A/N: Hey guys! At the moment, I am sitting on the grass at a volleyball tournament, frantically trying to post this before my next game starts. I love you guys and every review you leave honestly makes my day :) This chapter has two parts, so I'll be posting chapter 30 this Sunday instead of two Sundays from now.

Enjoy!


Test: (noun) a procedure intended to establish the reliability or efficiency of something, especially before it is taken into an important situation.

...

1.

The moment Sherlock steps into the flat, he is overwhelmed by a deluge of sensory detail. On the cherrywood dining table, atop a silk, pearlescent runner, resides the long, complicated spread of their supper and an elegant candelabra adorned with wine-colored candles. Dinner consists of roasted chicken garnished with chickpeas and black olives; freshly-baked sourdough garlic bread still steaming from the oven and glistening with butter; a salad comprised of fresh spinach, cucumbers, and cherry-tomatoes, topped with homemade raspberry-vinaigrette dressing and orange zest; and to top it all off, a tall, gleaming bottle of white Merlot surrounded quite attractively by an artful arrangement of blood-red roses. The smells, mixed with Mary's perfume and the freshly-baked pie in the next room, form an intoxicating combination.

The food isn't the only attractive feature of tonight's dinner, however; there are also flowers bursting forth from every corner of the flat, coloring John and Mary's already brightly designed sitting room with vivid reds and striking violets. Hyacinths, roses, chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots, lilies, and morning glories spill from vases and corners alike, all vying for attention. To complete the image of domestic perfection, each article of furniture in the room appears very meticulously arranged, as if someone took a ruler and pushed everything into precise angles, making sure the chair is exactly adjacent to the sofa, and that the sofa is precisely two feet from the coffee table, and so on.

Classical music streams lazily from the radio in the corner, filling the flat with the piano's robust crescendos and the lilting, overly sweet notes of the harp.

"So, what do you think?" Mary says at last, her smile as bright and jarring as the explosion of flowers, music, and food around her.

"Splendid," Sherlock says shortly, his own smile brief and transparently insincere. "What a lovely choice of flowers."

Mary looks out at the room with an expression of extreme self-satisfaction. "Oh, I agree," she rejoins. After a beat, she gives Sherlock a sidelong look. "So, Sherlock, I haven't seen you since the engagement party. What have you been up to?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but the flat look in her eyes and the stiffness of her smile makes his skin crawl. With a forced tone of ease, Sherlock replies, "Oh, a few cases here and there. Nothing particularly noteworthy."

Her sharp, green eyes remain locked on him. "Is that so?"

Sherlock immediately remembers the lie he and John fabricated. "Yes. However, I promised John that I would take a break from my detective work in order to help the two of you with any last minute wedding details, so I suppose I'm through taking any new cases for a while."

"Yes, I believe John may have mentioned something like that," she says brightly. "It's so kind of you, Sherlock, really. We cannot thank you enough."

"It's my pleasure, Mary," Sherlock responds evenly. "Thanks are not necessary."

"Oh, but they are!" Mary insists. "That's the purpose of tonight, after all—to thank you."

Sherlock offers a measured smile. "And for that I am grateful."

"Now then, will your brother be joining us tonight? I left a message with his secretary and invited him, but he never confirmed whether or not he'd be coming."

At the mere mention of Mycroft, Sherlock feels a wave of relief immediately crash over him. As much as he usually loathes his brother for flaunting his excessive power and control, it will be an absolute godsend to have that security in this strange, unpredictable situation. The thought that the five of them will have protection and backup is immensely reassuring.

"Yes," Sherlock replies readily. "Mycroft should be here soon. When I last spoke to him, he mentioned that he would most likely arrive at around seven fifteen."

"Wonderful!" Mary chirps, clasping her hands together. "Would you care for something to drink?"

He considers agreeing—in all honesty, he wouldn't mind a beverage—but then the word poison flashes across his mind's eye like a neon sign, and he thinks better of it. Though a small part of him attributes the suspicion to mere paranoia, he'd rather not risk it. "No thank you, Mary. May I ask where John is?"

