Thanks again for your alerting, favoriting, reviewing ... It means a lot that you read what I write. So, here's chapter twenty already. Time flies ... Please let me know what you think ...

This chapter is betaed by TeapotInATempest. Thanks again for your support!

Chapter twenty

The next morning at a quarter to ten Sherlock and John found themselves in the entrance hall of the apartment complex in which Mycroft's lodgings were situated. The foyer was done up in the minimalist way that was popular these days.

Until a few moments before, John had no clue whatsoever that they were about to visit Sherlock's brother in his private rooms in Pall Mall and not, as they usually did, in Whitehall or the Diogenes Club, which was due to the fact that Sherlock had been too focused on himself once again to bring John into the loop. It was only when they got out of the cab that John realized where they were heading. It was the first time John had been there, and he clearly felt uncomfortable in the Lion's den already.

One glance at Sherlock, who stared sullenly into space, told him that the detective was less than thrilled with solidifying the family bond any further by making a private call on his brother. During one of their previous arguments John and Sherlock had agreed that Sherlock would aim for a distant but respectful relationship with his brother. With the emphasis on respectful, because John knew, distant wouldn't be a problem. The relationship between them would never be a very close one. It seemed there were too many old scores from the past to settle for that, but meanwhile their relationship had warmed at least enough to call it "distant" these days and no longer "frozen".

A moment later they heard the lift, and John involuntarily held his breath.

"What do you know, Jupiter is descending today," Sherlock mumbled away to himself grimly when his brother stepped out of the lift to meet them.

John nudged him. "Behave yourself!" he hissed.

"Good morning, dear brother. Good morning, John. How good to see you," Mycroft greeted them, smiling, and shook hands with John.

"Brother dear," Sherlock replied curtly. The Holmes brothers never shook hands. Sherlock forced himself however to smile politely back at his brother, considering the fact that he was helping them with the case.

"Shall we?" Mycroft asked and waved them towards the lift.

Inside the lift John was well aware of the fact that Mycroft was scrutinizing them both. John tensed and involuntarily drew himself up to his full height, standing to attention – a habit from his military days when experiencing stress. Uncomfortable as he felt, he was secretly hopping from one foot to the other, deliberately not looking at Mycroft and longing for the lift to reach its destination quickly. But when he cast a swift glance at Sherlock, who was engaged into some sort of competition with his brother in staring each other down, his eyes fell onto Sherlock's neck. He noticed that his friend had knowingly left the two top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Therefore, John's mark was slightly visible under his shirt collar.

Smug bastard!

He should have known that Sherlock would show off his mark like some sort of trophy. John immediately felt as if he had been returned to puberty, and he blushed from embarrassment to the roots of his hair. Why did it have to happen in front of Sherlock's brother of all men? He wished the ground would open and swallow him up.

He noticed that Mycroft's eyes lingered for the fraction of a second on Sherlock's love bite, too. However, his sickly sweet smile never left his face. Fortunately, the very same moment the lift came to a halt and the doors opened, sparing John another moment of awkward silence.

"Please, come in," Mycroft said, opening the door to his apartment.

Surprisingly, his apartment was furnished in a much more traditional way than John expected. The furniture was similar to their own in Baker Street. Naturally, Mycroft's taste was much more exquisite and the furnishings must have cost a small fortune, but all things considered, John thought it quite homey.

"Make yourself at home, John. My home is your home," Mycroft told him sweetly. "Now that we're nearly family…," he added with a mischievous grin.

John thought that Mycroft was certainly enjoying himself over the whole situation. He was secretly exasperated with the insinuations about their relationship, but he stuck by his decision to not get into the line of fire of a Holmes for any reason. Basically he got on fairly well with Mycroft, but a sweet Holmes still was a bit creepy with him, and he was on his guard, his hackles raising.

"Thanks," he therefore replied politely, keeping a low profile.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in reply to Mycroft's comment.

"I suppose you want to look at the documents immediately, Sherlock. My study is at your disposal. Coffee and tea are ready. Please, help yourself. I have to take care of one or two other things in the meantime. I'm at the dining room if you need me," Mycroft said. "Oh and I took the liberty of ordering lunch. I take it you'll stay," he added with an unreadable face.

He didn't request, he "politely" demanded, John noticed.

"Most kind of you," Sherlock remarked sarcastically, but didn't object.

