A/N: Wow guys. It's been a while hasn't it. Thank you everyone for the reviews. I hope you like it (: Please tell me what you think?

He plucked half heartedly on the strings. It was early morning, judging by the suns height in the sky around five or six, and he was curled up in John's chair. His violin was grasped between cold stiff fingers, bare legs draped in the light blue fabric of his dressing gown. (It was many sizes too big for him and yet it was his favourite. As if it was possible to have such a thing.) He was on the pleasing relaxing side of cold, just cool enough to make the hairs on his neck stand on end, but not enough to make him uncomfortable, bare chest goose-fleshed and cold toes curled in the soft fabric beneath him. His legs were bent; heels pressed against his buttocks, instrument hanging loosely from one hand as he laid his head back against the chair, staring down at his hands.

A smile quirked on his lips and he used his thumb to slowly turn the ring in circles, watching the morning light shining on its surface. It was...odd. Something so simple that made his stomach flip and his heart pound in his chest as he thought about it and yet it also felt normal, it felt right.

John was his and now everybody could see that.

Footsteps on the stairs behind him and he picked the instrument up to his chin, dragging the bow across the strings in a slow sweet melody he perfected as a child. A soft sigh from the doorway and he pulled his eyes away from his own hands to look at John. The doctor was also only wearing his boxers, hair sleep rumpled, grin practically shit-eating. Sherlock smirked and the doctor waggled his eyebrows at him, scratching his stomach in an intensely distracting way. It was enough make him drop a note (Or two.) and he heard John chuckle to himself as he trotted towards the kitchen.

Sherlock turned back to look out of the window. The snow had stopped, finally, but he could see dark grey clouds on the horizon, and he found he didn't mind. (In fact snow was becoming one of his favourite weather patterns.) He grinned again picking up the pace of his song and glancing over his shoulder to watch John sway to the music as he poured the tea. He knew this one off by heart and slowed it down again, now a flowing waltz, watching John absentmindedly pick out a few of the steps Sherlock had taught him, grinning to himself.

He looked up, making eye contact and Sherlock was forced to put his violin down for fear of dropping it.

"Here."

The doctor padded across to him and pressed his mug into his hands, bending down to press a soft kiss to his forehead before scrabbling down the side of Sherlocks chair to find the remote. It was an oddly domestic scene and the detective mused on the difference in his own behaviour now he had this relationship. It had awoken a more (Dare he say It.) emotional side to him, more relaxed...well, with John at least. Other people were still a hindrance to him, still confused him, still bored him.

There was a clatter of kitten heels on the stairs, a soft tutting sound and then a knock on the doorframe. Sherlock looked around to see Mrs Hudson with a hand over her eyes holding a shoe and Johns tie in her hand.

"Coo-ee, are you boys decent?"

John bit his lip to stop himself laughing and Sherlock shook his head, twitching an eyebrow. The doctor put his mug down on the side unit and trotted across the room to grab at his trousers, picking them up from the doorway where they had been thrown on their way up to the bedroom the night before.

He slid them on and span around on the spot for a moment, throwing his hands up in exasperation because he couldn't find his shirt.

"John."

Sherlock slipped a hand behind his back and pulled out the red sweater, throwing it at his lovers head. (He ignored the pang of his own betrayal, dressing John indeed. It was entirely counter-productive.)The doctors blushed and pulled it on, gesturing for his dramatically underdressed lover to close his dressing gown.

"It's okay Mrs Hudson, we are decent."

She took her hand away from her face and held it clasped at her waist. "There is a handsome young man at the door for you."

John sighed and nodded, brushing past her to rattle down the stairs. Mrs Hudson smiled after him and turned back to look at Sherlock tilting her head before speaking. "Are you alright?"

"What?"

Sherlock frowned; did he look ill or something?

"Well you are cradling your hand a little..."

His face instantly split into a wide grin and he stuck out his arm, wriggling his fingers so the ring caught the light. He felt triumphant. "It must be because I am not used to wearing this..."

The landladies eyes widened for a second and she hurried across the room taking his hand in hers, lifting it up towards her face to coo at the jewellery. "Oh my, Sherlock dear, John proposed?"

"He did. I said yes."

She closed his hand in hers, patting the top of it with a genuinely pleased smile and a light in her eyes. "Congratulations. "

Sherlock beamed a little brighter and she shook her head, turning away a little. "Anyway I must be going, can't stay here all day. You and John will be wanting some alone time I expect."