"He's in the bedroom fixing his hair," Mary replies, rolling her eyes in what Sherlock assumes is meant to be a good natured manner. "I don't know why he's fussing over his appearance so much. I always tell him how handsome he is, but for some reason he just doesn't believe me. Now isn't that ridiculous?" She giggles and shakes her head. "John is a very attractive man, he shouldn't worry about those kinds of things."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees absently, his eyes roving over the sitting room once more, this time in search of anything that might indicate the true nature of tonight's events. Their dinner doesn't appear to have been tampered with, but malicious intentions cannot be completely ruled out until Mycroft arrives and subtly inspects the food himself. It's true that Sherlock could easily walk over and search for odd discoloring or strange smells that might indicate poison, but he'd rather have a second opinion; besides, there are a number of chemicals that have no smell or taste that one could easily slip into a dish.

"Oh, so you agree then?"

Torn from his train of thought, Sherlock blinks and looks back at her. "Agree with what?"

"That John is attractive." Her eyes remind him of glittering green emeralds: beautiful but cold. She's still outwardly smiling, of course, but the sharp edge to her tone suggests that there is another question lurking beneath her seemingly innocuous words. Perhaps an insinuation as well.

Carefully, with just the right amount of nonchalance, Sherlock shrugs and replies, "I suppose. However, beauty is a social construct comprised of one's childhood impressions and role models, so it cannot be narrowed down to just one person's perception."

"Ah," Mary says with an empty laugh. Her mouth is still curved in a smile, but there is a distinct, jagged displeasure rippling in her eyes. "What an interesting philosophy."

Sherlock drums his fingers lightly against the surface of the dining room table, debating whether or not he should put a stop to this polite banter and speak frankly. "Mary," he says at last, having made up his mind. "Why am I here?"

She tilts her head and chuckles. "Why, for your party, of course."

He narrows his eyes. "Yes, but why? Answer honestly. There is no one else around right now and I know you do not like me, so please do me a favor and stop acting as if we're friends."

Mary's smile wavers but stubbornly refuses to fall. In a saccharine tone, she says, "I really don't know what you mean, love. This party is to show my gratitude—nothing more, nothing less."

He shifts his jaw, the beginnings of a scowl spreading on his face. "Do not call me 'love' and do not feign innocence. We established our mutual distaste for one another a long time ago and I see no need to pretend otherwise."

Another flat smile and flashing green eyes. "Be a dear and fetch John, won't you? I'm sure the rest of our guests will be arriving any minute now."

He grits his teeth. "Mary—"

"Third door on the left, love."

After making his way down a seemingly endless, photograph-adorned hallway, Sherlock finds himself standing in the threshold of John and Mary's bedroom. After a brief moment of hesitation, he steps inside and drinks in his surroundings. Part of him shudders in repulsion at the thought that this was once a very intimate place for John and Mary, but another part puffs up with pride at the fact that even though John still physically resides here, his heart is safely back at Baker Street, where it belongs.

John and Mary's bedroom is an odd thing, because while it has all of the accessories and appearances of a typical, unremarkable room, there are certain factors that stand out like sore thumbs. For example, amidst their pale yellow comforter and pile of lacey, home-sewn throw pillows, resides John's brightly-colored, wildly out-of-place Union Jack pillow, shining like a red and blue beacon. Then, on the desk in the corner, John's UK ARMY mug and battered, silver laptop sit beside a delicate pink vase of milk-white lilies and long sprigs of lavender, providing a strange contrast between Mary's overly-maudlin, feminine aesthetics and John's utilitarian, ungarnished belongings.

The wall parallel to John's side of the bed is definitely the most interesting bit. Alongside Mary's pastel-colored paintings of scenery and flowers, hangs a series of photographs (cut from various newspaper articles) of him and John, side by side, bathed in the light of the photographer's flashing cameras. There are six pictures in total, and each depicts them in the aftermath of a case. Though John has already confessed his feelings for Sherlock ten times over, Sherlock can't help but feel a pleasant jolt of surprise that John dedicated an entire wall to the two of them. It's nice to know he found those post-case moments just as sacred as Sherlock.

"John?" he calls, rapping his knuckles against the closed bathroom door.

