A/N: After speedily writing the previous chapter (I know you guys were waiting ages, but I actually wrote 95% of it in just one day), I just kept on writing, as keen as I was to get to this point. It also means I didn't get around to thanking some of you individually for your kind reviews. I love and appreciate each and every one, so thank you!

And, off we go...


Chapter 41 - Today We Honour the Death-Watch Beetle

Sherlock used a pen to fish out the curious object from Rose's kitchen drawer—the third one, where miscellaneous objects were stored.

"Why do you have a pair of handcuffs in your drawer?" he asked.

Rose's expression brightened into a smile.

"They were for my old job," she replied, as she popped the milk back into the fridge after making their morning cups of tea.

"Your old job?" Sherlock asked dubiously, thoughts of a crime-fighting Rose flitting through his mind.

"Yes. My old job? The one where I used to fuck men according to whatever fantasies they have?"

Sherlock appeared momentarily bewildered about the need for handcuffs, until Rose reminded him of the time she had dressed up in a policewoman's uniform and had handcuffed him in the brothel.

"Oh," he remarked, realising he may have tried to delete that memory. He immediately dropped the handcuffs back into the drawer as if they were contaminated with the semen from random strangers.

A laugh escaped Rose as she placed their mugs of tea onto the dining table.

"It's fine, Sherlock," she said, attempting to curb her laughter. "I've never used that pair on anyone. I bought them when I thought I would branch out into being a hired escort. I thought they'd be a worthwhile investment."

Sherlock swiftly closed the drawer and shook his head minutely as if to shake loose the images that Rose's words brought—Rose dressing up and fucking other men. Other men, such as John Garvie.

"Why don't you take them home with you?" she suggested, a hint of mischief in her tone. "We could use them as a prop in Cluedo."

Sherlock furrowed his brow at Rose, before opening other drawers at random, and continuing his search for a USB memory stick.

Cluedo.

They'd played Cluedo several times in Baker Street now since that very first occasion. Sherlock discovered he rather enjoyed having three little cards dictate who, where and with what. It hadn't dominated the entirety of their sexual liaisons, but it did serve as an interesting change from the usual cuddling that preceded sex.

So far, they had been allocated Miss Scarlett in the Hall with the Candlestick, which basically meant Rose masturbated Sherlock in the passageway outside his bedroom, and Mrs White in the Library with the Revolver. Sherlock had never imagined they could have sex in his armchair, mostly clothed.

In fact, they had remained clothed during all of their games of Cluedo, only making the required body parts accessible as necessary. Sherlock thought it would be strange to sit in his chair naked, so in that scenario, Rose had straddled him after she had already removed her own underwear, and had unzipped Sherlock when she needed to. And neither of them particularly wanted to remove any of their outer clothing when they picked Reverend Green with the Revolver in the Ballroom. With this combination, Sherlock had to do Rose on his living room rug. Much less chance of carpet burn if they kept their clothes on.

The last time they had played, the cards had been left on Sherlock's coffee table, and there had been a particularly anxious moment—for Sherlock only—when John Watson had stopped by to double-check the layout for the reception as per Sherlock's 3D model. Rose had already left in the early hours of that morning, so it wasn't as if they had been caught in the act. However, John had sank onto the couch, and stared in some amusement at the arrangement of cards left there. Sherlock's mouth had gone dry, thinking John could immediately interpret the meaning behind the cards as if having sex using Cluedo cards as prompts was a common occurrence in every household.

"Professor Plum, Dining Room, and Spanner," John had read, and Sherlock had automatically conjured up the memory of performing oral sex on Rose on the dining table the night before. He swiftly turned away from John and had busied himself in the kitchen.

"What are you doing with these?" John had asked, snorting derisively. "Trying to memorise every combination? That's not going to help you win next time, if that's what you're intending."

The idea that they could somehow use handcuffs in their game of Cluedo initially alarmed Sherlock, but he had placed the idea in a handy spot in his Mind Palace to retrieve and analyse later. Right now, though, he had a document to find.

