Happy Birthday Ika! 🎉 This is just a little something for you 💛, hope you like it 👑 @gloriouscumberbatch
Quiet reigned supreme along Baker Street as the snow continued to fall, it’s powdery blanket muffling the harsh edges of London’s streets.
A solitary cab sat stranded at the road’s edge, long since deserted by horse and driver both, the carriage itself and ever fading hoof prints the only sign they had ever disturbed the snow.
Holmes stared out at the silence, wondering if this was the first instance in which he had appreciated a form of precipitation so thoroughly.
In it’s overwhelming strength, the storm made it almost impossible for all but the most hardy and dedicated to leave their homes and so, naturally, Watson had gone out, the note he left stating something of vague importance about Mrs Hudson’s stock of wood or some other such rubbish.
Holmes had awoken to find the other side of the bed quite bereft of the sleeping man he had been anticipating, and that was a rather disconcerting few minutes for him. Perhaps, even after the events that had unspooled between them that night, or more correctly, that morning, Watson had changed his mind - this thought had plagued him for long minutes before he strove to find Watson and adress the issue. Obviously he had left, his hooks on the coat and hat rack vacant. The note had settled him somewhat, but he required a physical presence to make any logical conclusion and had been standing at the window, waiting, draped in nighshirt and dressing gown, ever since reading it.
That had been maybe two hours ago, and night had now fallen. Watson himself had yet to return.
“Whatever are you musing about over there? I think I may finally understand what you meant about thinking loudly my dear fellow, your thoughts at the moment are positively cacophonous.” Watson’s voice, clearly lilted with the force of his grin, drifted over as the sound of his entrance and the shutting of the door finally registered in Holmes’ head.
“Cacophonous? Do I detect a hint of the morning crossword?” Holmes jested, an answering grin lighting up his face as snow covered boots were removed by the door and hat and coat forsaken. He had come back.
“I’ll have you know I have an extensive vocabulary, but I cannot argue the matter with you at present, my woolens are soaking - did you know that the front door is frozen quite shut? I had to jimmy poor Mrs Hudson’s window”
Holmes focused on the door across the street from theirs, noticing now the signs of freezing and refreezing that would have caused trouble for those trying to open them as Watson’s voice grew distant (Changing out of his wet clothes, his brain supplied readily) and then close again
“but I of course stayed to stoke the fire, never mind a bit of cold and wet for me, a lady of Mrs Hudson’s years should not be subjected to the same, which is why, my treasure, I had to leave our bed in the first place, though you must know I did not wish to.“
Holmes’ thoughts stuttered to a stop. He blinked.
“Too presumptuous? I understand, of course, if you wish to forget about the events of last night, and if I have made you uncomfortable I do apologize.”
Holmes spun to face him, regardless of the heavy blush that had settled on his cheeks and nearly buckled at the knees. How he had not thought to see this coming he couldn’t determine, but the sight before him very nearly had him on the floor.
“I take it this means you wish to remember it?” Watson chuckled lowly, stalking across the room to meet him.
“John.” He choked on it, the relief of Wats- John’s continued affection a soothing balm for the nerves he had torn to shreds all afternoon waiting like a pirate to receive judgment. Last night had meant something, the risk they had both taken, the way he had felt, the way he still feels (his soul is ravenous for this man.) Even to his own ears he sounded wrecked, a far cry from the humour of only moments earlier.
John’s eyes flared with empathy, and he was wrapped tightly in his dressing gowned (It was Sherlock’s own, John had gone to change in his room, their room?) arms in seconds.
“Oh Sherlock, surely you must know how I had longed for an opportunity to know whether my feelings were one sided, that last night was the culmination of years of yearning for you, that I would never, in any world there is where you and I dwell together, ever let you go once I had you?”
“I had thought perhaps last night was, for you, an aberration. We did not discuss so much as… Demonstrate, and I had hoped that upon waking we would speak on it further. However, you were gone by that time and I was… unsure.” Sherlock’s voice trembled into John’s hair , soft as the snow still falling outside.
When he replies, John sounds fierce, and certain of the truth in his words.
“Sherlock, I have been waiting such a long time to be able even to hold you like this, but if you wish it I will return to the manner in which I regarded you before last night, and nothing need change” A small noise of protest escapes his throat and John’s hand finds it’s way into his curls, soothing gently. “However, if you would have me, I would much rather spend the rest of my days at your side, in your heart, and when the occasion allows for it, in your bed. Do not doubt that I wish to be with you because that is my singular dream. If I could tell the world, I would. You terrify me Sherlock Holmes, such is the depth of my affection for you.”
Sherlock quivers in his arms, overcome already, and John strokes his back gently, simply holding him and waiting for an answer.
“I could think of no other way to spend the rest of my life than with you as my closest companion, a friend and lover all in one infinitely undeserved blessing.” Tentatively Sherlock encircled John’s sturdy hips in his hands and held him close.
When their lips met, it was with hope, like the world itself was righted, and the journey from living room back to bed was made hand in hand because tonight as the world slept, these two were free to love and be loved in return.
Outside, the snow still fell, their hearts fell together, and quiet reigned supreme.
