John let out a small grunt and then groaned once he picked himself off the sidewalk, once he was done messing about with his shoes.
He rummaged in his pocket to pull the coin out into his hand. A single shilling in mint condition, a routine that John cleaned his coins that bordered on near compulsion. His thumb lightly passed over the engraving of the crown that sat upon the mature bust of Queen Victoria.
His eyes caught the horses that moved swiftly along, despite the people inside the cart; they moved expertly through the bustling streets of London with ease. His leg seemed to ache, and his left shoulder twinged at the prospect of a ride, yet this was precisely why John kept only a shilling on him.
Other than the muggings, he only armed himself with a shilling on days he wasn't out for errands. It kept his spending low and the target off his back for any nimble fingers.
He put the coin back into his pocket and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. The moment he started to walk, the aches and twinges began to fade with each step down Baker Street.
John remembered complaining to Sherlock, when he was sure the man wasn't paying attention, about the aches and pains he was experiencing during his walks. In his thirty minutes of ranting, he was suddenly cut off with a sharp, "Then don't." By Sherlock, who hadn't lifted his eyes off the paper he was reading.
"You aren't even listening to me! Why give such advice as that if you aren't truly following?" John knew these were fighting words; a challenge wrapped up in a little bow that was cut by Sherlock's lifted stare.
"I would follow more if it was not the same problem repeated in different flourishes of the word." He lifted the paper back up, but his eyes didn't leave Watson, "Do what I do. Imagine the world with one ear and listen with the other. Do that, and pain will go away." His eyes slowly moved back to the page, but seemed ready to look up again, as if he was prepared for another challenge from the doctor.
John had scoffed at that, crossing his arms, "How'd you come up with that, Holmes?" John swore he saw the twingest of twinges on Sherlock's lips when he said, "It stopped your whining, did it not?"
The John then had to leave to avoid his emotions spilling over, but the John now chuckled at the memory and shook his head with a smile that didn't falter in the slightest.
Sherlock was right, typically; with John's mind rather fueled by the imagery he was taking in, the aches and pains all seemed to disappear. Especially when he passed major landmarks such as the Marble Arch.
John couldn't help but visualize Sherlock at one of the walls, studying the sculptures and ornate detailing. Rambling on about different qualities of marble and the irony of the drab monument that was once tied to the wealthy.
John blinked, and the little Sherlock in his mind was gone, skittering into the back of his mind like an alley cat that had tasted food and warmth. His ramblings made him remember a fresh conversation that wormed its way into John's mind.
Sherlock mentioned a shift in John so matter-of-factly one day when he was shuffling through the messy documents on his desk. When John asked him why he was constantly gazing at him, Sherlock did what Sherlock does best.
"I would apologize for my stare, but you have worn your right boot on your left foot for the better part of the morning." He pointed down at John's very odd fashion statement to further rub in his point, "and have, on two separate occasions, poured the sugar into your tea and then proceeded to add a further three cubes." Sherlock's eyes flicked from the tea and then back to John, with, well, one might say, a judging look, but that was rather the norm for the detective.
"Unless you have suddenly decided to develop a sweet tooth and join a circus, it might suggest that your mind is, shall we say, otherwise engaged." Sherlock elongated the word with a raised brow. But then he did something quite shocking to John.
"Mind sharing who has gotten you all fashion-forward?" Sherlock queried into his fumbling mind. Hell, what must've shocked Holmes was that the Dr. Watson was fumbling.
John wasn't too happy with his response. Yet, he still isn't. As that was this morning and of all the words in his mind palace to conjure up a well-thought-out pronouncement, all he managed was a, "Biscuits!" before swiftly swiping the bag on the table and rushing out the door, tripping on his shoes down the stairs as he scrambled away.
He could feel the embarrassment burning at the tip of his ears when he remembered, which is precisely why he tried to swiftly forget. It didn't take much effort when two children raced past him, a mother calling out to them to stay close by.
He had made it to Green Park and could see the McGilfree brothers fishing in the St. James's Park pond from a distance. John wondered if the officers would push them in at this point instead of arresting them. John admitted to wanting to see the scene play out, but thankfully, it was only to himself.
He was about to continue his walk when something in one of the glass store windows caught his eye. The craft of a briar pipe did not escape the critical eye of Dr. John Watson, nor did the amber fittings that sparkled against the glass when the sun was just right. Though John Watson was not a man who was above a little bit of window shopping. He has experienced such stunning times many times and hasn't batted an eye, but that was because to catch the eye of man named Dr. John Watson, you must be interesting; and the pipe, only being a shilling, was just that.
John moved towards the shop with haste, which he had only used in Afghanistan. The door opened with a delicate little chime. Upon the shelves, the knick-knacks looked like those one might find in a household, filling space with a sentimental memory.
John gravitated towards the pipe and gently took it in his hands. His fingers feel the grooves and smoothness of it all. When John turned to the front, a woman peeked around the corner with a smile.