He didn't say anything he just left is eyes drift back to his hand, a strange fascination with its not oppressive but solid weight on his hand and the shine as it winked up at him. He listened to her trot back down the stairs and then quiet voices in the hall before the front door closed. The detectives face dropped; ah he would not be alone with John after all.

Footsteps behind him and he glanced up surprised to see the doctor was alone. In fact he looked irritated... "Sherlock, will you make yourself decent for god's sake."

He pouted. He looked fine thank you very much. "Why should I, this is my flat."

"No, it is our flat and I don't think Becker will be very happy if you carry on like that."

"Oh yeah and why is that?"

"Well, when you sit there looking like that I am going to...to..." The doctor looked away for a second and then back, his cheeks turning pink as he waved his hands in front of himself self consciously.

"Spit it out. What are you going to do?"

"I am going to get hard and I don't think we want him getting the wrong idea."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Really? You are going to get hard?"

John blushed and purposely looked away. The detective listened out for a second hearing Mrs. Hudson's pots and pans banging the floor below them an idea forming in his mind. She was making tea, they had approximately ten minutes. He smirked and licked his lips slowly, stretching out his bare legs, long enough to reach the other chair where he rested his heels, wriggling his toes and moaning softly under his breath as if the pressure easing on his muscles was pleasurable.

John put his chin to his chest and crossed his arms, a grin he was unable to hide spreading across his face but he still didn't look. The detective reached up and plucked at the front of his dressing gown, the slick silk slid slowly over his skin revealing the pale expanse of his chest as he tensed his stomach muscles and dragged thin fingers over his collarbone.

There was a soft whimper from behind him and Sherlock hid a smirk, trailing a finger up to trap it between his teeth and trace over his lips and suddenly the doctor was across the room, hands on his shoulders mouth covering his, John's hot breath mingling with Sherlocks and he pressed against him with bruising force.

After a minute the doctor pulled back, the detective's lips following him as he tried to maintain contact and John leant his head against his (Smug.) lovers shoulder before his hands darted down to pull the dressing gown closed, tying it tightly and straightening the lapels.

"There."

A polite cough at the door made both men freeze and John peeked over the back of the chair to catch the eyes of commander Becker. The commander grinned and put his hands on his hips, his eyes darting to the lip of the chair and back up to Johns slightly flushed face.

"I can give you a little time if..."

"No no, come in. Sorry we...uh...I..."

Sherlock said nothing he just poked his arm around the arm and waved his wrist regally. "My brother sent you."

"Yes sir."

"Well get on with it."

"Two rooms have been booked at-"

"No."

"I'm sorry sir but it is impera-"

"I said no."

Becker closed his mouth and put his arms behind hind his back, feet planted firmly on the floor. John glanced down at Sherlock as if searching for something. The detective glared right back up at him. He wanted to stay here, at the flat. (He hoped John would understand but John would be worried. He may side with Mycroft. He would want to be safe.)

His face set and Johns matched his, the doctor standing and nodding at Becker. "You heard him commander. We stay."

Becker nodded and strode across the room. For a moment Sherlock wondered if they were going to be drugged and forcibly removed (After all, Mycroft had sunk that low before...although in that instance he hadn't needed to drug Sherlock. The detective had already done it for him.) but the commander simply swung a arm around John to grab the remote and pressed through the channels until the news flicker onto the screen.

## and today is a monumental day for equality. The legalisation of gay marriage-##

Sherlock froze, his eyes drifting from the screen to Johns rather shell-shocked face. This could only mean one thing. His stomach somersaulted, this...this would mean the world to John.

"I see Mycroft has become aware of our engagement John."

"Really brother, you credit me with too much power."

Mycroft swept into the room with almost silent gush of wind, the soft thump of his umbrella touching the floor acting as an indication of his position in the room. Becker stood to attention and John turned to face the elder Holmes.

"No, I really think I don't."

Mycroft sneered and looked away from the elegant hand of Sherlock to turn to his soon to be brother-in-law and smile. He swept across the room grasping the doctor's hand in his and shaking it surprisingly strongly, wiry arms pumping up and down before he let go.

"Congratulations doctor Watson."

"Thank you."

