"We're not doing the honeymoon thing, are we?" Sherlock had asked his brother over his glass of wine. Irene looked almost insulted that he had asked such a thing.

"Of course you're doing the honeymoon thing," Mycroft had snapped in a reply, unfairly mimicking Sherlock's voice. The detective scowled at him. His brother continued, "It's all been arranged, and it's what must be done."

"May I be the first to say that I shall look forward to it?" Irene butted in, glaring at her husband as he stared down his brother. Her husband…this was going to be interesting. Her whole life had just become significantly more interesting on a number of levels.

"You mean to say you've arranged our…you know…"

"Your *ahem* holiday?" John piped up, smirking at Sherlock. He had cleared his throat to blot out a certain word, but Sherlock recognized the allusion. He had given a certain name to John and Mary's honeymoon…and written about it on John's blog of all places.

Sherlock's eyes morphed into embarrassed little circles at the recognition. Mycroft coughed. Irene laughed heartily.

Of course they'd all followed John's blog.

"That still isn't something we can tell children, and I beg forgiveness for ever having poked fun, John," Sherlock whispered, silently pleading for the doctor to keep his voice down. It set John into a fit of suppressed laughter.

"Sorry, honeymoon," he said, correcting himself with mock sincerity.

Irene was simpering vainly.

"What kind of a matrimony is this, Mycroft? Not one sanctioned by God, I should think," Sherlock remarked, his brother all the while looking like he was sitting on icicles.

"Sanctioned by the fate of England, then? Let's not be blasphemous, brother mine."

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock groaned, massaging his head and holding it in his hands. He looked at John, who was eagerly snarfing down his plate of fish and chips. Taking a gulp of ale in between bites, the doctor noticed Sherlock studying him.

"I think you ought to be at least happy, Sherlock," John said.

"I'm not unhappy," Sherlock replied. "But this does change things. If our honeymoon is already planned for us, then where are you sending us…Mycroft?"

Mycroft wasn't eating any of the food he had ordered: his fisherman's pie was untouched and growing cold. Sherlock never understood why his brother ordered that. It's not like he even enjoyed it for God's sake!

"Well, I thought I'd surprise you two lovebirds," he said, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his fists. Sherlock rolled his eyes and breathed exasperation.

Mycroft continued as he spotted the deadly look on his brother's face, "But seeing as you're rather cross…I suppose I'll tell you," he said, taking his napkin from his lap and dabbing his lips as if they were made of porcelain. "How do you like Reykjavik?"

Irene's lips mushed into a smile. "Sounds lovely," she mused, taking a lengthy sip of her wine. Sherlock, on the other hand, was dumbfounded.

"Reykjavik? In October? Do you know how cold it will be, or did that slip your mind, too?" he asked. Irene set down her glass and tsked her tongue at him.

"Oh," the detective moaned, rolling his eyes, "this should be interesting. I did not want a honeymoon, Mycroft. Does it look like I have time for one? I can't leave the country. Not now. Can't you see what's going on? This is the last thing that must be done!"

"Do shut up, brother mine," Mycroft said, holding his temples with the tips of his fingers and wincing as if Sherlock's protests were giving him a migraine. "I'm tired of your rebuttals. Besides, you haven't exactly…seemed to mind my plans up until this point…have you?"

Sherlock went red. Irene was beaming childishly into her glass.

"You know you could always speak to me about this, darling," she piped up, annoyed at how he discussed their honeymoon as though she were invisible. "I'm your wife, after all."

Sherlock went from red to burgundy.

"I know…do stop saying it. I think that was the third time this hour."

"You've been counting?"

"What else is there to do?"

She laughed at the little smirk on his lips.

Mycroft smiled weirdly and chimed in: "My point exactly." His voice was the very sound of triumph. Sherlock put his face in its proper position and shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth.

"We'll have a good time, Mr. Holmes; seeing as there's nothing to stand in your way. We'll have a wonderful time…I'm quite sure of that," Irene said, eyeing him.

