AN: So very, very sorry for the unreasonably long delay. I could blame real life, but that isn't really fair. I just sort of...forgot. Sorry! *hides in shame* It won't happen again, I promise. I *will* post the last chapter that serves as an epilogue type thing on monday. You have my word. Please poke me repeatedly through PMs should I fail to do so.

Thank you all so much for your wonderful and enthusiastic response to this fic. I hope that you are all satisfied with how it turns out.

Since Irene clearly planned on following John for the duration of her visit (which both Jim and Sherlock were working very hard on ending), Jim found himself in the unprecedented situation of being at a crime scene after the crime had been committed.

The Detective Sergeant (Sally Donovan, according to Jim's files) gave the group a long look. "You travel with an entourage now, Freak?"

"Certainly not. That would entail more than one member admire and respect me, would it not?" Sherlock inquired cheekily as he lifted the tape for himself and John.

Sergeant Donovan, noting that Sherlock really didn't want Jim and Irene to come any further, pulled up the crime scene tape, gesturing in an "after you" type fashion. Sherlock glared, Irene smiled, Jim wasn't quite sure what expression was on his face, and John pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a deep sigh.

Jim paid the body no mind - he was more concerned with exactly how much space was between Irene and John.

"Oy, Sherlock. What's all this? I break enough rules letting you in as it is."

"John, as you well know, is my colleague, friend, and an integral part of my work. Jim is a consultant." Jim waved at the DI, putting on his most non-threatening smile. "Irene, however, has no reason whatsoever to remain here and should be removed promptly." Irene, who had somehow managed to wrap her arm around John in the fraction of a second Jim hadn't been looking, shot Lestrade a blinding smile.

"Did you crash John's date again? Trying to get rid of his new girlfriend?" Lestrade asked, clearly amused.

Sherlock growled. Actually growled, and Jim gave the Detective Inspector a glare that was specifically designed to make the mafia run in terror. Irene beamed, but John, seeing the predicament, removed Irene's arm and freed himself from her grasp.

"Don't get your shorts in a twist," John admonished the consultants. "Irene, would you mind keeping Lt. Norton company while I examine the body? Sherlock and Jim need to calm down ," a glare in their direction here, " and your proximity doesn't seem to be helping."

John was right, of course. Only it wasn't proximity to Jim and Sherlock that had the two agitated, it was her proximity to John. Regardless, his suggestion would resolve the issue.

"Anything for you, Johnny," Irene winked.

Jim made a move towards Irene that was aborted by Sherlock's hand on his shoulder.

"Godfrey is a music lover, tenor in an audition choir, and an avid opera fan. He is kind, fairly bright-comparatively speaking, of course, highly tolerant, and enjoys travel and adventure." Jim allowed that to sink in; he was Irene's perfect match. "John completely brilliant without meaning to be," Sherlock whispered, voice full of awe. Jim was inclined to agree.

"Right," said John, crouching next to the body. "She's only been dead a few hours. Cause of death is…" a pause, followed by careful, through examination of the body.

"Any idiot can see the cause of death. She was shot through the head," the forensics officer snapped (something with an A…his affinity for extinct reptiles had been far more memorable than his name). Jim disliked him instantly.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, back in the proper headspace for deduction and crime solving, "any idiot would see that. Any idiot would be wrong.

"What is he on about?" Lestrade asked, turning to John for translation.

"She died before she'd been shot. If there is one thing I know, its gunshot wounds," John said, glaring at the forensics technician. "She asphyxiated. Wealthy, you can tell that from her clothes. Married, but she cheats. You can tell that from the wedding ring, and if you still don't know why then you're as stupid as Sherlock thinks you are. The gun would be easily to plant on someone. It's a cover up, a frame job."

Sherlock bodily dragging John out into the hallway does not go unnoticed by Jim. Approximately half of his brain was completely fixated on the sudden thud from the wall that separates the room from the hallway, the small moan and needy growl.

That half clearly hears John's bewildered "I thought you were married to your work?"

It also hears Sherlock's exasperated "Weren't you listening to anything I said to Lestrade? You're my partner, my colleague. You're part of my work now."

