Sherlock fandom
The Key to His Heart
It is often said that the key to a man’s heart, goes through his stomach. Well, that doesn’t apply to the man who owns my heart, and vice versa. By all means, we do indulge in culinary treats.
In our younger days, it was heaps of take-away; Indian, Chinese, Indonesian. Never Italian, though. Angelo would’ve been devastated if we sought out Italian food somewhere else.
And there were of course the sweets, to satisfy the madman I lived with.
(Still lives with, to be clear.)
Ginger nuts, jammy dodgers, scones, Mrs. Hudson’s home baked cakes and biscuits, tiramisu, chocolate mousse, and sticky toffee pudding.
But I’m rambling. My madman, the great Sherlock Holmes, still doesn’t eat the amount of food I would like him to. He still claims that it slows him down. Not that he has places to be nowadays. If you don’t count his beloved beehives that is.
I seem unable to keep my thoughts collected on one topic today. The thing I was going to tell you about, was how I, John Hamish Watson, was given the key to the detective’s heart.
Everyone thought we were a couple from the day I moved into Baker Street. Quite a lot of them took it as a personal insult, when we, well, mostly I, objected to the assumption.
“Not gay!” I shouted out to anyone who cared to listen.
Few did, but the one that mattered the most, always listened. It still hurts to think about.
Sherlock is interested in all kinds of things, but the thing that has stuck with him since childhood, is the fascination for bees. I was stunned when he told me about it quite early in our acquaintanceship. Living in London assured that we didn’t come across them very often, unless we walked the parks. We mostly ran through the parks, always chasing the bad guys. That was a relief, because I was terrified of the tiny creatures.
“How is that possible? You invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock protested when I told him.
“Well, childhood trauma isn’t that easily forgotten, Sherlock,” I stated.
When I was eight years old, I was stung by dozens of bees. I had been fighting with Harry, and she pushed me against our uncle’s two beehives. The push was hard, and both hives fell to the ground. I can still recall the angry buzzing and the bees’ fierce attack. It was summer, and I was only wearing a pair of shorts…
Enough about my childhood horrors.
It took me too long to realise that I loved Sherlock. Even when he came back from the dead, I acted like I hadn’t grieved him like a lover.
Keep calm and carry on.
Sherlock’s sudden illness, which forced him to stay in bed for almost a fortnight, made us both come out of our shells. His high fever made him hallucinate, and he was quite talkative throughout. He pledged his love for me numerous times a day, mostly in his sleep, so I didn’t put much into the declarations. I worked it out in the end and did some pledging myself.
He wasn’t entirely convinced at first. The not gay statement still lingered in his mind, and he was reluctant to do more than occasionally holding my hand and hug me. So, I decided to convince him. I just had to get Harry on board. She was surprisingly amenable to my suggestion to buy her share of our uncle’s cottage, which we both had inherited some years previous.
Sherlock didn’t know about it. I had almost forgotten about it myself by that time.
The cottage was called “In the Meadows”, and the name fit perfectly. It was surrounded by them on three sides, and said meadows needed some taming. Nobody had lived there for at least three years. An old neighbour had kept an eye on it, though, so it wasn’t in total decay. It needed some loving hands, which I hoped Sherlock and I could provide.
I took him down to Sussex one sunny Saturday in May. The neighbour had assured me that beehives were in place, and the gear needed to tend to them.
“Happy belated birthday, Sherlock,” I said when we stood outside the house.
“What do you mean, John?” he asked, too stunned to deduce and observe properly.
“It’s for you. Or us, really,” I told him.
I was so anxious for his reaction.
The blinking came first. I had anticipated that. What came as a total surprise was the kiss once he had spotted the hives.
He turned to face me, cradled my face, and pressed his lips softly against mine. I almost stopped breathing but finally got my arms to work and circled them around his waist.
“My John. You…how…but you’re terrified of…” Sherlock stuttered after he broke the kiss.
“Well, I’ll just have to trust you to protect me for once, then,” I murmured, still dazed from the tender kiss.
“Do you really love me that much, John?” Sherlock inquired.
“More than anything,” I told him, which lead to further kisses.
If you wondered; yes, we’re both retired, and our address isn’t 221B Baker Street anymore, but “In the Meadows”, Sussex.
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This is also my entry to the Sherlock Challenge of July, prompt: key.
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