"I'm sure you are," Sherlock replied after he had swallowed a bit of kidney.

"As am I," Mycroft added. Sherlock glanced at his brother: his eyes were demanding, "why do you have to keep butting in?" Mycroft only grinned in spite of him.

"When do we leave?" Sherlock asked.

"Tomorrow morning. There's a flight leaving Heathrow for Reykjavik at 10:00, and you'll be on it."

After a moment of dead silence, Sherlock said, "Do close your mouth, John; it isn't polite to chew with one's mouth open." John promptly swallowed his peas.

"You could have given me notice," Sherlock said to his brother, standing and starting to pull on his coat.

"Care to make any deductions as to why I didn't?" Mycroft asked, taking a nibble of his lunch. It was likely cold by now, and John wrinkled his nose.

"You two'd better get home to pack then, eh?" the doctor asked, looking at Sherlock and Irene.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. John was trying not to laugh at his friend's situation. Irene was studying him earnestly, her eyes narrowing. He found her eyes examining his, and he stopped halfway in getting his arm through his coat sleeve.

"I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into, Mr. Holmes. You're not in the least bit afraid of what you've done to yourself."

"I don't see a reason I should be."

"There…" she said, "that's the spirit."

John was now staring absentmindedly into his glass of ale, whilst Mycroft busied himself with emails on his phone. Irene and Sherlock stared at one another, almost daring the other to look away…John glanced up every now and then and thought he was witnessing them flirt…without words or movement. Only severe, challenging eye contact.

"But Doctor Watson's right," Irene finally said, without averting her gaze. "We really should get back to pack."

"I agree," Sherlock said, putting his arm through the jacket sleeve which had hitherto been only half covered.

…

221B Baker Street was oddly quiet as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes sat in their armchairs and listened to the fire crackle in the hearth. Irene Adler had gone out on some mysterious errand, Molly Hooper was babysitting Rosie at John's place, and Mrs. Hudson had run out of tea and was making her way to the nearest Tesco.

The two men were alone for what seemed to be the first time in months. Maybe even years. John was intensely reading a novel, and Sherlock was meticulously studying the daily paper (which he still read, despite having a fully functioning mobile phone). Glancing up for a moment from the pages, the detective was reminded of the days when he had first moved in with John and before anything had ever blown over with Moriarty, with Irene, or even with Eurus.

Things were changing. His life, John's life, and the lives of everyone around him had morphed into something beyond anything any of them could ever have imagined. And now, seeing the dear little soldier of a friend sitting opposite him and reading a novel seemed to warm his heart and give it an undesired nostalgic glow.

John Watson—in all his militaristic spunk, undying loyalty, and heart of persistent steel—had never failed to remain present in the detective's lonely life.

And now, here they were: on the night of his wedding and the eve of his honeymoon. They went from being a pair of adrenaline-seeking bachelors to…whatever it was they were now. What had happened to the pair of them since it all had gotten started?

So much. God knows just how much.

"Well, John, I've done it."

"Done what?" John asked, a bit panicky. He set down his book in terror. His frightful response set Sherlock in a humorous frame of mind. John further inquired, "Oh God, Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Done that which I said I never would do."

"The point of which being…"

"Romantic entanglement."

John let out a long, "ohhh," his mouth likewise shaped into a perfect little "o." His eyebrows danced on his forehead and his eyes were bulging. He nodded at his friend.

"No, you've fallen in love, Sherlock. That's what it is."

"I'll admit it is…a first…"

"Are you even listening to me? You've fallen in love, Sherlock, and you'd better start admitting it before…you know…"

"What?" Sherlock's voice suggested offence.

"Before you go on your honeymoon and start being a married man," John finished.

It took about ten seconds for Sherlock to register what John was implying, and during those said ten seconds, neither one said a word. It was like John had asked Sherlock to be his best man all over again. But once it had fully registered, it became Sherlock's mouth's turn to make an even wider "o" than John's, and his eyes widened with an appalled air.

