AN: If I haven't publicially thanks my goddess beta in a while, then I should. Jaharra is awesome! Her suggestiongs are really helping these final(ish) chapters improve. They were the ones that needed the most staring into submission (hence the lack of daily updates) and since life is a storm of meh, it really helps to have some backup. :D

Fiancè

Mid afternoon the next day, Sherlock's phone buzzed. She opened the message and smiled a wicked smile.

"What is it?" John asked around her sandwich. "Lestrade?"

"No. He already sent me all he has on Grant." She spun the phone around and placed it next to John's plate.

Dinner, dancing, and a show. You bring yours, I'll bring mine. Sotheby's at 7. See you there. xoxo

"Is that Adler?" John asked.

After all, it was only ever he who signed off with hugs and kisses after every text. If anyone else tried to do that with Sherlock, she would tear apart every gramatical inch of every communication with the perpetrator until the primary school sentiment was lost.

John's question was immediately answered when her mobile pinged.

Wear your gorgeous collar.

"Moriarty," John sighed aloud.

"She's agreed to meet us." Sherlock hid behind her phone and tapped away. "There is a gallery up for auction tonight. All works by Elaine Rookshire."

"That name sounds familiar."

Sherlock leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen. "Gifted artist. Died last year at the age of 92. Not a murder, unfortunately. Best known for her charcoal but has a great deal of work in oil paintings. They are all equally horrible to look at. As was she. Promise to shoot me if I ever look this hideous."

"I can't promise I won't do it sooner." John got up to refill her water. "Why would Moriarty care about an art auction?"

"Perhaps she wants to redecorate her office."

"She needs something to cover up those blood stains."

Sherlock reached across that table and snatched John's sandwich, taking a large bite. "You need to start getting ready."

"Sherlock!" John reached for her sandwich back. "It's barely two. We have five hours."

"Yes, but you take three just for your makeup and I need to shower as well." Sherlock walked straight into her room with the rest of John's lunch and she probably was not even going to eat it.

John grumbled, "You always fix it anyway."

It was nearing the time when they should have been leaving and John was still staring at her box of purses, the ones she had left anyway. One was a gift from her mom, which she would never, ever bring out around Sherlock. There was the one she brought to work which was more of laptop bag than an actual purse. The large burgundy purse she bought for a trip to the beach and maybe used twice since. And one she used for casual outings at the pub or on a date. Nothing was appropriate for a fancy art auction and she was willing to part with only one. She picked up the burgundy bag only to have it immediatly slapped out of her hand.

"Sherlock-" John groaned without turning around. "First of all, we talked about the knocking. Second, I am not going to meet Moriarty without a gun at my side. My holster would be too showy even with a sweater and it would bulge out on my thigh. We'd never get in."

"What happened to the silver one?" Sherlock dove into the box herself, tossing the purses behind her in her search. "The one without a strap."

John caught a few of them and tossed them onto the bed. "You made it fish food."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock then decided it would be alright to toss through her closet as well. "What about the dark green one with the silver embellishments."

"You tossed that one at a bird. It's on a roof somewhere." John pushed her away from the closet door and recovered all the sweaters from the floor.

"The red one with the button on-"

"Skip. Diving for evidence."

"The purple one with the zipper."

"Your mother's birthday. You forgot her present."

"The other purple-"

"You gave it to the mugger so we could chase the killer."

Sherlock scoffed and kicked the empty purse box. "Well, you can't bring any of these."

John sighed and shoved everything in her hands onto the bed as well. "Then we'll have to stop at M and S."

"Why ever would we stop there?" Sherlock nose crinkled. "They won't have any purse that will match your outfit."

"No but you know what they will have?" John mouthed the words and pet a mocking circle around her belly button. Bum Bag.

"I warn you, Doctor Watson." Sherlock pushed in close enough for her breaths to puff across John's nose and her chest to brush John's arm. "If you somehow manage to obtain such a monstrosity, it will end badly for all involved."

John puffed her chest out and glared right back at her. "If you send us off to face Moriarty without a gun, it will also end badly for all involved. Maybe you can learn some self restraint and not throw my purses to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who happens to be chasing us. Which, may I remind you, happens a lot."

