The last public appearance of King John was at a wedding, where he witnessed the union of Captain Lestrade and Molly, formerly of the House of Mortsan. It was not a usual feat for a King; but he was Good King John, and he used the occasion to announce his gratitude to the newly-weds for their excellent service over the years. Gladstone and Toby were presented as the royal gift, a generosity that astonished many stiff-nosed nobles who were secretively burning with envy; but again, he's King John, and he does what he wants.

Soon afterwards, Prince William started taking King John's place at events ever so often, the latter citing an old wound and other health complications. So it was largely regrettable, but not entirely shocking, to the people, when the Good King decided to step down permanently.

"Promise to be a good King, William. Don't start a war while I'm on my way, you know what it does to the traffic."

"Oh, Uncle John. I will never be as good as you have been." And they embraced.

Cheeky bastard actually sounds sincere for once, though John, who was no longer King. At any rate, there's good old Mike to check on him.

"May peace be with you, my Lord." Lord Stamford's eyes got a bit watery. He really wasn't supposed to know anything, but as he was one of the few who did not persuade John to remain at Criterion or at least in the Strand, John suspects that he was not entirely oblivious to where he'd rather be.

"Don't worry, Mike. I'll be fine."

Captain Lestrade voiced his interest in the investigative division, so King William moved him over to work under Lord Stamford. But Lestrade, now Inspector, actually just didn't like King William enough to serve as Royal Guard any longer. Instead, he dashed about on the streets of the Strand on Gladstone, and people thought he looked dishy. At least Molly thought he looked dishy.

It turned out that John had nothing to his name once he handed over the crown, so the packing was quite easy. A couple of utilities from Doctor Anders and a few medical volumes from his own library was about all. Oh, and the Strad, thought John merrily, who proceeded to rub over Sherlock's name with his sleeve, and bundled up the instrument extra-carefully.

Thus John, formerly King of Bartholomew, mounted a donkey which he also named Gladstone, and left the Palace of Criterion for good. Oh, for much better.

Not even half way out of the Strand, John started to regret already. Of giving away Gladstone the stallion.

So it was almost dusk when John reached where he thought he'd have reached by midday. The setting sun cast a long shadow to the slim figure at a distance, who sprinted out to him with child-like earnestness. "John."

There were specks of mud on his face, and the tips of his long white fingers were soiled. His face was mostly calm, but his eyes were sparkling.

"A while ago I named my mind palace Criterion. I see that it no longer applies."

That message took John a moment to decipher. "I miss you too, Sherlock."

Considering his brief height advantage, John bent down to kiss him hard. Holding the world's only consulting detective in his arms was like holding the world, only that it felt much more real.

The little wooden house was surrounded by a considerably bigger garden, where a myriad of odd-looking plants flourished. It looked humble, messy, and full of surprises. It looked like home.

Sherlock took John by the hand, and talked him through many of the fascinating species. They stopped in front of a particularly bizarrely-shaped tree.

"Dracaena cinnabari originates from the tropics, where it's worshipped for its remedial uses. The sap resembles blood in colour and smell."

John suddenly recalled a vivid image of crimson spurting out up the sky, splattering on the ground. He growled, fingers clawing Sherlock's hand. "What you did was cruel."

Sherlock leaned down to nudge his nose against the soft flesh behind John's ear. "John, I am sorry. How would you like to be compensated?"

A fire was flickering in the hearth, and the bed was small and cosy. John ran a hand through Sherlock's unkempt curly hair. It might have become his favourite thing to do.

"Now that I'm only a poor doctor, Sherlock, will you marry me?"

Sherlock chortled. "John, I thought you know that I am married to my work."

"Well, from the very beginning, I was your… client, therefore part of your work."

"Hmm. It's not decent for a consulting detective to marry his client."

John laughed. "You're right. It's also not decent for a doctor to marry his apprentice."

"Oh, who cares about decent." And Sherlock turned over on top of John for a good snog.

"I'm done caring about everybody," John' s breath was heavy, "from this day on I only care about one."

But that was obviously not true. As the first and only real doctor in the land, Doctor John soon gained the title of Good Doctor John, although his companion seemed a bit weird and unfeeling at times. But judging by the way his eyes followed Good Doctor John everywhere, he couldn't possibly be a bad person altogether. Their presence was more than welcomed in Bakerue, where no dime was given about the lecherous happenings in their bedroom.

News from neither Bartholomew nor Buckingham was very exciting. You see, the state has a way of running itself, no matter who's wearing the funny crown. Once he was put in charge of Everything, King William soon realised how much trouble a war actually would be, and diverted his attention to the trading of wines, which was much more fun. Now and then a case would pop up to bring Inspector Lestrade galloping into Bakerue, and Doctor John would find himself dragged along back to the Strand, or other wild parts of the country. After the case they would sometimes stay over a little at Greg's place, where Mrs. Lestrade would feed Sherlock a large plate of Bartholomewean food to shut him up, and still address Doctor John as "my Lord".

And so they lived, happily ever after, till the end of their days.

"Sherlock, what do you call that?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Bees, John."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know that. The fancy science name, Sherlock."

"Oh. Apis mellifera, then."

"I think it should be called Apis Sherlocky." John said, with a laugh.

"What? Are you calling me names now, John?"

John looked lovingly at Sherlock's child-like undignified expression. "No. Because this little thing… it buzzes around everyday, never shuts up, and it stings. And it makes my life so sweet." John was a little embarrassed, as he realised his declaration sounded quite pedestrian.

Sherlock looked incredulous. "That's… a dumb metaphor, John."

But John could tell he liked it, and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Too bad you're not King anymore, John, you can't tell people what to call a species."

"You are quite right. I'll just start calling you 'honey' and be settled."

At hearing that, Sherlock actually blushed.

"Do you miss being King, John?"

For a moment John seemed deep in thought. "Yes, I do. I miss the part where it brought you into my life."

-The End-