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“That was,” John settles back into his pillows with a little sigh and reaches for my hand, to bring it to his lips and kiss it, “that was fucking. Sublime.” There is a sheen of sweat on his chest. His collarbone is damp, and his hairline shines. I’d like to kiss his sweat off him. I’d like to, but John has turned me into a sort of soup, and all I can do is lie beside him and grin foolishly. “Did you enjoy yourself, gorgeous?” He kisses my hand again, turns it over to nuzzle my palm.
Try not to squirm, “I think you heard me the first time, John.”
John laughs into my hand, “The first sixteen or seventeen times, you mean? I think the moon heard you, lovely.”
Snatch my hand back (responding with pique to being teased is what I’m meant to do)(John is shining such pride and affection that it scarcely counts at teasing), “You’ve no one to blame but yourself for that, John.”
John kisses my temple, chuckles into my hair, “I can live with that.”
“Mmm,” lean into the kisses briefly. “I should go and powder my nose.”
“All right,” John agrees without releasing me.
“John, I don’t have the strength to wrestle myself free so that I can use the toilet at the moment.”
“Fine, fine, go. Kiss first and tide us over.” John is monstrously greedy and remains unsatisfied with fewer than four tide-over kisses.
Go off to the bathroom and tidy up and clean my teeth and so forth, and when I return to the bedroom, John is hastily replacing his phone face down on his night table.
“Lestrade hounding us about something or other?”
John smiles at me as if he hasn’t seen me in ages, “I’ve got cold while you were gone. What do you intend to do about that, mmm?”
Bound into the bed and curl up to John, and he pets the most convenient bits of me. Kiss his chest, “Warmer, John?”
“Perfect, lovely.” John’s fingers sink deliciously through my hair and rub my scalp, and we are briefly silent. After a few (five) soft whooshes of John’s breath, he gives my shoulder a little pat, “I’m fading here, gorgeous. Tell me good night.”
“Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sherlock.” And John does indeed drift off, though he doesn’t let me go.
…
Wake alone and chilly and vaguely disgruntled.
“John?”
No answer. Get out of bed and slip through the bedroom door, which is standing ajar. Cold of the floor soaks through my socks, and my slippers are in the sitting room, but I halt on its threshold at the sound of mingled voices in the kitchen.
“...not a word to Sherlock, all right? He doesn’t suspect a thing. Can’t believe I’ve actually kept something from him for this long.”
“Of course I won’t say anything, John. Anyway it’ll all be over before you know it.” Her voice sinks into an indistinct, confidential buzz.
After a few seconds, John interrupts her, “Right! Well, I shouldn’t want to wake him after the night he had.” Can’t make out Mrs Hudson’s response, but John seems to find it rather shocking, “Mrs Hudson!”
Mrs Hudson laughs, “I expect you’ll bring the tea things back down after you’ve done it. I wouldn’t want to interrupt, dear.”
“I expect so,” John sounds a little stern over the scraping of chairs pulling away from the kitchen table.
“We’ll have a good old chat then,” Mrs Hudson’s voice grows closer. She means to come out through the sitting room door instead of the kitchen door. Dart back into the bedroom and through to the bathroom. The front door shuts. Get into the shower and turn it on.
John comes into the bedroom, “Are you up, love?”
Call back, “No, I’m still asleep.”
John’s laughing when he cracks open the bathroom door, “Are you going to take ages? Should I have another cup of tea before I start breakfast?”
“I’ve never-”
“I know, I know. The hair fairy, right? See you in a bit.”
…
John is fully dressed when I emerge from the bathroom, still dripping into the collar of my dressing gown.
“You’ve nearly missed me,” John says cheerily, setting a plate of beans on toast and one of Mrs Hudson’s tea cups in front of me.
Frown into the cup, “Nearly missed you?”
“Mmyep, Sarah’s offered me a day at the surgery, so I’m off in a mo.”
“You’re leaving, just like that?” probably silly of me to be indignant but can’t help it.
John laughs, “Yes, I’m afraid this is it. Tragic, isn’t it? Kiss goodbye, to get me through the long lonely nine hours without you?”