John was quiet for a moment, the slight twitch of his fingers on the hand closest to Sherlock indicating he was nervous, thinking about asking Mycroft something obviously...

"Did you really...I mean...could you..."

"Oh no no no. You have spent too much time with my brother doctor. The legalisation of gay marriage has been coming for a long time now..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leant forwards to peer around the edge of the chair, squinting his eyes at Mycroft. "Yes but particularly close minded men are still rife in parliament; I don't think they would have found it easy. Do you?"

Mycroft smirked and lifted a hand to his face examining his (perfectly manicured.) nails and glancing out of the window. "Yes well, the campaigners and protestors did most of the work. It was inevitable really, I simply pushed...mentioned that perhaps sooner would be better than later."

Sherlock turned away as John began thanking his brother, leading him to the kitchen for a drink. His mind wandered from his family, from John and instead he thought about the case, the disappearing man.

His eyes drifted out of the window to the houses opposite and the small flock of birds huddled together against the cold. Another fluttered down from the sky, its movements causing snow to slide off the roof and drop down to the windowsill below completely covering a lone pigeon. As it shook the flurry from its feathers Sherlocks great mind whirred into action and he was struck by an idea. Leaping from his seat the detective rushed past John and Mycroft, down the stairs and out to the car.

It took the other men a full two minutes to catch up and by this time Sherlock was upside down in the driver's seat of Beckers car, resting on his shoulders he was trying to hotwire the vehicle only stopping when he heard the car door open and John's voice close to his ear.

"Sherlock. What are you doing?"

"I have to get to Lestrade John. I solved the case!"

"You solved the case."

"Yes! Come on, stop wasting time!"

"And so you have to go to Lestrade in your pants?"

Sherlock frowned, what did it matter if he wore clothes or not? The facts were still the facts regardless of what he looked like. Then again, judging by the doctors' expression it certainly mattered to him.

"Perhaps if you were to get me some clothes?"

John smiled and nodded (It was enough to almost make Sherlock feel bad for what he was about to do. Almost.) and backed out of the car, trotting up the step into baker street. Sherlock waited for the door to close before joining the wires and starting the car. He flipped himself around and going by instinct alone he managed to pull out of the parking space and head towards the station.

Striding through the station he ignored the gasps and exclamations of lesser mortals, intent on reaching Lestrade before the spark of his genius left him. Thankfully the DI was there, sitting with his arms crossed as Sherlock explained how the missing man had left the plane in disguise and how he was running from the army, in cahoots of course with the larger Russian gentlemen who had also been on the plane.

John burst in just as he finished his deduction and grabbed him by the arm, spinning him on the spot and slamming a plastic bag containing a shirt and a pair of trousers against his chest with enough force to wind him.

"What the hell do you think you are doing!"

"Sherlock was just telling me that-"

"I don't care. I don't care about the case he just solved for you. I want to know where in the ridiculous insane brain of his does he think it is just fine to steal commander Beckers car to drive across London without holding a license and strut in here to talk to you in his god damn pants!"

Lestrade chuckled and Johns head whipped around to stare at him, furious gaze forcing the detective to take a more serious expression. (It was actually quite arousing. But it probably wasn't the time to mention that...)

"What exactly is funny about that?"

"N0thing. It's just quite frankly I'm glad that this time he does in fact have clothes on at all."

"You mean he has walked in here-"

"Stark bollock naked. Yeah."

John slapped a hand to his face just as commander Becker appeared in the doorway, crossing his arms and glaring at Sherlock. "It was against your safety protocol to leave Baker street without correct protection Mr. Holmes."

"I was fine! I am fine!"

It was silly really. He made it to the station unharmed, why was everyone so angry at him? "No. No no no. Sherlock go get changed, Becker you go with him right now. I can't believe after everythin-"

John closed his eyes shaking his head and taking a deep breath. Sherlocks buzz from solving the case had all but disappeared. John was mad at him...in fact he was disappointed. It stung and he wrapped his arms around himself, the bag hanging loosely from his fingers.

"I'm sorry John."

"Don't, just...don't. Go. Now."

Becker sighed and gestured with his hand for Sherlock to follow him out and the detective glanced sadly at John before he trotted out behind him.