"Yes?" John says, swishing the door open. Steam from his recent shower pours out of the room like fog, filling the air with the sweet, engulfing smell of John's body wash and aftershave. His face is red from the heat of the room and his hair is sticking up on the right side, but rather than looking messy, he looks boyishly charming—like a young rugby player fresh out of practice. John looks surprised to see him at first, and then inordinately pleased. "Sherlock," he beams, reaching out and wrapping Sherlock in a hug without missing a beat. Into his neck he mumbles, "I missed you."

As much as Sherlock would like to melt into John's embrace, he can't help but remember that Mary is merely one room away, liable to walk in on them at any moment. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulls away. "We have to keep our distance, remember?" he reminds John, his voice sounding just as miserable as he feels. "It's best if we don't do anything that might raise any flags."

"Right," John exhales, running a hand through his hair. He glances over Sherlock's shoulder and catches a glimpse of the clock on the bedroom wall behind him. "Shoot, it's seven twenty-five. Is everyone here already?"

"No, it's just me and Mary at the moment. However, my brother should be here by now…" Sherlock answers. Slightly concerned at Mycroft's uncharacteristic lack of punctuality, he glances at his phone, surprised to find there are no new messages or missed calls.

"Why would he agree to show up?" John asks, looking perplexed. "Dinner parties don't strike me as his sort of thing."

"Oh, trust me, they aren't. But being that tonight is very special—" he gives John a meaningful look "—he is willing to make an appearance." In a low tone, Sherlock continues, "His men will have this entire building secured the moment he arrives. That way Molly, Lestrade, Janie, and the two of us will not be harmed by whatever Mary may have planned."

John frowns, worry creasing his brow. "You really think Mary intends to do something harmful?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answers honestly. "But I would much rather be too prepared than caught by surprise."

"Yeah, you're right," John sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that my fiancé is a serial killer." He shakes his head. "See, the fact that I'm even saying that phrase is disturbing."

"I know, John, I wish you didn't have to be in this situation," Sherlock says. "I would like more than anything to keep the two of us as far away from her as possible, but I'm afraid that simply isn't doable right now. As I've mentioned before, our only option here is to play by Mary's rules and hope that her intentions for tonight really are as innocent as they seem."

"I know, you're right, we don't have any choice," John concedes, sounding defeated. "We have to keep the act up. I know it's pointless to think like this, but I wish things were different."

"As do I, John," Sherlock mutters, already dreading the moment the two of them will have to leave this room and join Mary, with all of her piercing stares and sharp smiles. "I should text Mycroft and make sure he's on his way. One moment."

Where are you? In case your watch somehow disappeared from your wrist, it is currently 7:30 and you said you would be here at 7:15. SH

Brother, do calm down. Securing the area took slightly longer than I expected, but now I can say with certainty that there are no weapons on the premise, nor are there any large scale, harmful devices. MH

Such as? SH

Oh, you know. Bombs, hidden reserves of poison gas. Things of that variety. MH

Ah. So we're safe? SH

So it seems. Of course there is always a possibility that items within the flat have been tampered with, but I will not be able to say for sure until I see for myself. MH

Speaking of which, when will you be arriving? SH

In less than two minutes. As we speak, I am climbing the steps to their flat. I will see you momentarily, brother. MH

When Sherlock rounds the corner with John several minutes later, he finds Mycroft standing at the center of the flower-filled sitting room, looking as out of place as an emperor penguin in a dance hall. Apparently Mary wasn't the one to let him in, because she looks rather caught off guard by his sudden appearance, a pie in her hands and a surprised look on her face.

"Mr. Holmes!" Mary cries out gaily, removing the oven mitts from her hands and stepping into the sitting room to greet him. "It's so lovely that you decided to come! May I ask who let you in?"

Mycroft offers a brief, polite smile. "Apologies, Ms. Morstan, but I let myself in. The door was ajar and the smells coming from the kitchen indicated that you were preoccupied with other tasks. I did not wish to interrupt you."

"Oh, don't worry about it," she assures him, her eagerness to make a good impression as obvious as her wide, slightly terrifying grin. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you! I cannot believe we've gone so long without officially making each other's acquaintance."

"I assure you, the pleasure is all mine, Ms. Morstan."

"Oh, please, call me Mary."

Mycroft nods his head once. "If that is what you would like then I would be happy to address you as such, Mary."