"I'd do anything for you," Mycroft replied. "And considering your personal habits, neither you nor John would get anything to eat before tonight otherwise. And since your well-being is near and dear to me …"

"We really appreciate that," John replied in a friendly way, before the situation could escalate. Although he could live with a little less interference from Mycroft. Caring was one thing, surveillance was quite another…

Sherlock on the other hand, had stopped listening to them. He swiftly strode in the direction of the study to attend to the documents he so eagerly looked forward to.

John cast an apologetic look to Mycroft, who rolled his eyes, sighing, and then, quickly followed his friend.

When he entered Mycroft's study, he found Sherlock bent over the desk, intent on his work.

"Howard's off our list!" Sherlock said and, with an indignant gesture, shoved the papers off the table. "He was having yet another of his amorous adventures at the time of the first murder."

His friend apparently had taken his brother's statement, that his house was their house, literally and was well on his way to messing up his brother's rooms.

Wordlessly, John raised one eyebrow and took a seat in one corner of the room, where he had a good view of his friend. He knew that a question or remark made at a moment like this would fall on deaf ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot on a scent. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him.

Swiftly and silently he skimmed through the documents that were lying in front of him. Whenever a document proved his hypotheses true and made a contribution to his theories, he laid the documents aside; whenever someone was exonerated, he flung the papers unceremoniously over his shoulder on the ground. His only concern was the capture of the murderer of Mr and Mrs Smith. Lestrade could pick up the documents later.

John watched his friend, whose quick train of thought was clearly visible in his actions, with great interest and admiration. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which they had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure for John to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. Part of John watched him with the eyes of the apprentice who observed the methods of his master, another part looked at him with the eyes of the lover, who admired the features and actions of his loved one.

"Stop staring, John. It's distracting!" Sherlock remarked, not bothering to look up.

"You're beautiful, you know," John blurted out, unthinkingly, and immediately kicked himself mentally.

Sherlock stopped dead in his movements and lifted his head, looking at John intently. The documents in his hands were forgotten for the moment.

They stared at each other for what felt like ages.

Sherlock seemed to search for words, but settled in the end for "What did you say?"

"Err … I like watching you work," John replied lame. That wasn't the complete truth and he knew that Sherlock could see right through him, but John didn't feel like that was the moment nor the place for discussing the nature of their relationship.

Sherlock cast him one more look, which John couldn't quite interpret, before attending to the papers once more.

That was a near miss!

John bit his lip and sat completely quiet in his chair for the remaining hour in which Sherlock went through the papers before him. Now and then, Sherlock threw documents to him, which he read silently. At the end of the morning it was very clear that Howard could not have committed the murders, Cameron had no alibi whatsoever - but also no motive - and John's intuition told him that Jack had attempted to conceal more than they initially believed. He had the cleanest state report John had ever heard of and that alone was suspicious-looking. Mycroft had also searched the law enforcement databases and found police records which reported the disappearances of one Mrs King, a woman from Richmond, and one Miss Bell, a woman from Reading, who went missing around the time of the first murders. For some mysterious reason both cases were never investigated in the context of these homicides.

Sighing and discontented, Sherlock slumped into a chair and grimaced. "It's enough to drive you mad!"

"At least Howard is out of the picture," John commented encouragingly.

"We knew that before," Sherlock exclaimed.

"But now you have evidence", John replied.

"I'd prefer to have conclusive evidence against the murderer," the detective sulked and tapped impatiently with his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "We both know who committed the murders, John, and yet I cannot pin it on him! Mycroft is still waiting for the GSM histories of our suspects and unless we get them, we won't be able to strike Cameron from the list. It seems we'll have to concentrate our efforts on the victims again for the time being," he said grimly and threw some of the papers angrily against the wall. "Dammit!"

John found it quite enjoyable to watch Sherlock losing his self-control and acting human. Very attractive, actually...even sexy… Before he let himself get carried away, dwelling further on his thoughts, and possibly baring his innermost mind again to Sherlock, he called himself to order. Business before pleasure!

Sherlock sighed, disgruntled once more. "Let's get lunch over and done with as quickly as possible, John, and then let's get back home. We don't have time to waste," he said. "Apart from that, Mycroft really could do with skipping lunch from time to time himself. He's already gained two more kilograms."

"Sherlock," John threatened. "Respectful, remember?"

The detective groaned. "I really can't think what on earth came over me, agreeing to that. First of all I had to stop smoking, and now I can't even take it out on my own brother anymore," he grumbled. "You have a bad influence on me!"

"Hear, hear," John replied, unmoved. "I don't want to bludgeon you into it. Don't trouble yourself on my account. If you want to re-establish your childish feud, pray do so!"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Sure, and afterwards you will take it out on me again."

