Chapter Text
14 February, Baker Street, London
Valentine’s Day, my favourite day of the year, began gloriously. Sun shone through the windows of the Baker Street flat, lending a cheeriness to the place. Even the skull on the mantel seemed to be grinning. All over the world, Love was being celebrated, announced, and rediscovered, with flowers and chocolates, cards and kisses. I could feel every one of these gestures in my very soul, feeding it.
I was at the window, observing the beautiful day outside and absorbing the energy of ten million acts of love, when Sherlock burst from his bedroom, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. He strode purposefully across the room, put on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck, humming all the while.
Leaving the flat, he almost collided with Mrs Hudson, who was holding a tray with tea.
“Sherlock! What are you doing up so early? Did you get a new case? Is the game “on?”
“No, Mrs Hudson, I have an errand to run this morning, and I’ve got to be off. Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way,” he said merrily, kissing her on the forehead before dashing down the stairs.
She stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds before shaking her head and saying, “He’s such an odd one” to herself. She brought the tea to the kitchen table just as John came down the stairs in his pyjamas.
“Good Morning, Mrs Hudson.”
“Good Morning, John, Happy Valentine’s Day. You look happy, you’ve got a glow…”
“Oh yeah, Valentine’s Day, I completely forgot!” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to run out and take care of something before Sherlock wakes up.”
“Sherlock’s gone, dear, rushed out of here not ten minutes ago.”
John glanced at the clock. “It’s only nine am,” he said, incredulously.
She shrugged. “Said he had an errand to run, and he was in such a good mood. Even wished me a Happy Valentine’s Day. Come to think of it, he was sort of glowing too.” Realisation dawned on her face. “Did you two—"
“Mrs Hudson, I really must excuse myself,” John said, blushing a bit.
This woman has excellent perception skills. I quite like her.
*****
Sherlock returned first, carrying a bouquet of purple lilacs. He sat in his chair fidgeting, toes tapping, fingers moving restlessly. He went to the mirror and fussed over his hair, sat back down, then got up and looked at himself again. He put on music, Schubert. Finally, he picked up the lilacs and sat in his chair, waiting.
Soon, there were footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock sprang to his feet and hid the flowers behind his back as he waited for John to arrive.
The door opened, and John walked in.
The two men stood still, looking at each other from across the room, then Sherlock took a few steps forward.
“John, I…”
“Sherlock, about last night—”
“Are you taking it back, John? The not being sorry?” Sherlock looked stricken.
“No, no, I’m not taking it back, Sherlock. God no.” John closed the distance between them.
They stood and looked helplessly at each other.
They were going to figure it out, figure each other out, figure out how to say what needed saying, how to do what needed doing. But for now, they just stood.
It was Sherlock who broke the silence.
“John, I am a ridiculous man.”
“Sher—"
“No, hear me out. I am a ridiculous man, an arsehole, and a rubbish flatmate. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. You don’t deserve it. You deserve so much more than me. I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few days, rethinking my…self-imposed rules, and well, I hope that you’ll forgive me and accept these.
He drew the bouquet from behind his back and held the lilacs out. “Happy Valentine’s Day, John.”
“You…you bought me flowers?”
“Yes.”
John smiled a brilliant smile as he shook his head in disbelief.
“So, I’m your…”
“Valentine, yes, John, if you’ll allow it.”
Still smiling, John reached into his pocket, removed an envelope, and held it out to Sherlock, trading it for the bouquet.
“Open it,” he said as he held the lilacs to his nose and breathed in the heady scent.
Sherlock opened the envelope slowly and drew out a card. A Valentine’s Day card with a heart on the front and when opened, an inscription that read:
I choose you.
And I’ll choose you over and over and over.
Without pause, without doubt, in a heartbeat.
I’ll keep choosing you.
John
Along with the card were two tickets to the London Symphony’s Valentine's Day performance.
Sherlock looked at the card, the tickets, and then at John.
The flowers and the card fell to the floor as they came together and wrapped their arms around each other, John’s head against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“May I kiss you, John?”
In answer, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks and pulled him down to his lips as Sherlock’s hands went to John’s waist. When they finally broke the kiss, Sherlock said, “Do we need to talk about this?”
“No,” John said, placing a finger on those lush lips and shaking his head. “I don’t think so; I think we need to keep kissing.” And then they did just that, and more.
I won’t share all the intimate details, because they are well, intimate. What transpired that day belongs to these remarkable men who were exploring their newly discovered love. But I will tell you they stood there holding each other there in the middle of the room kissing, and kissing, and kissing, at first in the most tender way, until the kisses became more passionate and hungry, with fingers buried in hair and bodies shifting, pressing, and wanting.
After they finally had their fill of each other’s mouths, they broke apart and wordlessly, Sherlock led John to his bedroom, and there they stayed for the rest of that beautiful Valentine’s Day morning. I didn’t enter; I’m no stranger to what goes on between lovers in the bedroom, but I was content just to listen. I sat on the floor outside the door, my wings against the wall, hugging my knees.
There was a rustling of clothing, the thump of empty shoes hitting the floor, the creak of bedsprings as the weight of two bodies settled on them. There were whispers and low murmurings.
“…for so long…”
"It’s always been you…”
“Can I...?”
“Yes.”
Just then, Mrs Hudson entered the flat with a plate of heart-shaped biscuits. She paused when she saw the lilacs and card on the floor, and her mouth made a soundless “o.” Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she placed the plate on the table and glanced down the hall to the open bedroom door just as someone moaned loudly. Her face lit up with a smile as she held her crossed hands over her heart. She looked directly at me and gave a little nod. Did she see me there? Surely, she couldn’t have, but I winked at her anyway. She turned and left just as silently as she had come.
I turned my attention back to what was going on in the bedroom. It was almost time for me to go, but I had one last thing I needed to hear, just a formality, really, but one of the joys of my profession that I would be loath to miss.
I flew in and alighted on the foot of the bed, surveying the scene. Hastily removed clothing littered the floor. The curtains were open, and golden sunlight poured over the men on the bed, half-covered in tangled sheets. The sight of them together brought me such sweet joy. They looked happy and sated, their skin flushed and shiny with sweat, limbs entwined. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder while tracing little circles on his chest with his fingertips. Sherlock’s long fingers were in John’s hair, and his kiss-swollen lips pressed against his temple.
“John.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want this to end.”
“It doesn’t have to, Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I love you, I must have all along, I’m sorry it took me so long to realise it, and I understand if you don’t—"
“Hush, I love you too, ‘course I do,” John said, moving his hand to Sherlock’s cheek and rising to look into his eyes. “I. Love. You.”
And there it was.
I smiled to myself and gazed at the two men on the bed. Now I could go with a light heart and the satisfaction of a job well done. In the years to come, I would visit them from time to time, here at Baker Street and later at their little cottage in Sussex. "Quality Control," I call it. I like to check up on my handiwork, which in this case, if I do say so myself, was spectacular.
I’m Cupid, the God of Love, the only one in the world. I invented the job.