“You’re laughing at me,” kiss him anyway when he offers me his cheek.
“I’m that horrible,” John squeezes my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “See you tonight, lovely. Don’t burn down anything I wouldn’t burn down.”
Slurp my tea very loudly, and John giggles himself out of the flat.
Stuff a little more toast into my mouth and hurdle across the room to rifle through John’s desk. It’s painfully neat. Assortment of pens, fastidiously filed bills. Letters from clients (arranged chronologically, of all things). Pamphlet for the mini break he doesn’t know I know he’s planning hidden in an envelope marked ‘Tax.’ His pad of note paper (tasteful monograph embossment)(gift from me) has a smiley face scribbled on the top sheet. John is not a doodler; this scrawl is directed at me. It matches the one I painted on our sitting room wall. It doesn’t mean anything in particular, except that I am expected (John is very communicative these days). Tear off the drawing and tuck the page into my pocket.
Glance over my own desk next. John would call it a mess, but I so precisely know where every item is (or ought to be) that there is no need to search carefully. Check John’s old bedroom and his night table with equal success. Briefly consider breaking into his email or his laptop for a snoop, but that seems less playful, maybe a bit scary. Really is astounding he’s been able to hide whatever he’s hiding and all evidence of its hiddenness (but for what he’s left for me)(god, imagine John as a criminal! Right under my nose!)(shiver).
Hides it from me anyway, but just blurts it out to Mrs Hudson before breakfast (hmph).
…
Come home at once. -SH
Nope. Just got here.
But I want you. -SH
Will make it worth your while. -SH
It’s always worth my while.
Still no.
We’ve got a case. I need you. -SH
Liar.
Don’t forget, dinner at The Landmark tonight at 6:30. I’ll meet you there, ok?
But I want you now, John. -SH
Very flattering, lovely.
At least tell me what you were whispering with Mrs Hudson about this morning. -SH
Tea, mainly. See you tonight!
…
My failed campaigns leave me even more disgruntled than when I woke up. Three boring clients do nothing to sweeten my temper. Get back into my pyjamas after the last one has left and sulk on the sofa, leafing through a pile of magazines. Am thinking of working on my horoscope experiment when I get a text from Lestrade.
Busy this afternoon? Got a case for you.
-DI G Lestrade-
What case? -SH
Come down to NSY, and we can chat it over.
-DI G Lestrade-
Pass.
-SH
You’re too busy to spare 10 mins and talk to me about this case? We’re stuck.
-DI G Lestrade-
That I can believe. Sounds boring. -SH
Are you doing that thing where you swear you’re not coming, but you turn up anyway?
-DI G Lestrade-
Absolutely not; I do not do that.
-SH
See you soon, then.
-DI G Lestrade-
…
“You knew this was a fake case when you asked me along, didn’t you?” Rise from the dusty attic floor and turn to face Lestrade.
“Fake case?” Lestrade rubs the back of his head and coughs into his fist.
“This is a six month old skeleton, dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit that’s clearly come from a museum. Plus, “ hold up the grubby notebook I found in the skeleton’s coat pocket, “ How I Did It , by Jack the Ripper? This is a bit patronising, don’t you think?”
Lestrade holds up both hands in protest, “I didn’t do this.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m only having fun with you, because you made me come all the way out here for this nonsense.” Toss the silly little book down and peel off my gloves.
“Well, it isn’t pressing, but it isn’t fake. Could still be a serial killer or something. You’re always on about how they like to get caught.”
“No, it’s only Anderson, but.” Pause, “Did John-” check myself even as the words are coming out of my mouth. It’s too ridiculous.
“Did John what?” Lestrade looks genuinely surprised now.
Half turn away, “Nothing, never mind. Grasping at straws.”
“O-ho, the legendary Sherlock Holmes grasping at straws? Do tell.”
Shrug, turning back to Lestrade, “Nothing really. Making too much of it. Only he is keeping something from me, and I can’t think what.”
“Oh,” the amusement slips off Lestrade’s face. “Have you asked him?”
“Sort of. He made a joke.”
“Ask properly. Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll sort it out.”
Deep breath, “Right.”
