proceeding! To mark or observe or commemorate our getting married! I told him you don't like proceedings! AndIAlsoToldHimYesWe'dGoIWantToGoJohnI'mSorryWhat?"

It was at the tiny and tender age of seven that Sherlock Holmes first learned the fine art of obfuscation. The knowledge came after destroying another family heirloom with an experiment that involved Mentos, cola, and the observing of how far this combustive mixture would propel a brace of frozen peas.

So, because Sherlock's had many, many years' experience muddying the waters until everyone present has forgotten why there are frozen peas on the ceiling or, in this case, why come is dribbling from two cocks but not two arses…because…then…if…

Now I've completely forgotten what I was—

Right! I remember! The thing is, John's so used to Sherlock pretending to be deaf when confronted, or trying to obscure anything remotely like wrong-doing, or outright badly lying about it, that John was shocked silent at getting to the heart of the matter pretty much in one go easy peasy.

Two drips later John shook his head. Again. "You committed us to attending a bachelor party, is that what you're saying?"

Sherlock blinked. He maybe again waved a long bare arm to revisit the whole blameless motif.

Let me tell you something you already know: John is taken off at the knees by cute. By endearing. Tender. Vulnerable. Some days all Problem Child has to do is admit to a heart-felt emotion, say something sweet, or just blink wide those blue-greys at John and the good doctor just up and forgives the human bile on his biscuits or the second stomach pumping of the year.

So when Sherlock stood there all naked and oozy, admitting he really wanted to go to a silly party, John was about to gather the big git in his arms and have his tender way with him when not one, not two, not three, but at least four mobiles fired off in that quiet flat.

John jumped a mile. "Dear god in heaven when did we get fifteen phones?"

Sherlock's naked arm was maybe still in the air, maybe still doing the not-my-fault-wave, and so he kind of just left it there as all the mobiles currently in 221B (there were actually seven and there's a story behind that, one that Sherlock will confess to John at another time that is not this time) rang their fool heads clean off.

After a half dozen more electronic trills, John took hold of his cock—still marvelously erect and interested in being rendered less so—and took hold of the nearest ringing phone, and clear as day he stood there and debated which he would deal with first.

Unfortunately the answer was well beyond him, for the British government is as persistent as the British government's brother and there was something about the persistent persistence of the ringing that let John know that as delightful as it might be to give in to the demands of his dick, he was first going to have to answer the damn phone.

Still holding on to himself with one hand, he answered the mobile with the other—and every other phone in that flat stopped ringing at once.

"Whatever it is, it best be bleeding or burning because I have important doctory business to—" John Watson stood straight and tall, gripping his cock more firmly, as if in need of a stabalising influence. "What now?"

John listened, his expression the kind of expression into which a consulting fiancé could read anything, depending on how guilty that fiancé felt about the other long story that he will confess to John at a time that is not this time but—

John abruptly hung up the phone. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock—other arm tentatively lofting so as to insist upon his innocence if required—looked at John. John said:

"Get dressed. Mycroft's sending a car. He says they're about to arrest Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock at last lowered both arms. Well then. There was no way at all he could be blamed for this.

In about twenty minutes he'd learn he was quite wrong about that.

The Criterion is a wonderfully dichotomous place.

As loud as a fussy grand dame with its glittering gold-tile ceiling and scarlet upholstery, as refined as that same lady demurely dressed in family-heirloom finery, one feels the warring urges to whisper over the scones or giggle loudly and snap photos.

Fortunately, no matter the urge to which you give in, you'll be well-catered to, tended by a staff trained to know precisely when to see the things they see, and when it is most expedient to be selectively blind.

Which goes far toward explaining why not one of them were currently noticing a small woman of seventy-five standing on a plush chair, threatening to lay waste to all the things her companion held most dear.

Baker Street is one point eight miles from the Criterion restaurant and under current conditions John and Sherlock had approximately sixteen minutes to burn before arriving at their destination.

There are a lot of things a man on a sexual hair-trigger can do in sixteen minutes. As a matter of fact he can do those things at least twice, and despite believing his landlady is about to be arrested, and notwithstanding that his fiancé seems perfectly content to sit in the back of their chauffeured car intent on looking blameless, and regardless of the fact that they do not know the driver of the chauffeured vehicle…in spite of all of this John Watson found himself in great want of a bit of fancy fingering, a discreet blow, or a quick wank under cover of a great coat.

He was about to casually mention this fact to his intended when his intended began to check voice messages.

Fifteen seconds later Sherlock handed John John's own mobile—John doesn't really think of anything in the flat as strictly his any more because if any of it was strictly his then most of it wouldn't be in Sherlock's pocket, on Sherlock's desk, or rigged to one of Sherlock's experiments, now would it?—and proceeded to look out the window as if he knew no one within his immediate vicinity.

So, instead of suggesting his betrothed help him dispatch his erection, the good doctor listened to his voice message.