"Not here either," Sherlock said, slamming the kitchen drawer shut, the fourth from the top, and the one that only contained tea towels and cling film. "I must've destroyed that one after you copied the file onto it."

"Sherlock," Rose said, sighing in exasperation. The man was as exhausting as a new puppy. He had managed to delete every copy of his wedding speech again, as if its physical presence would force him to use it. Rose had advised him that if he didn't want to use it, he didn't have to. But deleting every known occurrence was unnecessary.

And Sherlock had advised Rose that having the wedding speech exist somewhere in the universe made deleting it from his Mind Palace a difficult exercise. But now, on the day before the wedding, Sherlock had changed his mind. He may like to use portions of the speech after all, he'd said.

"And before you suggest it, yes I did break into Ms Small's flat when she was out walking her dogs the day before yesterday, and I deleted her copy too."

"Sherlock."

Rose looked about her, and finally pointed to the top of the kitchen cabinets.

"Up there," she said. "I think I threw a memory stick up there as well."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, his mouth quirking into a smile. "Just how many copies did you make of the thing?"

The detective grabbed a dining room chair and positioned it over by the cabinets. He stepped up onto it, and Rose knew that he had found the thumb drive by his triumphant, "Ah!"

Rose exhaled in relief, while Sherlock made for the living room, and Rose's computer, with the memory stick. Rose drained the rest of her tea, then stood.

"Right then. I'm off to work. I'm already late."

Rose was on closing, so she didn't have to start work at the entertainment store until 11am. As it was, she'd spent most of the morning helping Sherlock find a copy of his wedding speech, and arguing with him about it.

Sherlock didn't respond. He stared at Rose's computer screen with his brow drawn down in concentration. Rose wondered if he was now committing the speech to memory, like he said he could.

"You know, I also have a copy at work," she added, as she drew her coat around her.

"Mmm, no you don't," Sherlock remarked, without looking up from the computer.

Rose's shoulders sagged in defeat. She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"And how did you manage to get access to that one?"

"I bribed a security guard."

Rose turned from Sherlock, shaking her head in disbelief. She double-checked her bag for the keys to her flat, then retrieved them from the coffee table when she found she'd left them there.

"And since the wedding's tomorrow, I don't have time to make extra fucking copies of the document and hide them all over London. You're on your own next time."

Rose's swearing prompted Sherlock to drag his eyes from the computer screen. Rose usually swore when she was highly stressed or upset, and she had been both this morning. Was it his fault? Surely not. Didn't she know him by now?

"I'll be fine," he said, plastering a wide, closed-mouth grin on his face in an effort to appease Rose.

"Good," she said, unaffected, and making a move toward the front door. "Because this psychopathic fucking treasure hunt is really starting to get on my nerves."

Sherlock's skin prickled at the label he despised so much. He felt the beginnings of an iron fortress installing itself around his heart.

"It's a good thing I'm a high-functioning sociopath then isn't it," he remarked icily.

Rose's face contorted into a look of distaste. "What the fuck is that supposed to be? A diagnosis? From a psychiatrist in this country?"

"I don't want to hear your psycho-babble right now, Rose," Sherlock said, as he redirected his gaze back to the computer screen.

"Well, you're going to have to," she snapped, standing rigidly by the door. "Nobody uses the term 'sociopath' anymore, and definitely not with 'high-functioning.'"

"Rose."

"You can't be 'high-functioning' and a 'sociopath' because one negates the other, and besides—"

"Rose."

"There's a condition called 'Psychopathic personality disorder' and you don't have that, so why are you—"

Sherlock abruptly stood and said, rather heatedly, "I don't fucking care!"

Rose snapped her mouth shut. Sherlock almost never swore.