Sherlock continued to match her scowl for a silid thirty seconds before rolling her eyes and jumping down the stairs. "Come! We'll see what we can find."

Later, John was standing in front of a charcoal drawing in her new tight blue dress with her makeup and hair done and redone, a small black purse sitting on a silver chain hanging over her shoulder courtesy of Mrs. Hudson with the promise of a safe return, no matter how much Moriarty was asking for a purse to the knocker. John sipped at her glass of champagne and did a sweep over her shoulder to place Sherlock. Moriarty would be there any minute. While none of the patrons attending looked like hired goons, there was nothing wrong with being cautious.

"Joan," a familiar voice called from behind.

John spun around to find Martin standing in a tux, one hand in his pocket the other reaching out for her. "Martin?" She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him hello, completely ignoring the mass of worry and guilt that crept into her stomach. "Oh my god. Look at you."

"It's been a while since I wore one of these." He fidgeted with the collar and swept a hand just over his freshly parted hair. "How do I look?" He did a spin and took a small bow.

"Devastatingly handsome," she giggled. "Very Bond, James Bond." She looked behind her for Sherlock and immediately started another sweep as the panic crept forward. "What are you doing here?"

Martin did not seem to notice the worry in her voice. "I felt bad for cancelling yesterday so I swung by your flat. Mrs. Hudson told me where you'd be. I went home, changed, and thought I'd surprise you."

John smiled wide but her eyes continued to dart around. "That's really sweet, love. But it's not a good time. Moriarty is meeting us here. You could be in danger if you stay."

Martin chuckled. "I should have known it was for a case. You, all dolled up." He reached forward and traced John's choker. "I really like this necklace on you." He snorted and added teasingly, "Very kinky."

She stepped back and smiled meekly. "Thanks."

He smiled and gestured to the works surrounding them. "You never really were one for art. I can't imagine Sherlock is."

John looked at the charcoal in front of her and tilted her head. "Well, to be honest, and I know it's been said before, but I can't tell if this is upside down or not."

Martin slipped his hand around her waist and squeezed. "We'll just have landscapes in our house, shall we? Nothing abstract."

"Sounds like a right good plan," John smiled up at him, accepting another kiss.

"Speaking of our house-" Martin fidgeted with his collar once again. "I wanted to apologize for the other day." He squeezed her hip and spun her around, a gentle hand tracing the curve of her exposed ear. "I know you love me and I know you lead a very... interesting life. And I know you help people. You're amazing. I know you are a big girl and can balance out your life as you see fit."

John smiled, taken aback. It yet again showed her how wrong-footed she was, presuming Martin would ever hold a grudge. It was not in his nature. He really was the one that understand her relationship with Sherlock best. He was more than right to his occasional frustrations. She could and should try harder to put him first. After all, he was the one in more than one way.

"Thank you," she said. "That means a lot."

"So-" Martin smiled nervously. "I've actually been wanting to ask you something. I know we've talked about it, but I thought I would make it official. I know we haven't been dating for a very long amount of time but-" He fumbled for his pocket and pulled out a small suede box. "I still need to ask."

John gasped. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her drink slowly slid between her fingers. Martin shakily opened the box to reveal a small silver ring with a large shining diamond set directly in the center.

"Joan Watson," Martin smiled. "It would bring me great pleasure if you would do me the honor of one day marrying me."

John looked down at the ring, sparkling rainbow colors in the direct beams of light pointed at the artwork. Her entire body froze. Shocked did not begin to cover it. This… they had talked about this before. She was just screaming about it to Sherlock the day before. Yet, actually staring at that tiny circle, now of all times, had all her words stuck in her head, her tongue too dry to move from the roof of her mouth.

It was like she was a part of the auction. A piece of art she was looking at from above. See the perfect pairing. Everything you've ever dreamed. Right in front of your eyes. But don't touch.

Martin piped up, "I know we are basically engaged already. So I hope you don't mind the ring-"

"No." John slapped her hand over his. "I love it."

"So is that a yes then?" Martin asked with a smile. "Because you did just say no."

John nodded numbly and gripped her glass. "Yes, that's a yes."