“He wouldn’t hide anything horrible from you; he loves you! And what’s more, he trusts you.”
“True, that’s true. We’re having dinner tonight at six-thirty. I’ll speak to him then.”
“Six-thirty?” Lestrade frowns at his watch, “You know it’s five after six, right?”
“Is it? Oh fuck me, I’m going to be late. How do I look?” Ruffle my hair.
“Err. Bit cobwebby. You’ve got dirt on your face, too. Might need a wash.”
“Shit,” pull out my phone and find that it’s dead, “Shit!”
“Don’t worry; I’ll give you a lift. Come on.”
…
Arrive at The Landmark at ten minutes to seven and spot John from the host stand almost at once. He’s already seated, fiddling distractedly with a menu.
Feel suddenly sort of. Shy. On a whim, contrive to borrow (steal) an eyebrow pencil from one patron and a pair of glasses and a bow tie from another. Slip behind a pillar to don the tie and glasses and give myself a sort of Poirot moustache, then sidle up to John’s table.
John is fussing with something in his pocket when I reach him and doesn’t look up when I speak (comes out rather low and for some reason French and vaguely deranged), “May I offer sir a drink?”
John tugs at the thing in his pocket, “Not at the moment, thanks. Waiting for my boyfriend to turn up.”
“Ahhh, a romantic evening! Perhaps a bottle of champagne for when he arrives.”
“Yeah, maybe” John is still struggling with the bulge in his jacket.
“May I suggest a bottle of the 2001-”
“Yeah, no offense mate, but I’m a little busy at the moment. I’m about to propose, and if he says yes, I’m sure we’ll want champagne, but it’s really not my area, so just surprise me-” on me , John jerks free the thing in his pocket and finally looks up into my mortified, scarlet face. John’s eyes go very wide, and he stares at me, mouth ajar for silent aeons before bursting into giggles.
John composes himself quite quickly and stands to pull out my chair, “Hi, er. Want to sit?”
Sink into the chair and goggle at John and fail to think of anything at all to say.
John takes my hand, still grinning, “Have I missed something? Why are you a waiter?” He lowers his voice, “Is this a sex game?”
“No! I just.” Try not to look at the little velvet box lying on the table between us. “I thought it would be funny. I didn’t. I didn’t know you were.”
“It is funny,” John says gently. He puts a napkin over his index finger and dabs it in his water glass, “May I?”
“Go on, then.”
John tips my chin up to wipe away the eyebrow pencil and smiles at me, “There we are. Don’t think I can look at that without laughing, and I’d rather not just now. Though I don’t know if I’ll ever be totally finished laughing about you disguising yourself as a waiter.”
“I don’t know! I rather thought you’d be annoyed with me being so late, and I wanted to make you laugh. You love this sort of shit.”
John beams at me so tenderly that I want to hide my face, “I do love this sort of shit. I love you. This isn’t even our most insane ever dinner date. You do make me laugh, Sherlock. God, I love you. You make things so easy for me. Please marry me. I love you.” John rights the little box as he speaks, opens it, and holds it out to me.
My eyes begin to prick, and I blink hard, “You. You really. Erm.”
John’s eyes are bright as well. He strokes my hand, “Do you want to hear the speech? I had a little speech. Would that help?”
“Well. The key points couldn’t hurt.”
John strokes my hand a moment longer as if it steadies him, before he speaks again, “Do you know what today is?”
“Wednesday. I believe.”
John smiles, “Wednesday, the fourth of November. A year ago today, you came back to me.”
“Oh,” I manage.
“That night wasn’t the first time I knew I wanted.” John presses my hand very tightly, “I had already known for a really really long time that I wanted to spend my life with you.” He swallows, “And then there you were. And I started to think that. Maybe I. Could. Could I?” He half laughs, his eyes spilling over, “There was more, but I don’t think I can get through it. Will you marry me, Sherlock?”
And my answer is roaring so in my ears that it must be blaring loud in the room, and I’ll scarcely need to say it aloud, but I do because I know it will be delicious in my mouth (and because I can’t leave John unanswered, ever), “Yes, John. I will.”