The detective continued to glare at Rose, his blue-grey irises frosting over. He began talking in a steady, emotionless way. "It was given to me as a joke at university by a group of psychology students, okay? Your lot. They created it, just for me, how thoughtful of them. And most people accept it as a label to explain my socially unacceptable behaviour. It makes them feel better if the reason I've called them an idiot is because I have a mental disorder, rather than the fact that they are actually idiotic."

"But you don't have a mental disorder," Rose said softly.

"Thank you for your diagnosis," Sherlock said coldly, and he took his seat once more on the sofa, and resumed reading the screen. "You did just call me a psychopath earlier," he muttered.

"I didn't call you a psychopath. I said the treasure hunt was psychopathic."

Sherlock tutted, and clicked the mouse irritably. He said, without looking up, "Aren't you late for your pointless job that has nothing to do with psychology?"

There was a heavy silence, punctuated only by Sherlock tapping at the keys.

"You fucking rude bastard," Rose snapped eventually, and she was out the door before the remark had registered in Sherlock's mind.

"High-functioning sociopath," he murmured distractedly to an empty flat.

A split-second later, Sherlock snapped to attention. What had just happened then? Did Rose just leave without saying goodbye? In a flash, Sherlock was out the door. He flew down the stairs and found Rose two steps from the bottom.

"Rose!" he called in desperation.

Rose stopped and looked around; she regarded Sherlock wearily.

"I don't have time for this. I'm late already. For my pointless job that has nothing to do with psychology remember," she added with a hint of venom.

"Don't go like this," he bid her, lightly holding onto her arm. "It was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."

Rose's eyes glistened in the light. Out of anger or sorrow, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice tired and defeated. "You don't want to miss out on our goodbye ritual, I know that. I'm sorry, but I'm angry with you. I'm tired, and pissed off, and I just can't do this right now."

Her voice crackled toward the end, and Sherlock's heart sank.

"Come back inside," he bid her softly.

Rose slowly shook her head. "I need to go to work now."

"But you'll come over tonight, won't you?"

Rose looked away from Sherlock toward the street. Every muscle in her body ached, and her mind was frazzled, and she hadn't even started work for the day. She returned her gaze to Sherlock. His brow was raised in hope, and his eyes were huge. Puppy dog eyes. The eyes of the exhausting, hyperactive puppy.

"No," she said quietly. "I think I need a break."

Her words were like a dagger plunged straight through Sherlock's heart. A break! Not this again.

"Rose, but, the waltz, the end bit, you were helping me road-test. You know I want to add a bit where John can dip Mary. It's all about the dipping. We were going to practise dipping. And the suit. You wanted to see me in my suit. And you know I don't care what the button hole flower thingy looks like. I may even carelessly shove it into my pocket. What about the speech? I might accidentally delete it before I commit it to memory. And you were going to tell me how to make polite small-talk with the bridesmaids without offending them, and..." Sherlock was reaching, and he knew it. He drew in a steadying breath, while Rose continued to study him. "Rose," he said, trying again. "Don't you ever want to see me again? I thought we were living happily ever after?"

Rose's face softened, and her eyes filled to the brim. "Sherlock, I want a break from the wedding planning, and you, while you're doing all this. And no, this time it's not because I had a bad day at work. I really don't want to see you until after wedding, okay? Is that so selfish of me? You've finished composing the waltz, for fuck's sake. If you want to change it the day before the wedding, you can road-test it yourself. And if you don't know how to make small talk without offending strangers by now, I'm not going to be able to help you in just one evening."

Sherlock visibly slumped. Rose wasn't happy with him. She didn't want to spend any time with him or help him with the wedding preparations. She was sick of his company. He would never get sick of her company. How was this even possible.

"Sunday," Rose added, when Sherlock didn't respond. "Come over when you get back from Sutton Mallet, if you like."

Sherlock only received a faint hit of apple-pear shampoo as Rose quickly narrowed the gap between them and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"I love you," she hastily bid him, and then she had descended the last two steps and was away from the building.

