This chapter is betad by TeapotInATempest. You are the best. Thanks again! All mistakes are mine. Btw, all chapters up till chapter ten, plus chapters 15,16 and 17, are betad and in perfect English now :) I will update the remaining chapters, too, as soon as they are betad.

Thanks again to everyone who read and reviewed the previous chapters. It means a lot! If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Is there anything you don't like? Please tell me all the same. I want to improve. If you like the story, please, recommend it to others. Btw, I'd like to know what you think of the summary. Any suggestions how to improve it?

I couldn't resist to try a cliffhanger in the last chapter. Sorry! But it certainly worked :)

Stephanie: Thanks for suggesting the counselling method of "The eulogy and the casket". I will try it in the next chapter and hope you will like it.

WarmGlow: Thank you for your questions and suggestions considering some of the previous chapters. I will update them.

Everyone: Okay, I have made Sherlock Holmes write a love letter. I sincerely hope I have done his character justice. It's like writing a love story into the theorem of Phytagoras :) Please have mercy on me!

Chapter seventeen

Sherlock looked intently at his friend. The determined expression on his face alarmed John slightly and he was on tenterhooks. He sat on the edge of his seat. Unwittingly, he gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"John," Sherlock began, "my proposal was not really becoming to a gentleman courting. Please, let me use this opportunity to declare myself further."

Oh. My. God.

For a moment, John thought of their audience and desperately wished the ground would open and swallow him up. Then he reminded himself of the bargain he had made with himself – to let go of the need to control everything and to allow the relationship to unfold naturally. He refused to back out of it, even if his mad friend was taking a quantum leap again. John took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

The mix of emotions must have shown on his face for Sherlock squeezed John's hand now on his own account. "Don't be afraid," Sherlock whispered soothingly, locking eyes with John.

John could see that this was hard for Sherlock, too. He took courage from this thought. "Please, go on," he heard himself muttering under his breath.

The audience was as quiet as a mouse.

"John," Sherlock repeated his name and smiled sheepishly. "I know I'm not the easiest person to live with. I am also very well aware of my shortcomings in connection with our romantic involvement. However, the fact that you are still with me, after all I put you through, must mean something."

John thought that it probably meant he was as mad as a hatter, too. But that was fine with him and didn't really come as a revelation.

"I know that I have been a lousy flat mate, a difficult friend, and, I will most certainly be an awful husband. I am truly sorry for all the times I upset you. When it comes to emotions, I tend to mess things up," he said and paused for a moment, sighing. "Give me work; give me problems; give me riddles and puzzles to solve: these are my metier. No one is my master there and very few are my equals. Relationships on the other hand are a minefield. There are expectations to be met – implicit, various expectations. I'm oblivious to them. I'm skating on thin ice in the area of relationships," Sherlock said, grimacing, with a vague wave of his hand.

John couldn't suppress a fond smile. Since the day they met, Sherlock had really tried his best to improve in that area. It started unwittingly when they first visited 221B Baker Street. John was surprised by the mess inside, and Sherlock clumsily did his best to rearrange his belongings, seeking his approval. It was only a small gesture, but it showed that Sherlock wanted to improve.

At the sight of John's fond expression, Sherlock's tense face relaxed. It seemed to remind him why he felt the relationship mattered at all. "I abandoned the concept of having a relationship entirely after my last one came to nothing. I didn't think about it again until I met you. I told myself, I would never love again, but as much as I didn't want to, you came along and made me. You walked into my life and showed me another way. Since that day, you have touched my life in many ways. I enjoy doing things with you and spending time with you. The influence you have on me amazes me daily. You are my best friend, and I value very highly the bond we share," Sherlock said with a serious face.

