Chapter Text
"Well." I set my luggage at my feet and looked from John to Sherlock and back. "This has been a vacation for the ages, that's for sure."
John held out his arms and beamed. "Let's do it again some time."
I stepped into his enthusiastic hug. "Just say the word," I told him. "Knowing you, it'll be a dirty one."
"And you." I turned to Sherlock and grabbed the lapels of his coat so I could pull him down for a peck on the cheek. "Take care of each other," I whispered. When I stepped back again, he held out his hand as if to shake mine and instead pressed something cylindrical into my palm. Despite the embarrassing tightness in my throat, I started to giggle: it was a travel-sized bottle of his expensive shampoo.
My train's departure was imminent. I hefted my luggage strap onto my shoulder and said, "I want to know how things turn out, so you'd better put it on your blog." Of course, said John's nod. "And I'll let you know the next time I'm in London. If that's all right." Obviously, said Sherlock's eyeroll.
By the time I was settled in my seat, they were leaving the platform in step, shoulders brushing. I fumbled for my camera to take one last snapshot through the train's window, but it wasn't in my pocket. It wasn't in my bag, either. With a pang of dismay, I realized I'd last seen it when Sherlock popped the flash in Lupo's face. If he hadn't dropped it in our retreat down the stairs, it was probably somewhere in Harewood House or in the back of a London cab. "Oh, sodding hell," I said under my breath, allowing myself a moment of regret for all the images I'd never see. Then I laughed despite myself. I may have lost a week's worth of photos, but I wasn't going home without a souvenir. I'd apparently picked up some choice bits of John's vocabulary.
***
What kind of gift do you send to say "Thank you for the most absurd vacation of my life"? How do you convey gratitude to people who have saved your life — twice? I had no idea, but when I wandered into a shop that sold taxidermied mice dressed and posed like little people, they seemed to have the right touch of morbid whimsy. I bought two. One wore a jaunty red cardigan; the other sported a tuxedo jacket, to which I added a long strip of blue felt knotted as a scarf.
I swathed John-mouse and Sherlock-mouse in multiple layers of bubble wrap and sent them off with a thank-you note that included an invitation to visit at any time. At the end, I scrawled a hopeful postscript asking them to let me know if my camera turned up.
Time passed, and I slipped back into my ordinary rounds: work, friends, errands, appointments. I heard nothing from Sherlock or John, not that I had really expected them to stay in touch after knowing me for only a few days. John didn't even seem to update his blog for weeks at a time. So the package that arrived three months after my trip was a complete surprise.
My camera was on top, taped into so much bubble wrap that I couldn't tell at first what was inside. Beneath that were clippings from several London newspapers about the trial and sentencing of a certain concert producer for human trafficking. One had "blog post soon" jotted in the margin in what I assumed was John's writing. At the bottom was a note in different handwriting on a page torn from a pocket notebook: Hope to be in the US in the next year. Meanwhile, we have room for guests now. Visit any time. Crime optional. It was signed with a firm, swooping S.
Oh, it was good to hear from them. I was beaming as I connected the camera to my laptop and started transferring its contents. Faces, street scenes, two old men petting a dog in Hyde Park, my friends at our dinner in Clerkenwell, the Japanese girl falling backwards in Westminster Abbey — some weren't bad at all.
I'd also managed a handful of pictures of Sherlock and John. Not many, not nearly enough. There was John with head cocked and arms folded, staring intently at something just out of frame. Sherlock blurred in mid-turn, coat flaring out. John's hand wrapped around a mug bearing some sort of military insignia. A close-up of Sherlock's right eye, the one with the amber spot. John in his armchair with Sherlock bent down to read his laptop over his shoulder, their profiles limned in the light of the screen — the best of the lot, and the best shot I'd taken all week, I decided. I'd have to send it to them.
The first picture I didn't recognize was one of myself at the Tower of London, laughing with my head thrown back. Sherlock must have dropped the camera into his pocket as we fled Harewood House, taken this photo the following day, then left it forgotten again in his pocket until I asked after it. The absent-minded genius, I thought warmly. Then I tapped the keyboard to bring up the next photo and said a soft "oh!" of delight. What an idiot I was! Sherlock hadn't forgotten my camera at all; he and John had deliberately kept it until they were ready to send it back. As I punched the arrow key to take me to the next picture, I wondered what they'd been waiting for.
Click. There were Sherlock-mouse and John-mouse on the mantelpiece, flanking the skull like an honor guard. They looked right at home.
Click. John at his desk, poking away at his laptop with the tip of his tongue poking out.
Click. Sherlock kneeling to examine something on the bank of the Thames, one arm up as if waving someone over to join him.
Click. John with kettle and teapot, wet hair sticking out in every direction.
Click. Sherlock draped across the couch, head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat, a bruise visible just below one ear.
Click. Sherlock and John standing in front of a Christmas tree, handcuffed together. Sherlock was holding up their joined wrists with an exaggerated frown while John pantomimed strangling him with a swag of silver tinsel. I giggled aloud as I imagined them scrambling to set up the camera's timer and get into position, then giggled harder when I realized the tree was garlanded with crime scene tape and the skull was balanced on top.
Click. Sherlock-mouse and John-mouse on the mantel again. This time they were side by side, paws carefully positioned to touch.
I looked. I wondered. I clicked to the last image.
It had been shot from arm's length, presumably by Sherlock, since he had longer arms. He was in profile, forehead to John's temple, eyes closed. John looked straight into the camera — straight at me — with a smile of utter contentment.
"Oh," I said again. "Oh."
I looked at Sherlock's note again and spotted something scribbled on the back in pencil. It was John's writing, a single sentence: Whatever you said to him, thank you. xxJ
I fumbled for my phone to snap a self-portrait of myself looking at the screen, astonished and maybe a little teary. Then I texted it to both their numbers with a note:
2nd bedroom for guests now?
Even though it was the middle of the night in London, I got an answer right away:
Definitely not a complete idiot. SH
-fin-