Evie arrived at The Century Club on a warm, Spring evening and joined the line of people waiting to be greeted by the future bride and groom. She reached the front and grinned at John, who grinned back and swept her into a hug.

'No Sherlock?' he asked.

She pulled away. 'Nah,' she said, then curled her lip and when she spoke, her voice was dipped as low as it could; 'I don't need to rehearse a dinner,' she drawled. 'God knows I've done plenty before.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Prat. He's supposed to make a toast.'

'Don't worry, he'll say exactly what you told him to.'

She turned to Mary and hugged her friend, smiling again. 'Hello, Mrs Almost-Watson.'

'Thanks for coming Evie,' her friend replied. 'Ready for tonight?'

'What's the plan?'

'I dunno, Lou won't tell me' Mary answered, gesturing to her best friend and Maid of Honour across the room. 'I just hope it's not too crazy, but knowing her...'

'I'm sure it'll be fine,' Evie soothed. 'It's your last night as a free woman! Gotta go out with a bang, right?'

Mary laughed, caught someone's eye from across the room and gestured them over.

'Archie!' She called. 'Evie, I want you to meet my brother. He's accompanying you down the isle tomorrow.'

Evie turned, and let out a low whistle.

'Mary,' she said, 'you're a star.'

Evie waved goodbye to the ladies in the town car and fumbled with the lock to her front door. She stumbled up the stairs and into 221b, tripping over furniture in the dark, giggling as she righted herself. She came to the next flight of stairs, the one that lead up to her bedroom, and paused, before turning around and walking through Sherlock's door.

Sherlock was not sleeping; he was simply lying on top of his sheets, feet dangling off the end of the bed. He looked up as Evie flopped down onto the mattress beside him, toeing off her shoes and letting out a sigh. He narrowed his eyes at her flushed cheeks, frizzing hair, Hens Night sash and the glitter stuck to her skin. He had chosen not to surround himself with Mary's moronic brother and John's dull colleagues and partake in such a ridiculous, outdated tradition as a Stag's Night, forgoing the whole evening of events altogether. He'd barely be able to make it through tomorrow; no point in straining himself now.

Evie rolled onto her side, facing Sherlock. 'Hi,' she said.

'I assume you drowned your sorrows then,' he deadpanned. 'Thirty and single.'

'Shut up,' she mumbled.

'And a secretary, on top of it all.'

'D'you want me to start bawling?' She said bluntly. He didn't reply. 'Good,' she sniffed, expression smug. She made herself comfortable in silence, Sherlock lying stiffly and still. Time trickled away slowly as the warm night enveloped the pair, their breathing a duet and the late night traffic outside a symphonic backdrop.

'Sherlock?' Evie said quietly.

'Yes, Genevieve?' he responded, equally as quietly.

'Do me a favour.' Then there was the harmonic rustling of moving sheets and a warm arm slipped across his waist, and her face was pressed against his shoulder, so that when the next words emerged from her mouth, they were muffled by the fabric of his dressing gown;

'Ignore me.'

He didn't move an inch. Her breathing reached a crescendo beside him, and then ritardando; slowing, calming, and she was asleep. His heart beat staccato in his chest, his mind raced, acceso, to put familiar terms on a foreign situation. Slowly, largo, he dared to move onto his side. Evie didn't stir. His hand reached up to touch her hair; soft, tangled beneath his fingers.

It was an experiment, he consoled himself as he traced her features, feather light touch against her skin. Her rounded jaw; sloping nose; parted lips; curved eyelashes. The freckles spread like stars across her cheeks; he counted them. In the sheet music of his mind he penned in a fermata over the moment, to prolong this small portion of time where the orchestra that was Genevieve Blackwood was at his discretion to study and commit to memory.

She shifted in her sleep, and he paused, paralysed, but she remained asleep as she rolled onto her stomach, arm shifting from Sherlock's waist to rest atop his chest. Her touch was warm and kind and familiar. He indulged his senses in her, the sound, smell, touch and sight of her. Then pursed his lips as he snatched his own hand back, returned his attention to the ceiling, refusing to think of the implications of his base-driven actions.

And he fell asleep beside her.

Glossary of musical terms:

Crescendo: growing; i.e. progressively louder.

Ritardando: slowing down; decelerating.

Staccato: making each note brief and detached.

Acceso: ignited, on fire.

Largo: broadly; i.e. slowly.

Fermata: finished, closed; i.e., a rest or note is to be held for a duration that is at the discretion of the performer or conductor