Part Eight - Evidence of Affection

November 29th, 2011 - the final day of GISHWHES.

Who knew Molly could throw such a great party? thought John. And in the morgue too, making a last generous contribution towards Anderson's and Sherlock's GISHWHESian insanity.

[194. A birthday party in a morgue. (24 points)]

Granted, only Sherlock would make the event his own by pulling out a drawer and arguing with Anderson and their hostess over the post-mortem of a recent arrival. With a party hat on, too - Sherlock, that is. Not the corpse. No, the corpse had a computer printed paper mask of Winston Churchill on. When John had asked about the theme, Molly had only shrugged.

"It said birthday party. I don't know anyone whose birthday is today - so. Everyone's." Hence, party attendees - doctors, interns, ambulance drivers - anyone who had a morbid sense of humour and a taste for free cider and cheap lager - had paper masks of Ben Stiller, Ridley Scott and other famous people born on this day. Brilliant,thought John, and told Molly so. She blushed in pleasure, and even more so when Sherlock shook her hand, thanking her in a rare show of appropriate social behaviour. He'd pulled her aside for a few words as John watched benignly.

"How was it for you, Greg?" John asked. The DI swigged from his plastic cup with a half-grimace of remembrance.

"Bit of a close call with a garage once - they couldn't understand why Anderson wanted a picture of one tow truck pulling another. But you just try to convince a judge of Old Bailey to wear a Darth Vader mask! I thought Anderson would be clapped in irons for sure - the old man nearly had a fit. Thought we were trying to make a political statement. Got that sorted quickly enough, the picture looked great with the wig and all... Only nearly cost us out jobs. The berk. And don't talk to me about kale chandeliers."

John nodded. "Better than watching your boyfriend nearly start swinging from a movie marquee when he's trying to put up the phrase, 'Minions do it better'. I told Sherlock that ladder was too unstable. Christ, I thought he'd punched his ticket for sure." Lestrade snorted.

"On the other hand, that video Sherlock shot of that woman reading, 'Horton Hears a Who' in that business suit... phooargh. Thank you," said the DI fervently. "Who wasthat?"

"Oh, Anthea is an acquaintance of Sherlock's. He wanted to have his brother read Dr. Suess, but Mycroft refused. Would have been hilarious, he sounds even more posh than Sherlock. Still, yeah. Anthea."

They both sighed in appreciation. Across the room Anderson rolled his eyes at the detective who was gesticulating and talking rapidly, nearly sloshing his cider onto the corpse. But the forensics specialist had a small smile on his face and when Sherlock turned to search out John, his face was relaxed and slightly flushed.

"It's been a weird ten days," said Lestrade, watching Sherlock weave his way past a knot of lab techs towards them.

"Absolutely," agreed John.

"Like some bizarre version of hell."

"Yes. Thank god it's over in three hours." He caught Lestrade looking at him and both grinned simultaneously. "Maybe next year?"

"Definitely. As long as we're in the same group," said Lestrade.

"Team Thin Blue Line, or Consulting Scavengers?" asked Sherlock as he reached them. "It would be a good team building exercise for your people, at the very least. John!" He ducked and gave his lover a hard kiss. "Initial impressions to the contrary, this was worth it. Quite enjoyable. Thank you for convincing me to do it. It was excellent mental exercise."

John grinned and pulled the ridiculous paper hat from Sherlock's head and smoothed down the curls. "You did brilliantly. I knew you would."

"Who says I'm done?" queried the detective. "Molly. Can you bring it over? Lestrade, grab that camera."

Lestrade picked up the digital camera, scowling. "Sherlock, you can't just nick our crime scene cameras like that -"

"Sorry, sir," said Anderson, edging his way to stand next to his superior. "It was my doing. We'll definitely need it for photographic evidence in just a minute."

John's brow wrinkled as Molly appeared with a metal trolley, on top of which was a foil wrapped box with a bright red ribbon. "What's this? Sherlock, you know it's not my birthday."

Sherlock huffed. "Of course I know, John. This is the last challenge I'll be doing. Go on, then. He passed off his cup to Mike Stamford and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets with studied nonchalance. John eyed him with misgiving.

"This isn't the gold-plated toilet plunger, is it? Or a sculpture of a seagull made from women's sanitary products, is it?" Someone in the watching crowd hooted and Sherlock grinned.

"No. Nothing like that."

John untied the ribbon and pulled off the lid to reveal a froth of crumbled tissue. He pulled some away and snorted. He pulled out a mobile and cocked an eyebrow at his lover.

"An upgrade," explained Sherlock.

"Self-serving, since you are always nicking mine. Still, thanks."

"There's more," piped Molly. John pulled up more tissue and then grinned, pulling out a plastic jug.

"You always complain how put-upon you are, lover," intoned Sherlock. "So. I got the milk for once."

Anderson barked a laugh at the expression on John's face. Biting his lip to keep from giggling, John delved further. There was a second box within, and he lifted the lid and stared down into the contents. His brows drew together and he looked at Sherlock. Then he carefully lifted out a teacup and saucer. "Tea?" he asked. "You made me tea?"

Sherlock nodded. "If I may?" he asked, and took the delicate china cup and drank half the cup in a theatrical swallow.

"Typical," said John, and the crowd laughed. Sherlock quirked a half smile and gave John the cup, turning it so John's lips would press the same spot where his own had just rested.

"Wanted you to have the best cup of tea I could make," he explained. John's eyes crinkled in amusement, and someone, probably Molly, went 'Aww.' John raised the delicate china and drank. Something clacked against his teeth and he hastily lowered the cup. Resting at the bottom was a gold man's ring. He lifted it out and held it between thumb and forefinger. He drew in a breath and raised amazed eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. "John Hamish Watson. Would you do me the great honour of -"

"Yes," interrupted John, and there was a great cheer from all assembled. In the next instant, Sherlock was in his arms and they were kissing. John was scarcely aware of the flash of the camera. Long moments later, he pulled away laughing in disbelief. "You maniac. You proposed to me during Winston Churchill's birthday party in a morgue with a cup of tea. You utter lunatic. I love you. You need to be sectioned."

"You accepted. Who needs hospitalizing here?" returned Sherlock, smiling broadly. "Lucky thing we're at Bart's already. And this is where we met. It seemed appropriate. Besides, I did say you were the most unique thing I could ever scavenge. John, you must know, you are the only one for me -"

Again he was interrupted as John wrenched him down by the collar for a bruising tea-flavoured kiss. Sherlock's hand tangled in John's hair and a long arm snaked around to pull the doctor closer, pressing the length of their bodies together. John moaned and the kiss softened to a brush of lips. The detective expelled a shaky breath. "Would it be appropriate to leave now?"

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and choked a laugh. "Not quite yet. But we can sneak out and celebrate the end of GISHWHES and our engagement in time-honoured fashion at Baker street in, say, an hour?" Sherlock groaned at the delay, but John pulled away, still holding his lover's hand. "Meantime, everyone. Excuse me? Everyone, thank you. Thank you for this. Molly, get that music playing again, we've something to celebrate. Sherlock and I are getting married!"

There was a second cheer, and the music began pumping out an old Motown tune by Stevie Wonder. Sherlock grinned madly and pulled John in for a fast whirl.

-Here I am, baby - signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours!-

"What challenge number was that?" shouted John over the music.

Sherlock only lifted a brow. "Can't you guess? One hundred forty seven."

John's feet slowed as he mentally reviewed the list. Then his smile dawned as bright as sunlight, answered by Sherlock's. Christ, he loved the man.

[147. Show true love. (44 points)]

Nothing next but an epilogue, folks!