"John!"

"You're a husband, Sherlock! A bloody husband! Oh my God…" John stopped talking and starting laughing uncontrollably. He had his hands over his face and was rocking back and forth in his chair: his entire frame shaking with his wholehearted chortles.

Sherlock held his lip between his teeth and held the newspaper up to hide his face. John just kept giggling hysterically. A few snorts issued forth as well. Sherlock tried conversing.

"John, Irene and I are—,"

John interrupted him midway through a snort.

"Oh, so we're calling her Irene now, are we?"

Sherlock almost choked on his own tongue. Had he just called her Irene?

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Oh, I dunno; maybe you've just been calling her 'The Woman' and 'Miss Adler' for the last few years, so hearing her first name spoken aloud feels a bit sacrilegious, especially for you. Just takes a bit of getting used to, I guess," he said, sniffing abruptly as the laughter tried to force its way up again.

"Come on, Sherlock. You listen to me. Do you hear? Listen to me, Sherlock, 'cause if you don't, you'll regret it later. I swear, you will, mate."

Sherlock put down the paper and gave John his best attention…even if he was trying to read the headlines out of the corner of his eye. John noticed. He picked up the paper, crumpled it, and threw it into the hearth. It sizzled and burned up in a blaze of glory…just like Sherlock's dignity.

"I'm listening," Sherlock said, sighing heavily, putting his fingertips together, and crossing his right leg over his left one.

"You don't know what women are like," John began, crossing his arms over his chest.

"As I've said before, John," his friend replied, "the fair sex was always your department."

The doctor rolled his eyes and muttered "the fair sex" in a mocking tone under his breath, making air quotes to Sherlock's irritation.

"Go on, John; we haven't got all night. Pray do continue," he said, making gestures with his hand to urge the doctor along.

"Sometimes you won't always know what to say. You won't always know what to do. You're not going to understand her, and you have to be…okay with that."

"Why wouldn't I understand her?"

"So you always do?"

Sherlock was quiet a moment, trying to decide if he should admit the answer that had popped up inside his mind.

"Exactly," John said, reading the expression on the genius's face and deciding his hypothesis was correct. Even the smartest of men were quite dumb when assigned the daunting task of understanding females.

"That's what you've got to remember, Sherlock. You won't always understand. But that doesn't mean something's wrong. It just means she's a woman."

"She's—."

"Oh, yeah, right; sorry—the woman," the doctor said, hiccupping on a few of his little giggles. Sherlock chuckled awkwardly, pretending his face was not the color of a blood moon.

"And try to enjoy yourself," John added after his spasm of mirth had subsided. "You only get to do this the once, and it is Iceland." His lips shrugged in unison with his shoulders, and he continued, "Never been, but I've heard it's quite spectacular."

"Oh, yes…especially in October, when the temperatures begin to drop, and the Scandinavian winter sets in. Of course…spectacular," Sherlock groaned; his voice was dripping with gelatinous sarcasm.

"Optimism, Sherlock. Optimism is key."

At that moment the door opened downstairs, and Sherlock recognized Irene's enthusiastic, forward stride ascending the stairs. He was almost upset at himself for having it memorized.

She entered with a few bags in her hands.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked.

"Out," she replied. "Had some shopping to do."

"Obviously," he cleverly remarked, pointing to the shopping bags.

"A clever deduction, Mr. Holmes. Trying to impress me?"

"I wouldn't think you are so easily impressed," Sherlock replied. John winked at him from behind the pages of his book. The doctor thought his friend was almost beginning to sound flirtatious. It was definitely a good start.

Sherlock grinned in reply. Irene laughed airily and left the pair of them as she set her new possessions down in her bedroom…well, their bedroom now.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" came her voice, echoing down the hall. She trotted back into the sitting room after a few seconds.

"Yes?" he asked, turning from where he had been whispering with John.