"You wanted to move in together again," John reminded him. "You knew what you were committing yourself to. And things can't be that bad…," he added, winking, "considering the fact that you want to take our relationship to a new level."

"Very funny, John", Sherlock replied. "You'd almost think you were developing a sense of humour."

Just as John started to reply, Mycroft joined them. For a moment he flinched at the sight of the chaos Sherlock had created; a moment later he regained his composure, the personification of self-control once again. "Lunch is waiting," he said. "Have you made any progress?"

Sherlock grumbled, and John replied on his behalf, "We were able to strike one name off the list."

"Good", Mycroft said. "I expect the GSM data this afternoon."

"It's about time," Sherlock murmured, but forced a smile when he saw John's annoyed face and said "Thanks".

Mycroft looked from one to the other, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. "Domestic quarrel?" he inquired, smirking.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. "As is generally known, the cleverer one always gives in. That is to say, I have absolutely no wish to sleep on the sofa tonight, if I sleep at all."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

"I am currently conducting an experiment in my own room. Hence, I'd be forced to sleep on the sofa if John decided to throw me out of our bedroom," Sherlock explained casually, responding to Mycroft's unasked question. "You must know that John can bear grudges quite a while. He gets in a huff and then I play – what do you always say John? – I play the prima donna, which would be a no-win situation. Nobody would gain and especially not our client. You see, I acknowledge myself beaten for the common good."

"I see," Mycroft replied in amusement. "That is probably best for all parties concerned."

The brothers talked to each other as if they had forgotten about John's presence.

He coughed disapprovingly.

"Well … Let's have a bite then!" Mycroft finally said and returned to the dining room.

"Really, Sherlock, you'd almost think you were developing a sense of humour", John said.

Sherlock grinned. "If I recall correctly, that's one of the things you love about me."

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're really impossible, my dear. What happened to 'you're so easy to be with'? Now I'm suddenly bearing grudges?"

Sherlock's grin broadened. "Even you have bad days, my dearest." He stood up and patted him on the back in passing. "Don't give it a second thought. I love you anyway." Then, he was gone out of the door.

John stood up, shaking his head yet again, and followed the brothers to the dining room where Mycroft served soups and a ploughman's lunch. One could possibly malign his character, but John had to admit, he did have taste after all.

They spent several minutes in silence, enjoying the meal, but the silence perturbed John. It gave him the collywobbles. He had the uncomfortable feeling that somebody was watching him, and he feared that the silence might just be the calm before the dreaded storm.

It didn't help to feel Sherlock's knee pressed to his own under the table…his heart never failed to miss the usual one or two beats before restarting again.

Mycroft's eyes wandered from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock.

"My dears," he started a little while later, and John immediately knew, this was the moment he intuitively had dreaded.

"I'm glad to be able to inform you that the Government will discuss the legalization of same sex marriage next month again. I'm convinced the law will be adopted shortly. Nothing will stand in your way anymore." His smile never faded and something in his voice made very clear that he would tolerate no dissent in the matter of their marriage.

John, who was sipping his tea at that moment, choked on it, when he heard Mycroft's words. Sherlock was looking out of the window, pretending to be bored to death.

The Holmes brothers tend to say the most important things in the most casual tone and at the most inappropriate moments. The idea of marrying Sherlock however didn't startle John anymore. "I'm glad to hear it," John said, strained but friendly. "Thanks for your efforts."

Sherlock cast a swift look, first at John and then at Mycroft. He didn't comment on the matter however.

It was nearly two before the door opened, and a drunken-looking building worker, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. John choked on his tea for the second time that day, this time due to Sherlock's dramatic entrance. Accustomed as John was to his friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, he had to look three times before he was certain that it was indeed he. It was not merely that Sherlock changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Bloody awful!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands. "I take that as a compliment," he replied, satisfied.

"Shall I come with you?" John asked, worried, since Sherlock had a gift for getting himself in trouble.

"No."

John's heart sank. "Do I want to know what you're up to?" he asked doubtfully.

"I don't think so," Sherlock answered evasively. "You'll have to pursue your own investigations."

"My own investigations?" John asked.

"We'll have to split up. I need you to go to Richmond and find out about Mrs King."

"And what about Miss Bell?" John asked. "Shall I go to Reading too?"

"No, I'll do that. But I have to attend to some other things first," Sherlock replied, holding John's jacket for him. "Come on, John. There's no time to lose! Get up!"

When John took his time, Sherlock impatiently took the tea cup out of John's hand, pulled him to his feet, helped him on with his coat, and unceremoniously steered him out of the door.

An hour later John found himself in Richmond, where he received every courtesy at the hands of DI Perry at the local Police station. He let him have a look at the relevant police records and even accompanied him to two of the witnesses.

Mr Michaels, the estate agent, reported that Mrs King had lived at the estate for several months with her husband until both of them vanished. She had been well liked by everyone who met her. She was no more than thirty. She was handsome, and a very lovely woman. Mr Michaels knew nothing of any male visitors she might have had, but it had been remarked by the commissionaire that she herself tended to be away whenever her husband was on a journey. On the surface, they had been a happy couple; her husband had been smart-looking and very obliging, but there were rumours amongst the staff about physical abuse.

Only James Bennett, the commissionaire, had any suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure with the visit of a tall, dark, bearded man. He had been seen talking earnestly to Mrs King by the lake. She had left the place immediately afterwards, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the intention of throwing someone off her track.

Out of thoroughness and because Sherlock had insisted upon this subject several times, John conducted an extended neighbourhood investigation which revealed no new clues but confirmed the version depicted in the official records.

By early evening, John dialled the number of Greg Lestrade, after having interviewed all possible witnesses and feeling that he wouldn't be able to retrieve any more information.

The detective inspector answered his phone within seconds, probably due to Sherlock's telling him off.

"Greg, it's John. I've got a name for you. Melanie King. She may well have been the first victim, found in Kent. She had a sister, Valerie Downer, who visited her regularly. If it isn't possible to confirm her identity by the dental records, I need you to match her DNA with Valerie Downers. If we can give a name to the victim, we can give a name to the murderer before long."

Greg answered in a peeved tone that John was slowly starting to sound like Sherlock.

Shortly after nine o'clock in the evening, John sank into his armchair in front of the fireplace and reached for his laptop, feeling satisfied and exhausted. He had a sense that he had made a crucial contribution to the case's solution.

Sherlock hadn't been accessible through the afternoon, and John was astonished when he found on his arrival at home, that the detective had already returned and was taking a shower. The leftovers of a Italian risotto in the kitchen told him that his friend even had dinner. John himself had eaten at the train station before he got on the train back to London.

They had already discussed the most important developments of the case, yelling through the closed bathroom door. Sherlock had told him, in not so many words, that he was content with John's progress and explained that he himself had investigated incognito within Jack's milieu, but the investigations around Miss Bell came to nothing. John hadn't been able to glean any more information than that.

"How do I look now?" Sherlock asked with a playful smile when he emerged in the door to the living room, wearing one of his perfectly tailored suits again.

"Much better," John replied, relieved, since he couldn't detect any injuries at first sight.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Better?" he asked mischievously.

"You never asked me before…"

"I am asking you now," Sherlock replied.

Gorgeous? Mind-blowing? Great? "Good. You're looking good, Sherlock. As always," he finally said.

"Just good?" he teased, urging.

Courtship games, John thought. The moment Sherlock was on the case, he changed into the astute sleuth who only paid attention to the case; the moment he could take his mind off the case, he focused his attention on John, either wooing him or wanting to be wooed by him. John was still groping in the dark about whether Sherlock was playing along or really wanted it. However, his hopes were raised whenever the detective reacted favourably to John's courting.

"Gorgeous?" John asked teasingly.

"Is that a question?"

"Gorgeous," John said, more confident with his answer. "You're beautiful," he couldn't help adding in a cautious manner and, just to take away the severity of his words, he quickly continued, "But I thought you didn't care about looks?"

"That depends," Sherlock answered with a knowing smile, sitting down in his usual chair, and opening the newspaper.

John raised his eyebrow but said nothing, continuing to tap away on his laptop silently and, now, slightly flushed.

"See here!" Sherlock said a little while later, after having shared a quarter-hour of blissful silence, handing the newspaper over to John. "Look at this!"

It was the Times for the day, and the paragraph to which he pointed was devoted to the case of the dead woman in Kensington Gardens. Neither of them had had the time to read the newspaper yet in their rather eventful day.

" …The crime was a result of an old-standing romantic feud. The case brings out in the most striking manner the efficiency of our detective police force. The credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the well-known Scotland Yard officials, the Detective Inspectors Greg Lestrade and Tobias Gregson. Their trained and experienced faculties were at once directed towards the detection of the criminals. The prompt and energetic action of the officers of the law resulted in the immediate arrest of the culprit," John read out loud the last part of the article, knitting his brows.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Sherlock said, grinning over his coffee cup. "What do you think of it?"

"Glorious!" John snorted.

"I should be concerned about being forced to give up business if they happened to have another of their attacks of energy," Sherlock continued good-humouredly.

At this moment, the doorbell rang downstairs. Sherlock lifted his head and listened intently. "Just the fraction of a second. No urgency," he deduced. "Not a client."

A little while later, they heard the pleasant voice of Greg Lestrade, exchanging courtesies with Mrs Turner before ascending the stairs. It was no very unusual thing for the Detective Inspector, to look in on them on an evening, and his visits were always as welcome to Sherlock as they were to John. They enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police head-quarters. In return for the news which Greg would bring, Sherlock was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case the detective was engaged in, and was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.

"Evening, Sherlock. Evening, John," he greeted them, smiling.

"Come in, Greg," John said. "Make yourself comfortable. Beer?"

Greg nodded and collapsed into a chair, heaving a sigh. "Yes, thanks, John."

"Ah, Le…Greg," Sherlock welcomed him, apparently recalling at the last moment that he had to use his first name. "May I congratulate you warmly on this magnificent example of team play you demonstrated in such an exemplary manner with Detective Inspector Gregson," Sherlock said with a mischievous smile.

He was only teasing their friend, and John heard no offensive sarcasm in his voice.

"Well," Greg said in a deprecatory voice, clearly recalling the many times he clashed violently with Tobias Gregson. "I'm happy to know you're enjoying yourself."

"Don't take it amiss," Sherlock replied, with a laugh. "I couldn't resist."

"Fine," Greg grumbled, lifting his hand to show that he was forgiven.

Sherlock hemmed. "Err… I've heard about the Molesey mystery, Greg. You handled it with less than your usual … I mean to say, you handled it fairly well."

John nearly dropped Greg's beer in the kitchen with shock when he heard Sherlock's kind words, which caused him astonishment … and a warm feeling in his stomach. He quickly put three beers together with snacks on the tray and returned to the living room, putting everything on the coffee table and plunking down into his own chair opposite Sherlock.

"Thanks," Greg said with a look of equal astonishment on his face. Sherlock didn't often praise the work of the official force. Greg shifted around on his chair. Then, he bent forward, looking at Sherlock and searching for words. "Look, Sherlock, about this Aldershot case. At the Yard, we feel embarrassed for Davies. He gave you the cold shoulder and was condescending towards you. He shouldn't have done that. Err … Sorry about that." Greg looked relieved after having had his say. Apparently, he wasn't easy in his mind about Davies' behaviour, but John knew, that these words didn't come easily. It wasn't easy for a Yarder to accept Sherlock, who was an "amateur", as a superior, but Greg wasn't a fool. Sherlock was a genius and their cooperation cut both ways, after all. Moreover, they were friends by now.

"He's an idiot," Sherlock replied, shrugging his shoulders. "He's in Anderson's division. I can't blame the Yard for him, but you should most certainly sort the applicants more thoroughly," he said and looked keenly at him. "But what is more important - do you have any news about the Aldershot case?"

"Yes, that's why I'm here. I woke this morning to find your brother's subordinates standing by the side of my bed, assigned to wake me up and bring me to him," he said with a hint of resentment in his voice, looking at Sherlock reproachfully, who listened intently without blinking an eye.

"Well, your brother 'suggested' we join forces and assigned me several tasks. I was bustling about the whole day. All this to-ing and fro-ing between the Yard and Whitehall and Archives and God-knows-what wore me out!" he exclaimed, ruffled

"Yes, I saw him doing that," Sherlock replied, unmoved. "Pray, continue!"

John thought that this trait ran in the family but he kept his mouth wisely shut.

"Well, your brother said that the gay fellow was off your list, so we concentrated on the blackmailer and the saint. I've been through reams of paper, and, in the end, the blackmailer seemed to have a well-hidden alibi for the first murder."

Sherlock frowned at Greg for nicknaming the suspects, but deduced the answer before Greg were able to finish his story. "He slept with his secretary."

Greg's jaw dropped. "Yes, he was in Scotland with her. But how on earth did you guess that?"

"Greg," Sherlock started calmly. "I never guess. Guessing is a very bad habit and not beneficial for the mind. I spoke to Mycroft briefly this afternoon, because he promised he'd have my remaining information soon. "

"You know everything already then," Greg said, disappointed. "Apart from that, Sherlock, next time you must tell me about your conclusions first thing. You can't first go through our archives and then start investigating on your own account like that."