Sherlock's heart thumped dully in his chest. Rose hadn't asked him if he loved her! She wouldn't get her fix for the day, not that Sherlock was feeling particularly uplifted at that moment. He knew he couldn't go after her and leave the shadows of the stairwell to join her in the street. This would upset Rose even further—the possibility of being spotted in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock ascended the stairs. He packed up his things, emailed the wedding speech to himself, and left Leinster Gardens. He had also pocketed the handcuffs, just in case.


Sherlock didn't spend the night working on his composition, and he had already memorised his speech. He sat brooding in his armchair for hours, and in the early evening Mrs Hudson had brought him a pot of tea and had patted his hand affectionately and wordlessly. Sherlock understood what that gesture had meant, and it irritated him all the more. He knew his landlady erroneously assumed that Sherlock was dwelling on John Watson's wedding, as if he were upset by the notion that he and his best friend were parting company forever.

The only reason Sherlock would now be upset about the wedding was because it may be the cause of Rose breaking up with him.

The next morning, Sherlock rose early, realising that he had one last chance to fix the waltz to his satisfaction. He would have to record the new version, and road-test it himself.

When Mrs Hudson gleefully interrupted him, he was more snappish than usual. Despite having the mystery of the regular appearance of his morning tea cleared up, he took particular offence at her implying that he wouldn't know what marriage was like because "you always live alone." What rubbish. He felt like retorting that he practically lived with Rose, but then he remembered that Mrs Hudson knew Rose as his therapist, and the landlady would think he really was a head-case then. It was much easier to turn the tables on the older woman and disparage her own relationship.

Besides, thinking about Rose made him even less tolerant for Mrs Hudson's witless babble than usual.

When his landlady continued blathering some pointless nonsense regarding a friend of hers, Sherlock knew it was time to dismiss her. His thoughts kept drifting to Rose, so when Mrs Hudson lamented, "who would leave a wedding early, so sad," Sherlock's stomach had twisted. He had originally intended leaving the wedding early himself, because Rose was supposed to be waiting for him in a nice little bed and breakfast they had both found—the area was full of them—approximately 500m from the B&B where the wedding reception was being held.

His plan was to leave after the bridal waltz, when all the guests were excitedly swarming the dance-floor, and nobody would notice his exit. Rose would get to see him in his best man outfit, then they would spend the night and all day Sunday hidden away from the world, just the two of them.

After Sherlock had unceremoniously dismissed Mrs Hudson from his flat, he found himself staring at the empty armchair by the fire—John's chair, which had been claimed by Rose. She was supposed to have sat there the night before, tucking her bare feet underneath her, coaching Sherlock in his best man speech, and making some sweet comment about how thoughtful Sherlock was being. He expected her to flirt with him, after which they'd either retire to his bedroom, or play a game of Cluedo. He did have the handcuffs safely tucked away in the pocket of his Belstaff.

Sherlock had been planning John and Mary's wedding for the better part of five months. Everything was going to run like clockwork, and the day would turn out perfectly for the bride and groom. But what about him, the best man? The one thing he had wanted out of the day, was to look forward to the end of it, when he would have the pleasure of Rose's company out of London. But now he didn't have that. The day was going to be one huge battle for him, and he hoped he'd at least come out unscathed by the end of it.


Sherlock was taking a quiet moment in between the flashbulbs and general hustle and bustle of the guests outside the church. The service had gone without a hitch, he reflected in smug satisfaction. He had even taken the liberty of 'lightening the mood,' by pretending to have misplaced the rings before the start, when he was supposed to place them on the cushion that the ring bearer, Archie, was holding. John didn't appreciate his sense of humour.

Sherlock had successfully held his tongue throughout the entire service, and had refrained from making disparaging remarks about the whole institution of marriage. He had dutifully stood in the right place for photos, and managed to avoid scowling at the man behind the camera, whose background had not been checked.

The maid of honour, Janine Hawkins, had eventually sidled up to him when he was standing away from the other guests. Suddenly the photographer was there, in front of them, snapping their picture. When Janine remained by Sherlock's side, he steeled himself for the inane conversation he expected to have to endure, and hoped Janine wouldn't find a reason to "deck him," like John Watson predicted she would.

