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John let out a yawn and stretched out his arms as the book that had lain on his lap slipped off and fell to the ground. He cursed under his breath, as he now had to bend down to pick it up, and he could already feel his back complaining. As much as he hated to admit it, he was getting old and his body wasn't what it once had been. Since he wasn't Captain John Watson anymore, he had let things slide more and more over the last two decades … But that was probably what was supposed to happen when one was happy and settled. And (even though he'd refuse to admit that, too) most of the time he just complained for the sheer sake of complaining.
Bending down to grab his book, he saw something out of the corner of his eyes. Something he didn't like seeing at all. From the bench he was sitting on, he had an excellent view over the colourful bunch of flowers several metres in front of him. Sherlock had planted most of them. Alright, maybe even all of them; but he kept on claiming he only did it so they could serve the purpose of his bees being able to improve their hives, and that this was their only justification for the existence in their garden. The truth was, Sherlock liked flowers and had developed a little obsession with gardening after his resolution of keeping bees, and they both knew it.
That left the tomatoes next to the (fairly enormous) bed of flowers almost the only thing that was somehow John's. Not that he wasn't okay with that. He also knew perfectly well that not even one tomato would have made it out alive if it wasn't for Sherlock, who often watered and cared for them himself. He would once again argue that this, too, was just out of a convenience because he spent far more time in the garden than John did – and once again both of them knew that was not all there was to it.
All the more reason for John to be annoyed then, when he noticed that a panting, juvenile creature with furr dark as chocolate seemed to have a rather great interest in doing things to his tomatoes that he really didn't want to see. He narrowed his eyes, telling himself it was because of his anger, but he actually just wanted to sharpen his slightly blurry sight. And the fact that he had to, made him just all the more annoyed with everything right now.
"Archie!" John yelled, "Don't you dare raising that leg of yours! That is in no way your territory and it's never gonna be!" He knew he sounded like an old man telling the neighbour's kids to get off his lawn, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe some part of him always wanted to be that kind of an old man.
He startled, suddenly, when someone placed a pair of steady hands on both his shoulders. He looked up, only to see Sherlock grinning down at him. After all these years this grin could still make his heart skip a beat, as it did just now. How many times he had thought about how desperately he was still gone on this man. How many times he had forced himself to stay awake in their bed, just a little longer, to watch his beautiful husband sleep next to him, his face a portrayal of utter peace and satisfaction. His heart ached only from the thought of it.
John even forgot about his slight anger for about a minute. When he looked down again, the dog was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock started to massage his shoulders lighty, chuckling a bit. "You're so mean to good old Arthur, John. Don't you remember when we were his age? Right now, he's just a teenager wanting to have some fun."
John was calming down a bit, listening to Sherlock's voice and leaning into his hands while he resisted the temptation of telling Sherlock that he hadn't even known him as a teenager. Sherlock probably just assumed John had always been this danger-seeking idiot, searching for purpose in his life, waiting for an adventure to come along, and throwing himself in his own little challenges in the meantime. When it came to Sherlock, on the other hand, John had only been informed that he used to dress up as a pirate, and that told him all he needed to know, honestly.
Of course, though, in the early years of their acquaintanceship and even now, they had sometimes hardly behaved their age, so that they often felt like a pair of teenagers again. (He liked to think that it had not been the right moment to meet each other back in puberty.)
Sherlock knew exactly how they had met because, first of all, his memory was excellent and he was very positive that it would stay that way. Which made him just a tiny bit irritating for John, especially when he tried to retell one of their stories and Sherlock would keep on correcting him. But more importantly, and his little heart would also fill with pride thinking about it, he could reassure people and tell them that Sherlock would never, never ever, ever delete one of the moments he had lived through with him. His love for John measured itself through the little things he did for him. Like voluntarily passing on the opportunity to know every goddamn fact under the sun (that was somehow important to him, personally, unlike the sun itself), just to keep more than twenty years of memories with John in his rebuilt mindpalace.
He could feel the heat of his body right behind him, almost forgetting about tomatoes and flowers altogether. But the wrinkle in between his brows just wouldn't go away. "He was about to piss in the beds," he grunted. That only made Sherlock chuckle some more.
"Oh, listen to you, you grumpy old man." He was leaning down a bit, apparently not yet bothered by the kind of back trouble John had to endure. Lucky bastard. He could feel Sherlock's smile on his ear before his lips even touched him, his mouth having been imprinted into his mind by having felt it all over him so many times. "Maybe he just gets off on you yelling at him. Gets off on the danger," he whispered, with that flirty rumble in his tone he knew John couldn't resist.
John didn't even know when he had closed his eyes, and his hand searched blindly for the underside of Sherlock's jaw. When he found it, he opened his eyes again and made Sherlock turn his head to look right at him by softly sliding his fingers under his chin. „So he's just like you, then?“ John's voice was low and rough, and he thought he could see Sherlock's pupils widen as a grin spread all over his face.
