Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain drummed softly against the windows of 221B Baker Street, forming silvery rivulets that blurred the view of the street below. Inside, John observed Sherlock pacing restlessly, fingers tapping against his thighs, the usual signs of his agitation growing clearer with every passing minute. Their last case had ended three days prior - enough for the post-case crash to come and go, which meant now they were into the dangerous territory of potential boredom. 

"Looks like we might be stuck in all day," John said, keeping his tone deliberately light and casual.

Sherlock paused mid-stride, fixing John with a pointed glare. "Congratulations, John, you've officially identified the dullest day in London's recorded history."

"Not necessarily." John stood, moving deliberately to the small shelf of DVDs near the television. He had an idea, and since the last time Sherlock had been bored had ended with a scorch mark on the kitchen ceiling, had gone ahead and got some supplies. "We could watch a film."

Sherlock frowned, instantly dismissive. "Films are tedious. Loud, predictable. They rarely warrant attention."

John smiled patiently, holding up a DVD case he had hidden behind the others with triumph. "What about a silent film, then? Less noise. Less distraction. More room for… interpretation."

Sherlock hesitated, his sharp gaze narrowing slightly, assessing John as though weighing the merits of this unusual suggestion. His expression softened just enough to reveal a grudging curiosity. He glared at the windows once more, then sighed a great put-upon sigh. "If it must be done," he said as if it were a huge concession. He arranged himself onto the sofa in a carefully orchestrated tangle of limbs, radiating an energy barely restrained.

John smiled to himself, careful to hide his face, then put on the DVD - a classic black-and-white comedy he remembered from childhood - and then joined Sherlock, sitting close but careful not to crowd. As the film began, John glanced over to gauge Sherlock’s reaction. True to form, Sherlock's eyes quickly drifted from the screen, wandering about the room, his fingers starting their familiar restless twitch.

Not to be deterred, John leaned closer and began narrating quietly, his voice low and steady, assigning playful personalities and quirky motives to the characters on the screen. Sherlock turned and stared at him, an eyebrow arched in skeptical curiosity, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decode the unexpected but intriguing distraction John had created.

"The young man in the bowler hat," John explained, "has just realized he's forgotten his umbrella on the train. Which, considering this is London, might actually be a crime punishable by law."

Sherlock’s lips twitched even as he blinked several times at him, but then looked back at the screen. "And now," John continued, voice soft and amused, "the woman with the enormous hat is planning how she'll discreetly hide her collection of stolen spoons under her petticoat. She's quite famous in certain criminal circles, you know." Sherlock's eyes sparkled briefly, and John knew he'd struck exactly the right note. Encouraged, he wove increasingly absurd and humorous backstories, offering Sherlock a steady, amusing thread to follow. As minutes slipped by, Sherlock visibly relaxed, shoulders easing, his restless movements gradually stilling.

John felt pressure against his shoulder, barely noticeable at first, but undeniably there - Sherlock was leaning into him as he became utterly absorbed. He chuckled quietly at John's ongoing narrative, the soft sound sending vibrating warmth through John’s chest.

As the film continued, John realized he was getting tired and his voice became a bit hoarse. Sherlock glanced sideways at him when he yawned. After a visible brief hesitation, Sherlock cleared his throat and tentatively picked up the narration himself, voice initially quiet but gradually strengthening. "And the shopkeeper," he said, looking at John as if for confirmation, "is secretly an international jewel thief who moonlights as a terrible poet." John laughed, delighted, which was apparently all Sherlock needed. He grinned back, then his ongoing comments grew increasingly clever and absurd. Soon they were both trading back and forth, their laughter mingling, creating a warm bubble of shared happiness that John wanted to bottle for future rainy days.

When the film ended, neither moved. John basked for a moment, but then doubt started to set it - was Sherlock going to realize how close they were sitting, and put the distance back between them?

"Another?" Sherlock asked, smile dropping slightly as he turned to look at John. John internally kicked himself. 

"Absolutely," John agreed. "I got three, just in case, and there are loads more where they came from." 

Sherlock still looked a little on edge, and John couldn't have that. He bumped him with his shoulder. 

"They're much more fun to watch with you," he said, refusing to second-guess himself. "You pick the next one." 

Sherlock looked at him a moment more, eyes tracking over his features, and then that happy smile crept back over his face.

"OK," he said, voice soft with a rare sincerity. He hesitated, then added in a low, almost shy murmur, "It is easier to... follow the story with you."

"You mean, make the story up?"

"Well," said Sherlock, face flushing slightly even as he moved towards the DVDs, "the ones we make up together are apparently worthy of attention."

John felt his heart thud hard against his ribs, and when Sherlock sat back down, John slipped his arm around him.

Chapter Text

A few weeks in, their relationship had settled into something steady. They kissed often, shared a bed without hesitation, and made meals in the quiet rhythm of familiarity. Nothing had dramatically changed on the surface. They still bickered over laptops, still read separate books in companionable silence, still knew precisely how the other took their tea. It was comfortable.

And yet, one evening, John came home with a small bouquet - a neat handful of white freesias, loosely wrapped in brown paper. Sherlock looked at the flowers, then at John, then back at the flowers.

"They're for you," John said, sounding almost defensive. "I walked past the stall on the corner and thought - well. I thought you'd like them."