John listened to Sherlock's word with bated breath. He knew that it was exceedingly difficult, most of the time even impossible, for him to be open and to let down his defences. He was terrified to let someone else get close enough to him to see his innermost thoughts and secrets. Sherlock resisted most of the time, putting up an invisible wall in an attempt to protect himself from that sort of exposure, and from rejection and hurt. However, as much as this wall might protect him, it also shut him off from his own feelings. He blocked emotions, even though he was aware that sooner or later those stashed-away pains would inevitably leak out. It had been like that in the case of "The Woman", and in the case of "The Hound". At least, that was John's had taken great pains to write this letter; the effort he put into it was admirable. Despite the audience in the background, these moments of "soul striptease" were intensely intimate. John felt a warm feeling spreading in his stomach. He longed to hug his friend at the very least.

"The day I had to leave you behind I tried to harden my heart against the feelings which I had developed towards you. Back then, it was necessary. Believe me, when I say I've never adopted a more difficult course. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It certainly did. I missed the little things; I missed everything about you. I found that work remained the best antidote to sorrow. I am distinctly aware though that your sufferings were many times greater than mine, for I knew the truth and you didn't. Please, understand that the business with Jim was nothing but an ordeal, a trial of patience. I know that I was playing with fire. But this struggle has defined me and made me realize my place in the world." Sherlock paused for a moment and looked John straight in the eye. "Mysteriously, through all those rough times, you remained faithful and loyal, and you forgave me in the end. I need you to know that I am grateful for that."

"I do," John whispered, barely audible, caressing Sherlock's hand with his thumb. "We've passed the acid test."

Sherlock slowly nodded, smiling faintly. "While writing this letter, I'm reminding myself of some of the reasons why I fell for you. You made me a better man, even when I did not want to be a good one. You are so kind – you enjoy being nice to people and caring for others. You always care about doing the right thing. You're interested in our health and well-being – well, someone has to be and I must confess that the task is safer in your hands," Sherlock said, grinning.

John couldn't help but respond by chuckling about the last bit, which eased the tension for a moment.

"You're generous, down to earth, sincere, responsible, practical, encouraging and conscientious. You're never a simpleton. You take our relationship seriously and you can enjoy the simple things in life. You're willing to talk with me about anything for hours, even if the subject is not as important to you as it is to me. I admire your imperturbable support. I like watching you talk to a friend on the phone, and seeing you laugh and smile. I'm relieved to know that you're happy and content. Bizarrely, you love being with me," Sherlock continued with knitted brows as if absorbed in thought for a moment, pondering this fact. "You are you," he added after a little while.

John had an idea what Sherlock liked about him and why they made a good match. It was nice though, to hear it from his own mouth for a change. Sherlock's words of endearment and adoration made him feel warm all over.

"It's a great thing for me to have someone to talk to. I like that we can laugh together, being childish. Even in our moods, regardless of the irritations of daily life, we manage to make each other laugh. Our teasing, that may seem odd to others, makes us giggle endlessly. Then again, you have a grand gift of silence. We know each other intimately, and the silence between us is comfortable. There's no need for endless conversations. I am relaxed and content when we sit on the sofa whether we talk or say nothing at all. Strangely enough, my mind is never affected adversely by our closeness. You stimulate me. The, at times, irritating slowness in your thinking process only makes my own impressions and intuitions flash up more vividly and swiftly."

John slightly frowned at him.

"Don't give me the look, John, you know what I mean," Sherlock replied, smiling affectionately at John's reaction. "You light me up," he added. He paused for a moment and his face assumed a most peculiar expression, barely visible to strangers and hidden behind a mask of carelessness – serious, tense, smitten and slightly pained. It seemed that he had to work up the courage to get to the next part. Sherlock studied John's face in silence.

John didn't know what he was looking for. So he just kept quiet, giving Sherlock the time he needed and watching his friend himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Now I know that I never knew anything about love before you."