"Hello there." She said with a chipper voice as she noticed the pipe in Watson's hand. "Oh, I just knew that piece would sell!"
John cleared his throat as his heart seemed to pull. He felt a bit... wrong holding something so precious when all that was requested was a mere drop in its value. "Miss," he hesitantly said.
"I wasn't born yesterday, mister." She said it so confidently, John was a tad baffled. "I beg your pardon?" John asked, causing the woman to giggle, "You can't just beg for it, you have to earn it!" She laughed at John's increasingly confused and surprised look, waved her hand, her eyes playful and teasing.
"That thing there," she pointed down at the pipe in John's hand, "was owned by a bastard of a man." She chuckled, "He was the devil or at least related, I'm sure."
John looked down at the pipe, his fingers moving along the grooves. "Such a shame," he began with deep sincerity, causing the woman to pause and look at him with a quizzical nature. "For such a stunning object to be so tainted by the likes of a cad."
The woman smiled, "Tainted indeed, but thoroughly cleaned." She grabbed a box that looked lavish, setting it on the counter, "Perhaps it just needs a new set of lips to purify it." She said with a small chortle, causing John to smile, mumbling. "Or to taint it even further."
The woman smirked, "You like your women as dirty as your tea, I presume?" Her eyes raised at John before he cleared his throat and handed her the shilling.
She closed her fingers around it with a smile and pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business, my good sir." John nodded quickly, turned, but just as he fully exited the store, he sheepishly asked, "Could... you do something for me?"
"Goodness Watson!" Lestrade exclaimed when John came in. "You walked all the way here? In your condition?" He asked. His eyes were scanning. John was no fool; he knew those eyes weren't just looking for him, but for Sherlock.
"On such a pleasant day? I wouldn't dare sully a day like this with a ride." John stepped to the side before adding, "My apologies, Inspector, the detective is not with me today. Only in spirit." John handed the bag over to Lestrade, who opened it, peered inside, and then made a small, "huh," and then looked at Watson. "Biscuits?"
"Yes, inspector." John clarified with a nod.
Lestrade hummed again and then asked, "Holmes made these?"
John, this time, nodded slowly, "Of course, Inspector."
Lestrade glanced at John, broke off a small piece of a biscuit, bringing it to his lips as a crunch made the silence between them feel elongated.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Tell Holmes to keep his day job."
John chuckled, "I will not." with a smile, causing Lestrade to do the same.
"You are a smarter man than I." He took the bag and brought it over to a community table, and already, a few uniforms flocked over to take some biscuits.
"I have never been much a fan of Huntley's, more of a Peek Frean myself, but I do like the tin," Lestrade said, chuckling at John's slight surprise and quickly checking in the bag. Sure enough, the biscuits were still in their purchased tin.
"I should've known not to pull a fast one on you, Inspector," John admitted, rubbing his neck in the hopes of hiding his burning ears. "No feelings have been hurt, Doctor," Lestrade reassured as he walked to his desk, gesturing Watson to follow.
"It is a rather welcoming change of pace with your influence." Lestrade causally commented. John's interest was piqued. "Would you be so kind as to repeat that?"
Lestrade's lips parted as a small 'heh' escaped before waving his hand dismissively, "Oh, forever polite you are. If only Holmes could learn some tricks from you, he might make decent company."
John found himself leaning against the wall in front of Lestrade's desk. "You don't live with him." Lestrade nodded, putting his hands together as he looked to John with much sincerity, "Thank you for your service."
John chortled, tipping his hat, "I must be on my way if I wish to make it before nightfall."
Lestrade stood, "Nonsense, one of my men can escort you home." John smiled and shook his head, "Oh, I don't wish to be a burden, Inspector."
"Nonsense! I'm sure one of those bobbies has been sleeping in the archives since noon. It will give them a sense of purpose." Lestrade insisted, and before John could turn it down, he was gone and off towards the archives.
John was left to his thoughts once more as this thumb gently rubbed over a groove on the pipe, yet this was one fresh, new, and small. He could feel his nerves tingle and his heart quicken slightly. This made no sense. It was just a gift. That was all that it was.
So why did it feel like it was something that felt like much more than a gesture between good friends?
John thanked the Constable when he stepped off the wagon. The officer, still with crust around his eyes, gave John a small salute before he took off. Just as John was about to turn around and open the door, Sherlock was suddenly in front of him.
"Good heavens, Holmes!" He yelped, taking a few breaths. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, "What's gotten you jumpy? You know I live here, Watson."
John had his hands on his knees, "Since when did you become a doorman? Was Ms. Hudson hiring?" Sherlock let out a small 'bah' as he waved his hand, turning back into the building to walk up the stairs to their apartment.
John followed close by, with each step the question grew larger and larger like a bubble before it suddenly—"Why were you at the door, Holmes?"—popped.
Sherlock paused at the stairs for a moment. The seconds ticked by before he simply said, "Bored." before finishing his ascent up the stairs and unlocking the door to their apartment.
