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“Honey, I’m home,” I called as I stepped into my flat one foggy late afternoon and hung my jacket on a peg by the door. And though Sherlock’s coat was hung next to it, along with a dimly familiar red one, Sherlock did not call back cheerily. “Sherlock?” I looked about for clues. No mugs set out. In the kitchen, I found only the half-tidied experiment Sherlock had promised to clear up that morning. I shrugged and made for the bedroom, but I found Sherlock before I got there.
His voice, accompanied by soft splashing sounds was leaking under the bathroom door. “...so lovely, aren’t you? Lovely girl, sweet girl, clever girl, oh yes.”
That little speech was followed by feminine giggling, then Mary’s voice joined Sherlock’s cooing, “Listen to you; I’d never’ve believed it. I’m still a puddle over here, mind. And you promised to sort me out; when are you going to do that? I can’t go round like this; think of poor Mrs Hudson’s carpets.”
Sherlock laughed quietly, “Mrs Hudson’s carpets have seen worse than a little bathwater, I promise you that. Just go through to the bedroom and put on something of John’s. He won’t mind, and you’re approximately the same dimensions.”
I grinned and tapped on the door at that, “Hey, it’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”
In an undertone, Sherlock said something that sounded much like, ‘Oh dear, daddy’s home early,’ but he’s assured me that it couldn’t have been that. Aloud he said, “Of course you can, John! Come in.”
I opened the door, “Oh. Gosh.” Sherlock was sat on the edge of the draining tub with a bundle of towels on his very damp lap. In the centre of the bundle, the very damp and bedraggled but bright-eyed foxy face of a little yellow dog peeped out, and every time Sherlock spoke, her tail thumped against his side. Sherlock grinned up at me sheepishly. Hopefully. “Well! Aren’t you having a day?” I went down on one knee and held my hand out to let the little dog sniff me, “Who’s this, then? Wait, let me guess. A client.”
Sherlock laughed, “John, this is Bunbury. She and I have decided. She’s already seen the vet, and she seems to be very well-trained, though she was rather dirty, poor thing, so she had a bath; she wanted to make a good first impression. She belonged to a victim, and Lestrade called the RSPCA, but I just. Well.” Sherlock paused to kiss the dog on the top of the head, and her tail shimmied quicker.
I grinned at Sherlock, “You old sop.”
“You’re not angry with me for taking in a dog without consulting you?”
I stroked his knee, “I think you rescuing strays is sort of how we met. How could I be cross about that?” Sherlock looked so soft at me that I kissed him, even though he had a dog hair stuck the the corner of his lip.
The bedroom facing bathroom door opened, and Mary leaned against the doorway dressed in a stripey pair of my pyjama bottoms and one of my jumpers, “Bunbury? Are you calling her Bunbury? I thought you’d been saying ‘bumblebee.’”
“That’s a stupid name.” Sherlock shook his head, “In what way does she resemble a bumblebee?”
“In what way does she resemble a Bunbury?” Mary returned in a rather broad imitation of Sherlock, “At least bumblebee’s a word.”
Sherlock tutted, “Oh Mary, don’t you know your Wilde?”
Mary grinned, “I’m wild? Oh sweetheart, you have no idea.”
I cupped my mouth and stage-whispered, “Oscar Wilde. It’s from Earnest.”
Mary laughed, “You named your little dog after an Oscar Wilde character? That’s really gay.”
Sherlock pressed his hand to his heart and made a bow, “I try.” Bunbury herself joined in the conversation with an experimental little yip. Sherlock patted her side through the towel and kissed the top of her head again, “Yes darling, I know.” She tipped her head back to lick his chin, and Sherlock grinned at me so sweetly, it made my stomach hurt.
I cleared my throat, “How shall we feed Bunbury, hmm? There isn’t a speck of meat in the house.”
Sherlock only wrinkled his nose at the mention of meat and left Mary to answer, “I nipped out and got some tins of dog food and a little harness and leash and things for her. Sherlock made me, because he’s a horrible host.”
“You offered! I’m getting changed. Come on, Bunbury; we don’t have to take this,” Sherlock rose, cradling the dog in the crook of his arm.