John could hear the strong emotion under the casual tone of his voice. It was there in his eyes, too, visible despite the nonchalance of his expression. Another indication of his emotion was the fact that in John's lap, Sherlock was unconsciously clasping his hand for dear life. John stroked his friend's hand soothingly. Emotions weren't Sherlock's area. He knew that it was very difficult for him, stepping out of character like this, and articulating the depth of his loyalty and love. All those little hints went unnoticed by the others present, but, combined with Sherlock's words, they fanned John's glimmer of hope for the development of a romantic relationship between them. All he could do for the moment was look for signs of a similar hope in his friend's behaviour and try to express his own affection. Now they could proceed under the safe cover of the case and their pretended engagement. Only the solution of the case and, by implication, the disappearance of the absolute necessity of pretence between them, too, could reveal what they truly meant to each other.

"To some degree you even are my moral model, my social conscience. I can always rely on you to try to help me to avoid making a social blunder. You have achieved a very delicate balance between the vocal expression of your admiration, exclaiming "Fantastic" or "Extraordinary", and your disapproval of my behaviour, saying, "Sherlock, you're showing off again." I know that I do not always meet your high social standards. Mostly not. I thank you nevertheless, for putting up with me and giving me your guidance in the social field. It's comforting, to look across the room at you to find you looking at me, silently reassuring," Sherlock said. "In spite of my many faults, you've miraculously accepted my proposal. You must know that I want to make my marriage vow based on the love that you've shown me."

John couldn't suppress a smirk. It hadn't exactly been a proposal. Sherlock hadn't exactly asked and John had blackmailed him in return. On the other hand, that was probably the way Sherlock would propose, by informing the person in question that they were going to be married, not by asking for his or her hand. And maybe, even if Sherlock proposed for real, John would make a bargain with him again, instead of just accepting his suit.

"I'd like to offer my sincere apologies to you. I apologise for the mess inside our flat. I am terribly untidy and my personal belongings tend to pop up in unlikely places. I know that even though you share my love for chemistry, you stop short of agreeing that any experiment should occur on our kitchen table or that the results or remains of the experiments should show up in any other undesirable place. I promise that I will at least try not to forget to label them at all times and to store them in the fridge that is intended for their storage. However, I will most likely forget about it all the same. So, I am sorry that most of the time you won't be able to have a decent dinner at our table and that our groceries will have to share the fridge with chemicals and even worse things," Sherlock told him, starting to specify his list of apologies. "I apologise for my moody times when I don't speak for days or when, in one of my strange moods, I decorate our walls in a way that you disapprove of. You think that neither the atmosphere nor the appearance of our living room is improved by it, and you're probably right, although I have to say in my defence that this activity of mine eases my tension profoundly. I apologise for my exasperating solos on the violin, especially those at ungodly hours, and I promise at least to terminate them by playing your favourite airs as a slight compensation for the trial upon your patience," Sherlock said low voiced, then, his face brightened. "Fortunately, among my many faults, my papers are your central issue. I promise to reorganise them at least twice a year if it makes you happy," he continued. "You are indeed one of the most long-suffering persons I know, and I apologise for trying your patience so often."

John couldn't argue with that. Then again, that applied to all of Sherlock's friends and close acquaintances. If anything, one had to be tough and terribly patient when dealing with the detective. He did things in his own way and you couldn't do much about it. Living with him required even more patience and ability to forgive. Luckily, he could be extremely charming as well, and strangely endearing. In the end, you either had a soft spot for him or you didn't, and John certainly had. Saying "sorry" still wasn't easy for Sherlock, but John knew that he tried to swallow his pride more and more often and to admit his faults, when he realized he was wrong. Sherlock was pure and honest, and his serious efforts to improve compensated for many things.

Sherlock tightened the grip on John's hand. "I promise to respect and support your decision to start your own medical practice and develop your skills as a doctor. I know that will sometimes mean sacrifice. That sometimes you will come home late. That sometimes you will be tired. That sometimes you won't have time for me. I know that I will not always be the centre of your attention. I understand that loving me is not your only task in the world," Sherlock said with a straight face, unsmiling. His voice was firm and steady. He never broke eye contact.

John's mouth went dry. Before he could think of anything to reply to Sherlock's unexpected declaration, the detective went on.

