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Busy? —Nat
The text came towards the end of Rosie’s birthday party, while John and Mary were busy cleaning cake frosting from the dining table and confetti from the carpet. There were party hats and streamers cluttered beneath the couch, and John went around the room with a black plastic bag to gather them.
He kept shooting pointed glances in Sherlock’s direction. “We’d leave sooner if you helped,” he said, nudging a box of garbage bags his way none too subtly.
Sherlock ignored him, standing casually by the stairs while he typed out the last of an e-mail, and addressed Natasha’s text. She’d wanted to come. She’d bought Rosie a gift and everything, but Mycroft had called with something urgent and last minute, and she’d climbed into a plane an hour before sunrise.
She’d kissed him soundly at the door before she left, promised to check in once she was settled into a hotel room, and disappeared into the early morning fog. Sherlock brought up her text and typed out a reply.
Not yet. John’s taking forever to clean. —SH
I’m surprised Mary isn’t making you help. —Nat
She tried. —SH
She usually succeeds. —Nat
I didn’t say she tried hard. —SH
You’re incorrigible. —Nat
I have it on good authority you find that endearing about me. —SH
That I do. —Nat
I win. Do I get a prize? —SH
Sherlock pressed send and Mary nudged him out of the way to get to a sticky pool of strawberry ice cream on the floor by the stairs, Rosie’s favorite. She was strawberry everything these days, and so Natasha had found a scented Strawberry Shortcake doll, wrapped it in strawberry printed paper, and sent it along with Sherlock.
“Tell her the gift was lovely,” Mary said, never once glancing at the screen of Sherlock’s phone. He cast a sideways glance at her, but Mary just smirked, because she knew, the way she always knew. “I’ve saved her a slice of cake when she comes back, John and I expect you both for dinner.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally, returning his eyes to the screen of his phone when it buzzed in his hand. Natasha’s reply, not words this time, but a picture. He stepped out of Mary’s way, stole a surreptitious glance at John, and only then tapped to open it. Natasha sending him pictures wasn’t unusual, but they were always decidedly inappropriate, to varying degrees.
This one was tame by her standards. She must’ve been in her hotel room, but there was little in the background that gave her location away. Natasha in a black bra, mussed red hair, full parted lips, and smoldering green eyes was the focus. Sherlock felt himself smile, lips quirking up at the corner, dimples forming on his cheeks.
He missed her already. I’d prefer you, he typed out.
You’ll have me, she typed back. Wherever and however you want me, as soon as I get back.
Tease. —SH
I have it on good authority you find that endearing about me. —Nat
Sherlock scrolled up, tapped on the picture, and eyed it again. Endearing is not the word I’d use. —SH
What word would you use? —Nat
Hot. —SH
Sherlock didn’t need to be there to know Natasha had smiled on the other end of the conversation, bit her lip, and tucked her phone to her chest. She always did that when he’d texted something she found sweet or funny or adorable, often while they were having text conversations in the same room. Which was common, particularly when they were forced to socialize with others, or forced to attend a meeting or briefing or whatever nonsense, at Mycroft’s request. She usually peeked at him, winked, and typed something back a second later.
The same was true now.
I miss you. —Nat
I miss you too. —SH
There was the sound of plastic garbage bags being shoved into a bin, a kiss from John to Mary, a promise to be back in one piece, and then John was sidling up beside him. He darted his eyes between Sherlock’s phone and face as he put on his Haversack coat, half smiling and curious.
“Everything alright? You ready to go?”
I’ll be home in a week, Natasha texted back.
Sherlock typed his reply before he tucked his phone in his pocket, still smiling that same smile from before as he reached for his Belstaff. He caught John’s eye and smiled a little wider, the smile of anticipation so common when he was on the brink of delving into a challenging case.
“I’m always ready,” he said.
He popped his collar, pressed a kiss to the top of a sleeping Rosie’s head, and glided to the door with a dramatic flourish. Somewhere in the world, Natasha smiled at the screen of her phone and tucked it to her chest. Sherlock’s words flashed on the screen.
I can’t wait. —SH