“You staying for dinner?” I asked Mary as Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom. “Want to text Janine?”
Mary looked at her watch, “May as well. Janine’s actually not around at the moment, though.”
Mary followed me into the kitchen and put the kettle on while I rummaged in the fridge for something appetising. Or at least edible. Mary peeped over my shoulder and curled her lip, “Sorry, no offense, but I’m not eating anything that’s come out of there. There’s a hand in a jar on that shelf above the vegetable crisper.”
“Most of a hand,” Sherlock corrected, entering the kitchen in dry pyjamas with Bunbury at his heels, free from her bundle of towels, and starting to fluff up a bit as she dried. “Let’s get takeaway. All that’s gone off, I think. Apart from the hand,” he added sternly when I opened my mouth. “But you aren’t allowed to eat that; it’s mine.”
“I suppose that’s my cue,” I said, shutting the fridge and getting out my phone.
“My hero.” Sherlock draped himself momentarily across my back and kissed my ear before he ambled out to the sitting room, “Come on, girls.”
“Girls?!” Mary stomped after him. “I’m four months older than you are, Sonny Jim!”
...
A little over an hour later, when we were all--Bunbury excepted--deep in our noodles, Mary cleared her throat and looked round at us importantly, “I’ve actually come about something in particular,” she prodded open a dumpling with one of her chopsticks and spread its innards over her plate, waggling her eyebrows.
“Well go on then,” I said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Sherlock snorted, “I’m not in suspense.”
Mary ignored him, “Have a guess.”
“Oh it never goes well for me when either of you encourages me to guess.”
Sherlock tossed his head, “I specifically encourage you not to guess, John.”
Mary did her Sherlock voice again, “Well then deduce it.”
She smirked at Sherlock while his eyes bounced over her, “News of some kind. Some sort of announcement. If it were professional, John would likely know something about it at least, so probably personal. Damn, you’re wearing John’s clothes. If you had your own things on, that would have helped.”
Mary grinned broadly, “I’m getting married! Next weekend. I’m here to invite you.”
“Congratulations!” Sherlock and I said in unison. We popped up from the table and converged on her for a hug.
Mary slung an arm about our necks and kissed us each on the cheek, “Janine’s off telling her mum and sister, and you two are this orphan’s nearest and dearest, so here I am.” Sherlock blinked rapidly against the moisture rising in his eyes, and I don’t mind saying my own were stinging.
Sherlock gave Mary a kiss, then sank down from under her arm back into his chair with a small but audible sniff, “I didn’t even know you were considering marriage.”
Mary sat also, smiling ear to ear, “I know we’ve not been together long, but she’s the one, you know? What’s the sense in waiting around?”
Sherlock caught my eye as he answered, “I think I do know.”
…
Mary goes home soon after we’ve finished dinner, and John takes a book to his chair. Feel strangely at loose ends. At length, I convince (bribe with treats) Bunbury to join me on the sofa. She lies along the length of my body and rests her chin on my chest, and I stroke her back so that her tail thump thumps on the sofa cushion. John, beaming, snaps a photo on his phone.
Glare at him, “Don’t put that on the blog!”
John grins, “You must well know how sweet you look, if you want me to keep it to myself.”
“Implacable tease,” kiss the top of Bunbury’s head with dignity.
John’s grin grows and he leans in and strokes my lip, “You’ve got dog hair on your mouth.”
“I meant to!” catch his thumb between my teeth, and Bunbury raises her head and barks.
John laughs and strokes her head with his free hand, “See now, you’re upsetting Bunbury.”
“Terribly bad form to involve the children in our arguments, John; I’m ashamed of you.”
John laughs and leans in for a kiss, then drops it onto my nose at the last second to annoy me, “I’m very sorry.”
Catch hold of his chin, so that I can aim properly and kiss him, “I suppose I may eventually find it in my heart to forgive you.” John only raises his chin to invite more kisses, which I, maligned but magnanimous, grant. Between us, the dog wriggles happily and barks, and John would scoff fondly if I said it aloud, but I know just how she feels.
...
“Do you think you might ever want that?”