"I promise never to put my job before you. I will set limits. I will come home. I will regularly preserve enough energy to be with you, make love to you, talk with you and listen to you. I will never be too busy to remind you, at least at regular intervals, that you are respected and cherished," Sherlock declared, his voice sharpened.

What? Why? What?

John stared at him in blank amazement. He felt like he was gaping at him with eyes wide-open, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish, and only hoped it didn't look as unattractive as he supposed it did. He still wasn't able to utter a word. John was too gobsmacked by all of it. His mind was temporarily unable to comprehend all that Sherlock was saying.

"I promise to try to embrace both our families. I may not like all our relatives, but they are family, and therefore deserve my respect. I hope we can continue to make jokes about them to blow off steam. But, to their face and in their company, I will try to be courtesy itself," he said, making a face, and looking as if he had taken a coarse word into his mouth by putting "family" and "courtesy" into the same context.

"I promise to treat you with dignity and respect. There is no excuse for me to speak to you with chronic impatience in my voice. Even less excuse to speak to you with disdain or scorn, venting to you. I promise you my best manners. There will be presumably many times, when I'm bored or irritated, and when I will be in a nasty mood. When I'm like that, I'll most certainly overlook any or all of the above mentioned promises. I will forget myself. I will leave both of us wondering where my "Better Self" is. If it means anything to you, I promise that, when I come to my senses, I will have the common decency to be greatly embarrassed by my obnoxious behaviour, and to ask your forgiveness. There's only one thing left to say. I feel honoured that you deem it worthy to place your trust and love in me. I will do my utmost to make it worthwhile," he concluded his letter, looking at John expectantly.

John still was choked up and didn't know what to say. Sherlock didn't move. He still kneeled before him; their hands were still intertwined in John's lap.

The whole room remained silent for a while, looking back and forth between them. The only sound came from Anne, who was even weeping more severely now.

Even Dr. Martin was taken aback. She stared at Sherlock for what seemed several minutes. "Well, that was…," she started, but then John interrupted her, regaining his poise.

"…extraordinary," John whispered, smiling. He tried to keep his tone deliberately light. "Quite extraordinary." He was amazed by Sherlock's speech. Thousands of thoughts whirled in his mind. He was overwhelmed by emotions, but he didn't want to push his friend. He felt that both of them had gone as far as was possible for the moment, and although he was anxious to end the uncertainty, he wanted to take time, taking things slowly, for the benefit of both of them.

Sherlock replied with a faint grin.

John slowly let go of his hand. He pulled his friend into a tender embrace instead and kissed him very gently on his cheek. "You didn't just become a better man. You became the best," John said. "You're a great friend, and you will be a fine husband."

"To you?" Sherlock breathed, audible for John alone.

"Someone else on your mind?" he countered quietly.

"No, not at all."

John let out a mock sigh of relief. "Good. Although I should warn you that I'm the jealous type."

Sherlock grinned. "Could be dangerous."

"You say danger and I come running," John replied, grinning himself.

The tone of their conversation was playful. Their words could mean everything or nothing at all under the disguise of the case. The memories of their second kiss flashed through John's mind. That night Sherlock had let down his defences for a moment and John had caught another glimpse of Sherlock's innermost self. The kiss was pure and came from the heart, and was not thoroughly thought through, deliberate, or calculated. He wished nothing more than to get to know that part of his friend better, but he also knew that, at first, they had to finish this dance, this playing "hard-to-get", before "turning fear into courage" was a possibility for either of them. Then again, a man who was the master of patience was the master of everything else as well, John thought.

"We're certainly making progress here," Dr. Martin said, pleased with herself. "I think it might be time for you to try our method of "The eulogy and the casket". You will write a eulogy to each other and pretend to be dead, in turns."

"Err… I think that is a very bad idea," John said, startled, disengaging himself from the embrace.

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed."

"Why?" Dr. Martin asked.