He got up, pulled the ring from the box and placed it on her finger, leaning in to kiss her sweetly. She kissed him back on instinct, still too shocked to be able to function properly. No one seemed to notice the proposal so she luckily had no witnesses to her clamming up and no obligatory clapping for the happy couple.

Of course, she was with Sherlock who was unlike the masses and missed nothing.

"John," Sherlock panted.

John untangled herself from Martin and locked onto Sherlock's panicked gaze in an instant. "Is it Moriarty?"

Sherlock's alarm quickly shed away like a second skin. She planted a fake smile on her face and reached out her hand politely. "I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"

"Ah," Martin grabbed her hand and shook. "Ms. Holmes. I've heard so much about you."

"Sherlock," John shook away her panic and planted on a smile, gesturing to Martin. "This is Martin. My boyfriend."

"Fiancè," he corrected with a squeeze around her newly jeweled finger.

"Right," John laughed once and pulled her hand up to show Sherlock the new ring.

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the diamond, the rest of her unmoving. She seemed to stop breathing as her eyes darted from John's face to the ring and back. Just as statuesque as John had been moments ago.

Sherlock suddenly sucked in a breath and turned her calculating gaze back to Martin, her brow squinted down.

"Congratulations," John hinted between a locked jaw. "Is what I believe you're looking for."

"Congratulations," Sherlock murmured.

"Thank you, Ms. Holmes." Martin pulled John back against his body and rested his chin against her shoulder. "That means a lot."

John pushed her stubborn bangs from her sticky forehead. The heat from the stage lights was hot but being in Martin's arms was sweltering. She swept a finger under her eye and blinked rapidly. At least her makeup was not yet running.

"Please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock offered another tight smile and turned to the drawing in front of them, sipping on her own drink.

This was about as good as John could have hoped for when the two finally met. She only wished it had been before the proposal.

Oh god, she was actually engaged.

It changed nothing, really, but it still felt like a solid weight clinging around her finger and wrapping around her wrist. She pulled her hand back up into the light and leaned forward. Martin's coat stuck to her skin, his gentle embrace keeping her from getting too far. He planted a kiss on her shoulder and squeezed her once, tight.

Their tense silence broke when an announcer asked everyone to conviene in the next room so they could start the bidding.

Sherlock glanced at her phone, swept her gaze around the room, and landed back on the two of them. She looked right past John, too aim at Martin and asked, with what a passerby could interpret as sincerity, "Do you like art?"

He chuckled a little against John's back. "Not especially."

John twisted in his arms. "That's not completely true. I mean, yes there are landscapes, but he likes other art."

"A different kind of art?" Sherlock asked.

Martin straightened up and stepped to John's side, keeping one arm around her waist. "I suppose poetry is what Joan is talking about."

Sherlock hummed. "John has been rather susceptible to men who like poetry."

"Hey," John argued but Sherlock did not acknowledge her.

"Has she now?" Martin teased, throwing her a smile.

"Quite," agreed Sherlock hurriedly. "Do you have a favorite poem?"

Martin sucked in a breath and tilted his head. After a moment, he adjusted his glasses and sighed. "Identity by A.R. Ammons has always been a favorite."

John pat his arm to remind him to be patient. She would explain later that Sherlock having any sort of conversation with him at all was a sign of her blessing.

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the movement but she dove right back to the topic at hand. "What line stands out to you most?"

"Sherlock," John started. "Do you really need to interrogate my boyfriend right now?"

"Fiancè," Martin corrected again, simultaneous to Sherlock's, "Fiancè."

"And yes," Sherlock replied, sipping her drink.

Martin shoved a hand back in his pocket, but kept the other around John, keeping her close, rubbing his thumb over her hip. The last time he had recited poetry to her, they had been lying on the couch together, talking about anything and everything they could think of, posed just like this with his thumb just there. She smiled and relaxed into his grip.

Martin took a moment before reciting, "The possible settings of a web are infinite. How does the spider keep identity while creating the web in a particular place? How and to what extent and by what modes of chemistry and control?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched as Martin finished the verse.

There was an alarmingly loud pause that followed, the two locked together in a silent stare off.

Sherlock broke it gracefully. "She knows you betrayed her."

"Well," Martin nodded. "Yes. It is why she sent me here, no doubt."

