Sherlock stared at the imperfect circle on his left wrist in horror, then sat down on his bed with a bit of a thump. After over thirty years, his heartmark was finally showing activity. This was not good.

'Neural handshake at 100%,' Mycroft says crisply. 'How do you feel?' It's astounding. There is so much to see in Sherlock's mind-- the tiny details, the analyses of different kaiju forms, their advantages and their structural weaknesses. It feels amazing. John stretches a hand out to brush against the blue bursts of memories between them, and Sherlock pushes through towards his own. They exist as a perfect balance within the drift, calm yet stormy, pushing and pulling. John feels invincible. Wherein John is a war-weary soldier thrown back into the fray, and Sherlock is one of the top kaiju analysts.

"This is why you didn't tell me, isn't it," John said.

Three weeks after their wedding, they give Sherlock a ring.

“Fuck,” John says, admiringly. He enjoys giving women head, but this is something else altogether. This is devotion beyond the call of duty. This is fucking worshiping at the altar of Mary Morstan.

“Trust me,” Mary whispers, and in a louder voice: “Come in, Sherlock.”

"Oh bloody fucking DAMN!" Sherlock shouted, apropos of nothing. John nearly dropped his tea. John turned and found Sherlock shaking his passport. "Mycroft made me French!"

Yusuke isn't the only spirit detective in the world. Five AUs.