For weeks, there was no scarf tied to the tree in West Birches Bay, and every day that passed without a signal left Sherlock feeling heavier. He still felt horrible about his unwanted visit to Lover's Island, but he had apologized, and he hadn't expected John to stay angry for so long. He was afraid his message had been destroyed, and while he could somewhat ignore his gloomy thoughts during the day when he had other things to occupy his mind, it was different at night. He kept telling himself there had been longer breaks between meetings before, that it hadn't been that long, and that John's prolonged silence could be explained by many things other than anger. Nonetheless, he remained terribly afraid John hadn't seen his message and was now convinced Sherlock didn't care about him.

During that time, no one saw Harriet Watson in the village. Heavy packages continued to arrive for her, and a servant made frequent trips to the store with a list, which suggested she wasn't traveling. However, Gregory noticed the lists weren't written in the same handwriting as usual, and he discussed it with Sherlock, who he knew was driving himself crazy thinking about John.

"Maybe she's sick, and John has to stay at her bedside to take care of her. He is a doctor after all. That may explain why he can't see you yet."

The possibility made Sherlock feel slightly better.

"Plus, he's not your only friend. Do you want to play chess?" Gregory asked.

Sherlock looked at him and frowned; he couldn't fully comprehend what he was saying about John not being his only friend. Obviously, Gregory and he were also good friends, but in Sherlock's eyes John was unique, and their friendship couldn't be compared to the one he shared with Gregory. He enjoyed the time they spent together and it was nice to have a chess partner who never got tired of loosing, but John was a marvel and a mystery. Spending time with him was better than his experiments, better than chess, better than gruesome stories about chopped limbs, better than deducing the personal history of the villagers, better than walks in the cemetery, and better than being right all the time.

Sherlock knew Gregory enjoyed the time he spent with him, but he was also aware that when they weren't together, he had a lot of things to occupy his mind. He had Sarah and the upcoming wedding, his family, his morning job at the sawmill, and the afternoons he spent in the store. It was different with John, who had organized a treasure hunt with Sherlock in mind, who had thought of him and brought a second chair to his hut, and who had seen a skull and picked it up for him. Sherlock liked being cared for by someone who didn't have the duty to do so, and most of all, he liked knowing John thought of him even when they weren't together, just like he thought of John when they were apart.

Autumn had already settled when John finally tied his red scarf to the usual spruce branch. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and Sherlock decided to wear his long grey coat with a scarf and a pair of black leather gloves. It wasn't that cold, but his last meetings with John had gone on long after the sun had set, and if today was no exception, he didn't want the cold to distract him. He was more nervous than he wanted to let on; it had been over a month since he had invaded John's privacy on Lover's Island, and as much as he wanted to believe John wasn't angry with him, he still doubted.

As soon as Sherlock's small boat hit the shore, John pushed it back towards the open sea and got in. He insisted on taking Sherlock's place in the rower's seat, and when they were both sitting comfortably, he leaned towards him.

"I saw your message," he said simply, but he was smiling, and that meant more than any words he could have said.

Again, Sherlock noticed how beautiful John's eyes were, especially now, as they were completely devoid of the resentment he had feared to see in them. They were remarkably blue, as blue as the sea, and Sherlock could detect a hint of tiredness in them. Perhaps Gregory had been right in suggesting John had had to take care of his sick sister. They both remained silent until John stopped rowing, and by then they were so far they couldn't see the shore anymore.

"I can't promise anything, we may have to come back," John said.

Nothing happened indeed, but the wind was soft, and the sea was shivering under invisible caresses. Sherlock was glad John had read his message and wasn't angry, that he had once again forgiven his rash behaviour, and had signalled for them to meet again. Sherlock wasn't asking for anything else. Some part of him was scared that after the tenth meeting, John would announce that the game – and their friendship – was over, so he didn't object to a repeat.

Two hours later, as John was picking up the oars and getting ready to bring them back to shore, a dolphin cut through the water. Then another, and another after that. A second clan appeared not too far from them and John applauded, his smile so wide his whole body seemed transformed. The dolphins executed a few reconnaissance jumps before beginning their extraordinary ballet. At first, they formed two distinct groups that swam away from each other. Then, as though driven by a secret signal, they charged straight ahead, and at the last moment, when a collision seemed inevitable, they jumped in the air. They did it again and again, much to the two men's delight.

Sherlock had never seen dolphins dancing like that. He admired their prowess as his heart pounded in his chest; he felt so far away from Sainte-Cécile, it felt like being in a completely different world. Far from Anderson and Donovan, from scandal, and rumour-mongers. He eventually lost track of time; he often did when he was out with John. After a while, the dolphins swam away, and John picked up the oars to bring them back to shore.

"I can row," Sherlock offered, "it will give your arms a rest."

"Don't be ridiculous, you'll have to row back all the way to Sailboat Bay later, I don't want you to get tired already."

"If this is an attempt to regain some virility you think you lost after you sobbed on my shoulder, don't bother," Sherlock said.

