Holy crap. Sherlock is prancing. He is frocking around a crime scene waving his arms around dramatically, and continuing flaring his coat behind him. He has never had a gayer aspect before.

Lestrad is having trouble holding a giggle in. He maneuvers over so he can talk to me without Sherlock hearing. He didn't have worried. Sherlock can't hear anything when he is high on crime scene. Plus, the dancing.

Jesus, he just literally did a spin on one leg.

"Sherlock is particularly gay today," Lestrad observes.

"Did you seriously ask me Sherlocks sexual orientation?" I ask annoyed.

Lestrad laughs, "Sherlock's orientation has never really been a question since the first time he solved a case for me, and I bought him a pint in a pub. That is apparently is enough to get him drunk, and he waxed poetic on why vaginas were disgusting for over an hour, loudly. Still haven't been back in that pub, and it was one of my favorites. My comment today was a bit more about the traditional meaning of the world. He's really happy. What got into him?"

I stare at Sherlock dancing, and try hard to keep a smile off my face.

Lestrad seems to be debating whether or not to push it, "Were you what got into him John?"

I blush hard at the intimacy and inuendo of the question, "I resent society's implication that sex is the only thing that can make people happy or whole. Some people never have sex, and they are extremely happy about it."

Sherlock prances over to me, and kisses me, "Good speech. However, empirically my mood is significantly elevated after last night's orgasm," He pauses, "Of course, it also is when we talk, and especially when you say those words." Then, in the same breath, because he's Sherlock, he starts rattling of facts and theories about the crime while I stare at him blushing.

Then Sherlock looks at me curiously, "You're not dancing this morning. Don't I make you want to dance?"

"I dance on the inside," I tell him.

With that he grins, grabs my hands, and begins twisting around the room with me.

"Not a crime scene, Sherlock!" I protest.

Lestrad giggles, "Congratulations, you two."

And it feels something like coming out, but it's abbreviated to the point of falsehood. Neither of us is gay, not really. I'm bi, and he's demi, and we aren't really having sex, at least not yet.

Jesus, if he dances like this for light petting what will he do when we really have sex?

He's danced us out of the crime scene into the street. He twirls me again, lifting me up into the air off my feet.

"Put me down you nutter," I demand.

He tilts his head at me, "Tonight, I am going to have to make you as happy as you made me."

"Seriously, Sherlock, you already have," I say earnestly. Then I lean toward his ear, "You're fantastic."

He links his arms with me, and begins to skip. I kid you not skip.

-0-

Ninety-seven times Sherlock has paced, "Sherlock! What is wrong?"

He kneels down before me, "I want to have a coming out party."

"Okay."

"I told my brother I was asexual when I was a teenager, but I'd like to update him. I want Mrs. Hudson, Lestrad, Molly, my parents, and…"he looks at me uncertainly, "Your sister too? I know you don't exactly want to spend time with her."

"No, she should be here. Sherlock, you're not planning into going into a lot of detail about our…amours activities?"

"I want to tell them how I feel about sex. How…slow we're moving."

"That's fine, just not mention of specific sex acts," I stay sternly. Because with Sherlock you damned well better be specific.

"I want to make it big. With cake and balloons and invitations with fancy letters," Sherlock continues looking at me critically.

"I'll be in charge of the cake. I imagine you want it to say demi somewhere on it."

"And bi, we can share a party can't we?" he asks.

"Of course, Sherlock," I say smiling at him.

I expected him to snuggle down with me, but instead he gets up and starts twirling and dancing again.

"You are better than a drug, John Watson!" he announces.

Rosie holds up her arms to him in a way that shows that dancing with Sherlock is a frequent occurrence in her life. I love this idea. Sherlock happy and dancing with my daughter while I'm at work. He swings her up, and begins swaying, and dipping her until her little hands reach the floor, and then tossing her up where to my surprise she pulls her body into a banana like pose that looks like an actual ballroom dancer when he catches her.

"She has to be part of it," I observe.

His eyes sparkle at the thought, "Yes! The three of us, are going to have a choreographed dance to a song I'll write for the occasion."

I could try to stop him, but we all know that wouldn't work.

-0-

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

And

John Hamish Watson

Request your presence at

221 B Baker Street

The 12th of May

at 1700

Black tie or clown costume required

-0-

"It looks like a fucking wedding invitation, Sherlock," I complain as he addresses the envelopes with a fountain pen.