He frowned at himself in the mirror, the quiet knocking of Beckers hands beating out a rhythm as he waited outside echoed around the small space. Irritating. John was furious with him, it was unfair he didn't think about the whole 'trying-to-kill-us' thing. He was focussed on the case, John should have known that. Sherlock growled and scrubbed cold water over his face shaking his head and pouting at his reflection.

A sharp knock against the door broke his reverie and Sherlock turned to face Becker, the commander face peering around the door. "Mr Holmes, we must return to Baker Street."

Sherlock sighed and nodded waving the man away. "Alright, I'll be out in a minute."

Becker nodded and slid away hesitating for a moment and popping his head back around. "If you don't mind me saying sir he was only worried about your safety. In light of everything you have been through I don't think it is that unreasonable to be angry at you."

Sherlock sighed and tried to glare at the commander but it lacked any real venom. Becker was normal, he had experience in relationships and was probably right...although did he really know? After all it was clear that the commanders own partner was missing or otherwise not present. It was obvious from his hair.

John was pacing Lestrade's office when they returned and when Sherlock slunk up to him the doctor fixed him with a slightly stiff gaze. Sherlock paused; he wasn't sure what to do. (It was embarrassing really, normally he would simply shrug everyone else's emotions off but John was different and he didn't want to upset him.) He opened his mouth to speak but the doctor held up a hand closing his eyes and shaking his head. Sherlock looked to Lestrade but the detective wouldn't meet his eyes, a hand to his face. Ah, John must've explained exactly what Sherlock had done.

The commander nudged him in the back and gestured with a bullet proof jacket. "Here."

He put it on careful to strap it tightly, messing with the neckline and pulling it down slowly. He was fussing, avoiding looking up or acknowledging the disappointment and tension in the room. It was almost palpable and he waited for Johns legs to walk out ahead of him before he left the office. Not bothering to say goodbye to Lestrade he slid his hand down his hips and glanced at Johns retreating back, his shoulders were straight and his chin held high indicating he was still angry, however his thumb was rubbing gently against the band on his ring finger and after a moment he glanced back over his shoulder at the detective his eyes softening slightly.

"Sherlock, come on."

He trotted obediently up to the doctor and tried a hesitant smile. (He was unsure if it would work and the moments between his lips curling up and Johns reaction felt like a lifetime.) The doctor sighed and gestured with his head for Sherlock to join him at his side and he reached down running his fingers across Sherlocks palm, leaning towards him as Becker talked on his headset.

"I'm sorry. I know you get tunnel vision when there is a case involved and I know that I am always going to have to share you with your work but there is a madman somewhere out there who is out to kill us. You have to understand that it frightens me when you go driving across London in your pants on your own. You could've died Sherlock."

The detective sighed and titled his head at John. "I am sorry."

"I know."

Becker turned back to them and smiled. "Okay we have a short walk to the car park and then back to Baker Street. Mr Holmes is waiting to discuss your wedding and has asked me to inform you that your mother is on route."

Sherlock frowned. Mummy? Dammit. He considered their options of escape as they descended the stairs and walked out into the street his eyes catching on a man nearby. Not a man, a boy, no older than 20, his outward body language confident but his eyes flickering back and forth to the door until he spotted them, eyebrow raising just a measure before he coughed into his palm and ran towards them.

"Doctor Watson! Doctor!"

Becker turned towards him and held up a hand blocking the boy from reaching John.

"Uh, hello?"

"John, John Watson?"

"Uh yeah?"

Becker frowned and placed a hand near his hip, he was suspicious. (So was Sherlock but he decided not to speak, he didn't want to interrupt, he wanted more information.) Unfortunately the tiny step away gave the boy enough room to lunge forward, his nervous excited smile disappearing in a instant replaced by a cold hard glint to his eyes and it seemed to happen in slow motion, the knife flying from his sleeve and plunge into Johns stomach just under the edge of the protective vest, and the boy yanked his arm back, dropping the knife to turn and sprint away.

Becker reached out to grab John as the detectives mind focussed entirely on the retreating back of Johns attacker all other stimulus fading to a blurry mess and he was running his legs wind-milling and his feet pounded across the slabs the feeling a vague sensation, dulled by his heart thudding in his chest. Breathing didn't seem to be a factor and he powered onwards as the boy skittered between walkers and cars, crossing the street and climbing up over a wall.

Sherlock followed him without hesitation, leaping up against the cold hard meal, throwing himself over and falling, his eyes still locked on the boy as a black car pulled up beside him and he disappeared inside as it screeched off.

