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John checks his watch, 11:55. He glances across the crowded crime scene and sees Sherlock peering intently at the window frames.
They should have been at Greg’s flat to ring in 2018, but a dead woman found in a penthouse apartment in Docklands put paid to that. Greg reluctantly cancelled his party and Sherlock gleefully agreed to have a look. Fitting really, a locked room murder on New Year’s Eve is much more them than a party.
John forces himself to pay attention to the poor woman lying on the floor in front of him where he kneels, no 2018 for Mrs Whitchurch. Cause of death seems obvious, blunt force trauma to the head, but who knows what will come up in autopsy?
Maybe John can find something else if he checks the body more thoroughly, something more subtle, he starts with her hands but barely takes in anything, his mind is elsewhere.
He considers his life, almost a year since Mary died, the mess of Sherrinford and mystery sisters and being chained in a well just a memory now. Instead now there are cases and takeaway and 221B. Rosie getting bigger every day and this man, this wonderful man there every day just, just being. Being John’s friend, his flatmate once again, helping with the practicalities and the emotions. Making the tears a little easier and the laughs a little bigger, and, as the year has passed, helping shift the balance to far more of the latter than the former.
He checks his watch again, 11:57. Decision made, she can wait 5 minutes, she is hardly going to get more dead.
He stands up and dusts off his knees, a reflex action, the flat is pristine and he is wearing a blue coverall anyway. In his focus on reaching the far side of the flat he almost steps over the body, but fights the impulse and walks around.
11:58, and everyone seems oblivious. They are all talking, taking photos, sifting through paperwork. Greg is in the other room with the distraught husband, out of sight fortunately. What John has planned would be incredibly insensitive if Mr Whitchurch were here, and John isn’t sure he could bring himself to care enough to stop.
John watches Sherlock berating a junior forensics officer, poor man. John will make him apologise later, but it is 11:59, no time now.
As John approaches he can see the spectacular view, the city laid out below them, lit up with a thousand lights. The perfect backdrop to the vision of Sherlock scowling at the stupidity of the world, grumpy at being forced into his own coverall, and loving every second of it. He notices John’s approach and his eyebrow quirks in confusion. John just smiles reassuringly and closes the last metre between them. The young officer takes advantage of the new arrival and makes good his escape.
11:59:30. The two men stand framed in front of the window and John stifles a smirk at how Sherlock’s coverall is too short, pulled up at the wrists and ankles, tight across his chest.
John cups his cheek. “It’s New Year, I just thought, for once, we should start it right.” He maintains eye contact as he leans in, their lips meet, dry, soft, gentle, over in a second and the first fireworks light the night sky behind them. John pulls back a few millimetres to check he hasn’t misjudged.
His voice trembles, “Yeah? Is that....?”
“Yeah. Yes, that.” Sherlock grabs him by the nape and pulls him back, still chaste, this is not the place for anything more, but not so gentle. This kiss is firm and insistent, a promise of more as London blossoms with light, every colour shimmering across the river and illuminating them. They break apart when they are smiling too much to kiss any longer and stand shoulder to shoulder to watch London greet the New Year. John’s hand finds Sherlock’s and grasps it firmly, resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“This window frame is telling me nothing, I should look at the door.” Sherlock murmurs, glancing reluctantly towards the front door.
John grins and squeezes his hand. “I should examine the victim more thoroughly.”
They watch the next few explosions in silence then John squeezes his hand again, “Lets just watch the fireworks first?”
Sherlock’s voice is thick with emotion as he replies. “Yeah, lets.” He nuzzles his cheek against the top of John’s head and whispers, “John? What happens next?”
John twists to look Sherlock in the eye, “Well, according to the fairy tales you read to Rosie, after our first kiss we live happily ever after. Sounds good to me.”
Hand in hand, surrounded by the bustle of a Scotland Yard murder investigation, they share the first few minutes of the rest of their lives.