AN: Oh god. I am very, very sorry. I just sort of disappeared for a while there, didn't I? I'm back, though. Hopefully. I have a bunch of stuff written, and I hope to get it typed out soon. Anyways, here's this. I was going to go for John next, but I just got horribly, horribly stuck, so here's some Anderson. I don't know if it's set in the same 'verse as the other one, but we'll see how it goes. For now… enjoy.
On an unseasonably warm May afternoon, some six years after John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, the aforementioned doctor was grumbling good-naturedly under his breath as he got out of a black cab at Scotland Yard.
"Says he'll meet me for dinner, and then what does he do? Has me ferrying evidence like the bloody postal service. Maybe I should let him spend the night in a holding cell, see how he likes it. Tosser- sorry, not you." he added, to the affronted looking cabbie. "Didn't expect to spend my wedding anniversary in Scotland Yard, is all."
The cabbies features arranged themselves into what might have been an attempt at sympathetic, although one could never be sure.
"Ar, that's tough, mate. What're they in for?"
John laughed. "Oh, it's not as bad as all that. He just keeps nicking their evidence, and the DI won't let him go to dinner unless I bring it back."
The cabbie didn't seen to know what to say to that, and he handed John his change in silence. As soon as John's hand was clear of the window, the man sped away.
Smiling to himself, John took the stairs two at a time. (No easy feat for a man of his stature.) It wasn't really a good day until he had unsettled someone with his life story. Besides, if he got in and out quick enough, they could still make dinner early enough to catch the closing night of that violin virtuoso- John could never recall her name, but Mycroft had ensured that they had tickets.
His previous good mood fully restored, John strode confidently into New Scotland Yard.
One glance around the main work room showed that the place was operating at rather less than full efficiency. There were a group of people picking papers off the floor, a man in a ripped suit jacket and large bow tie shouting into a phone, and the distinct smell of smoke emanating from… somewhere.
After living with Sherlock for six years and being married to him for one, John had rather developed a sixth sense towards disasters. There was a certain feeling he got, whenever things had gone/were going/were about to go for a bizarre turn, and it was all Sherlock's fault. And he was certainly experiencing it right now.
"You!"
John turned. Anderson was stalking towards him.
"They sent me to fetch you."
His stiff posture, the heaviness of each footstep and the sneer on his face made it rather clear how little Anderson enjoyed being sent to fetch people.
"Your boyfriend is in Gregson's office. They locked him up in there after he set fire to Dimmock's."
John tried valiantly to hide a grin, but Anderson's deepening frown signaled that he might not have quite succeeded.
"Lead on, then." John said.
They left the main open area, and John followed Anderson down a twisty corridor with rather unpleasant carpet. It wasn't the widest, and John and Anderson had to plaster themselves against a wall to let someone carrying boxes through. It wasn't until they were past that John recognized the long dark hair that was unmistakably Sally Donovan's.
"Oh, it's you! Thank god. Lestrade won't stop moaning about how much it's going to cost to replace Dimmock's desk."
John laughed. "Don't worry, I'll get the menace off your hands."
"Thank god for that." She said, shifting the boxes she was holding so as not to drop them. She turned to leave, but paused. "It's the tenth, isn't it?"
Anderson pulled out his phone, and flipped it open. "All day."
"Happy Anniversary, John." Sally said. "You are a saint, you know that?"
She had stopped calling Sherlock the freak when John asked her not to five and a half years ago, but she still kept her distance from him. They were never destined to be the best of friends; Sherlock still made derisive comments about her job-related abilities, and Sally still muttered about him never being able to relate to normal people. Still, they co-existed peacefully, and John had even invited her to the wedding, (over Sherlock's protests.) She politely declined, of course, but she made it clear to John how much she thought Sherlock had been improved by the doctor's presence in his life.
"Thanks, Sally. That means a lot."
Sally nodded, and then continued on her way down the hall. Anderson looked confused, not that that was any different from always.
"Anniversary?" He said, his voice going up at the end to indicate a question.
John wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.
"Yes?"
"But… the anniversary of what?"
John was rather at a loss. Perhaps Anderson had just forgotten the date?
"It's my wedding anniversary, Anderson."
Anderson paused, nodded, and took a few steps down the hall before stopping.
"You're married?"
Mutely, John fished the chain holding his wedding band out from underneath his shirt, and he held it up for Anderson to examine.