"Oh, you think I get off on it? Whatever gave you that idea?" They were just playing a bit, really, not at all serious, but John still felt a pleasant sensation warming his chest and groin. They were almost kissing, smiling at each other somewhat indecently when, a second before their lips could touch, Sherlock turned his head and his attention somewhere else. John didn't mind. He was rather amused than annoyed, used to Sherlock's coy and sometimes inappropiate behaviour (and loving it).
Sherlock had picked up the book next to John on the bench and gave it a sceptical glance-over. "What are you reading?" He asked with half-hearted interest. He already knew it was fiction, and John was very familiar with his general opinion regaring literature and fiction: boring, pointless, absurd and completely irrelevant for the sake of the world. He had held himself back from asking about the bust of Goethe back then, or from pointing out several books in their old bookcase in 221B that had clearly been there before John had ever set so much as a foot into that flat.
"The Vesuvius Club", he answered a bit absentmindly, "'s about this secret agent living in Downing Street. Quite funny."
"Hmmh." Sherlock put it back between them on the bench as he came around to sit down next to him. "Sounds rather dull."
"I know, love, of course you'd think that. You know what's also funny?"
Sherlock quirked a brow at him, encouraging him to continue while he was crossing his legs. He still wore elegant, tight trousers and even tighter shirts. Today's button down was deep red wine, and John loved it on him. Then again, what didn't John love on him? He started grinning. "I just find it funny how you used to be the obnoxious, egdy one of the two of us. And look at you now."
Sherlock's smile returned again, this time with a note of something so lovely and content that it made John's throat feel a little tight. His voice became nothing more than a sweet little whisper, and he reached down to take John's hand between them. "Well, maybe marriage really does change people, after all."
John was so touched by this that he could only open his mouth to get nothing out of it. Even though he and Sherlock's relationship lasted longer then fifteen years by now, it was still very special for John to hear such words coming from him.
Today was, once again, June 15th, their wedding anniversary. Sherlock had been very uncertain at first, as to really having their wedding take place on this particular date. Understandable. The 15th of June had been the day Sherlock Holmes would jump off a building to save John Watson's life. But it had almost killed John, anyway. All the more important it was to him, therefore, to have this date overwritten by something that could never be regretted and never be overwritten again, never controlled and manipulated by an evil maniac as long as they were alive. John had needed this date, and Sherlock had understood.
Their moment got suddenly interrupted by a loud bark. They both looked up, and John already suspected something when all of a sudden Sherlock sprang to his feet and ran over to his beehives while shouting at their dog.
John just burst out laughing so hard, and all that was to be heard in the background was Archie, you idiot, how many times have I told you not to touch those and They could kill you in a heartbeat if they wanted to and You stupid dog, that is an entire civilisation right there, you can't just come here and invade it like you're Godzilla!
The pure irony of the situation was so ridiculous, and between the giggling and him wondering how Sherlock could possibly delete the entire solar system but still knew about Godzilla, he managed to yell after him Now, that's the Sherlock Holmes I know!
Although, he really wasn't anymore. He had changed and grown so much since he had known him, and all for the better, mind you. Sherlock Watson had a special kind of ring to it (and was a very firm change, too) and even John had found it a bit absurd before he had have the change to get used to it. But Sherlock had insisted, as it had a very important meaning to him, a bit like their date had to John.
He needed to know that he was John's and only John's, forever. (And yet he called John the romantic one of them.) At least he stopped describing himself as a sociopath, which John couldn't be more relieved about. Sherlock taking his guards down for him was also an important step to take. Important, but not always easy. Still, hardly anyone who had known them before called him Sherlock Watson and he thought Sherlock was more than okay with that. He knew that he could be officially his now. Forever. Besides, he had never cared much about what other people were calling him. Only ever John. And he didn't mind still being Sherlock Holmes for John, eitherl.
He had gone inside by the time Sherlock was giving up chasing Archie around the garden, both of them probably upsetting the bees more than the dog could've ever done by himself. Sherlock was still panting loudly as he walked inside, Archie trotting after him with his tongue out of his mouth, heading straight for the kitchen where John had just refilled his bowl. He immediately smirked up at Sherlock and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You're still in good shape for an old, grumpy man," he teased.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, revealing a few grey strands that were growing underneath his fringe. John's smirk broadened. Sherlock's voice sounded thinner from all the running as he spoke. "You're older than me, John."
"Shut up. It's not as if I was the only one getting grey anymore."
That earned him a deep, dramatic sigh from Sherlock. "Ugh, don't remind me. Fortunately, your eyesight is getting weaker, so you won't be able to tell so easily."
