Work Text:
“You see, Sherly, your grandda makes the perfect cup of tea. Unfortunately, I made it this morning. It’s quite terrible, I’m afraid. Oh well, carry on.” Sherlock chucked the cup—a gift from Mycroft years ago, probably only a few of them left after decades of use and abuse—behind him just to hear the satisfying shatter of it against the hardwood floor and the giggles it inspired from the young girl in front of him. Sherly, Hamish’s soon-to-be-older daughter, took after John the most, which Sherlock had to say he quite loved.
“Sherlock? Was that another cup I heard? I thought we’d agreed you would stop throwing them.” John’s voice drifted from the kitchen where the smell of a wonderful breakfast—most likely french toast, Sherly’s favorite—could be found.
“Not at all, John. You agreed on it, I just sat there and let you talk.” He winked at the little girl with blonde curls, who giggled in a conspiring manner with him.
There was a sigh, and Sherlock looked up to see John in the doorway, his favorite oatmeal jumper snug over a still-broad chest. A spoon was in his hand as he waved it at Sherlock in a threatening fashion—all show for Sherly, who hid her grin behind her hands. “I don’t care if you agreed with me or not, I asked you not to throw those. Specifically those. Only those. Anniversary gift, and all, remember?”
“No, sorry, think I deleted it.”
John was obviously stifling the urge to roll his eyes as he marched over and put his hands on the arms of Sherlock’s chair. “If you wanted a cup of tea, you should have waited until I was up. Git.”
“John, your language in front of—”
John snorted and kissed Sherlock’s nose before turning to Sherly. “Your grandfather thinks he can summon me by breaking things. Don’t try that at home—your father would call us, and by us, I mean me, and then I’ll have to hear about what your grandfather taught you. Promise?”
Sherly nodded vigorously, but John narrowed his eyes and tilted his chin down. “Oh, no. I’ve learned my lesson from him,” he pointed at Sherlock accusingly. “Say it.”
“I promise, grandda!”
John nodded, smiling widely. “Excellent. Now come on, sunshine, there’s french toast waiting for you.” As the little girl dashed into the kitchen, John held his hand out to Sherlock. “Come on, lumpy. There’s tea waiting for you, as well.”
Sherlock stood and took the hand, using it to pull his husband of thirty-six years close. “You know me so well,” he said with not a little sentiment.
“I should. I’d have gone barmy otherwise, married this long to first consulting detective in the world.” He grinned, tugging Sherlock’s hand towards the kitchen.
Sherlock watched as John stepped forward to dish the french toast onto the eagerly awaiting plate. Looking at the two blonde heads, Sherlock smiled to himself. To think that at one point in his life he had believed himself to never have this. The possibility that at this stage of his life—should he have reached it—he should be completely alone, no John, Hamish or his partner Bradley, no Sherly and the impending Joan or Jane. At one point in his life he had found alone peaceful. Now, after the experience of three years alone after John Watson, he found it hateful, dull, boring near to the point of criminal insanity.
Looking at the drama unfolding before him, he smiled and stepped forward to take the tea from John. He placed a kiss on John’s cheek and felt the answering smile against his lips immediately. “I didn’t realize my tea was this good.”
Sherlock stifled the quirk of his lips, barely. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
John looked genuinely shocked. “For what? Tea?”
“No, not the blasted tea,” Sherlock huffed. “For…” he looked from Sherly to John, around the small cottage with its glass jars of honey, the overstuffed chairs, the couch with its permanent Sherlock-shaped indent. “I realized I hadn’t thanked you.”
John’s smile turned soft and he took his husband’s tea to set it aside and framed Sherlock’s face with his hands as he placed a sweet kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “We created this, Sherlock. You and I, almost forty years together. So thank you, Sherlock.”
“Grandda, where’s the syrup?”
The couple aborted laughs at the sudden end to their ‘moment’ and grinned to each other. Over thirty years and not one had been peaceful.
And by god, they loved it.