Work Text:
It's late. The case is solved, the mud and blood showered away. The room is burnished with firelight and the orange glow of a streetlamp. Rain patters hypnotically on the windows. A log crackles in the fireplace, hissing and spitting from time to time when a wayward raindrop plummets down the flue.
The smaller man pokes at his laptop, occasionally huffing quietly as he searches for an elusive word. The taller man slouches in his chair and turns a page in his book. "John," he says absently, holding out his free hand. Neither raises his eyes.
John proffers the plate with one hand as he continues typing with the other. Sherlock takes it, balances it on the arm of his chair, and plucks one of Mrs. Hudson's chocolate-covered shortbreads off the top.
Minutes tiptoe past. "Oi," John mutters, gesturing for the plate of biscuits. Sherlock passes it back wordlessly.
The rain taps. The fire snaps. John sets aside his laptop and stretches luxuriantly. Sherlock turns sideways in his chair to dangle his bare feet over the hearth.
"Tea?"
"Mmm."
Sherlock holds up his empty mug. John stands to put the kettle on.
They look up simultaneously and meet each other's gaze. The lazy half-smile they exchange contains an entire conversation.
It's as close to peaceful as a London night can be.