"Oh, as if I'd mind." John was closing the space between them and was slowly stepping forward. "I actually think that a few grey curls give you a certain look of … something handsome and mature. You don't look like twelve anymore."
"Very flattering," Sherlock commented dryly.
John placed a hand on his cheek and his thumb caressed Sherlock's high cheekbone for a moment. But that was before he suddenly drew back and the look on his face changed within a split second. "Wait, what do you mean, my eyesight is getting weaker? I can see perfectly fine! And how would you even know?"
One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards, and John already began to regret what he had done. Giving him an opportunity to show off. He drew in a large breath and the words tumbled out of his mouth, even before John could think to himself God, why have I even asked?
"Every time you try to read something from a few metres away, or with a tinier font, you have to narrow your eyes, so that the vision won't be blurred. You rub your eyes quite occasionally when you think you're just getting tired, but your eyebrows and eye movement immediately afterwards tell me you know yourself that isn't the reason, although you try to tell yourself that anyway. Which, by the way, isn't very smart, John, you will be frustrated about getting old either way, if for the fact that you need glasses or that you're constantly tired really doesn't matter in the end, does it? Also, lots of people need glasses that aren't even that old, a weak eyesight isn't an indicator for high age. Although, I think that in your case-"
"Yes, yes. Okay, Sherlock, I get it," John interrupted him. Again, he had his arms crossed in front of his chest. He really was a little on edge these days. Was it too late for him to have a midlife crises? Fifty-nine didn't exactly sound like midlife when he thought about it … and this thought really wasn't comforting at all. "Besides, you're one to talk, your hearing hasn't exactly improved over the years, either."
"Just because I choose what I want to respond to and what not doesn't mean my sense of hearing has degraded. There is a difference between purposefully eliminating the unnecessary and not being able to respond due to the lack of hearing. Even you should agree to that."
John shook his head, and he didn't know if he should laugh or punch Sherlock's biceps. "So this is just you getting ruder then?"
It was Sherlock's turn to close the gap between them now. He wrapped his arms around John's neck and smiled down on him like the naughty git he was. "You knew what you signed up for when you said yes fourteen years, four months and seventeen days ago."
And there he was, having John again and again and again, who never managed to be seriously offended or angry at him for more than two seconds. John's smile had reappeared and he let the fingers of his left hand slide through those dark (with a tiny bit of grey) curls. The other hand rested on that prominent hipbone, and he pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "And, God help me," he mumbled, "I don't regret a single day. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Sherlock leaned in to give him a proper kiss on the mouth, and he drew back afterwards to growl playfully into John's ear. "You wouldn't have me any other way."
"Hmmmh." John tipped his head to the side to give Sherlock a better access to his neck, and he didn't have to wait long until he could felt this soft pair of lips on his jawline.
Living with Sherlock had never stopped being exciting. He didn't do boring, never had and never would. The same thing applied for their love life, and although there wasn't exactly the mind-blowing sort of hunger, making them dizzy with lust, that they had shared so often in the early months and even years into their relationship, anymore, they would always find and search for opportunities to paint their love and their affection underneath each others skin like ink, through words and mouths, sweat and muffled groans. Still, it was all a bit slower these days, as pure lust grew into passion, and it meant having their hearts right in front of each other and being so close they could barely tell the other apart. It meant desiring and devouring and loving and so, so much more.
"Although, some occasional dish washing or cleaning the kitchen after one of your experiments does have a certain appeal to it, honey," John sounded a little dazed, but he had learned over the years how to handle Sherlock's body heat and his deep voice and hands on him. Sort of. Maybe. But he was sure he needed a lot more practice.
Sherlock kissed his cheek, and when John let his hands slide down to his buttocks, Sherlock let out a tiny gasp.
"And here we are again, flirting shamelessly like we've only just met," he murmured, sounding almost strangled.
"I don't see the problem. Just because you're getting grey now …"
"Shut up, John."
They kissed again, oh-so-gently, oh-so-softly.
"Also, we didn't flirt after we just met," John spoke into his mouth.
"Didn't we?" Neither of them could tell anymore. All they knew was that they had wasted so much time, building up all those problems and complications to stand between them, operate against them. Sometimes due to social structures, sometimes due to criminal, insane masterminds who took suicide as a trade for … but we're not talking about this now. When everything was finally sorted, they hadn't wasted one day in each others company since, flirting shamelessly and loving each other more and more as the years went by.
"Just because I might have been hitting on you at Angelo's doesn't mean I was flirting. Please, not everything is about you." He smiled against Sherlock's lips, and he knew John loved teasing him. But at the same time he loved complimenting him, and Sherlock loved both almost equally.
"Even though I'm brilliant? Fantastic?" He leaned his head against John's, so that only their foreheads and noses touched. He did that once in a while, as his affection for John's nose only seemed to grow further. Sometimes he briefly wondered if that was weird, and then he did it again.