Jim stormed out into the hallway, but it had nothing to do with John and Sherlock. It was because of what the other half of his brain had been fixed on – the body on the floor.

"That's my murder," Jim told Sherlock.

"What?" John asked, straitening his jumper and glaring at Jim.

"That was supposed to be for my next client, but I turned them down once we started playing our game."

"If not you, then who?" Sherlock asked, eyes bright with excitement of more than one kind.

"Sebastian sodding Moran," Jim hissed. "He's gotten too big for his britches. You keep her away from him, and I'm going to go take care of this irritation."

Jim made his way to the closest safe-house, taking stock of the equipment available. If Moran was trying to take over Moriarty's business, Jim would be his next target. It's easy to say you've always been the whisper when there's no one to contradict you.

The door crashes open, and Jim turns around, hands raised in surrender. "Seb, I thought our relationship had a better foundation than this. You shoot people, and I tell you who to shoot and how. It really was an amazing system. And then you had to go and ruin it by thinking," Jim said, hand inching towards his breast pocket and the detonator disguised as a pen that he always stored there.

"No, Moriarty, you had to ruin things. Sherlock Holmes I can almost understand, but his sidekick too? With you off doing god-knows what all the time, I've had to pick up most of the slack. And then I realized something-no one even noticed. Things will run just fine without you Moriarty," he said. Moran fired a shot that grazed Jim's shoulder, stopping him reaching for the detonator. "I know about the pen, Moriarty. I just wanted to thank you for showing me what I could be."

Another silenced gunshot, followed by a thud. "And I want to thank you for being so cliché," John remarked from the door. "I really wouldn't have had time to get here if he hadn't insisted on grandstanding."

John walked over to Moran, blood covering his fingers as he checked his pulse. "Good. No one hurts my geniuses," he said, whipping the blood across his forehead as he moved his fringe out of his eyes.

Jim's brain slowed down a ridiculous amount, seemingly operating through a haze as John removed his shirt to better treat the graze.

John had killed for him. John had killed for him, and was covered in the blood of the man who had tried to end him. And now John was touching his bare skin. It was too much. Overwhelming.

Before Jim really knew what had happened, he had pinned John against the dresser. "You. Are. Fucking. Amazing." Jim whispered in John's ear, nipping at the lobe. "A wolf in sheep's clothing." He kissed his way along John's jaw. "I like the wolf, Johnny. I fucking love the wolf. Will you let me take off the sheep's clothing?"

Then Jim kissed him.

John kissed him back. And when John Watson kissed, he meant it. There was tongue, and his hands were everywhere.

It was Jim who had pull away first. "Fuck. Three continents is right," he said, trying to get his breathing back under control.

John said nothing. He finished bandaging Jim, helped him into a fresh shirt, and then took them both back to 221B without saying a word. It made Jim a little uneasy, but the expression on John's face every time he opened his mouth to break the silence made it clear John needed quiet.

Once they arrived at Baker Street, John left with a simple "I need some air. If either of you," he shot a sharp look at both Sherlock and Jim, "even thinks about following me, I will cheerfully beat you to death. I need time to sort everything out."

There were several long minutes of silence before Sherlock asked a question to break the silence. "I take it this Moran fellow didn't manage to kill you, then?"

"No. I'm sure you find that disappointing."

"On the contrary, I'm pleased. If you're going to get yourself killed, I want to be the one doing the murdering. Otherwise it's just a waste." Sherlock smiled, a quick, genuine grin that didn't quite cover the apprehension tightening every line of his body.

"He's out there, making his decision right now." Jim knew that he was stating the obvious, but he still felt it needed saying.

"Yes."

Another long pause. "Did you send someone to clean up the mess?

If Jim were the sort who smacked his forehead when he forgot something, he'd be putting it through a wall right now. He pulls out his phone and quickly sends the relevant texts. At Sherlock's disgusted glare he shrugged his shoulders defensively. "I was a bit distracted at the time, if you must know."

Sherlock's expression became a cross of irritation and amusement. "Oh, I know. The tongue thing?"

"That and the hands." Jim smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled back until they both remembered that it was John on the line and they really couldn't afford to be friendly with the competition when the loser had to shove off.

