A/N: Hello, lovely readers! Thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback and well wishes for the SAT! ( BTW the test wasn't as bad as I suspected, which was great :D)

As a little thank you gift, here's an early update! Hope you all like it, and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!

Enjoy!


Tension: (noun) a strained relationship between individuals

...

1.

That afternoon when John is prepared to leave to the airport to pick up Mary, he pauses in the doorway and asks, hopefully and unsurely, if Sherlock would like to come over for dinner.

"You've never been to our flat before and it's about time you see it, don't you think?"

Internally, Sherlock heartily begs to differ; he has no desire to see the domestic dwelling John and his lovely soon-to-be wife inhabit. However, he understands how important this is to John, so he bites his tongue and feigns a look of excitement. "Yes, I'd love to."

The decision is made worthwhile when John gives him a one thousand-watt smile and says, "Smashing. I'll text you the details once I've spoken with Mary, yeah? Should be around seven or eight tonight."

Sherlock nods and continues smiling despite the twitch forming in his cheek. "Sounds lovely."


2.

Mary wants to know if 8P.M. is OK?

Yes, that's fine. SH

Great! The address is 5823 Royal Worchester St. Any requests for dinner?

You know me, John, I do not particularly care either way. SH

Right. Mary wants to know, so I'll just tell her you said mince pies since that's my favorite.

I was under the impression your favorite dish was roast chicken with parsley and lemon? SH

Instead of buzzing with a new text, Sherlock's phone starts ringing. Surprised, he answers it.

"John?"

"How did you know my favorite dish is roast chicken?"

"With lemon and parsley," Sherlock corrects.

"Yes, with lemon and parsley," John says, and Sherlock can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "I've never actually told you that—in fact I myself forgot I loved that dish. How did you know?"

Sherlock shrugs and then remembers John can't see him. "I'm not sure, but it's really not surprising as there is quite a lot of minutia about you stored in my mind palace, and I don't recall half of the information's origin. Maybe your sister mentioned it once."

"You've never met my sister."

"Yes, but you could've mentioned it via email or when you were speaking with her on the phone. I have a tendency to eavesdrop and borrow your computer, remember?"

John snorts. "Yeah, borrow."

"Did you really call just to find out about the chicken?" Sherlock asks. "Not that I don't enjoy talking with you, of course, because I do. Immensely," he adds, and then mentally smacks himself for sounding too eager.

"Er, yeah. I did. When you said the chicken thing I was…surprised. And flattered." John clears his throat self-consciously. "Is that weird?"

"I don't think so. But then again, I am not exactly the prime example of 'normal.'"

John laughs and Sherlock's heart swells at the sound. "Neither am I, actually. We're both quite mad, aren't we?"

"I prefer the term 'unconventional' or perhaps 'unique'."

"'Creative individuals opposing society's norms' is a good one," John muses. "Or maybe 'rebels against the status quo'."

"We're not forming a gang, John, no need to come up with clever names," Sherlock replies drily. John laughs and it's the best thing Sherlock has ever heard.

"Well, I better go help Mary prepare dinner. See you at eight?"

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, torn between feeling pleased and dreadful. "Indeed."


3.

John and Mary's flat is located in the suburban part of London, where birds sing in the trees and the streets are perpetually filled with laughing children. There is no danger of smog or murder or honking cars here: only peaceful silence, sunshine, and homemade pies cooling in window sills. The building's residents have customized mailboxes, community accommodations, and a quaint parking lot for the few eco-friendly cars that belong to the occupants. Upon first sight, Sherlock can see that this is an ideal area for cozy families or romantic couples.

It's all terribly dull.

When he enters the building and climbs the well-kept staircase, Sherlock counts all the differences between this place and 221B, and tries to imagine why on earth John would prefer this.

He raps his knuckles on the door twice.

"Sherlock, lovely to see you!" Mary sings upon opening the door. She steps back inside and gestures for him to follow. "Well come on in!"

He does.

"So…this is it," John says, sweeping his hand out in a presenting motion, as Sherlock steps inside the flat. "Our humble abode."

Immediately, Sherlock feels suffocated by his surroundings. Butter-colored upholstery, vases of flowers bursting from every corner, hand-sewn doilies resting on the coffee table: the flat is grossly overzealous in its attempt to appear warm and welcoming. Everything about the room seems deliberate and calculating, from the organized throw pillows to the bowl of colorful potpourri by the door; it's almost as if Mary has modeled her home directly after the stereotypical suburban households plastered throughout Style Magazine. The whole place reeks of domesticity.