“A squashy little doughnut to sleep on? Thanks, but I prefer our bed. Nice of you to offer, though.”
“John…”
“Sorry sweetheart, only teasing.”
“Do you think you might ever want to get married?”
“Right, if you’re proposing--”
“I’m not!”
“--then tell me now--”
“I’m not proposing! I’m only asking. Do you think? Sometime?”
“Do you want to?”
“I asked you first.”
“So you did. Well. Erm. I actually was married for a bit. A long time ago.”
“What?!”
“Yes, when I was twenty til err, I’d say twenty two or so.”
“Well! That’s not very long.”
“Ha no, it isn’t.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“No, that’s fair. Erm well, we were way too young. Couldn’t cope. I was still training up to be a doctor; we hardly saw each other. It just sort of fell apart.”
“Plus you’re gay.”
“Ah haha yeah, there’s that. We didn’t put that in our divorce papers, though.”
“How did I never deduce you’d been divorced?”
“Oh you know. I suppose it doesn’t read as loud as being shot in the shoulder.”
“Hmmm.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry John.”
“It isn’t a nice thought, you know? Having been not very nice to someone else because I didn’t have my own shit sorted out.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Yeah, don’t we all.”
“So you’re not much inclined to it anymore? Marriage?”
“Well, I haven’t thought about it in a long time.”
“No. I expect not.”
“It isn’t the sort of thing I’d realised you’d be interested in, and all I’ve wanted for a long, long time is to be with you.”
“...Don’t make me cry right before bed, John. I’ll wake up with the most fearful headache.”
“Mmm give us a kiss?...lovely.”
“I wish I’d always known you, John.”
“So do I.”
…
Want to be my witness? At the wedding? Mx
I meant to ask when I was round yours, but I wasn’t expecting to give a dog a bath, and my agenda got a bit squiffy after that. Mx
Of course! I’m flattered you asked.
Nearest and dearest, luv. Mx
What are my duties? I don’t think I’ve done that witness thing since the army. Do I need a morning suit?
God no. Not that sort of wedding. You can even do one of the cardigans, if you like, Mr Dad Vibes. Mx
Wow, thanks. Why’s that underlined? That’s a bit ominous.
It’s a link, grandad. They’re a band; it takes you to the music store app on your phone. Mx
Still seems ominous to me. You can’t be too careful.
Yeah, you might wind up with some crap music on your phone. Mx
Got to go and see a lady about a cake. Kiss that little dog for me. Mx
Have fun. Will do.
…
“Oh! Hullo!”
I look down at Bunbury for a moment (don’t be stupid; dogs can’t talk!), then round the park for the source of the greeting I feel certain was directed at me. It was.
Molly Hooper is pushing a pram up the path towards us, “Hullo Sherlock!” Grin back at her and give Bun’s lead a gentle upward tug. Bunbury sits politely at my heels as Molly rolls her pram up to us.
“Hello Molly.” She hugs me swiftly. I peep into her pram and smile back at the little ginger passenger, showing a toothless version of Molly’s smile, “Who is this handsome young person?”
Molly loses herself momentarily in a simper, “This is Emilia. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Right little tyrant, though.”
I nod, “Highly gorgeous.”
“And who’s this?” Molly looks past me at Bunbury, whose tail is whipping against the back of my ankles.
“Oh this is Bunbury. We’ve only just recently met, but we’re very fond of each other. Say hello if you like. She’s very polite.”
Molly nods eagerly, “Swap?”
Raise my eyebrows, “I’m sorry?”
“Not permanently. You meet my baby, and I’ll meet your dog. Do you like babies?”
Look round conspiratorially (people like that sort of thing), “I adore babies.”
“Have a cuddle, then. She’s cuddly.” Molly is already sinking to one knee and offering Bunbury a hand to sniff.
“All right. Shall I just. Lift her?”
“Lift,” Molly agrees.
I do lift her, “Sorry, I suppose this is a strange way to make friends.” Emilia is indeed cuddly. She nestles into the crook of my arm and smiles up at my face. Something mesmerising about looking into the eyes of an infant. (I wish John were here)(he’s made me such an abominable old sop, and I need him around to witness it).