"Sherlock," went the first, "please tell me what undetectable poisons one can purchase at a well-stocked Tesco. Thank you so much."

John listened to the message twice through. When he was done he shook his head, at first worried, then unaccountably guilty, and then right on back to worried. "I don't understand."

Sherlock looked at John and clear as day his expression said well you went and made her mad about something didn't you, because though the message is addressed to me certainly it has nothing at all to do with me, being as it is not a message on my phone and therefore I am blameless, as in not to blame for whatever it is blame is most likely being affixed.

It's good John can't read minds because reading Sherlock's at this time would not have ended well. Instead John was about to say something about worry, and maybe something about guilt, when he realized there was another message after this message.

John Watson pressed play.

An American senator unexpectedly gave birth at one of the Criterion's back tables last month.

The aforementioned staff, so well-trained that one need merely glance at a tea cup to moments later find it refilled, responded so serenely to this emergency that not one other diner knew the event was taking place as it took place. As a matter of fact, so calm were the servers that the new mother found time to enjoy an aperitif after as she waited for the cab which would take she and her healthy newborn—which she would call Piccadilly—to hospital.

This is by way of explaining how Elizabeth Ariadne Westminster Hudson managed to throw twenty six fairy cakes at Mycroft Holmes—missing him eighteen times—without a single other patron being aware of the contretemps occurring at that now discreetly-infamous back table.

"Sherlock dear," began the second message on John Watson's mobile, "how soon after death does a corpse begin to smell?"

John looked at Sherlock. John shook his head. John leaned toward Sherlock and said in a soft and unnerved whisper, "I don't understand."

The newly-engaged consulting detective wondered if maybe they should turn the cab around and flee the city. Then he realized that this would cause him to be complicit with John in some manner of wrong-doing and that that would then put him in Mrs. Hudson's sights, so instead of saying anything at all Sherlock scootched away from John just a teensy little bit.

John's mobile made that informative sound, the one that tells you in chipper tones that yes, you do indeed still have messages you have not yet heard.

John pressed play.

Mycroft has done many things in the name of government intrigue. On more than one occasion he has lied, has Mr. Holmes, on fewer he's done the far more risky thing of telling the absolute truth.

Over many years and in many dark-paneled rooms he's withheld information, offered it, sold it, given it, or pretended he has no clue what in the world you're talking about. In the name of the Queen and with multi-layered machinations in mind, he's introduced the mad to the complicit, the soldier to the saint, the revolutionary to the royal and made sure that human nature has taken its British-suiting, inevitable course.

And through all of this Mycroft Holmes has remained starched, straight-backed, and serene. His short ginger waves have not one time lost their coif, his bespoke suits have not given up their crease or his shoes their shine. Whether the stratagem involves something as delicate as an election or a thing as vital as one monarch marrying the 'correct' other, Mycroft has served his nation with flawless aplomb.

Which is all by way of telling you that right now Sherlock's brother's body is decorated with clashing smears of really excellent frosting. There is a hunter green dollop in his fine red fringe. Two thick blue smears bedecking grey pinstripes, and across his smooth forehead there's something in a frankly frightening shade of blood red.

And through it all Mycroft has sat stock still, softly murmuring, "Good lady, I think maybe you've misunderstood."

Mrs. Hudson may or may not have misconstrued the thing that Mycroft Holmes suggested approximately twenty minutes previous, but as she continues to fling fairy cakes he's finding that she is mis-aiming less and less. Some small, ignored part of Mycroft's mind begins to hope she socks him in the mouth with one of those little treats rather soon.

"John, which would incapacitate a man more quickly: A blow to the head or one to the heart?"

That the messages left on John's phone were now for John somehow increased the good doctor's apprehension so sharply he briefly contemplated writing himself a prescription for a rather potent anti-anxiety medication.

"She's talking to me now," he whispered to Sherlock by way of the obvious since, at this point, he's playing each message so loudly that even the driver can hear them as they unspool with frightening, little-girl-voiced venom.

She will never admit this, not even to herself in the dark of an insomnia-filled night, but during the short drive across town that same driver three times wondered if maybe she ought to just drop her charges off somewhere down by the river instead of getting anywhere near Piccadilly.

Based off the educated guess that the urgency of Mycroft's call had motivated John and Sherlock to dress in approximately three minutes, and presuming the traffic flow had remained steady, the elder Holmes was certain to within ninety-three percent probability that his brother and future brother-in-law would arrive at the restaurant some time in the next minute and a half.

As such Mycroft was reasonably certain he could cope with getting pelted in the other eye with small pastries if indeed that was as hard as Mrs. Hudson could throw.

That was not as hard as Mrs. Hudson could throw and you'd be surprised how desperately pistachio frosting stings when it's smeared across your cornea.

They were idling at the kerb.

They were listening to the final message on John's phone and all was coming clear.