Sherlock lay there on the ground, his face rubbing against the freezing concrete and snow and he blinked the floor shifting beneath him. John...John had been ... He was back on his feet, back over the wall back down the street and now there were police everywhere, a ambulance team lifting a stretcher up into their van and Sherlock rushed across to them.

Strong arms circled around his pulling him back, tripping him as he pulled desperately towards the van, to John. "If you value your life I suggest you release me commander." Becker only tightened his arms, dragging Sherlock backwards to the station and into the lobby.

"Mr Holmes please."

"Get off me!"

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade appeared beside them and helped Becker to push the flailing detective onto one of the stuff plastic chairs in the reception of the station. "No no, I have to go with John!"

"No Sherlock, you are more help to him here. We need you."

The detective slumped in the chair and stared down at his shaking hands, at his ring and he frowned. The panic seemed to desert him all at once and he felt nothing. He was numb, as numb as he had ever been on the drugs and his eyes focussed his heart rate slowly returning to a steady beat. After a minute his head snapped up and Sherlock fixed a cold calculated gaze on Lestrade, ignoring the confused (and rather frightened.) glance Becker gave him.

"The boy was aged between 18 and 20, probably picked up on the street and offered money to stab John. He was nervous but clearly had the pathology to follow through. The man who hired him must've known this, so he did his research."

"If you will provide an e-fit I can search the database, we could get a hit..."

"No. You weren't listening! I said he would've done his research, the boy won't have a record."

"Then how are we supposed to find him?"

"He had mud on his heel, a light grey and stones, pieces of concrete. So he lives on an estate, his hand had a tattoo..."

Sherlock paused; his eyes flickered closed for a moment as he focussed on the image of the boy's hand, the long fingers wrapped around the black plastic handle, white knuckles he was holding it so tightly his hand shook a little. There it was, at the base of his thumb a circular logo, bright and crisp in solid black. It was familiar... he frowned and got to his feet, pacing between Becker (who was guarding the door.) and Lestrade his fingers steeped in front of his face and he glance outwards at the notice board.

He had seen that logo before, he knew he had and the detective elbowed his way past the DI rushing to the board to scrabble at the paper. He pulled the crumpled sheets clear off the wall and tore through to the flyer.

"Here, Brannigans Gym."

He threw the paper at Lestrade, his work was done. The DI looked down, his face was hard and he pursed his lips pulling his walkie from his belt. Sherlock waited for his back to be turned before he faced Becker and pointed at him.

"You-"

But the commander interrupted him. "Mr Holmes I will secure you a new guard at the first opportunity. I can only-"

It was Sherlock turn. "No. No, you stay."

"What? But I allowed this to happen, I should've protected you, I should have protected Doctor Watson."

Sherlock lifted his hand to silence him. He didn't want somebody else, he didn't need another person crowding his life and he certainly didn't trust somebody else. Becker had proven himself competent in other respects and one failure... well he was not going through the process of a new guard when he already had this one. Becker stayed.

"No you stay. Take me to the hospital commander."

Becker blushed slightly and lifted his gun from his waist peering around the door to ensure the perimeter had been secured. They walked across to Becker's car, it had been pulled around for them and Sherlock slid into the front passenger seat. He tapped impatiently on the dash. He had no idea of John's condition and the panic was beginning to build in his chest again, the (Dare he own it.) guilt thrumming in his veins and he pulled out his phone.

No messages.

Fuck.

He glance dup to see the streets of London flying past as they weaved through traffic, sirens of the police bike in front of them flickering and blinding him. He squinted and glanced across to Becker and was hit by a thought. The car the boy had gotten into a car. A car in London. He opened a text and started typing as fast as he could.

The boy got into a car. License plate GH21 FTR. SH

He waited for a moment and tensed, relaxing when his phone beeped and Lestrade's reply flickered on screen.

Searching. Give John my best.

He slid the phone back in his pocket and pushed open the car door. He jumped out and froze. His mind had been whirring in the background throughout his deductions and suddenly it had provided an answer. Becker touched him gently on the arm and Sherlock jerked at the touch.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Commander..."

He was still staring out across the hospital car park, his eyes fixed on the large plastic sign denoting a particular section of the tarmac.

M.

His mind sang to him and Sherlock screwed his eye shut.

M Is For...