Sherlock stared another second, then reached out and took them. He did not say thank you. He carefully trimmed the stems, set them in a vase and kept glancing at them all evening.

John worried he had overstepped, that Sherlock would think it sentimental, or worse, unnecessary. As Sherlock washed the dinner dishes that night, John hovered by the doorway, chewing his lip.

"Just so you know, I didn’t mean anything weird by the flowers," he said.

Sherlock paused, sponge still in hand. "What would be weird about them?"

John shrugged. "You know. Too much. Too soon."

Sherlock blinked at him then returned to the dishes. "I liked them."

John exhaled quietly. That was all he got, but it was enough.

The next night, Sherlock made dinner. Proper dinner. Not toast or takeaway, but sea bass with capers and a sauce that required stirring for seventeen minutes. He even folded the napkins.

John smiled into his wineglass. "You made this?"

"Yes."

"It’s brilliant. Thank you."

Sherlock’s fingers twitched against his own under the table. John turned his hand palm up and let Sherlock settle against it.

After that, small gestures began to sneak into daily life. John left notes in Sherlock’s coat pocket. Sherlock drew a diagram on a napkin to explain chemical reactions that reminded him of John's laugh. John started kissing Sherlock’s forehead before work. Sherlock began brushing his fingers over John's knuckles in public.

Each new act was met with a pause. A breath. A flicker of uncertainty. Sherlock once offered John his scarf on a windy day and spent the next ten minutes pretending to examine cracks in the pavement, as if waiting for some ridicule that never came.

John wore it all afternoon.

John, in turn, hesitated before putting a framed photo of them on the mantle. They were at the seaside in that shot, both windswept and squinting. He braced for a comment about sentimentality, but Sherlock only tapped the frame twice in passing, like it was some delicate experiment made real.

One night, curled under the duvet with Sherlock's legs tangled through his, John muttered into his shoulder, "Thought you'd mind all this. The soppiness."

Sherlock huffed a quiet breath of amusement. "Thought you would."

"Been holding back?"

"Terribly."

John laughed. "Me too. Got all these things I want to do and say and I keep thinking you’ll find it ridiculous."

Sherlock pressed a kiss behind John's ear. "Try me."

So John did. He brought home biscuits shaped like violins and offered them with a bashful, half-shrugging grin, as if bracing for laughter. Sherlock took one, bit into it, and gave a small, pleased nod before polishing off three more without comment.

Sherlock ordered a cushion embroidered with John's regiment insignia and left it casually on the bed, as though it had always been there. When John spotted it, he ran his thumb across the stitching and stood silently for a moment. Then he looked at Sherlock with an expression that made Sherlock glance away, cheeks tinged with colour.

They slow-danced once, in their socks, to a jazz record that crackled through the living room. No lights, no conversation, just arms around each other swaying slowly in the faint glow from the window. A few days earlier, they'd both insisted affection was grotesque - "sickening," John had muttered over dinner, and Sherlock had solemnly agreed, calling it "biochemically inconvenient." Now, forehead to forehead, John whispered, "We’re absolutely disgusting."

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. "Delightfully so."

John started saying things like, “You make me so bloody happy,” without lowering his voice. He said it over breakfast, while brushing his teeth, and once with a mouthful of crisps during a documentary about poisonous frogs. Sherlock stopped pretending to be puzzled when John called him beautiful. He began to tilt his head and smile, blinking slowly like the words were taking root.

They kissed longer in the mornings, soft and lazy, as if neither quite wanted to break the spell of waking up next to each other. They lingered in doorways just to say one more thing, sometimes standing there for five or six goodbyes before one of them finally left for work. Sherlock texted John poems with obscure authors and no punctuation. John brought back matching socks with tiny foxes on them. Sherlock wore his to Bart’s without blinking. John laughed until he wheezed.

Sometimes they looked at each other with that stunned sort of grin, like they could hardly believe this was allowed, that no one had stepped in to say it was too much. Once, when Sherlock left a note in John’s wallet that simply read, your presence improves the room, John stared at it for a full minute before sitting down and covering his face with both hands.

One Sunday morning, without planning it, they each returned from errands carrying a surprise for the other. Sherlock, after two weeks of covert effort, had sourced a signed copy of John’s favourite childhood book. John had framed the note Sherlock once left in his wallet and had it mounted with care. When they both stepped into the kitchen and saw what the other was holding, they froze - puzzled at first, then touched, then - 

Then they laughed. That breathless, bright kind of laugh that crumples the knees and presses foreheads back together. They stood in the narrow kitchen, sickeningly romantic gifts between them, and held onto each other while their laughter echoed off the walls .

“We’ve gone completely mushy ,” John said once they had calmed down.

Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Though, 'gone' may be the wrong word. 'Are', would be more apt.”

John smiled up at him, feeling delighted - and accepted. 

“Let’s never walk it back," he said.

Sherlock's answering grin was somewhat mushy itself.

“Agreed. Abject sentimentality for the win."

John kissed him with a laugh, then Sherlock started to step away, no doubt to set the framed note on the mantel.

"Forever?" John asked, the word slipping out before he could overthink it. Sherlock looked back at him, surprised at first, then smiled again.

"Forever," he agreed.