John's eyes flashed between the two of them, her brow furrowing, her heart jumping. "Um, what?"

She left off the bit where she felt like she was back in a room the with Holmeses -not Sherlock and her boyfriend- er- fiancè. Did they know each other already? Did Sherlock know about the proposal? Was she in on it?

"John," Sherlock called calmly, not taking her eyes off Martin. "Please step away from him."

"What?" John asked again, just as Martin's grip started to pinch.

"John, I asked nicely."

"No." John shook her head and scoffed. "What are you talking about? I have no reason to step away from my boyfriend."

"Fiancè," Martin corrected again.

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "He is not your fiancè, John."

"I think he is," John replied and tilted closer into Martin's side. "Sherlock, I thought we were past this. I thought you understood this was going to happen."

"No, John, he is not." She arched an eyebrow meaningfully. "What he is, is a remarkable liar."

"What?" John felt the need to ask for a third time.

"Thank you," Martin chuckled.

John's face fell and she shied away, repeating softly, "What?"

"John, this is Frank-"

"Martin."

"No, John." Sherlock flourished her free hand in Martin's direction. "This is Frank Grant."

"What? The therapist?" John's face crumpled and she looked to Sherlock. Because it would always be Sherlock with the answers. And these were not the answers. This was ridiculous. "No-"

"He lied not only to you but to Moriarty and he tried to lie to me. And I must admit, you had me fooled for nearly five minutes. Bravo for you."

Martin's pinching grip became bruising. He shrugged and asked, "What gave me away, exactly?"

"Moriarty is never late. She always gives her gifts exactly on time." Sherlock nodded to him, her eyes squinting. "And really? A poem about spiders? At least make it a challenge."

"Thought you would appreciate that. She does have a thing for spiders. Which makes me her fly, yes? Is she hoping you'll swat me with a newspaper then?"

John ripped herself away from Martin's side and stumbled towards the painting, the sound of her heels echoing in the empty room. "Would someone explain to me what is going on here?"

Martin reached a hand towards her. "Joan-"

"Don't!" John slapped his hand back and jumped away from both of them. "Don't you touch me."

Sherlock was the one to reach out now, though she made no move to touch. "John, you need to listen to me."

"Yes, Joan." Martin rolled his eyes, his pleasant demeanor slipping away like the rest of the world from under her feet. Where there was once her calm, kind, silly, loving man, stood a smug, condescending, arse with nothing but petty annoyance and boredom in his eyes. A fucking stranger. "Listen to Sherlock. Do as she says, just as you always do. Be her good little bitch-"

"Shut up!" John snapped. "Just shut up, right now or I swear I will-"

"What? Hit me? Shoot me? Kill me?" Martin chuckled and held a hand over his heart, easily returning to his usual self. "I'm your fiancè. You know Moriarty is just using me." His smirk fell and her Martin was back, eyes pinching and glossy. "She's making me say these things. She did it to you. At the pool. She's making me, Joan. Please. Please, I don't want to hurt you. I love you."

"No." John shook her head, refusing to feed the heat burning in her eyes, furiously blinking the spots of red away. "No, no, no. This isn't happening."

Sherlock slipped forward, her body blocking Martin, her eyes locking on John's. She spoke slowly and carefully, "I need you to listen, Doctor Watson. An enemy has infiltrated our ranks."

John laughed, too loud and without humour. "Him? He's the gift?"

"Yes, him." Sherlock took a step closer. "Moriarty sent him to us. He is the therapist. He is Frank Grant. He has been lying to you."

"How?" John's voice caught in her throat. "It- It's been months. How?!"

"He works for Moriarty but also for himself." Sherlock took another step, blocking John's attempt to try tear open the cracks in his lying face with her scowl. "He was hired by Moriarty to make you fall in love with him, to keep tabs on you and me and to manipulate you away from me."

"Not to mention the easy access to your apartment," Martin added with a smile, as casual as if he were talking about his latest class lecture.

"Shut up!" John screamed and threw her glass on the ground. Champagne splattered across the shining wooden floor, glass crashing into the puddles.

"Don't know why you're getting so angry, Joan," he called to her. "It obviously wasn't as easy of access as anticipated."