"Boys. I've overlooked my defaced flocking. I've pretended I didn't see the stains behind the refrigerator. I've consistently maintained to Mycroft the fiction that neither of you were anywhere near Big Ben last August. I've asked for nothing in return, not one thing. Except this: Let me enjoy marrying you two off, let me experience the fancy wedding I never had."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock, so help him, looked at John as if it had been his idea to do that thing inside London's famous clock tower, as if it had been John's experiment that had produced the shocking blemishes behind the fridge, and as if it had been John who had completely forgotten they were supposed to go to a rehearsal dinner earlier that night, which, indeed, John had.

And while no one in their right might would expect Sherlock to recall that last bit of important minutiae—as a matter of fact no one even expects the man to get to his own wedding unless taken by the hand and lead—someone needs to cut the good doctor some slack.

But that's neither here nor there. John and Sherlock now know the fracas into which they're heading and they understand that however much they'd like to pretend they're without blame they are so deeply decorated with guilt that both are about to ask the driver to head to Heathrow where they—

The door to the limousine opened and the Criterion's doorman clicked his heels smartly.

"Welcome gentlemen, Mr. Holmes is expecting you."

No one said anything for ten minutes.

It was clear that Mycroft had lied about Mrs. Hudson's immanent arrest, but from the appearance of the man—John was going to have to take a look at that shockingly red eye—they had not arrived a moment too soon.

And though their landlady seemed intent on killing them with the tension of her unspoken invective, that was not to be. For in the end Sherlock could not do two things: keep his hands off the fairy cakes and keep his pretty mouth shut.

Fortunately the good detective surprised his future-husband for the second time that day: While devouring wee cupcakes one right after the other, he also magnanimously took the blame.

"—and the Met had critical questions about last month's arson case and there were two experiments in the bathtub at a vital stage and when Detective Inspector Lestrade called with the cold case about the clown allergic to coconuts—"

How the man chewed, swallowed, and spoke all at once John didn't know, but he did know that what Sherlock said sounded true because it was true. All of these things had indeed occurred today and for anyone normal they'd have taken up a great deal of morning, afternoon, and evening.

Sherlock, as you may be slightly aware, is not normal.

For he'd taken care of each of these before the sun had fully risen on the new day and with the copious amount of free time thus presented he'd proceeded to pace and chatter and bother me to distraction—as I believe I relayed several chapters ago—until John eventually woke, after which they did unto one another, slept again, again Sherlock woke first, again he solved a case on the phone, and yet again he went in search of his fiancé, who this time he found merrily wanking in the shower.

The good detective joined the good doctor there, finished his wanking for him, had the favour returned, washed his intended, fingered his intended, proceeded to then bugger his intended, fell out of the shower with his intended still attached, completed his carnal act as they grunted on the loo rug, got John off a second time, found aspirin for both of them—"Sherlock, are you sure these aren't those weird pills that made me sound like a little girl for half a day?"—wherein they both retired to bed as the sun was just entering their bedroom window, passed out cold and eventually John woke and they did it all again until they'd humped right on through their own rehearsal dinner.

That part, however, went unsaid.

Once Sherlock finished taking blame and as he was on his fourteenth little cake, Mrs. Hudson at last replied but it wasn't Sherlock she addressed, nor John, it was Mycroft.

Sort of.

"Mr. Holmes wanted to send me away to French Polynesia. He wanted to remove me from the wedding planning. He wanted to do it himself."

This shocking news caused a wide range of responses.

Mrs. Hudson toyed with a pink fairy cake as if thinking about throwing it.

John sat up straight in his chair and blinked fast.

Sherlock caught his brother's eye and without so much as a bob of the head thanked him.

For the best way to prevent someone in a righteous fit of pique from walking away from planning a wedding is to tell her that, not only will you help her walk away from planning a wedding and take over duties yourself, you will also send her somewhere pretty and far, far away while you do so.

As deductively brilliant as his brother, Sherlock of course recognized Mycroft's stunning stratagem for what it was. Mrs. Hudson did not and neither did John.

Which explains why John just went right ahead and said the thing that caused Sherlock to stop stuffing fairy cakes into his mouth and go very hard and maybe a little bit breathless.

"That's it. Let's get married sooner. Would that help, Mrs. Hudson? If we got married sooner?"

I promise I'll finish this story—which is giving me fits—before we're all of us retired. In the meantime I'm not lazy, I've got two ten thousand word stories waiting, two Minutiae, a tale for "A Little Birdie Told Me," and possibly I've been breeding unicorns too, I don't know. I want you to know that I'll never, ever, not one time ever leave a story unfinished unless I'm abducted. Even then I expect I'd be inspired to write porn if the aliens really do that anal probe thing for which they're so famous. But perhaps I've said too much…

P.S. The only reader-provided word I used this time is allergic, which I think was provided by Forgotten-and-Sherlocked but I'm not sure.