"Because that's clearly … a bit not good," Sherlock replied, gesturing wild and looking at John for support.

"Not good at all. Besides, I will die before him," John agreed with him.

Sherlock shook his head. "That's highly improbable, John."

"I'm not writing your eulogy when you're dead," John said stubbornly.

"Why not? You know me the best," Sherlock asked curiously, apparently forgetting for a moment why the whole subject was "a bit not good" in the first place.

John looked at him incredulously. "Not now, not ever. I'M. NOT. WRITING. YOUR. EULOGY." John retorted sharply.

"Rubbish!" Dr. Martin interceded in their dispute. "I'm the counsellor. You're both writing a eulogy. Private session. Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock." She obviously wasn't in the mood to argue.

Sherlock looked guilty, as if he was angry with himself. He realised why John had made a fuss the moment he asked his question.

"It's OK," John whispered, patting him soothingly on the arm. "It's really OK."

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. "No ex can be worth such an amount of tediums. No matter how much you owe him. Thankfully, I've abandoned the concept of having a boyfriend who could turn into another ex. That would most certainly be my death," he muttered under his breath.

John frowned at him in mock indignation. "My, my, and you're telling me that now."

Sherlock looked up and broke into a mischievous smile. "You're not my boyfriend, John. You're much more… permanent."

"Thank goodness!" John replied, winking. "For a moment I thought you wanted to break off our engagement."

"You will not get rid of me that easily, my dear," Sherlock answered, kissing John's hand. Then, he finally stood up, pulling John up, too, and they went to sit back down on their own chairs on the far side of the room.

After John and Sherlock were seated again, they had to listen for another two hours to the more or less successful letters of the other participants. It had been torture for Sherlock who sat bent forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His whole appearance literally screamed "bored". John had felt constrained to take appropriate measures before something happened. That, and the fact that another convenient opportunity to express his affections presented itself to John. He placed his hand on Sherlock's lower back, and he tensed at the sudden, unexpected touch. John carefully stroked his back in a slow, circular motion, teasing him with his fingernails from time to time and aiming at provoking a tingling sensation on Sherlock's skin. For the rest of the session, John's hand became the focus of Sherlock's attention.

Yes, John thought, we're certainly making progress here.

A little while later, they were heading for lunch.

"What now?" John asked curiously.

"First, we'll have a full discussion with Jack. Let's find out what he thinks about this whole business. Then, we'll put pressure on Cameron," Sherlock answered good-humouredly.

"Putting pressure on Cameron?" John asked.

"You're doing the repeating-thing again," Sherlock remarked with knitted brows.

"I know it annoys you, Sherlock, and I'm sorry for that, but you're doing the "we-both-know-what's-going-on-look", and "we" do not," John retorted. "You know."

Sherlock sighed. "We must prevent Cameron from giving the letters to Dr. Martin. She will most likely destroy them as soon as they are in her possession. These letters are compelling evidence in David Jones' favour. His arrest is based upon the blackmailing letter the police found in his office. We can prove that the letter wasn't meant for him. However, that means that we have to acquire them first."

"Not burglary again," John said, appalled.

"No," Sherlock smiled. "Where can he keep them safe, John? The bedrooms have no safes and he wouldn't want his wife to find them. He also wants to prevent Dr. Cameron from taking them. Conclusion: He must keep them on his person."

"Oh no, you want to nick them?" John said, a cold shiver running down his back. If possible, picking his pocket was even worse than burglary. While the latter somehow had an anonymous element to it, John felt that the danger of being exposed was much greater when stealing in plain sight.

"Don't worry. I have a plan," Sherlock affirmed self-confidently.

"I'm relieved to hear that," John answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. He wasn't convinced.

"John, David Jones is innocent and I'm bound to prove it," the detective stated firmly.

John let out a heavy sigh. "I know."

Sherlock smiled reassuringly. "Good. You won't even notice when I give my performance."

"Jack's over there," John said, pointing in his direction imperceptibly, when they entered the dining room.