The only trace of John is the small wooden desk in the corner—presumably his writing space—which is adorned sparingly with a UK ARMY mug, a thin stack of papers, and his laptop. Aside from this one detail, though, there is no indication that a man lives here, let alone John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and esteemed Captain.

To Mary, he says, "It's lovely," because he knows that's what she wants to hear, and to John he merely nods in approval. Sherlock figures somewhere deep down, John doesn't actually care for the décor and atmosphere of his own home—he's never known John to have any particular fondness for vanilla incense and floral drapes—but since it's become customary to dance around the Unsaid things between them, he refrains from commenting.

"Thank you, Sherlock, I'm glad you think so!" Mary coos.

John gives him a look that is equal parts relieved and disappointed, and then makes a beeline for the sofa where he immediately pulls out his laptop and begins typing. Sherlock raises a curious brow and is on the verge of inquiring what John is so enthusiastically working on, when Mary walks into his line of sight and gives him a beaming, white-toothed smile.

"Here, I'll take your coat," she offers, reaching out and lightly grabbing his sleeve. As if burned, Sherlock flinches away from her touch and pulls the coat tighter to his body.

"No," he says harshly, and then quickly catches himself. "I mean, no thank you,"
he rephrases, clearing his throat. "I'd prefer to keep it on."

"Oh! Well that's fine too," Mary chirps, though her smile looks a bit forced. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He's on the verge of saying no simply on principle, but once it occurs to him that if Mary leaves to get a drink, he and John will be left alone, he changes his mind. "Yes, please. Tea would be lovely."

"Alright, be back in flash!"

As soon as she has disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock crosses the room and joins John on the sofa.

"What are you writing?" he asks.

"Er…an email to my sister," John replies, unsubtly turning the screen away from Sherlock's view. "Nothing interesting."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and takes in the faint flush of frustration on John's cheeks, the absentminded twitch of his left hand, and the unthinking glances he keeps throwing in Mary's direction. In one smooth cognitive burst, he arrives at the conclusion that John is writing his vows.

"Why are you working on your vows right now?" Sherlock asks. "The engagement party isn't for weeks and the wedding itself is months after that."

"Could you kindly keep your voice down so Mary doesn't hear in the kitchen?"

"Fine," Sherlock amends, dropping his voice to whisper. "You didn't answer my question."

John reclines back into the cushions and removes his hands from the keyboard. "I'm working on them now because I want to get them out of the way as soon as possible." He frowns at his own phrasing and tries again, "I didn't mean that, that sounded too harsh. I just mean, I know this part of the process is going to be difficult so I want to give myself a good amount of time to get it right. Reasonable decision, right?"

John's relaxed words and the irritated lines around his eyes do not say the same thing.

"Then why are you frustrated?"

"Because," John exhales, "this is turning out to be far more difficult than I thought it would be. I don't know, the words just won't come to me. Every line I write I end up deleting because it sounds too empty and vapid. Christ, Sherlock, it shouldn't be this hard."

"You seemed apt enough at writing poetry for your girlfriends in the past," Sherlock reminds him, his tone a bit sharper than intended.

The tips of John's ears go pink at the mention of his poems, and he averts his eyes to the far window. Sherlock thinks it's just embarrassment until John slowly says, "Those weren't actually for my girlfriends."

He frowns, thrown off. "They weren't?"

"No," John replies hesitantly. "I never sent any of them. They just sat there in a word doc and gathered dust, alright?"

This is certainly an interesting bit of information. Sherlock stows it away in his palace for later analysis.

"I don't know why the words aren't coming easily for this," John continues. "When I wrote those poems, the words just flowed onto the page. It was effortless."

Although Sherlock once poked fun at John for writing those poems, in the privacy of his mind he always thought they were quite beautiful—which, coming from Sherlock, was exceedingly rare as he typically had no stomach for romance or flowery sentiment. He reckons John's poetry—like most things John-related—is yet another exception to his rules.

"Who were you thinking of when you wrote those poems?" Sherlock asks, though he doesn't particularly care to hear the answer. He's willing to bet his body weight in pounds that John's muse was an old girlfriend or some unattainable female stranger he passed on the street; in other words, yet another woman Sherlock has to be jealous of. "In essence, who was your inspiration? Simply tap into that well of ideas and use it to write your vows."

"They…they were about a friend," John says quietly "Someone I couldn't be with because, well, it was rather complicated. And no, I can't use the thought of them because isn't that similar to, I don't know, envisioning someone else while you're having sex your partner? It's depraved, it's wrong. I should be able to write deep, meaningful things about Mary alone, shouldn't I? I don't know why this is so hard—"

"Tea's on!" Mary announces, walking into the room with a tray filled with drinks, biscuits, and a variety of artfully arranged fruit. "I wasn't sure how you take your tea, Sherlock, so I left it black," Mary says. "Here, the milk and sugar are right here." She points at the two small containers and then turns to John. "Darling, I know you prefer yours with nothing in it, so here you are!"