Molly grins at Emilia and me, under doggy kisses from Bunbury, “You’re a natural.”
Nod, “Thank you, I’ve had this arm my whole life, and I’m getting very good at holding with it. How old is she?”
Molly glances at her watch, “She’ll be eleven weeks on Tuesday.”
Smile, “That is a very precise answer.”
Molly ruffles her hair so that it stands up over her right ear, “I’m a scientist.” She looks at her watch again, “Shit, is that the time? I’m late for Stella, shit shit shit. Sorry, Sherlock got to go.” She snaps a photo of Bunbury, and grins sheepishly as she straightens up, “You don’t mind, do you, Sherlock? Got to explain why I’m late to the missus. Come on, Em!” She bundles the baby back into the pram as she speaks. “See you later, Sherlock,” she pauses to give me an even quicker hug than before, then half jogs off down the path.
Bunbury looks after them wistfully (all that affection so suddenly departed)(must NOT talk like this in front of John; he will never let me hear the end of it).
“Well that was exciting, wasn’t it, Bunbury? It’s hard to believe they really come so small until you see them close up.” Bunbury stands up, her tail wagging again, “Yes, you’re quite right. Let’s go back and see John.”
…
At home, we find John crouching in the kitchen, swearing under his breath into the fridge and tossing things into a rubbish sack next to him.
“Hello John,” prod him in the back. “Present the bits you want kissed.”
John snorts, but shifts and upturns his face for kisses, “How was your walk?”
“We ran into Molly with her new baby,” nudge Bunbury away from the rubbish sack she’s sniffing with interest and John knots it. “Hit a snag with lunch?”
“There’s no food, but there is a severed hand-”
“Most of a hand.”
“Right, and what seems to be a box of fungus.”
Crouch to distract Bunbury from pawing at the sack of rubbish, “You didn’t throw away my fungus, did you, John? I’ve been growing it for eight weeks.”
John grins, “Only eight weeks? You must have a special talent for fungus.”
Laugh, “You certainly know how to deliver a compliment, John.”
John clasps the back of my neck briefly, “Ta, my love. You inspire me. Did you say you met Molly’s baby?”
“Yes, her name is Emilia, and she’s very charismatic for someone under two foot tall, isn’t she, darling?” Address the last to Bunbury, who answers only in tail wagging. “I suppose you didn’t get all that well acquainted, since Molly was monopolising your attention.” I look at John, “They were off to meet Molly’s wife. It was. Quite the little tableau.”
John bounces a knowing eyebrow, “Sherlock Holmes’s secret affinity for domesticity.”
“Do I have secrets from you, John?”
John strokes my arm, “Fewer and fewer. And not quite that one. Not exactly.”
“It’s our sort of domesticity, anyway,” Bunbury shoves her head under my arm, and I take the hint and stroke her ears.
“Violin and found dogs and severed hands,” says John fondly. “Well. Most of a hand.”
“Thank you, John, yes. Most of a hand.”
…
Do you need dancing lessons? I can teach you to waltz, if you like. -SH
Are you dreaming? Is this a somnambulism thing? Mx
I am not dreaming. -SH
It’s 14:23; why would I be asleep? -SH
You forget I lived with you, and I know you sleep ridiculously. Mx
Why are you offering me dancing lessons? Mx
Just trying to be helpful in advance of your nuptials. -SH
That’s sort of sweet, actually! Mx
Damned by faint praise. -SH
No offense luv, but stop expecting everyone in the world to be bowled over by admiration for everything you say. Mx
We’re not all John Watson. Mx
I don’t do that! -SH
You do a bit. Mx
Well I beg your pardon. -SH
Just a bit of friendly advice. You know I love you. Mx
Yes, I suppose I can admit that. -SH
Talking of faint praise! Mx
Just bring your winning smile and your short boyfriend to the wedding. It’s not the waltzing sort of thing. Mx
Thanks for offering, though. It’s nice. I like it when you’re nice. Mx
Thank you. I also like it when you’re nice. -SH
We’ve already got you a present. Can I bring that? -SH
Oooh yes, thanks! Presents are also allowed. Mx
It’s a breadmaker. John said you wanted one. I googled ‘what do lesbians like?’ and looking back, I really should have anticipated the less than helpful search results. -SH
Thanks! I love baking xxxx Mx
I’m happy you’re happy. -SH
Thank you x Mx
See you at the wedding! Mx
...