"Excellent. Shall we start then?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, the muscles of his face tensing up and his eyes immediately focusing on the suspect. He was the personification of alertness.

They helped themselves quickly at the lunch buffet and walked over to Jack and Iris.

"I hope you don't mind us sitting with you today?" Sherlock asked with feigned friendliness. "Our table neighbours are a little short of domestic bliss at the moment." However, Sherlock didn't wait for Jack and Iris to answer and sat down. John quickly followed his example.

"So, you work at a bank too? Must be incredibly interesting. Howard already told us so much about his work. Both of us have listened with bated breath, haven't we, John?" Sherlock said, his face belying his words.

"Right," John murmured.

"Yes," Jack answered in an aloof manner.

"Travelling within Britain all the time?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Yes," Jack answered with a straight face.

Sherlock assumed a face of mock sympathy. "That must be terrible exhausting for Iris."

"My wife stays with our community, of course," Jack replied condescendingly.

"Of course," Sherlock copied Jack's answer. "Do you travel all the way up north?"

"No, just within southern England."

John came up with something. "Well, you're newlywed. It must be difficult for you to integrate all these things."

Sherlock shot a glance of approval at John.

"I've been doing that for five years now. Iris knew what she was getting herself into."

"Five years. Really? Interesting!" Sherlock said, his eyes glinted with excitement. A sardonic smile played on his lips.

"You know that you're living in sin?" Jack suddenly said, defiantly, to Sherlock.

"Sin?" John blurted out.

"You're committing a mortal sin," Jack answered, narrowing his eyes to slits.

Good gracious, that guy really had bats in his belfry.

"Really, are we? Explain!" Sherlock challenged him, feigning ignorance.

"Man love is a deadly sin. You'll be burning in hell."

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I really appreciate your efforts to save my soul but I already have an appointment in hell. Don't want to disappoint him."

"Yeah, right," John agreed. "I have a bone to pick with someone there, too."

"You'd better not make fun of me," Jack said with a sinister voice.

"Is that a threat?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed. "Because in that case I have to inform you, that you'll have to wait in line."

Both men stared at each other. Jack looked away first.

"Dear me," Jack laughed forcefully. "I'm just a humble servant of God, trying to get straying people back on the straight and narrow. I cannot force you to follow my path."

"Although you interest me exceedingly, I'm terribly sorry to have to declare this meeting closed. On closer examination, I'll give the "short of domestic bliss"- couple another try," Sherlock faked another sweet smile and walked over to Anne and Ben, dragging John along.

"That guy is bonkers," John remarked.

Sherlock rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Yes, he's completely and utterly crackers."

Despite himself, John grinned. To hear Sherlock speaking slang was rare and, when it occurred, funny in itself. He was dead chuffed about finding himself another dangerous, mad opponent.

"Is it him?" John asked.

Sherlock looked squarely at John, grinning. "Let's wait for the results of the picture and hope for the best!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "John, my dear, why don't you get us some tea?" he added when they were seated, within earshot of Anne and Ben.

Automatically, John stood up again to do Sherlock's bidding. Sherlock's sudden want of tea had taken him too much by surprise to give him a good telling off for his attitude. "Do you want some tea, too?" John addressed their table neighbours.

"That would be lovely," Anne said, "I'm coming with you."

Ben grumbled in agreement.

John smiled in a friendly way at Anne who took his arm.

"What a lovely letter he wrote for you," she said, smiling diffidently.

"Yes."

"When will you get married?" she asked.

John looked at her awkwardly. "Well," he said, thoughtfully. At the thought of marriage, his face warmed. He caught himself thinking that wearing Sherlock's ring was an honour in itself and that he already gotten used to the silver band on his hand. He didn't know how he would feel about not wearing it anymore. Was that still a possibility? Not wearing it? He took a deep breath. One step at a time he reminded himself.

"We don't want to rush into marriage," he said, being honest. "I'd love to get married for real, not just a civil partnership. But I'm willing to take what he's willing to give."