He was in a teasing mood, one of the effects of John's genuine smiles. It made Sherlock feel as if his friend had wrapped his red scarf around his heart, which was ridiculous; feelings had nothing to do with the organ pumping blood throughout the body. Like John had wrapped his scarf around his brain, then. That was a much more fitting image.

"I was not sobbing!" John said in his best imitation of Sherlock's offended tone.

"I assure you, I do not find you less masculine than I did before then."

"Stop it, or I'm pushing you into the water."

They smiled at each other, and once again Sherlock felt the urge to touch, he longed for the relaxing proximity they had shared during their previous meetings. He suspected John felt the same, he had, after all, initiated some of their physical contacts in the past. Once they hit the shore of West Birches Bay, Sherlock asked if John needed to go back to his sick sister, and when he said he had all the time in the world, Sherlock felt a bit warmer.

John led him into the forest and up to Enraged Cape, where he sat on the same rock from which they had watched the moon back in April. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and his hands were flat on the rock beside him for support; a very open and vulnerable position. Sherlock took it as an invitation, and he lay down beside his friend with his head resting in his lap. Almost instantly, John's fingers were in his hair, and Sherlock let out a happy sigh.

"How did you know about my sister's illness?" John asked as his fingertips rubbed small circles on Sherlock's scalp.

"I wish I could take credit, but Gregory suspected it when he stopped seeing her in the store. Apparently, it's not that unusual for her to send a servant, but recently it stopped being her handwriting on the lists they brought."

"That friend of yours has good deducing skills, you should keep an eye on him or he will steal your glory," John said playfully.

"She's fine now," he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock nodded, partly because he didn't care enough about John's sister to respond, but also because most of his attention was directed to John's strong hand in his hair; a hand that had been trained to save lives before being trained to kill. Right now, it was giving life to a thousand butterflies in Sherlock's stomach, and killing his ability to think properly. Involuntarily, his eyes closed and he made a humming contented sound low in his throat, which made John chuckle.

"You're just a giant kitten."

Again, Sherlock remained silent. He felt quite like a kitten with John's fingers entwined in his curls. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning shades of orange and pink while the air was getting colder. Sherlock was glad he had chosen to wear his coat and gloves. After a few minutes of pleasant silence, John spoke.

"Your friend Gregory is getting married next week, isn't he?"

"He is. His fiancée wanted an autumn wedding."

"It's risky; only one day of strong winds and the colours will be gone from the trees."

John was thoroughly enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's curls between his fingers. His hair looked so wild and untamed, it was quite a surprise to find out how soft it actually was. He carefully let one thumb drop lower, and he gently brushed Sherlock's neck. The resulting sound was incredibly satisfying, and he couldn't resist doing it again. And again.

"Come with me," Sherlock said as soon as the idea hit him.

Gregory had told him people often brought someone they liked with them at weddings, and he liked John a lot. In fact, thinking about attending the wedding with John instantly made the whole thing seem far less boring. Having someone to look at during the ceremony, sharing a smile when the priest got too emotional, and watching the party from afar while whispering what he could deduce about the guests' lives; those were just a few things that would make the wedding far more interesting.

"Where?"

"The wedding. Come with me."

John laughed, but there was nothing joyful about it.

"Have you lost your mind? I can't go with you!"

Sherlock turned his head slightly to look up at him.

"I don't care about what people say, and I know Gregory would be happy to meet you."

"Sherlock, look at you and look at me…."

"I could wear a mask too."

He could picture it clearly in his mind; himself in his brand new black suit and wearing a black leather mask, and John in his usual brown mask with a dark blue suit that would accentuate his eyes. The image was striking, beautiful, and a little moving. Sherlock felt a shiver running down his spine, and he snuggled closer to John's abdomen.

Again, John let out a very sad chuckle.

"Can you imagine how unfair that would be to the bride? Every eye would be on us, every conversation would be about us."

Sherlock knew and he didn't care, but he didn't press the subject. Instead, he butted his head against John's hand, hoping he would resume the stroking that had ceased the moment he had suggested they attended the wedding together.

"Besides," John continued, "I'm sure there is a nice lady you could bring."

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"Young ladies are tedious."

Even if he had been interested in bringing someone other than John, he wasn't a very recommendable frequentation with all the rumours about him still being spread around the village. Molly Hooper was probably the only person who would've accepted an invitation, but he didn't doubt spending a full evening with her would be mind-numbingly boring.

The moon was high now, and the unclouded sky was freckled with bright stars. Sherlock didn't know how long they had been there; it felt as though his brain function had been transferred to John's fingers. He closed his eyes again and sighed, hardly believing how good he felt.

"I don't think I can move," he said after a while, and he could feel John's laugh through his fingers.

"I don't think I want to," John replied.

"I hope you weren't planning on making this the ninth treasure. You have used the moon once, using it again would be cheating."

"Making the rules now, are you?" He traced one of his fingers behind Sherlock's right ear. "This is not the ninth treasure. Our next meeting will be on a day when the sky will overflow."

Sherlock's only response was to smile and close his eyes.

When John stopped stroking Sherlock's hair, the sun was rising again, chasing after the moon.