Anderson looked rather as lost as John felt.
"But… to who?"
John suppressed the urge to correct his grammar, and just stared. Sherlock went on regular tirades about how singularly unobservant Anderson was, but as Anderson had managed to hold down the job of Forensic Investigator for some ten years, John had never taken him seriously. How could it be that John and Sherlock had been married a whole year, and Anderson hadn't once clued in?
"We'd better hurry." John said finally. "Lestrade sounds like he's at wit's end."
Anderson nodded, and hurried down the hall. John followed, shaking his head.
Rounding a corner, John looked past Anderson to see a weary DI Lestrade sitting on the floor, his back against the door of an office.
"John!" he called, and John had not heard that much gratitude in a single syllable since he had been saving lives in Afghanistan.
"Oh thank god." Lestrade continued. "He's gone quiet, and I have no idea what he's up to in there. I just hope he's not destroying more property. Have you heard what happened to Dimmock's desk? These have been the worst forty five minutes of my life."
John reached into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out an evidence bag containing a battered gold pocketwatch. Anderson immediately snatched it from his hand.
"Thank you, John." Lestrade said again. "I can only imagine where we would be if we didn't have you to reason with him." Fumbling with his keys, Lestrade unlocked the door, and swung it open. None of the three men outside the room were quite prepared for what lay within it.
Sherlock Holmes sat cross-legged on the desk in the middle of the room. At first glance, one might wonder why he wasn't standing on the floor. But then one would realize that the whole floor, except for the sweep of the door, was covered in a raft of pointy paper cups that had been filled with water and stapled together.
"Holmes-!" Lestrade bit out.
"Hello, Inspector, John." Sherlock said, unfolding himself off the desk and leaping to the clear space near the door. "I found myself rather at loose ends, so I devised a way to amuse myself, without destroying property. Aren't you pleased?"
John reflected that people being at a loss for words was swiftly becoming the theme of the day.
"Because you let me out, I suppose that John must have brought you the watch. Can we leave now, or do you have any more dull questions?"
"How- Sherlock, there isn't a tap in there!" Lestrade said.
"Don't be dull, inspector."
Lestrade raked his hand through his hair. "Just… just go. I'll text you tomorrow. I can't deal with you any sooner than that. Oh, and happy anniversary, John." He paused, and glared at Sherlock. "Happy anniversary to you both, I suppose."
John had been watching Anderson, hoping to see his reaction when someone finally mentioned it that, in fact, Sherlock and John had been married for the past year. He was not disappointed.
"Wait, wait, wait." Anderson said. "He," and he pointed at John, "is married to him?" he asked, pointing at Sherlock.
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "What?" he asked weakly.
"Just because we can keep out hands off each other in public…" John said, but Sherlock cut in.
"Remember the Riddle case?"
"Okay, but that wasn't really public…"
"Or that time with the Russians."
"Sherlock, that was hardly our fault."
"And the time in Barcelona?"
"No one expects the Spanish inquisition!"
"The case with the six fingered man?"
"Okay." John conceded. "So we can't keep our hands off each other in public."
"Anderson," Lestrade began, "You've referred to them as boyfriends for the past six years."
"Well, I didn't know they were dating, did I? I was just trying to annoy them!"
"Yes, very annoying to be accused of dating my husband." Sherlock said. "Lestrade, might I renew my recommendation to hire a semi-competent forensic investigator? I happen to know a two-year-old who would certainly be an improvement."
"Sherlock, we'd better go. We'll be late for the concert."
"Of course, my dear Watson. Lestrade, I'll be by tomorrow about the Thompson case. I have reason to believe it should be reopened."
He took John's hand, and they strode off down the hall together.
"Holmes! What am I supposed to do about this office?" came Lestrade's voice from around the corner.
"Use your brain, Greg. It's not that difficult!" Sherlock called back.
Once he was sure they were far enough away from the DI, John dropped Sherlock's hand, leaned against a wall, and dissolved into the laughter that he had been suppressing for the past few minutes. Sherlock smiled broadly at him.
"I… can't… god. I can't believe Anderson." John gasped, when he could finally talk again.
"Yes, well, we'd better go before he realizes I swapped the watches. I've been looking forwards to this date, and I don't want to spend it in police custody."
John shook his head. "You're a mad bastard, you know that?"
Sherlock smiled at him. "I love you too, John."
They made it out before Lestrade initiated the lockdown. But only barely.