Anne smiled at him while arranging the teacups. "He singled you out, John. I'm pretty sure he's willing to give you everything."

John thought about Sherlock's letter. He would even settle for the half of it.

"Good heavens, Sherlock! What's the matter?" John suddenly heard Cameron asking in surprise.

When John turned around, he saw that Sherlock's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. Apparently, Sherlock had stood up too. He was now in the middle of the room. In an attempt to grab onto a side table, Sherlock had knocked over a dish with fruit and a carafe of water. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face on the ground. Hastily, John thrust the tray with tea into Anne's hand and rushed to Sherlock's side. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, John and Cameron carried him across the room, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes.

John was dead scared when he started to examine Sherlock closely, who, thankfully, had not fallen into the shards of glass. He quickly discovered that his friend was fine. Heart rate, blood pressure, reflexes were fine. Nothing provided an indication why his healthy friend should suddenly suffer pain. He audibly exhaled. John was equally relieved and confused. The next time he looked at Sherlock's face, he saw Sherlock subtly winking at him.

Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, Sherlock sat up. "John would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness," he explained to the audience. "I'm prone to these sudden attacks."

Huh?

"Err…right, yes. Sherlock was very ill indeed," John lied. "Every time it happens he scares the living daylights out of me," he added with a severe undertone in his voice. It dawned upon him that Sherlock had put his plan into action.

"You better stay seated. We'll clean up the mess," Cameron said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and attending to the matter. "Come on, guys. Let's give him a bit of privacy."

"See, no harm done," Sherlock whispered, smirking, when everyone was out of earshot.

John frowned at him and gave him a stern look. "Never do that again unless you want to give me a heart attack."

"You should give me a kiss, you know," Sherlock said, feigning innocence. "That's what people expect."

"You deserve me giving you a caning," John replied, unmoved, with arms crossed.

Sherlock pouted. "John."

He looked intently at the grey-blue eyes of his friend, with whom he never could be angry for long. John, however, remembered their morning conversation and he had known him long enough not to let Sherlock catch him on the hop. He wouldn't let him trick him into kissing him so easily. John audibly sighed. He decided to play along, although on his own terms. Sherlock expected a kiss on his mouth, but John quickly bent forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, simultaneously ruffling slowly through his raven black hair. John allowed himself to breathe in deeply a few times, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's shampoo and the scent of the man himself as well. He smelled good. John's heart was beating fast again, but he took delight in it now. The kiss lasted longer than strictly necessary and certainly long enough to give Sherlock food for thought. John couldn't help smiling at the sight of his friend who clearly looked as if he had fancied something entirely different, but was caught up in what he had gotten all the same.

Sorry, mate, John thought, but I'm standing fast. You'll have to ask me first.

John almost felt sorry for him. The kiss had stirred his own blood too. He urgently hoped for an early release from this pretense. These unresolved issues demanded their undivided attention.

"There," John said, "a loving kiss for the audience."

Although Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something else, he settled for a simple "Thank you."

"What do you want to do now?" John asked.

"Well, I have to rest on my doctor's orders, of course."

John looked at him expectantly.

"I'll take pictures of the letters and send them to Lestrade," he said. "To Greg," he corrected himself when he saw the look on John's face. "Davies won't speak to me on his own account. Greg will have to inform him that the letters are in my possession. He can contact me to collect them and take steps to have Dr. Martin and Cameron arrested. Greg can update me right away about the progress of his investigation."

John nodded. "What about the killer?"

"Davies will have to release David Jones. I expect this will put pressure on our murderer. The unfortunate blackmailing affair distracted Davies' attention away from the essential facts. He will get a second chance to correct his mistakes. Now the murder itself will be in the spotlight of the investigation. Let's hope that things will get too hot for our man soon and he'll fall into our trap," Sherlock said with a sardonic smile. "The case should reach its peak tomorrow."

However, they were going to be surprised. Things never turn out the way you expect.