John closed his eyes. "Even though you are brilliant, and wise and marvelous and the best and most gorgeous being I have ever come across, yes. Not everything is about you, Sherlock."
Sherlock chest felt tighter. He automatically had to think of the day at his grave, watching John. Watching John talking to a stone (not a machine), watching John holding back the tears, watching John adjusting the way he held himself and walking off like the strong soldier he was.
"But you are?" He was trying to look amused, but deep inside he was still uncertain, still wanting to believe, still, after all this time, and some part of him always would be.
Are you all about me?
"I sure am. I'm far into deep, still madly, head over hells in love with you, honey. Probably to a point that would be considered unhealthy."
Sherlock tried not to laugh about the honey petname John liked to tease him with sometimes since he had started keeping bees. He'd actually grown quite fond of it and laughed anyway. "Love you, too."
"Happy anniversary." John whispered the words against his lips, and they kissed again.
They broke apart in synch at the sudden ring of a doorbell. Their doorbell. They looked at each other with the same question in their eyes, and that Sherlock seemed to have as little of a clue as John had about who the person on the other side of the door could be confused him a bit. Hardly anyone knew where they were living these days, and they hadn't cared enough to try to make new friends around here. Not that one of them was bothered by that. They had always gotten along best by themselves.
By the time John (obviously John) went to open the door, the bell rang again and he opened it. He could not have been more unprepared for the man standing in front of him on the other side of the door frame.
His haircolour seemed to have drained out even more, changing from mostly grey into a more permanent dirty kind of white, his brown eyes were still warm and prominent wrinkles spread out on each side of them, his kind smile was surrounded by a light grey but rather solid full beard. He couldn't help but notice the wrinkles on his forehead, as well, and wondered if Sherlock was responsible for them, having suprised and shocked the DI so often in the past.
John's startled frown was joined by a chuffed smile. He didn't think he could have been more pleased to see Greg Lestrade today. His own joy at the surprising reunion surprised him even more than the reunion itself. He was living an odd life.
"Greg! Wow, that's- now, that's a surprise! Sherlock, did you know-?" But Sherlock was not in the living room anymore.
"Eh," John turned around when Greg started speaking, "It was rather supposed to be a surprise, so … I hope this isn't an unfortunate time."
"Uh, no. No, it isn't. But yeah, sorry, please, come in."
He finally opened the door widely for Greg to come in, and they ended up having a bit of an awkward handshake, as none of them really knew how to be around the other after such a long time. John led them through the living room where they stood for a while and Greg had time to look around.
The house looked quite different from their flat at Baker Street, although the furniture had mostly stayed the same. It should feel stranger to see all those things in entirely different places, but it didn't really. The atmosphere was the same, and it smelled the same and looked just as old and wildly mixed together, even though the big open glass door cast everything in a whole new light. Sherlock had certainly done great work furnishing, (he was very sure about this being Sherlock's work; after all, he had turned out to be an excellent wedding planer, as well. Come to think that he had also planned John's first wedding!) and if one did not know how they had lived before, this place would strike just as comfortable and classy.
The ceilings were still high, but the fireplace was on the other side of the room. And of course, there they were: Sherlock and John's armchairs, spending each other company in front of it. The skull was still watching from the counter, and Sherlock's mirror case wall had become rather a note wall. On his left there was still the same overstuffed bookcase, next to the same old sofa, next to the same round lamp and a couchtable. (Was the table new? He couldn't tell.) Right in front of him there were high windows that reached for the ceiling, and had they had the nerve to take the curtains here as well?
Through the glass door he could see a bench that faced a large garden, and the longer he stared at those colourful flowers outside, which appeared to be from another world that could afford brighter colours and a higher sense of beauty, the more he thought that John and Sherlock had found something rather magical. Although both of them would always be very London, this place right here was utterly incomparable to the loud, hasty capital.
"You have a very nice home.“
"Thank you! And you, you look ... different. But good." John gestured around his own mouth to indicate he meant the beard when he did say different. As everything else, from the neat but smart style of clothing to the warm, honest smile around his lips, was so very Greg and not different at all.
"Don't think about it, John. You know how I like my doctors."
John quickly turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him, two cups in his hands. "And you know how it ended last time. Ages you."
He placed them on the little round table next to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. They had been adamant that they have a large fireplace when they had decided to move to Sussex, having their chairs placed in almost exactly the same position as they had been at Baker Street. Sherlock had made sure of that, as he turned out to become a man of habit. Also, he could be very sentimental when he let himself go a bit.
"Can you for once not remind me of that one time I tried something out? Jesus, just because you have to be this posh, handsome git at all times."
Sherlock smirked at him with the one side of his mouth turned upwards, and John tried very hard not to acknowledge it by staring at his mouth.
Greg was standing more or less between them, the smile on his face had his lips slightly parted. