A/N: sorry this took so long, guys! I'm actually at art college and i am so, so, so busy. I totally forgot to update yesterday and didn't have time monday. thanks for reading!! :)

Last year, he'd gone to the annual Guy Fawkes Party with Claire. As did they the year before. The strangest thing was - it was held by the richest family in Bristol - the Holmeses. Everyone who was anyone was invited to the biggest venue in the city for a night of fireworks, food, dancing - it was the biggest holiday of the year, besides Christmas.

Sherlock had been interrogated by his father several times on the phone, only half dressed. John wanted to pull him away from all the calls from caterers, his father, his brother - he looked more stressed than he'd ever looked. John tried not to bother him as he rattled off orders to a catering team across the phone, in fear that he'd be snapped at himself. Instead, he just readied himself in a suit that he'd bought a few days ago with Sherlock's cash.

The suit was simple, but sleek. Black with a rich gold as a tie, to match the theme of the party. It fit beautifully, and the material itself agreed with the price he paid for it.

That didn't mean that Sherlock was ready. Granted, there were a few hours until the party, but Sherlock still hadn't done his hair or gotten dressed. In fact, he was going around the manor with only one of his shoes on. John had made him tea (he felt uncomfortable with Mrs. Hudson doing everything) and placed it on his study desk but it was now cold and Sherlock was still sitting on his bed, talking to his father.

"Everything is okay," Sherlock kept repeating into the headset as John walked into his room. Sherlock's eyes darted up, lingering on John's suit clad body for only a little longer than what was allowed, but then his gaze flickered away in agitation. "No, no, dad - it's fine. Yes... yes. Yes, I took care of Mrs. Langdon. Yes. I really have to go get ready, now. Yes, yes. Goodbye, father." He slammed the phone down into the receiver and immediately sagged.

"Who was that?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him his worst deadpan. "You knew who that was - you're not that stupid."

He let the statement sink in, and then John crossed his arms and looked away from Sherlock to the wall behind him, speechless.

Sherlock's face softened as he slowly realized John's genuine annoyance with being called childish names, but it hardened again, taking on a stubborn pride. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, consumed in their own feelings, until John raised his arms in defeat. "I'll come back later, when you aren't having a... whatever you're having."

"Sorry," Sherlock blurted without hesitation. "I'm - I'm tense, this party-"

"Yeah." John crossed his arms again. "I know," he said, cocking his head at the floor, "which is why I made you tea - an hour ago."

Sherlock pursed his lips and eased into a stand, crossing the room to his desk and lifting the tea cup to his lips. "How many hours until we have to go to the God forsaken party?" he asked after a reluctant sip. He looked spitefully at the tea he just drank, his face wrinkled in disgust. "Ugh. This is cold."

"That's what happens if you leave tea for an hour," John muttered as he slid up the cuff of his suit to check the time on a skinny platinum watch he'd recently bought. It was so new that John could count the fingerprints on it. "Three."

"Dear god," Sherlock moaned begrudgingly. "Get me a cigarette, will you?"

"I can't," John replied, "you'd have to ask Mrs. H."

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock snapped.

"Smoking won't help your hangover."

"I don't care, ugh."

John took the empty tea cup from Sherlock's hands and placed it on the desk behind him. "Calm down," he said, smoothing his hands across Sherlock's shoulders. All his muscles were too tense in all the wrong places. "You're gonna be fine. Great, even."

"You don't understand," Sherlock started, his voice unnaturally tired. "I have to do the speech that Mum always - I'm not ready. I..."

He trailed off into nothing, meeting John's eyes with this exhausted, half awake look. John eased his hand against Sherlock's cheek and tried his best not to smile when Sherlock pressed into him, his eyes fluttering closed.

"You'll be okay, Sherlock," John said in his softest voice. "I promise you."

"Hm," Sherlock hummed, like a petulant boy that didn't want to do his chores. "I want to stay in bed."

"I feel the same way," John murmured.

"Then why don't we?"

"Because if I don't show up to the most important event of the year - if you, the host, don't show up - everyone will know something is off." John became indulgent and ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, testing how far he could push his affection. "We both have to go."

Sherlock grumbled, bristling as he turned away to his walk-in closet. "Is Mycroft coming?"

"Didn't you ask him?"

"And be forced to talk to him? I'd rather not know," Sherlock said, entering the room completely. John stood by the door, rolling his eyes.

"Why do you dislike him so much?"

"I don't dislike him," Sherlock said in an obviously fake cheerful tone.

"Oh?"

"I loathe him," Sherlock growled. John shook his head woefully at the ceiling in lieu of Sherlock, loosening his tie and opening his top button. He was infuriating.

"John," Sherlock called. "In here."

John entered with a skeptical look, only for his features to slip into awe at the sheer number of suits in Sherlock's possession. He owned three cotton t-shirts, and they were all white. The rest of the walk in was suits - fifty full ensembles or more. Business, party, casual. There was a tie rack to John's right with dozens of ties, a shoe shelf on the left with sixty pairs of gorgeous boots, wingtips and oxfords. The only time that John had ever seen such an array of clothes was in an actual store. The floor was even carpeted.

"I'm thinking the muted royal purple, or the black," Sherlock said, interrupting John's admiration of his closet. He was donned in nothing but pants and a sleeveless shirt. The clean pink soles of his feet padded quietly as he moved towards John, presenting the royal purple blazer in his left hand. "All black. Or maybe this cherry colored palate would be better for the venue, which is red, black and gold." Sherlock looked over, holding up the black suit. "What do you think?"

John leaned in the door frame, crossing his arms across his chest. The black suit made him look too pale, too fragile, too sharp. The blood color was also gorgeous... but it reminded him of Claire, with her red hot dress, her sultry eye shadow. He knew what Claire was planning to wear for the outing - she'd bought the dress weeks before. It was a long, beautiful golden evening gown that complemented her skin tone and hair perfectly. She looked gorgeous in everything she wore. John almost missed applying her make up before a big party, running the brush under her brow bone, painting dark browns into the crease of her eyelid. ("Sometimes I think that you would have made a splendid woman.")

John looked them over once again. "No," he murmured. "Burgundy. Wine. Something like that, to set off your eyes."

Sherlock dropped the black suit on the ground, and walked deeper into the closet. He rummaged for a few moments, and then pulled out a shapeless mass, making his way back to John with a suit in hand.

"Is this adequate?" Sherlock asked, presenting the suit before John.

John ran his fingers across the fabric, and slowly nodded.

***

"Well." Sherlock smoothed his hands over his suit, adjusting his carnation boutonniere. He turned to a mirror inside the walk in closet, inspecting all his angles closely. John was standing behind him, watching him, speechless. "How do I look?"

You look like you could replace the moon. And the sun, and whatever else there is in heaven.

"Breathtaking," John said instead, meeting eyes with Sherlock in the mirror.

Sherlock stopped pivoting, only allowing himself a cursory look at John. He pursed his lips as he readjusted his cuffs, looking slightly uncomfortable, but he nodded at his reflection.

The suit was nice, yes - deep burgundy, crisp black lapels, a crisper white dress shirt - but with Sherlock in it, it transcended beauty. He was blinding. John didn't know how to articulate Sherlock - how to possibly explain to anyone how he thought Sherlock looked, in this moment. No wonder Sherlock seemed spooked. All he replied was, "Thank you, John."

John took a black bow tie off the tie rack and pinned himself between Sherlock and the mirror to put it on. It took a couple of tries, because Sherlock's Adam's apple kept bobbing and John's eyes kept on drifting to the sinews of Sherlock's throat, but eventually it was neatly tied around his neck. Sherlock adjusted it a few times in the mirror, then stood up straight and looked behind John to his reflection. Apparently, he saw something he liked, because he allowed himself a tiny smile for the first time that day.

"You look great," John restated.

"Thank you."

"I" - John's stomach seized, he rethought what he was going to say - "I'm happy to help."

But then Sherlock looked anguished. And he wasn't meeting John's eyes, and he was looking everywhere but them, even in the mirror. He didn't say anything and John was almost afraid to ask why.

"Sherlock, what's...?"

"We can't - we can't talk to each other. You have to reconcile with your fiancée."

"Claire and I aren't together, anymore." John searched Sherlock's eyes for the reasoning behind this, even as Sherlock refused to look at him directly. "I don't know why I would, Sherlock."

"Because we need to be careful."

John stilled, taken aback. "Since when have you cared?" When Sherlock said nothing, John kept going. "We're going to be in masks, half the time."

Sherlock's jaw tightened, irritated. "They're already suspicious, and this would only confirm their beliefs. You can't sleep at the academy, John. You have to stop gambling with your life and just go home."

"And if I do, what happens then?" John demanded. "Christ. I thought-"

"This is best." Sherlock went completely sober. "For both of us."

John stepped back, leaning onto the cold, hard surface of the mirror. He didn't speak; only locked eyes with Sherlock as they stood before each other, trying to make sense of the situation. "What does that mean," John pressed in a low, even voice. "For us. Midnight trysts? Weekend getaways?"

Sherlock's stare intensified, but became melancholy, remorseful.

"What do you expect from this?" John continued. "Sherlock-" he cut himself off, breaking their gaze. A heavy, drained sigh involuntarily spread through him.

He wished they weren't having this conversation. Sherlock couldn't tell John to go back to her. He couldn't do that. And now that they were standing in front of each other, half committed but so goddamn reluctant that the pull hurt, Sherlock decided to forget how to fucking speak.

He knew it was irrational. But he had a fucking third-party association making him spy on the only person who knew the truth about him, and he'd gotten four hours of sleep last night, and his stomach was still a mass of broken capillaries and yellow skin. He was thinking in fragments, in half baked thought, and he'd be damned if he didn't just want to take a break at this party. Have fun at a party.

"I know I'm irrational-"

"You are."

"-but I could leave her." John swallowed. "For good." And I could sleep on the couch until you got sick of me; please don't say we have to go backwards.

Sherlock warned, "You're irrational."

John offered up a kind, easy, almost sad grin. "Thought that's what you liked best about me."

Sherlock shook his head, only once. It was that painfully blank expression that gave him away; manufactured and plastic and unforgiving.

John lingered on his last words. And then, when nothing else could be said, he just straightened his stance.

"I'll let myself out, then."

***

It was Mrs. Hudson who let him out, but it didn't stop John from making the slow, muddy procession to the bus station. The instant that the venue came into view, in all its landscaped glory, the bus stopped. It was a couple hundred meters away - John immediately regretted not borrowing one of Sherlock's Benz and pulling up into the parking lot, where all the girls and boys could marvel at John's wealth. Fortunately, no one was in the parking lot to watch John jog from the street to the tree line to the sidewalk, as they were all inside; John could hear the noise of laughter and music from outside.

John climbed up the steps, slipping on his mask and opening the giant double doors, only to be hit with a gust of hot, dry air. The constant cold had turned his fingers a ripe pink, and he rubbed them together as he met two tall, thick masked men. One stepped forward and wordlessly offered John a clipboard, and John took the attached pen to sign his name.

When he passed by the two men, the thing that stood out most to him was the people - and the lighting. Dim, mostly with candles, sensually mysterious black curtains draping windows that concealed the light of the low, afternoon sun. Everything was gold and black, with accents of red. The soft candlelight reminded John of the first party he'd ever met Sherlock at - how everything was flickering, how his features were muddled but yet precise, how the feeling of a young man's hand on his thigh felt.

Beyond the dimmer lighting, it was even harder to discern what was going on because of how crowded it was. Everyone was past the formalities and engaging in conversation and dancing, a sea of gold and red dresses and black tuxedos. And all of them were wearing the same masks: pale white, with a thin mustache and goatee, and rosy red cheeks. Even the jazz band's drummer was - John thought it was actually a bit ridiculous.

The noise was impressive. Usually these events were quiet and timid and polite, but this party was boisterous. Everyone, from the small business owner to the mayor himself were invited. If John went on tippy toe he could see gold, sparkling dancers on the far right of the ballroom. Even so, John began his slow procession, pushing past faceless dancers, a sea of glamorous sameness. He felt like a man out of his time; like he was walking through the past, shoving his way through what was. One by one, people filtered through him (shake hands, say hello, ask how they've been, nod thoughtfully, decline an invitation to speak, repeat) and John finally crossed the entire ballroom to the refreshments table. John surveyed the options.

Colorful pastries were on one half, along with bagels, which were a rarity, and the slightly more savory vat of hot soup. John indulged himself, grabbing a pastry. To go with it, John took a small cup of their weakest champagne, sipping one right after the other in an attempt to remain buzzed, but not drunk. It was helping to dull the hard-hitting pain of noise, of stress. John stayed there, one half of him milling about the table, one half eyeing the pretty girls to see if among them was Claire and Allison.

Everyone had broken off into smaller groups so it was no longer a giant mass of people. They were dancing, talking. Was he supposed to find someone he knew, in this crowd of identical faces? Mark, who resented him? James, who he wasn't ready to face?

Claire?

His heart seized. Somewhere in here was Claire; beautiful, young, fierce. How would he look her in the eyes?

Deep inside, John was happy he could wear a mask tonight. She wouldn't be able to see the lines he'd etched into his skin when he decided to destroy the only stability they had left. And he wouldn't be able to see the effects of his personal brand of destruction (tearing, ripping, snapping, resistant to a finite point) clearly enough to feel anything but apathy. He was glad that he wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly what he'd done to them both.

***

Ten minutes in, a masked man dressed in burgundy went up atop the black stage where the jazz band was playing, and tapped the microphone a couple of times to get people's attention. The voice was unmistakably Sherlock - but strange, alien. It was too upbeat, too charismatic to be him. But it was him.

"Is everybody having a good time tonight?" his voice boomed.

Around him, people whooped and clapped and whistled. It was so hot in the room; John pulled up his mask to his forehead, making strange eye contact with this man who was and wasn't Sherlock.

"Good!" Sherlock said, his voice cheery to the point of parody. "Will our couples gather in the middle of the room for our couple's dance?"

Oh God. John remembered Claire signing them up for that months ago - dancing lessons, the whole deal. John physically cringed, recoiling back a few steps from Claire's perceived location.

Sherlock rattled off a couple of names in alphabetical order, but when he started nearing the end of the t's, John's stomach clenched. "Mr. and Mrs. Tudor, Mr. and Mrs. Wade, Dr. John Watson" - Sherlock's voice gave out a little, became less cheery, but in a millisecond he'd started popping off names again - "and Ms. Claire Tabbot, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson..."

"The middle of the room" was a huge ballroom floor, with all the couples from A-Z lined up in a row, which was a majority of the party. The single men and women were off to the side, by the large table of champagne and wine, talking to each other gaily as the dance was arranged. He couldn't see Claire yet - just the hole between the Wades and the Wilsons. He hesitantly stepped forward, hoping to God that Mark didn't see him, that he was absorbed in his wife, that James decided to skip the party for Francis's sake. That no one was watching him as he warily crossed the clear ballroom space to fill in where he was supposed to go.

John looked at Sherlock, who was still rapping off names, when he knew that there was no way around this. And so, he waited.

What must have been seconds after it looked like Claire wasn't there, and John was readying to step away from a potential disaster, he heard a loud clicking of heels and a familiar voice. Sweet and melodic, but also sharp, intelligent.

"My apologies, I am so sorry, my chauffeur was ill and I had to take the bus," a woman panted to a nearby party goer. John knew her voice immediately, like the sound was ingrained into his memory. "What's going on?"

"Couple's dance!" the other lady squeaked, giggling. "Go on, your prince is waiting for you!"

Claire paused, her lashes fluttering as she stared at the woman who was now gleefully pointing directly at John. Claire looked up, following the woman's gaze. Directly up, across 20 meters, across shadows created by lit candles, and between people's bodies, she found John, standing amidst the couples. Alone.

And John deflated. Because she looked so beautiful, hair pinned back from her face, blonde hair done up in a perfect bun. She was wearing the golden dress, holding the folds of satin fabric up off the floor with her hand, suddenly becoming a clenched fist. She did look like a princess. John regretted meeting her for what must have been the thirtieth time in the last hour.

She adjusted the breast of her thin, golden dress, yanking the hem up. Claire kept staring John directly in the face, as if she were trying to find a piece of him in the mask. And then, finally, she fitted her own Guy Fawkes mask over her head and clicked her way over to John. They didn't speak a word to each other; just stared into those porcelain masks until they forgot what they were supposed to be doing.

"Everybody in line?" Sherlock asked.

John's stomach churned with familiarity as he stared at the pale caricature covering her delicate features. She smelled like clean clothing, like soft summer cotton. They matched; golden hair with a golden tie and golden dress. John extended his hand, being perfectly still.

The violinists began the slow waltz with a soft pizzicato plucking. John started to silently count off in his head, although Claire still hadn't taken his hand. Under the mask, John was pursing his lips. He couldn't imagine what she was thinking. Was she sorry? Was she angry at him, for his negligence, his temper?

"Claire," he whispered, urging her to take his hand. "Not here."

She fidgeted with her perfectly manicured nails, nervously wiping her palms together, but finally put her arm on John's shoulder. John placed a hand steadily on the feminine curve of her waist, and half a second later, they were stepping lightly across the floor, couples performing on perfect unison. This feeling was not apathy - no, it was something much more potent.

It was starkly different than the bar that Sherlock had taken him to. The air was filled with the smell of cologne, and Claire felt like a splinter, so sharp and painful it was hard to concentrate. He kept on trying to suppress memories of Sherlock's hands on him, swaying slightly to a jazz song, the soft voices of people enjoying their conversations, the clinking of silverware, the aroma of good, meaty food. Here, everything was so dim he couldn't see the people he was supposed to be dancing for. He squeezed onto Claire tighter.

She spun once, twice, then let go altogether to dance with yet another man, all the women rotating. John's next lady was a tall, thin woman wearing a flowy red dress, hitting at the knee. John couldn't see her features behind the pale mask, but he could tell she was having fun. The dance was too intensive to small talk, so they didn't; they followed a line of dancers proceeding around the perimeter of the ballroom floor, until the next rotation came and John was back to dancing with his fiancée.

As soon as she touched him, she spoke. "I received them."

John, both surprised and out of breath, didn't say anything for a few moments, his choreography faltering. "Wait, Claire - what?"

A short, contemplative pause. Then: "The packages," Claire clarified, sounding crisp and clean even through her ballroom dancing. "From that job you were doing, when you were fired from the clinic."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," she said as the song picked up. Her breathing increased only a bit, whereas John was ready to lay down. Still, they waltzed across the floor, their steps growing sloppier, more unrefined.

"Well." John spun her around on her toes, then leaned her down. "It was only rational of you," he said to her unmoving shape.

She rose up slowly from John's arms as the small classical band's music slowed to a halt, their bodies finally pressed together completely. John could feel warm, sweet breath below his ear, and she removed her mask to reveal fierce gray eyes, dangerous, torn between animosity and remorse. Her body was petite, but grounded, filled with the strength that came from repression. She looked right at him, their faces two inches away. Like she was waiting for him to flinch.

"I'm not ready, yet," she said. People were clapping around them, moving to get off of the floor, but John and Claire stayed stationary, like mannequins.

John shook his head slightly. "For what?"

She let go of John, her face drawn tight. "For you to come back," she murmured, becoming one with the crowd, turning away from John with a gentle curve in her step, a quiet reverence in the way she held herself. She glanced back at him, calling, "I'll see you at the dinner."

John watched her, breath slowing, blinking away the disconcerted feeling that was welling up in his stomach.

She didn't want him back. And neither did Sherlock. There was a nagging, but unmistakable sense of terror. Of fear that he would wake up, one day, and have lost everything that he started with: a job, a wife, a home. Things that he took for granted when he was too young, too foolish to fully understand the ramifications of his actions.

Sherlock didn't know that he had his own doubts, too. Sometimes, after a long, long day, he wanted to let go of everything dark and unsure in his life. And Sherlock was so unfathomable, so uncertain, John didn't know how to avoid feeling estranged from the reality of his situation.

James wasn't going to be here, soon. Mark was angry at him. His fiancée wasn't ready. Sherlock was veiled in constant ambiguity. John, himself, was unsure of his own moral standing, unsure of how far he would go to hide his addiction to the thrill.

Across a sea of people, John could see Sherlock, mask off, talking to a girl John had never seen before. She was pretty, and young - Sherlock's age - and she looked clever, and she was smiling at him. John gulped down the lump in his throat, staring unwaveringly as Sherlock reached out his hand and ran his hand down the length of her pale, petite arms.

John knew how that skin felt. He knew how it felt to feel worshipped, long enough for it to leave a taste in your mouth. He knew what Sherlock did with girls like her, what Sherlock had done to him.

He'd done something savage and ruthless and brutal. And now, John stood in the crowd, and felt completely alone.

***

Dinner was announced several long minutes later by a large caterer who was holding a platter of small, multicolored snacks and sweets. John was one of the first to take off his mask, utterly thankful for the cool rush of air that hit his face. He tried his best not to seem eager as he sauntered from the ballroom to the equally enormous dining hall. There were forty tables, each table seating around eight people. And all he could do was stare as more people filtered in; sitting down, talking, smiling. Sherlock had told him that his father had arranged the seating, and that it was entirely likely they wouldn't have any contact throughout the entire party. Even so, he felt a bit apprehensive when he saw Sherlock walk in and survey the room.

As a result of that, John paced across the beautifully carpeted floors to find his table; to find it before anyone else had the chance to sit down.

All the tables were black. Compared to the ballroom, the lighting was much more revealing, due to the fact that there was a bright candle as a centerpiece. Each candelabrum was intricately and intimately designed; John checked several, only to find that none of them were identical.

There were placeholders everywhere. Three hundred and twenty of them, and John had no clue which table was his, apart from the fact that he'd spotted Claire's father sitting down on the far side of the room. He wanted to avoid that scenario, if at all possible, so after a round about where he didn't see Claire or his names, but instead an assortment of different business owners and local politicians, John dejectedly looked over to where General Tabbot was sitting, alone.

He played with the idea of walking out of the party, right then and there, but a sharp, Sherlock sounding nag in his head pulled him towards General Tabbot, towards his uncertain fate.

When John sat down at his seat, discarding his disappointing placeholder to the side, General Tabbot didn't even pretend to be surprised - or pleased.

"Didn't know it'd take you so long," he said in that familiar gruff not-voice he used only with John. There was a cigarette in between his teeth, an empty carton splayed on the tablecloth. A lighter was already awake in his hand. "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, already lighting it.

John didn't answer, quiet and unmoving. His eyes flickered to the placeholder next to him on either side. Not Sherlock. Claire, and... one "Siger Holmes." John startled; Sherlock never - he never said-

Since John wasn't speaking, Mr. Tabbot took it upon himself with an air of concentrated condescension that could equal Mycroft's.

"I heard you were sacked."

John looked up from the table, alarmed.

"You kept on skipping work without calling in." Mr. Tabbot puffed on his cigarette. "Playing hooky."

John smiled, disbelieving. He was trying to say something that wasn't entirely scathing, but his self-worth got the better of him. "So you just skipped to the belittling part, then? Do you even bother to mask your antagonism?"

Claire's father watched him, wary, eyes pinholes. He was intimidating when he wasn't being insulted by a man that was five feet tall, but now, with his hair cropped close to his skull and his lips drawn tight, the cigarette crackling with red embers, John wanted his own hatred to swallow him. He tried not to show it, fixing his resolve.

"John," Mr. Tabbot said in his steadiest voice, "I am doubtful of your commitment to Claire, and this family. Your outlandish claims to join a war you have no part being in-" Claire's father paused, getting his temper back in check. "I'm beginning to believe that severing you from our family is best for my daughter."

"That's not your decision to make," John scathed.

"It's certainly not yours," he replied, "and it's definitely not hers."

It took a few short moments for that statement to settle in, but when it did, John's blood boiled. He knew he wasn't exactly the foremost expert when it came to his fiancée, but her father had his head so far up his own arse that John didn't even know how to rebuttal. He was so self assured in his beliefs, so deliberately terrible in his own unique way - Claire deserved neither of them.

John was about to tell him exactly where to put his opinion, but a shape that looked suspiciously like Sherlock Holmes wrapped around the chair that Claire's father was sitting in, grinning and extending his arm forward. John's breath caught from the sudden presence, both hands working underneath the table into white knuckled fists.

Sherlock was grinning unabashedly, ignoring John completely. And behind him was the girl he'd seen him talking to, looking timid but in place, like she belonged in the frame of this moment in particular. "General Tabbot, is it?" Sherlock asked, shaking Claire's father's hand. He immediately changed his attitude, his voice becoming firm, but cordial.

"Indeed," he said, allowing a thin smile to find its way to his lips. He removed his cigarette with his left hand, leaving it face up in the air, still smoking. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?"

"In the flesh. May I?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the chair next to General Tabbot, directly across John. John set his jaw, let the anger subside, his eyes stealing away to the wall. He only paid it a glance, because the blonde - Sherlock's blonde - soon had her hand on Sherlock's elbow... his shoulder... his neck...

"Go right ahead," Claire's father said kindly, taking a hit off the cigarette. Sherlock sat, his new... friend sitting next to him. Sherlock whispered something into the blonde girl's ear, who looked more anticipatory than anything else, like she was getting ready to eat him up. John felt his entire body flush with red hot jealousy. He kept touching her. Jesus Christ, it was too many points of contact. His fingers were dancing across her pale, delicate forearms, and he was looking at her like he didn't know. Like he didn't know John was watching him, four feet away. Like he didn't know that John felt like he was watching plant matter decay, buildings crumble, like he didn't know that John felt like time was moving in reverse.

"Are those my two favorite men in the whole world?" John suddenly heard a familiar woman say from behind him. Goosebumps took over his arms when his fiancée wrapped her arms across his neck, leaning down to give him a sweet peck on the cheek. She was slathering on romantic bliss; even on their best days they never acted so love-stricken. Keeping up appearances. John had to remember - even as Sherlock cupped the blonde woman's arm - appearances.

"Mr. Holmes," Claire greeted, being significantly more chilly. "Lovely to see you."

Sherlock's gaze flickered up to greet Claire, with her arms wrapped around John's shoulders. John couldn't take his eyes off of him. "Miss," Sherlock allowed. His eyes met John's, but he said nothing.

"And of course, you've met my fiancé, John," Claire said, smiling.

John could feel himself glaring; his anger saturating his stare. His hands clenched, once more, before he offered out a hand.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," John said, his voice dark. "A pleasure."

Sherlock didn't smile, didn't immediately take John's hand. He looked displaced. His eyes flickered between Claire and John - at a total loss - before he nodded, more temperate than John had ever seen him. "Doctor Watson." He shook John's hand in resignation. "The pleasure's all mine."