"Greg, to begin with, I just talked briefly to Mycroft as I said. He informed me about the progress of your investigations and reported no more than Cameron's alibi. Secondly, when I drew my conclusions you were sort of preoccupied," Sherlock reminded him. "With Tobias," he added.

He used Gregson's first name, much to Greg's displeasure, to emphasize a familiarity with the man which certainly was in development but not yet fully developed. Apparently, aside from being jealous of Sherlock, some sort of rivalry was flaring up at the Yard over who was on the best terms with Sherlock as well.

Greg coughed. "Be that as it may, this leaves us with Jack, just as you've guessed … err figured … deduced yesterday," Greg explained. "This evening we finally got the reports on the picture you sent Mycroft. The woman on the photo is indeed Melanie King. We've informed her sister. She'll come tomorrow to assist with the DNA test and bring pictures of the vanished husband. Thing is, his police record is completely clean and his life story is perfectly flawless, if you know what I mean. There's something shady about it."

A contented and sardonic smile played on Sherlock's lips. "I thought as much," he said. "I know a Moriarty if I see one. One last greeting from hell. Dear Jim… ," he whispered thoughtfully, trailing off.

"Moriarty?" Greg asked, confused.

"Got him a new identity back then," John replied.

"Jesus...," Greg trailed off.

"Great!" Sherlock said, more to himself than to his friends, and his eyes glinted with excitement. He rubbed his hands together, nearly giddy with pleasure.

"There is another development in the case as well. Dr Martin talked. She told Davies about the blackmailing affair with Cameron Meyer and what he told her about retrieving the letters from Smith's room. She tried to make a deal with Davies with the objective of pleading in mitigation. He's not yet fully convinced but I'm working on that."

"Ah, good. I've set my own agents on Jack. I sincerely hope to hear from them soon. I should be able to settle the case this weekend. Do me a favour, Greg, and keep Davies from arresting Cameron Meyer on a charge of murder in the meantime. The man can't put one and one together."

"I'll do my best," Greg replied, sighing, and took a sip of his beer. His eyes roamed through the room and fixed on the cards, hanging on garlands. The he cast a glance at their rings and coughed several times. "By the way, when do you plan on having the big day?" Greg asked sheepishly

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick look.

"Mycroft is working on legalizing same sex marriage," John finally replied evasively.

"Blimey. Your brother sometimes really is the British Government, you know that?" Greg replied taken aback. Confusion was written all over his face.

"Well … the thought had occurred to me," Sherlock answered, and John stifled a laugh when he saw the face his friend made.

"Well, guys, it's good to hear that he'll take care of it, if that's what you want", he finally answered and cast a swift glance at his watch. "It's late again. I better be off. Tomorrow will be an early day again. Thanks for the beer. See you."

Sherlock gazed after him, grinning. "John, don't you think that Greg and my brother would make a fine couple?" he said, when the official detective was out of earshot.

"You are an evil person, Sherlock Holmes! Shame on you!" John replied, trying to make a serious face but failing miserably. As a result Sherlock burst into a roaring laughter, and John finally joined in.

Late that evening, a bunch of flowers arrived. At first John thought that it was for their engagement again, but then he read the card. Written on the card were the words "You are the greatest. Take this as a simple token of my gratitude. Love, Victor".

Sherlock even blushed a bit when he read the card.

John's stomach, however, automatically tightened at the words of endearment from the infernal ex, but he settled for another tactic than showing obvious jealousy. "Sweet," John remarked innocently. "So right he is."

If possible, the colour in Sherlock's face deepened at John's words. As a reply, John squeezed his shoulders and pecked a chaste kiss on his hair. "You are one of a kind."

The next day, John didn't see much of Sherlock. The detective continued his undercover investigation of Jack, leaving every morning before nine o'clock in the disguise of the drunken building worker and returning before eight in the evening. He still remained secretive about his investigations and progress, causing John to worry because he had the uncomfortable feeling that Sherlock might be involved in legally or morally questionable activities.

By Thursday evening, Sherlock's investigations were apparently already well-advanced and, with the intervention of Greg Lestrade, Davies was finally forced to withdraw the charge of murder against Dr Martin. The Police published a short communique about the matter, which caused a scandal; the press ate them alive for charging the wrong person twice and for having no clue whatsoever about the real murderer.

The involvement of Sherlock Holmes, however, thankfully remained a secret for the time being.