"They won't think it's that will they?" he asks concerned.

"They really might."

"Not a wedding," he scrawls across the side of the card that happens to be in his hand.

"Jesus," I mutter. "The clown costume?"

"Mycroft is afraid," Sherlock grins.

"No one is going to wear a clown costume."

"We haven't decided on costumes for the performance yet."

"Not clowns."

"Sherlock you can't jump out of the cake, Sherlock you can't wear a clown costume. We're going to have the most boring coming out party ever!" he exclaims storming out of the room, and slamming his door.

"Sherlock! Can we find a case! Or fold some swans?" I ask trying to follow him.

I hear a clunk, and turn to see Rosie with her hands in spilled ink. She plops them down on the invitation, "Better," she declares.

"Yes, baby girl, much better," I say coming over to help her. Well I also letting her add a handprint over each of the invitations. Because it really will be better if no one can read exactly what they say.

I'll send an e-mail out. Or they can just go by the save the date cards he sent them last week.

-0-

The sharing the mirror thing? It's become the most intimate part of our day. Well that, or the way we cling to each other in bed. His bed if we feel like touching each other into orgasm, and in my bed if we'd rather listen to Rosie breathe, and perhaps wake up with cuddles with Rosie in the morning.

It's amazing how often I find myself picking my bedroom, dating a demisexual has had a good effect on me.

As I watch my boyfriend carefully place a curl on his forehead something sparks within me, "Sherlock will you do my hair today?"

His eyes meeting my eyes in the mirror for a long second, "I think your hair is perfect."

"I want my boyfriend," shit I've never used that word out loud, have I? Is it okay? "to do my hair," I say pressing on.

He smiles, and my stomach flips, like I'm in junior high. This going slow stuff, it makes everything deeper.

He moves to stand behind me. His fingers rake through my hair, and a groan comes out of me. He leans forward and kisses my neck. He really is just planning on using his fingers, not a brush.

"No one is going to be able to tell under your clown wing," he teases.

"This is all you are getting, so make it as clown like as you want."

"Challenge accepted," he says pressing me against the sink in order to reach a curling iron in the medicine cabinet. My heart starts to beat more quickly that I can barely stand it. He enjoys his effect on me, and stays there a moment longer than necessary before plugging it in.

Rosie loses interest in her blocks in the doorway, and suddenly the best idea occurs to me. "Rosie, Daddy is going to brush your hair now," I say. I sit on the floor spreading my leg into a v. I tap the floor in front of me, and she runs over, almost tripping on my legs in order to sit down. Sherlock passes me a brush, and I start working it gently through her hair, with my fingers pressed against her scalp in order to prevent her from feeling the pull.

His curling iron apparently gets hot super quick. He kneels down, and begins to curl my hair. I'm pretty sure it's going to look awful, because it is way too short for this. I don't care.

"You going to make me smell like you?" I ask him.

He lays the curling iron down, and puts his aftershave on my cheeks. Then slowly going back to curling my hair. I can feel the heat near my head. Not burning, but close. I like it though. It's a metaphor for my life, being close to the sun-my Sherlock-rotating around him like I have ever since I met him.

"I love you," I tell him gently.

"I love you too," he says, "And you too little girl."

"Yeah!" she says turning around to look at us. "Lobe!"

His fingers fluff my hair. The last stroke on my daughter's hair. Sherlock unplugs the curling iron, and scoops my daughter up.

"Time to get you dressed in the petticoat with the bells."

"That's a joke, right?" I say alarmed.

"No."

I chuckle watching them as they go upstairs. My heart is so full and happy. My sister's text alert, the sound of a tongue making a farting sound, rings.

"I don't understand. Is the ceremony at your flat?"

"What are you talking about? There is no ceremony."

"I couldn't read most of the invite. Cute handprint," she is better at lying in a text, "Is this an engagement party?"

"No, it's," hell, Harry knows part of what we're saying today, "It's a coming out party."

"For which one of you?" she asks after a pause.

"Both of us…and you know more than most of the guests, but not all." I lean against the sink, "Be kind to him."

Because things are so good right now, and everyone is going to think we're getting married. And he's going to think he's not enough for me. And I hope to God it doesn't destroy him.