Work Text:
That day, the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street were sat, as they often were, in the sitting room. Sat being the operative word, it didn't take long before Sherlock was on his feet again, treading a hole in the carpet while John had his nose buried deep in a book, grateful for the break from domestic life.
Less grateful for Sherlock's mood.
"Interesting."
John didn't look up from his book, quite determinedly turning the page and keeping his head down to hide his smile. The exclamations were getting louder and louder; he wasn't giving the other man the satisfaction.
"Fascinating…"
Sherlock didn't think aloud, as a general rule, or when he did it was long-winded dissections of matters at hand, delivered at a pace most normal humans couldn't quite manage. Mary had gotten into Scandal last Summer and given it a go, but even she couldn't match the speed at which Sherlock could recite his own thoughts aloud. He'd never heard the phrase "brain too fast for his mouth".
He only did this when he wanted to talk.
"Really, John, are you going to pretend to ignore me all day?"
"No," John sighed, closing the book and making an effort to look put-upon. The other man paused in his pacing long enough to take the book, read the blurb, make a face and toss it over his shoulder onto the couch. John raised an eyebrow. "Only for as long as it was working."
"I need…" Sherlock waved a hand in the air, impatiently, his face pinched. This was new. "I find myself feeling …"
"Nervous? Come on, Sherlock, this was your idea."
"You're right, this was a mistake. You ought to call her immediately and tell her-"
He was cut off by Mrs Hudson's voice rising on the floor below, an excited chatter that had both men turning to face the beat up door to their flat. Sherlock's face twisted unnaturally.
And then it opened, and Mrs Hudson breezed through, pinning them both with a look. "Boys! What are you doing up here? That poor girl can't carry her things alone."
John leapt to his feet, but Sherlock frowned. "No, this won't do, Mrs Hudson. You'll have to tell her to go home."
"I will not. I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock Holmes." She smiled sweetly. "I'm your friend, and she's good for you. Give her a chance!"
"That is what you said the last two times, Mrs Hudson." John almost laughed at the severity of Sherlock's expression, and Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes.
"That pretty rock on your hand means something, Sherlock. You let her in or you lose her!"
"Don't bully him, Martha," came a new voice, and a woman floated into the room. Or rather, she was not the one who floated; she walked in a rather average way, with a parade of boxes floating behind her. Her eyes went straight to Sherlock, who had frozen, his cheeks going pink. She crossed the room to take his hands, a movement not uncommon but one John always watched with a little surprise, in how Sherlock always let her - seemed to welcome the gesture. "Hello, Sherlock," she murmured, smiling radiantly. Sherlock gave a faint smirk in return, his eyes locked with hers.
"Hello, Hermione."
"Baker Street needs a woman!" Mrs Hudson continued stubbornly. "And you need your wife!"
"Plenty of married couples live apart," Hermione lied easily, without taking her attention from the man in front of her. Her eyes mapped his face, and John recognised the look; she was scanning him for injury, doing a mental health check. Had he been eating, drinking, sleeping?
"They do not," Sherlock scoffed, looking at her like she was insane. He'd never been able to read her, not like he did other people. It was the magic, it offset his ability.
"So what? Are we average? No. I don't mind. We go at your pace, Sherlock."
John couldn't help but admire the sincerity in her tone. This was not the most obvious lie; barely even a lie, because she meant it, but she was shielding hurt. He didn't blame her. They had been married for two years, now, and Sherlock had yet to truly let her in. Share his life with her. And his life was in Baker Street.
Sherlock squeezed her hand, looking satisfied, the same look he got when he'd solved a particularly difficult case. "Unpack your things," he murmured.
Had John heard that correctly? Everyone in the room stared for a moment. A heavy, loaded moment, and then Hermione grinned jubilantly.
"You're so brave," she whispered back, going up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
"I believe, on such occasions, people say 'welcome home'," Sherlock replied.
Mrs Hudson squealed with joy, rushing forward to hug the woman who had cracked Sherlock. "Ah! We were blessed the day he found you, I knew it! Now, come on, do that trick you do and show me where you want your things."
The two women disappeared into the second bedroom, John's old room, Hermione's boxes dancing along behind them, and John turned to his friend with an inquisitive eyebrow raised. "Quick turnaround, that."
Sherlock smiled, his eyes lingering where his wife had disappeared. "I read her, John. For the first time, I read her, and I knew this was right."
“Well,” John murmured, settling back in his chair and opening his book, eyes returning to the page. From the corner of his vision, he could see Sherlock still standing in the centre of the room, watching the doorway to Hermione’s bedroom with the slightest of smiles on his face. “That’s it, then.”
“Quite.”