Jim is suddenly struck by the thought that he has no idea how this is going to end. There is a very good chance that he might lose. A significantly high probability that he will never see John outside of surveillance again, never taunt Sherlock face to face as the detective tried to work out his puzzles. He'll never get to see that look in John's eyes again.

Sherlock had clearly been caught up in similar thoughts. "If…if John were to...if you were to win, what would that look like?"

"I'd move in upstairs and dump boiling tea on you if you started interfering in my sex life." Sherlock shot him a surprised look. "You're his best friend. I couldn't ask him to give that up if I wanted a prayer of it working out."

"You can move into his room, if you're amiable. If I end up winning," Sherlock offered cautiously.

More silence, a little less strained, but still far from calm. In a fit of desperation to occupy his mind, Jim grabs John's laptop and encrypts it ten ways to Sunday. Sherlock, once Jim has finished, snatches it away and begins hacking. They add a stopwatch, a lighter, and some hydrofluoric acid (diluted, of course. They aren't that stupid) to make everything more interesting, attempting to distract themselves from the gnawing anxiety in the pit of their stomachs that neither of them have ever really felt before.

Irene turns up four hours later, lipstick smeared, face flushed, and eyes bright. One glance around the room and she's got it figured out.

"Do you know where he went?" she asked. "I need to talk to him. It might make his life easier."

"We were instructed not to follow on pain of death," Jim offers, eyes intent on the stopwatch as Sherlock's fingers danced over the keys.

"Not an answer to my question," Irene said sharply.

"Regent's Park or his bar, which is about three streets south of here," Sherlock muttered, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

It took them about five minutes to realize exactly what it is they have done. It takes fifteen for shit to hit the fan.

They are texted instructions to meet John at a nearby warehouse. Sherlock and Jim mill about inside for a good two minutes before the doctor shows up. His eyes are red, his face is pale, and he looks absolutely livid.

"Irene and I just had a very enlightening conversation. She told me that while she wasn't above beating you two again, I shouldn't consider her as a contestant in your game because she wanted to see how things worked out with Godfrey."

Silence.

"You two. Acting like five year olds fighting over a toy. And it was all a game. A fucking game. A bloody experiment. "Who can seduce John first?" I really am an idiot, you know. For a few seconds, I thought someone actually gave a fuck about me." A humorless, hurt laugh. "Well, you two can sort out the winner some other way. Because I don't want to play. I'm not going to play."

Another long pause.

"I'll be out of Baker Street by morning. I hope you two are happy together – you really do deserve each other."

Jim and Sherlock stood in complete silence for what felt like hours.

"In retrospect, this was not our best idea." Jim said slowly.

"Really? However did you draw that conclusion?" Sherlock asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"If either one of us tries to convince him, he'll think it's still part of the game."

More silence, as they both consider the very real possibility that they might lose John forever.

"What if…what if we both tried to convince him? Together?" Sherlock offered. "There would be no reason to do so if it was merely a game."

"Could we though? Could we really share?" Jim asked.

"You don't want to leave, I don't want you to leave, and John doesn't want to choose. We work well together, when it comes to our John."

Their John. The though sends blood straight to Jim's groin-it sounds right.

They're both thinking it, so it's only a few seconds before they press their lips experimentally together, seeing exactly how far this partnership is going to extend. Milliseconds later they pull away, expressions making it clear exactly what they are thinking.

"No"

"Never again," Jim agrees, fighting the childish impulse to clean out his mouth with his sleeve.

They make their way back to Baker Street, attack coordinated. John puts up a valiant fight that lasts all of the two minutes it takes to convince him that Sherlock isn't shitting him and neither is Jim. They maneuver him onto the bed and before long everyone's clothes are missing and Jim is memorizing John's vertebrae with his mouth and Sherlock is licking his way along John's ribs, and John has somehow managed to mark both of them with possessive love bites everywhere and his hands are doing things that should be illegal, and maybe they are, but that's never stopped Jim, Sherlock, or John before, has it?

Two hours later, they collapsed into a sweaty, sticky satisfied heap, John resting on Jim's chest with Sherlock curled around him.

"Mine," the doctor murmured sleepily, nuzzling into Jim's chest and giving Sherlock a gentle squeeze.

"Yours," they whisper quietly in agreement