"The famous Mr Holmes," Janine said to him, a note of ridicule in her tone, as if she were mocking his type of fame.

Irish, Sherlock thought, immediately cataloguing. He intended remaining aloof so she would take the hint and leave him alone.

"I'm very pleased to meet-cha..."

North of Dublin, specifically.

"But no sex, okay?"

Now that statement he did not expect. Sherlock gaped a little before stammering, "Sorry?"

"You don't have to look so scared. I'm only messin'" Janine replied, laughing. "Bridesmaid, best man..."

Sherlock objected to her remark about looking scared. Sex didn't alarm him. Her behaviour reminded him of Rose, in the early days of their sexual encounters, where she would say, without warning, 'How about I suck you off until you come?' Janine's comment was of a similar vein—projecting a casual air when it came to sex. Promiscuous then. She's says she's joking but there is an underlying invitation there.

"It's a bit traditional," Janine was saying, and her semi-playful punch to Sherlock's arm interrupted Sherlock's thought process—Yep, definitely an invitation—and he glanced down at the place she'd touched his arm in disapproval.

"Is it?" he repeated, exuding an air of definitely not interested.

"But not obligatory," Janine added.

She's disappointed her efforts at flirtation have amounted to nothing, Sherlock concluded.

But if that was all she was after tonight, the least Sherlock could do would be to offer her some likely candidates. He had researched all sixty-something guests after all, and he could deduce anybody in a pinch.

Sherlock was bemused when Janine told him how useful he was going to be in determining a potential candidate for her tonight. So, he wasn't going to be rid of her that easily. Still, he hadn't been able to do a background check, so if she turned out to be the secret assassin, it would pay to keep her close by.


The adrenalin brought on by the evening's events had finally left Sherlock's central nervous system, but he still strode purposefully toward the cloakroom.

Just what were the chances of a murder being attempted at the very wedding attended by Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective? What was the man thinking? Sherlock had dispatched DI Lestrade to detain the offender, the substitute photographer, and Sherlock had one item in the pocket of his Belstaff that he thought would come in handy should the man decide to make a run for it when confronted by the details of his crime.

When Sherlock had caught the train from London to Newbury this morning, and took his seat, he felt a heavy weight land on the seat beside him. He felt inside his external pocket, and realised he had brought Rose's handcuffs with him. His coat now hung safely in the cloakroom outside the function room where the guests were patiently milling about waiting for the bride and groom to cut the cake.

The newly-weds were currently liaising with paramedics, who had just arrived to take Major James Sholto to the nearest hospital in Newbury.

The detective retrieved the cuffs, noting they were a model no longer used by British police forces, featuring a chain link instead of a hinge. Just where had Rose acquired them?

Sherlock's heart twinged as he finally had a quiet moment in which to reflect on Rose and her absence. Sherlock still hadn't decided if he was going to stay the night in Sutton Mallet, or take a train back to London tonight. He hadn't booked accommodation in the same bed and breakfast as the other guests. He'd kept his original booking at the B&B down the road. He preferred to be as far away from the rabble as possible. He'd heard them all arriving as he was inspecting the kitchen and catering staff. Together, they sounded like a herd of elephants.

If Sherlock left tonight, then he wouldn't be obligated to attend the wedding breakfast the next morning, despite John's enthusiastic prodding earlier in the day.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, stowed the handcuffs in his trouser pocket, and strode across the hall to find the bridal couple. It must be time to cut the cake.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary exclaimed, as she rounded the corner and came face to face with the detective. "They've taken James now. John and I will check on him later tonight."

"On your wedding night, Mrs Watson?"

Mary smiled shyly at Sherlock's use of her new surname. "We have all night, and John won't be needing all of it."

Sherlock managed a rueful smile himself. He noticed Mary's eyes carefully studying him, and he knew she could see beyond the superficial when it came to interacting with other people.