:::

Gregory Lestrade got married before the red signal appeared again. Sarah was lucky; the trees were still wearing their colourful leaves, and the weather was very pleasant. The church was full, the benches packed, and Sherlock was finally grateful for his best man role that prevented him from having to sit that closely to anyone. Gregory looked very handsome in his brand new black suit, and so did Sherlock who managed to look graceful despite the awkwardness he felt inside.

To busy his mind, Sherlock surveyed the crowd. Aunt Martha was wearing a ridiculously large hat with her purple dress, and was sitting next to Mrs. Turner who looked a lot plainer in her sober brown dress. Not too far away were Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty. When Moran noticed Sherlock looking at them, he waved and elbowed his husband who looked at Sherlock and winked. That was strange, Sherlock thought before looking at someone else. Sally Donovan was wearing a surly expression; probably because she had gained four pounds since the last time he had seen her.

He was about to start deducing what was causing the red spots on the youngest Lestrade's neck, but the organist began playing and the door opened, flooding the church with sunlight. Sarah made her entrance as everyone stood up and turned around to look at her. Her father held her arm to guide her down the aisle, and Molly Hooper followed, holding the dress' trail. The ceremony was as boring as expected, but Sherlock entertained himself by trying to deduce who was going to cry, and when. By the time the vows were exchanged, almost all the women were in tears, and the game lost its appeal. Not soon enough, they were out of the church and heading to the Lestrades' house for the festivities.

Mrs. Lestrade had outdone herself. Their yard was lit with what looked like hundreds of gas lights, and the tables were overflowing with heaps of food. By the time the reception was in full swing, Sherlock was bored out of his mind, and was starting to wish he had brought his skull with him. He had just found a nice corner from which he could observe without being bothered when Moran and Moriarty made a beeline towards him.

Not such a secluded corner, after all.

"Sherlock! What a nice suit! Do I recognize Mrs. Westwood's style?" Moriarty exclaimed.

"You do. This was a very lucrative wedding for her."

"Good! That's very good!" Moriarty replied before abruptly changing the subject.

"How is that Watson man doing?"

Sherlock frowned, different responses running through his mind while he analyzed them, trying to decide which one would get him out of this conversation the fastest. He settled on sarcasm, a very low form of wit, but a usually effective one.

"The usual: burning villages, boiling children, cackling evilly."

Apparently that was not the right answer to give; the two men burst out laughing, and a few heads turned in their direction to eye them suspiciously before resuming their own conversations.

"You know," Moran said, "Jim and I used to do just that."

Sherlock was confused. "Burn villages, boil children and cackle evilly?"

More laughter from the married men, followed by more bewilderment from Sherlock.

"Of course not!" Moran said, and there were still traces of laughter in his deep voice.

"We used to sneak around in the woods, run away from our parents, hide from people, and share kisses in forests," he added before tenderly looking at his husband, who giggled.

"Yes, we shared kisses," Jim said, and from his tone, it was obvious a lot more than kisses had been shared while they had been gallivanting together.

Sherlock's eyes grew wide; this conversation was certainly not taking the intended direction. He was not at all interested in being told the tale of how Aunt Martha's two tenants had met and fallen in love, especially if parallels were being drawn between their love story and his friendship with John. Also, he didn't want them spreading more rumours, especially if kissing was involved.

Moriarty must have known what was going on in Sherlock's mind, because he shook his head.

"You're mistaken, we are not trying to gather juicy details. Well, we wouldn't object to juicy details, but we would never think about spreading them around town."

"Of course not!" his husband added. "But we were in a similar situation once, and we would've appreciated some understanding or offers of kind ears. So that's what we're offering."

"You're offering ears?"

"Kind ones," Moriarty replied, "and tea. If you and Watson ever want to visit us for tea, or if you need someone to talk with, please know our door will always be open for you."

The confusion was mostly gone – at least now he knew what they were talking about – but Sherlock was still surprised by the fact that neither one of his interlocutors seemed to believe John was the devil's son or a vicious beast.

"Thank you…." Sherlock answered, unsure of what one was suppose to say in those situations.

"We've heard all about you from Mrs. Hudson; you seem like a reasonable man, and if you chose him as your friend, we know he must be a good man," Moriarty said before being distracted by the small group of musicians who had started playing a waltz.

"Oh Sebastian! I love this song! Let's dance!"

He then ran off to the improvised dance floor, leaving his husband behind.

"Look at him!" Moran said fondly as his husband gestured enthusiastically for him to come, "How could I resist that?"

He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Seriously Sherlock, you're welcome to our house anytime. So is Watson."

With one last look, Moran was gone, and Sherlock watched as he grabbed Moriarty's hand, kissed his palm, and led him to the center of the dance floor. Sherlock watched for a while as they spun and twirled around, and before he realized it, his eyes were searching the crowd for someone who he knew wasn't there. Instead, he saw Gregory approaching, red faced and grinning like a loon, more than a little tipsy.

On the dance floor, Moran and Moriarty were swaying cheek to cheek. Moriarty pressed his mouth to Moran's ear and whispered, "Do you think he will come?"

"No. But I think it matters that we offered."