Sherlock and I had got separated at Mary and Janine’s wedding reception--Sherlock rather stiffly explaining to Janine’s sister that a consulting detective is not at all the same as a copper and me letting Kath talk my ear off about how she set the brides up, but we met again at the punchbowl, when we crossed the room at the same time to join the happy couple. Sherlock and I stood on either side of the ladies and grinned over their heads, listening to them flirt.
“I think you should wear that every day,” Mary leaned under Janine’s top hat and kissed her cheek.
Janine turned to catch another kiss, “The hat or the dress?”
“Both,” said Mary. “I love both. You look gorgeous.”
“I’m so glad we swapped hats. You look way better in the tiara than I did.”
“Well it just makes more sense with a tuxedo, I think,” Mary agreed modestly.
Sherlock bounced his eyebrows at me meaningfully, and I grinned, “I know. Very sweet.”
Mary and Janine beamed and answered in unison, “Thank you!”
They grinned at each other, then Janine squeezed Mary round the waist, “And you’re next, I suppose.”
I glanced at Sherlock, and he was already smiling at me, so that I sort of forgot to answer.
Sherlock answered for us, “Well, do you recommend it? How are you finding it so far?”
Mary laid her head on Janine’s shoulder, “Most perfect day of my life, and we haven’t even cut the cake yet.”
When I looked at Sherlock, he was still looking at me. “Well!” I said. “There you have it.”
...
“Gah! John, no tickling in the afterglow!”
“Sorry!” John raises his head from my hip, grinning. “I wasn’t tickling, I was kissing.”
“You don’t look sorry. Bring your tickling face up here and kiss me, John. Mm should we let Bun back in?”
“Bunbury? In a moment.” John sort of slithers up the bed and drops himself heavily along my side, then kisses me, “I was also admiring your tattoo, bossy. I had a thought.”
Bounce an eyebrow, “Mmm, an orgasm and a thought? You’ll be wanting a kip after all this activity, won’t you?”
“Haaaa, hilarious. Mind you don’t strain yourself.” John prods me in the ribs, and we’re distracted by a brief but amorous struggle (far too vulnerable to tickling)(good thing it never comes up on cases, as it is a weak point that it is impossible for me to fortify).
“...Mmm,” John clears his throat against the giggle-hoarse rasp in it. “Anyway. I had a thought.”
“Mm, tell me everything, John.”
John traces my tattoo with his fingertips (still rather tickles)(delicious this time, though), “We could get matching ones. I know it’s a bit of a cliche, but. They’re permanent and beautiful. And I know how you like to look cool.”
Consider this, “Matching tattoos as opposed to say matching wedding rings?”
John nods, shrugs, “It’s an idea.”
“Married people can have tattoos also, John. Sometimes even matching ones.”
“Yeah,” John catches up my hand and kisses it. “So. You do want to get married, then? Matching rings, napkin swans, the lot?”
“Napkin swans, John?”
John grins and nudges me, “You know what I mean. I just. I assumed that all would be a bit. A bit conventional for you. I mean, really. You want napkin swans?”
Kiss him, “What I want is you. In all your glory and in all your Tuesday morning stroppiness. I want to spend every remaining scrap of my existence at your side.”
John smiles (shines) at me, “That almost sounds like a proposal.”
Lick my lips and swallow, then answer before I can let myself be afraid(before I can let myself be dazzled by my own audacity)(can I ever be afraid to tell my John any true thing?), “Yes. It is one. Marry me. I want to be your husband.” My eyes fill as I speak, and John’s features blur but I can still see the swelling of his joy and surprise until the surface tension breaks and then he’s nodding and nodding and hugging me closer, kissing my face, kissing the happy tears that fall from my eyes.
“Every scrap, yes. Me, too. Yes, I’ll be your husband. Yes, I will.”