"How's Rose?" she asked, taking her own deductive skills to a new level. "Did she end up coming to stay the night?"

Sherlock had already let Mary know a week ago that Rose was going to travel to Sutton Mallet after she finished her Saturday afternoon shift at the entertainment store so they could spend Sunday together. Mary had thought it was wonderful, and she had teased Sherlock that it was even a bit romantic.

Sherlock dropped his gaze and found the shine on his shoes to be fascinating in that moment.

"Ah, no," he said, shuffling his feet a little before lifting his gaze again. "I think we had a fight. In fact I'm sure we did."

Mary's face fell in sympathy. "Oh, Sherlock," she said warmly, and she reached out to rub his arm.

"She said I could see her tomorrow," Sherlock continued, "when I get back to London, so not that big a fight, but still, she won't be here tonight."

Mary's eyes glistened with affection for the Consulting Detective.

"You should ring her," she said. "Let her know you're thinking of her. And your argument is probably not as bad as you think. Sounds like Rose just needs some space."

Sherlock nodded imperceptibly and Mary squeezed his arm again.

"I'll go find my husband, if you could let them know to get the cake serving things ready?"

"It's all under control, Mrs Watson," Sherlock bid her, as Mary gave him a quick wink and hastened away.

It really was all under control, and Sherlock found himself impatiently hovering on the fringes as the wedding guests all vied for the best spot in which to take a photo of the happy couple cutting the cake and the staff cleared the floor of the tables and chairs.

And nobody appeared to notice that the official wedding photographer was missing.

Eventually Sherlock wandered back out into the corridor, phone in hand. Perhaps he would ring Rose, he thought. She may not want to hear any details about the wedding right now, but it was practically over, and Sherlock could deduce what mood she was in so he could make a decision whether to stay the night in Sutton Mallet or hightail it back to London.

"Bit of a comedown after all that drama earlier," a female voice beside him said. "Fruit cake, marzipan."

Sherlock looked up and found that it was Janine. Looks like she decided to skip cake as well, he thought. Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket.

"You never know," he said, a tiny smile gracing his lips, "Anything could happen on the dancefloor."

"Is that a promise, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's expression didn't change, but he did wonder why Janine continued in her flirtation with him when he quite clearly showed that he wasn't interested.

"I was actually referring to John Watson and his appalling dance skills," he said, not rising to her coquetry. But he paused for a moment to allow her to chuckle at his jab at the groom. "But you have raised a good point."

"I have?" Janine asked, quirking one eyebrow.

"Yes. Seeing as we have one more obligatory duty to perform together, I think a rehearsal is in order."

"You've lost me there."

"Ms Hawkins," Sherlock said, holding out a hand to the maid of honour, "May I have the next dance?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Janine said, placing her hand in his and allowing the Consulting Detective to escort her to a larger reception area, "I'm beginning to think you belong in another century."

Sherlock led her to the middle of the floor and turned so that he faced Janine.

"Just follow my lead."

Perhaps he did nothing to rebuff her admiring glances; maybe he showed off a little too much. Perhaps the adrenalin that the evening's drama had brought hadn't really worn off, and the novelty of an appreciative audience for his deductive skills made Sherlock act a little cocky around Janine Hawkins.

But he did feel that the burden he held—for whatever responsibility he needed to take for upsetting Rose—had lightened a little, due to Mary's comment about Rose just needing space, and her suggestion that their argument wasn't as bad as it appeared to be.

He hadn't managed to phone Rose yet, but he only had one more duty to fulfil—the bridal waltz, and then he would return to London.

Mary had decided that they would skip the part where the bridal party joined the bride and groom on the dancefloor after the bridal waltz, as the other two bridesmaids didn't have official partners, and she didn't want anyone to feel left out. As an aside to Sherlock, she whispered, "And you should save the last dance for Rose, anyway."