John dove for her purse with shaking fingers. It took her two tries to pull out her gun. Once she had the solid weight of it in her hands, the world became crystal clear. No more shaking. No more freezing. There was only her, her gun, and her target. She aimed it directly for Martin's head and clicked the safety off.

Sherlock slipped into her line of sight, one hand hovering in the space above John's shoulder. "He tried to play Moriarty. He lied to her and tried to take what was in that lock box." Her hand landed on John's shoulder and she squeezed. "He knows what we are after."

"She is a hard boss to have," Martin commented and walked down the hall of paintings, towards the back corner of the room where John knew there was an exit. Lestrade was on the street waiting, but he would not know who to look for. "It's always nice to have a backup plan."

"You thought you would use the contents of the box as a means of escape." Sherlock filled in the blanks. She turned, her body curling around John, still blocking her from Martin, both watching him inch away. "It may have worked if it weren't for Bernet killing Haywire too soon."

"Dumb minger," Martin mumbled. "Women really don't have a handle on their emotions. Not like men. It's biological really. Luckily, women are easily persuaded, aren't they Joan?"

John's fists clenched around her gun, still keeping aim over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock remained a solid wall. "When Moriarty found out it was not Bernet who took the box, she did not suspect it to be you."

"I wasn't supposed to know about it. But I have my ways. My people."

"Was the man who took it from the Miller house another one of your patients?"

Martin shook his head and tisked, as if scolding a child. "The idiot sold it on me. I spent weeks tracking it down."

"Barcelona?"

"Thereabouts."

"I assume he's been taken care of?"

"Killed himself. Tragic. In a chemistry lab, of all places."

John's breath left her body in a whimper.

One of the kids tried to off himself in the chemistry lab.

Bull shit. Bull fucking shit.

Sherlock sensed John's finger tightening around the trigger and curled a hand behind herself, pushing her palm against John's stomach, stilling her.

What the hell were those two doing? Both of them were obviously stalling. But for what purpose?

Sherlock tracked Martin's move to the next row of works and said, "Once I told her what her pet therapist did, she sent you here to do this to John."

"Yes." Martin leaned around the artwork and made sure to smile at John teasingly. "Sooner than expected. But what the lady wants, she takes."

"But that's not the only reason." Sherlock stepped to block him from view again. "She'll only kill you if you bring it to her. If you try to run, she will hunt you down. You have no option but to come with us."

He scoffed. "Do you really believe I have not already thought of that? That she has not? It means too much to her. But who says I'm stupid enough to be the one to give it to her? After all, you're here. And there is always another option."

Martin bolted out the emergency exit doors, a bullet soaring over his shoulder.

John sprinted after him.

Sherlock ran in the opposite direction.

"Sherlock!" John stumbled to a stop as Martin disappeared out the door. She turned around and whipped out her phone, dialing Lestrade.

He answered right away, "John-"

"Man in a tux. Brown hair, six foot, beard, running. Get him."

"On it."

Sherlock snatched one of the smallest paintings off the display and ran back to the exit door.

Sirens instantly started to wail.

"Come on John!"

"Are you stealing?!" John ran after her, dodging one of the security guards as they leapt for the door. She had to hit the next in the stomach with her weak arm -refusing to hit an innocent with a loaded gun- and sent him to the ground with a good push.

"It's for a good cause!" Sherlock tossed her wine at another guard, threw John out the door, and ran after her, both of them cursing their footwear aloud until they were far away from the building and roaming the streets for a cab. It took three passing them before John realized she still had her gun out. She put it back in Mrs. Hudson's purse thanking her lucky stars the strap prevented it from falling off during the chase.

"That's it," John panted. "No more heels. I'm wearing trainers with everything."

"That," Sherlock ripped one of her shoes off, frowning at the cracked heel. "Is a brilliant idea."

"Trainers and a bum bags. We'll get cargo shorts and polo shirts and visors and no one will ever want to talk to us again."

Sherlock chuckled. "That sounds even better."

"What is it then?" John asked, pointing to the painting. It looked like nothing more than colors to her. Maybe a flower if she squinted just right.

Sherlock held it up into the street light and smirked. "No idea."

The entire ride home John could not stop looking out the window, searching the faces of everyone in the crowd. None of them were who she was looking for.

Got away. -L