John smiles appreciatively and takes the cup from her.

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock says, dropping his customary three sugars into the cup.

"You have quite the sweet tooth, don't you?" Mary comments, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's drink.

Sherlock stares at her and pointedly drops a fourth cube into the tea. Then a fifth. "Hardly," he retorts drily.

Mary's expression falters for a fraction of a second, but in no time her 'perfect-hostess' grin is firmly back in place.

He isn't sure why he does it, but when Mary mentions all the planning they've yet to do for the engagement party and a shadow passes over John's face, Sherlock finds himself saying:

"I'll plan it for you."

The moment the words escape him, he regrets it. In truth, he knows why he did it—to save John the stress of fretting over yet another frivolous thing—but that doesn't mean his mouth had any right to open up and offer something as ludicrous as his assistance in the whole endeavor. He should be doing everything in his power to stay as far away from this wedding (and all of its accompanying events) as possible, not throwing himself right into the bloody eye of the storm. Besides, he's never even attended an engagement party, let alone planned one.

But if Mary and John's respective expressions of gratitude are anything to go by, this is not the sort of thing you can offer and then retract.

"Really?" John says, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. "You will?"

"Of course," he assures with a faint smile. "I'd love to."

"That's…that's an incredible gesture, Sherlock" John says. "Thank you so, so much." He gives the detective one last heart-melting smile and then returns his attention to his laptop.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you've decided to help us with the engagement party," Mary gushes, tucking a stray blond hair behind her ear. "I've been so busy lately, what with my sister and all the makeup work at the clinic…I really can't thank you enough. There are just so many details involved in planning the wedding itself, that I nearly forgot about the engagement party!"

"It's not a problem, Mary," Sherlock assures absently. His eyes drift over her shoulder at John who is sitting on the love seat with his laptop balancing on his knees. Judging by the slightly quicker pace of his typing, he's now working on either an email or recreational writing, the latter which he has never known John to do. Sherlock immediately rules out the possibility that he's writing his vows again, because the set of his shoulders is relaxed and the lines around his eyes have disappeared. He looks relatively at peace—perhaps even content—which makes Sherlock even more curious to find out what he's doing.

"—and the balloons ought to be silver and lavender. I know what you're thinking: why those colors? Well, you see, I've always adored purple but if we went with a darker shade I fear it would be too garish and grey is just so plain, isn't it? That's why I've settled with a nice pastel lavender garnished with the metallic silver for a little extra pop. You know?"

"Mm? Yes, of course. Pop indeed," Sherlock answers, completely oblivious to everything she just said. "John, what do you think?" he asks, just to bring John's focus back in his direction.

"Purple and silver sound lovely," he says without looking away from the screen.

"Lavender and silver," Mary corrects. She cocks her head at John's focused expression, clearly annoyed that is isn't aimed at her. "What are you writing, love?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Just sending Harry an email," he says nonchalantly, closing the laptop with finality. Sherlock can tell it's a lie from John's mouth and eyes and hands, but there isn't enough data to conclude what he was actually doing, so Sherlock lets it slide for the moment and resolves to question John later.

"Well," Mary says, bringing her hands together in a clap, "why don't we get started on that chicken?

Dinner is an odd affair.

In his own home, John seems oddly subdued and polite, whereas at Baker Street he was bursting with life and energy. Sherlock wonders if it's just his hopeful imagination looking for signs that John isn't happy here. Mary, in contrast, appears to be entirely at home among these rose colored walls and floral arrangements; she oozes confidence and domesticity and affection, to the point that Sherlock can't look at her too long without becoming vaguely unsettled.

"So, love, what did you and Mr. Detective do while I was away?" she chirps, as she passes around the bowl of colorful garden salad. Sherlock watches ten different answers pass over John's face before he settles with, "Oh, you know, just watching old Bond movies and milling around London. The usual."

Mary spears a cherry tomato and raises a brow. "Oh? No cases on?"

Evidently, Mary has mastered the art of passive inquisition. Interesting.

Instead of lying, John casually states, "Just one. But it was riddled with loose ends, so we hardly spent any time bothering with it. On a more important note," John says, smoothly changing the subject, "I asked Sherlock to be my best man, and he said yes." John smiles at him from across the table, and for one lovely moment it feels as if they are the only two people in the room.

Of course, that illusion breaks as soon as Mary rejoins the conversation. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she beams. "Look at you, Sherlock, the party planner and the best man! How lovely!"