The bride and groom may have waltzed a little woodenly, but the dip worked in the end, Sherlock observed from his position on the DJ's raised stage area. Amid the applause and Janine's overenthusiastic cheer, Sherlock threw his buttonhole flower to the maid of honour, hoping she would find his intended symbolism in the gesture: that's all you'll have of me tonight.

Sherlock even surprised himself with one more deduction for the night—the Watsons' pregnancy. He didn't mean to cause a panic-attack between the newlyweds. Mary's reaction was a cause for concern though, Sherlock thought, as they all stood shell-shocked at the edge of the dancefloor.

"Dance," Sherlock suddenly ordered the pair. "Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."

"Right," John dutifully replied.

"But what about you?" Mary lamented, her eyes full of sympathy for Sherlock. The detective deduced the meaning behind her look as Mary knowing he hadn't called Rose yet, and that there would be no dance partner for the best man tonight.

Fortunately, John interrupted that awkward moment with some welcome humour. As Sherlock watched Dr and Mrs Watson disappear into the crowd of wedding guests, Mary mouthed the words, 'Call Rose,' over John's shoulder. Sherlock gave the bride a tiny nod in silent agreement.

Rose, he thought, looking down in thought, wondering if he should leave now. Call Rose, leave for London, face the possibility of arriving home, in Baker Street, alone.

Or he could...

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. He still had one more deduction left in him. Instead of facing the stifling loneliness of the B&B cottage, or the long train journey home, he could lend his skillset to Janine one more time.

Sherlock immediately took in his surroundings, and searched the dancefloor full of revelling wedding guests for the maid of honour. He spied her in the far corner, and took a couple of steps in her direction. When Janine caught his eye, her face lit up, and she gave him a double-thumbs up, before indicating the unseen dance partner in front of her. Sherlock realised in quick-time, that Janine had hooked up with the comics and sci-fi geek that the detective had identified as a candidate for her earlier, during his impromptu wedding speech/potential murder investigation. Sherlock concluded that she no longer required his special talents. It was time for him to leave after all.

He slipped, unseen, from the reception venue, and retrieved his coat and scarf from the cloakroom across the hall. Sherlock slowly wound his scarf around his neck, his heart full of regret for not contacting Rose earlier. He stepped out into the cool night air, and pulled his coat around himself, fastening the buttons and popping his collar against the light wind.

"The best man's leaving early? What will people think?" came a voice from the vicinity of the shadows of a nearby oak tree.

Sherlock stopped, and turned toward the shadows, his heart-rate elevating upon recognising her voice.

As Rose stepped out of the shadows, Sherlock quipped, "The best man has left to find his dance partner."

"That's unfortunate," Rose replied. "I'm pretty crap at dancing."

"I know a good teacher."

"Mmm, I'm a bit funny about dance teachers. How about a walk, and we can chat about it?"

Sherlock reciprocated Rose's smile, and he turned once more to face in the direction of the tree-lined path. He offered Rose his elbow, which she gladly took, and the two of them strolled away from the wedding reception arm in arm under a starless, moonless night.

.


Author's Note:

Don't forget I used artistic license to geographically move Sutton Mallet closer to London. I did already mention that during a wedding planning chapter earlier (can't remember which one off the top of my head), but thought it was worth saying again, since Sherlock and Mrs Hudson have left it to the morning of the wedding to depart for the wedding, and the real Sutton Mallet is over three hours from London.

But... I've finally reached the end of TSoT! The first ep of S3, TEH (and pre-TEH), were chapters 13-20, so this has taken me 21 chapters. Good lord! I've had HLV (and pre-HLV) planned for ages, so I'm really excited to be up to writing those finally. While writing the tiny amount of Janine-related scenes for this chapter, I immediately felt my stomach lurch. How did you find it? How will I cope with writing the pre-HLV scenes? How will you guys cope with reading them?

I hope you enjoyed this 'episode.' I've wanted to add my ending for ages, otherwise the episode as the writers left it is way too sad for Sherlock ):