The doorbell rang. John stood up to answer it.
There stood Mycroft.
"Good morning, John." His stare was fixing on Sherlock's face. "I have a little present for you."
"Mycroft." Sherlock said with his most dangerous voice, which aroused John's curiosity.
"What's that?" He asked.
"A souvenir from Great British Museum, actually." Mycroft smiled to John. "I think you should have it."
"Well, that's considerate." John was total confused, "But why?"
"For your close examination to the fire scene." Mycroft handed John a well decorated box.
John hesitated. Mycroft meant something he doesn't understand yet. The next second Sherlock grabbed the box away.
"No." John heard himself shouting, "That's for me. I'll have it." He decided to ignore the foxy smile on Mycroft's face. There was something hidden from him again, he made his mind to find it out.
"John?" Sherlock warned him, but John insisted. Finally, in extreme reluctance, Sherlock handed over the box
It was heavy. John shook it in hand; a cylinder. He could almost feel the heat from Sherlock's gaze when he opened the box, then he picked up a delicate tea caddy, decorated with images from the book of dead.
"Oh." John examined it carefully. It was just a tea caddy, an expensive one though. "Well, good… Thanks." He looked at both Holmeses in turns, finally decided to find a right place for this fancy thingy in kitchen, and set off for it.
"Sorry to disappoint you." Mycroft smiled to his brother, the latter's eyes were shooting fire. "I add the oxygen bottle to my own collection. What a pity they didn't let you to re-examine the fire scene, isn't it?"
Sherlock didn't speak.
"I think we can sit down and talk about your experience as hacker." Mycroft's smile was even bigger when John came back. "Soon enough."
Then he smiled to John, "Thank you for all what you did. Good day." Then he left.
"All what I did? What did he mean?" John gave up interpreting Mycroft's words all by himself after five minutes.
"You saved my life, of course."
John looked up. The detective was looking at him, sincerely. "You did."
"Yes, a bit." John admitted. "You recovered surprisingly well, I'd say."
"For you didn't give me up in the first place." The detective pointed out keenly. "Rescue breath. Good job!"
"Ur." John got stuck, his face burned unnecessarily. "That was…"
"You don't have to explain." Sherlock assured him.
"No, I don't." John decided to shut up and went back to the kitchen while Sherlock typed "Technically kissed" into his phone.
The reply came soon; Lestrade's upset was full of the screen. "You win."
Sherlock sprang up from his sofa.
"John?" He shouted, "Want to go some good restaurants? I get 50 pounds from Lestrade this time."
"For the case?" John turned to him from kitchen, frowned in doubt.
"Kisses, actually." Sherlock broke into a sly grin.
"So," Lestrade checked his notebook, "Everyone in this room owes my 10 pounds except for Donovan, 20; and Anderson, 25."
"You know we could report this." Anderson said.
"Not if this was actually your idea." Lestrade reminded him kindly.
Everything seemed back to a better square one with extra bonus. By the end of the day, not only one person got this feeling.