"Yes, it is an honor," he replies, bowing his head slightly. "I'm pleased to be part of the wedding ceremony."

"And we're pleased to have you," John says, his blue eyes twinkling.

"So, Sherlock," Mary interjects, the smile easing from her face so fluidly he nearly misses the transition. "What was this weekend's case about? I'd love to hear about it."

This feels like, and most likely is, a trap. Why Mary is so adamant about hearing what happened (and why John is so reluctant to tell her) is quite clear—she doesn't approve.

The wisest route, he decides, is to simply downplay the truth. "A series of murders, expertly committed, with no link to the killer. John is correct, though, I am leaving it alone for the time being as there is nothing we can do until further information reveals itself."

Unbeknownst to both John and Mary, is a lie. He has no intention of leaving the case alone, no matter how little evidence he has at his disposal. Something is different about this series of killings. Something about it invokes a hollow feeling in his chest and makes him uneasy in ways he cannot explain. This isn't just a gang member or a drug lord or a psychopath seeking revenge, this is someone smart. Obscenely smart. Terrifyingly so. This murderer had very clear motives for killing each victim, and who's to say they've finished? For all he knows, there could very well be another string of deaths looming on the horizon, waiting to add another piece to the killer's message. He wonders if it's a warning or a plea or a harsh promise. Perhaps a code? A lesson? A caution?

Either way, he's starving for answers.

"That seems wise," Mary says, nodding. For a single moment, her bright green eyes flash and something strange passes over her face, but it's gone before he has time to analyze it. "Taking a break on the case, I mean," she clarifies after a beat, the merriness seeping purposefully back into her tone. "It's always better to be patient and arrive at a conclusion once all the evidence is available."

"Indeed," Sherlock agrees neutrally. He takes a bite of flavorless, tough chicken and smiles at his hostess. "The food is delicious by the way, Mary."

She smiles back and he can clearly see her canines. They're quite sharp. "Thank you, dear."


4.

By the time he gets home at 10 P.M., his mind is swimming. When John and Mary bid him goodnight and closed the door, he could practically taste the oncoming row simmering in the air.

He knows John is bound to either text or call him, so he kills time playing frantic, jittery nonsense on his violin until his fingers throb and his wrists ache. After that, he paces the sitting room and realizes, for the first time, that Mary's issue with Sherlock's cases has the potential to make things very, very difficult. What if she demands that John stop seeing Sherlock altogether?

What if John lets her?

At this point, it's Mary against Sherlock, and no matter how desperately he wants John to choose him, he can't be sure that he will. The anxiety ties his stomach into knots and makes his head hurt, so he is eventually forced to lie down on the sofa and stare listlessly at the ceiling.

At one in the morning, his phone buzzes.

From now on, cases are taboo topics, okay? Mary wasn't pleased about this weekend.

From now on. That implies that John intends to continue their adventures, and more importantly, it implies that he intends to continue seeing Sherlock.

Sherlock's heart sinks to his knees in relief.

Yes, of course, in the future we'll keep it between the two of us. What did she say? SH

She insisted that it was ridiculous for me to keep risking my life like this. She said I'm too old to be 'running around London chasing bad guys' with you.

You're not old. SH

Ha. Well, the 42 birthday candles on my cake say otherwise.

John, I'm 38 and I do not consider myself too old for this profession. Neither are you. The only question is, do you enjoy 'running around London chasing bad guys' with me?'SH

Of course.

Then there's no need to stop, now is there? SH

It'll be our secret then, yeah?

Of course. SH

Good.

What were you doing on your laptop today? After the vows, I mean. SH

Looking for new cases & updating the blog.

At that, Sherlock puts his phone face down on the sofa and grins at the ceiling. That's what was making John look so content and pleased? The thought of going on new cases with Sherlock? Warmth spills through his chest like honey and he finds himself unable to stop smiling.

Find anything? SH

Of course. Why don't we talk about it over breakfast tomorrow? Lou's Cafe, my treat.

You know I don't eat in the morning. SH

Would you make an exception if I asked extra nicely?

Perhaps. SH

Wonderful, brilliant, intelligent detective, will you please accompany me to breakfast tomorrow morning?

Fine. Just for you, John. SH

Excellent. I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Sherlock.

The conversation feels like an affair: a delicious little secret budding underneath his skin. He loves that he knows something Mary doesn't, even if it's something as small as he and John taking cases. He loves his and John's banter, the smooth flow of conversation, and the way they fall so easily in sync with each other. He loves that John values Sherlock more than he values Mary's rules. He relishes it, he basks in it.

He wishes for more.