"We are married now, are we not?"

"I believe so."

"And I have legally become your wife, is that not correct?"

"It is," Sherlock replied with some uneasiness. He was afraid of the next words that would emerge from the pit of fire that was Irene Adler's mouth.

"Then tell me," she said, waltzing toward him until she was looking directly down into his face, "when will you start calling me by my given name?" she asked, her lips smushing into a sultry grin as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Was I ever supposed to?" he asked, rising slowly to stand (as if on trial) before her.

"I suppose," she replied, dusting off a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder. "I hardly know of any married couples who call one another by their surnames. Do you?" she asked.

"Not unless it's an Austen novel," he replied with some cheek. She laughed.

John Watson, meanwhile, was colouring furiously into his novel and trying to fight the overwhelming impulse to scream "HAMISH!" This moment was stirring up old memories in his mind. He decided they had never really gotten past the baby-naming stage.

"You've not answered my question, darling," Irene purred, looking up at her husband with impish mischief glimmering in her eyes.

"What would you suggest I call you?" Sherlock asked, almost sarcastically. He drew her closer with his hands gently holding her forearms.

"Well, there is my name…Irene," she said. "I'd love to hear you say it," she added, her voice growing softer as if she was being slowly sucked into something. Then she was kissing him, and Sherlock was generously reciprocating the sentiment.

John Watson's stout little soldier heart flew into his mouth, unable to take anymore. It's definitely great, and definitely something I've always wanted for Sherlock…but Jesus! it's weird.

John thought his face was about to blow up with being embarrassed. He thought Janine and Sherlock kissing was an odd sight…but this…this was unearthly. Unearthly in the best way possible, but still: unearthly.

Neither Sherlock nor Irene seemed to remember that he was still in the room.

So he decided to humor their ignorance.

But yelling Hamish wasn't going to work this time.

Leaping from his chair, he mumbled something hurriedly about "Molly texting" and "Rosie's lonesome" and "gotta start dinner" and "cheers see you tomorrow." Nearly knocking over the coatrack as he pulled his coat off it, John Watson shut the door to 221B, bounded down the stairs as if the building were on fire, and screamed "TAXI!" as he made it to the sidewalk. He was quite out of breath.

"John? What you on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked with maternal concern as she gaped at him panting furiously on the pavement. He turned around and laughed uncomfortably.

"It's wonderful, I think. Also scary, though," he said, swallowing and pointing at some invisible object floating by. "Yeah, definitely scary. Scary as hell."

He paused as the landlady stared at him; she was apparently dumbfounded. He wondered if he should say what he was about to, and for the sake of the old woman's sanity, he decided he should and ought.

"D'you…d'you mind—just—don't go upstairs for a little while, 'kay? Just…let the two of them alone and…yeah. Just stay downstairs for me, would you?"

A tinkly stream of unstoppable titters issued from the woman's lips, and John looked incredibly vexed as Mrs. Hudson keeled over with vivacious humor.

"Oh John!" she laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. John wondered what he'd said. She kept giggling for some time until she caught her breath and said, "Why'd you think I didn't bring up a pot of tea this afternoon? I always do, but not today! His brother told me…and oh! I wouldn't dare…and at my time of life! Oh, John!" she turned around to go inside, still laughing hysterically as she did so.

And John was left to stand on the pavement and wrinkle his nose as he waited for a cab.

Eventually one did come, and once he was safe inside, he laughed and said to himself, "That git," he chuckled. "The bloody…bloody clot."

The driver turned his head and gruffly demanded, "Oi! You talkin' to me, sir?"

John remembered himself.

"No, no! Just…talking to myself. That's all, thanks…just…to myself."

The driver awkwardly resumed his task and turned the radio up a little higher.

John whispered and continued musing to himself: "A wife…a bloody wife. You'd better love the woman if you can't do anything else, Sherlock. You'd better love her. And I hope that more than anything you've ever tried to do before, you'll at least try and give it your damn best."