"Oh, truly shocked, Holmes," John said in his sarcastically deadpanned nature. He noticed Sherlock's eyes on him when he entered the apartment as the door closed behind them with a secure click of the lock.
"Go on, spit it out," John said with a slight groan, "How did Lestrade take the biscuits?" Sherlock asked as he walked over to his armchair, that still had his coat drapped over the back of it, and sat down. John smiled, "He enjoyed them, the tin mostly. Peek Frean was his first choice, however."
Sherlock nodded slowly before he asked, "How was the mall? Anything fancy caught your eye?"
Now, that surprised John. "How did you-", "Simple, you are fidgeting with something new in your pocket and were surprised when I mentioned the mall." Sherlock relaxed a bit as he continued, "You rarely get yourself anything unless you need it. You're surprise was that I knew because it was a surprise in your mind." His eyes furrowed slightly as he wondered out loud, "I hadn't a clue of who it is for just yet..." His eyes lifted up to meet Watson's, whose eyes was constantly full of awe, but this time.. there was a shift of nervousness in the way he carried himself.
"Watson?" Sherlock called his name, causing John to snap from his astonished state. "Yes, right, the thing is..." John pulled the box from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock.
"..it's for you."
Sherlock took the lavish box, his eyes lifted ever so slightly in the rare moment of surprise. "A gift, Watson?" Sherlock asked, looking somewhat confused. "For what particular occasion?" Watson swallowed, finding this much awkward than it should've been. "Must one need such an occasion to gift a friend?"
Sherlock raised his brow at Watson's statement before opening the box to see the smoking pipe. His eyes taking in every detail in rapid succession: the briar wood, the amber fittings, and finally.. "A new pipe.." His fingers moved over a minor groove where 'S.H' was carved with a careful and elegant flourish, "..engraved with my initials."
Sherlock took the pipe in his hands, his voice soft, speaking as if he were the only one in the room, "You must have noted my old clay pipe is now quite beyond repair, despite my constant care." He rotated the pipe, seeing the upgrades this pipe provided, and couldn't stop himself from commenting, "The new tobacco blend I have been experimenting with required a different chamber size... and this incorporates it..."
Sherlock looked at the pipe and, then with the aloofness that gave him his signature charm, set it down on the side table beside him, "Things are of little consequence, Watson." He said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "They are but distractions from the real work of the mind." His eyes finally looked up from the pipe and to Watson. He paused when he saw how... nervous Watson was. The way he feverishly picked at the skin of his nails and bit the inside of his cheek. Usually, this sight didn't bother Sherlock, but it felt different with Watson. Watson always had a way to melt away the frost that accumulated around his heart. Sherlock cleared his throat and quickly stated, "I suppose this is a distraction I wouldn't mind. Your gift is very... practical."
John could feel the relief wash over him. That was close to a 'thank you' he was ever going to get. "I'm glad you enjoy it." John cleared his throat to shake the embarrassment of this encounter from his voice while he hung up his coat on the rack, which seemed to be that only he used. "I believe it's time that I turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes were on Watson, "Goodnight." He answered as the door was closing to the doctor's room. Sherlock felt the strange shift in the air, hell, even in Watson. He was confused by it all, and for once, it seemed like there was a book missing from it's self in his mind that could illuminate this odd change.
Perhaps he had thrown out that space long ago, and yet it felt like something was missing, not lost. Not knowledge that alluded him, no. Something much worse to Holmes. It was something that he couldn't understand.
His fingers moved to pick up the pipe as the lamplight softly lay on the engraving that was so delicately detailed. How could such a small number of uniformed scratches on an item make him feel so... warm.
He hadn't realized that he had been sitting in the chair looking at this pipe for the better part of an hour, and just as the hand ticked over to midnight, a piece of the blank jigsaw seemed to slot into place.
He has seen this before with cases involving broken families, the cases that truly struck Watson deep into his being. Was it because it hit too close to the heart?
Sherlock stood up suddenly as the adrenaline coursed through his legs and forced him to pace. Watson is a brilliant doctor; he would know his own mortality. Was Watson...—his pace abruptly stopped as he looked down at the pipe that suddenly felt small and fragile as a terrifying thought crossed his mind—...was his friend dying?
His fingers tightened ever so slightly as his feet began again across the floor. It would make the most sense; this pipe was a memento from the closest and only person he could truly call his friend. Was Watson preparing him for his timely death? With gifts and comforting words to ease the blow of the devastating news.
That word caused him to stop again, and this time, he had to sit down. Devastating. Yes, for once, that word truly meant its gravity in his life. His hands shook; this wasn't a problem, nor a case he could fix, and that truly scared the man of Sherlock Holmes.
Just to make this really clear this is during the 1890s in London. This isn't related to BBC Sherlock in any way.
A super big thanks to @doctorsoul29 for the illustrations that will portray what these characters look like; the first obviously had to be Sherlock and John 🥰
Ping list: @sweetstephstuff @doctorsoul29 @deldemon84
If you would like a more uniform read, I'm also posting to Ao3 if it's easier reading there!