Mary grins then turns expectantly to John. "John, darling, aren't you going to say hello to Sherlock's brother?"

Mycroft casts a drily amused look in John's direction and raises a brow. John glances at Sherlock, looking very much as though he'd like to rolls his eyes, before returning his gaze to Mycroft and clearing his throat. "Yes, hello, Mycroft. How have you been?"

"Well, thank you. And you?"

Sherlock knows with almost complete certainty that his brother is only being polite and boring for the sake of lowering Mary's guard; if she considers him simple and dull, she won't worry about the threat he might pose. For all Mary knows, Mycroft is merely a low-ranking government official with a taste for posh, expensive clothing. The less she knows about him, the better.

"I've also been well, thank you," John replies perfunctorily. "Would you like me to take your coat?"

"No, I'm afraid I'll be going back outside momentarily." Mycroft turns to Sherlock and removes a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. "Brother, would you like to go outside for a bit and indulge?"

Sherlock knows his brother doesn't want to go outside solely for the sake of smoking, and John apparently gets it too, because he doesn't bat an eye when Sherlock agrees. Clearly, he's looking for somewhere private to have a discussion.

"Good. Mary, Sherlock and I will be back in a moment, Please forgive me for being so quick to step back outside, but I'm afraid cravings are hard things to shake." He holds up the package in demonstration and offers a short smile.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Mary reassures him. "John and I will finish setting the table while you're gone."

"Splendid."

Sherlock tries to ask what Mycroft wants to discuss as the two of them walk down the staircase, but his brother refuses to speak a single word until the two of them are standing in the front of the flat building, side by side in the approaching darkness.

"So," Sherlock says, when it appears his brother will not be forthcoming. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

Mycroft takes a deep drag from his cigarette and tips his chin skyward, exhaling curling plumes of smoke at the darkening sky. "I believe I now understand what the purpose of tonight is."

Sherlock's own cigarette remains unlit and stiff between his fingers. "And what is that?"

Another drag. "It's a test, brother."

"A test?"

"Yes. And it is imperative that we all pass."

The simple statement floods Sherlock's mind with a deluge of questions. "First of all, what is the test? And secondly, how will we know if we have passed?"

"To answer the latter, I will know we have passed if by the end of the night we are not dead," Mycroft replies bluntly. "And in response to the former, well, that is where things become a bit complicated. You see, tonight is a test run of sorts. Mary wants to see how the five of you will act around her, so she can figure out whether or not she still has your trust. I'm sure she also wants to see how you and John will interact with each other in a more comfortable setting—surrounded by friends, drinking wine, eating food—to perhaps lure you into saying something compromising while your guard is down." He pauses to inhale another drag. "As convincing as I'm sure you and John have been, Mary still has her suspicions, apparently. Though, in this case, that might work in our favor."

Sherlock frowns. "How so?"

"Well, to Mary, it's quite normal for you to be pining after John. As long as John does nothing to indicate that he feels the same, Mary will be convinced that she is still in control of the situation. In fact, it might even be more suspicious if you suddenly stopped mooning over John."

Sherlock pointedly ignores the phrasing and plows on. "So…you're saying I should continue to spend time with John? It won't hurt our case?"

"No, it will not," Mycroft says decisively. "The point of this whole plan is to make Mary believe that in the past few days, nothing has changed. You are still hopelessly in love with John, John is still in love with her, and the wedding is still set to take place in a little less than a week—in other words, all is well. To achieve this, however, it is imperative that you avoid doing anything out of the ordinary. In this situation, behaving coldly towards John would be out of the ordinary, and therefore you mustn't do it."

Sherlock considers this. "So what shall we do now?"

"Now," Mycroft says, dropping his cigarette and putting it out, "you and I will go back inside and play along with Mary's little game, in hopes that she will find the results satisfactory and—oh, would you look at that." Mycroft stops to watch a cab pull up to the curb. "I believe that is D.I. Lestrade and Ms. Hooper."

"Right. We should head back inside with them."

"Indeed. Are you ready, brother?"

"For what?"

Mycroft drops his lighter back into his pocket and looks up at the looming building before them with steely eyes. "For the party to begin, of course."


A/N: Thanks for reading, darlings! See you all this Sunday!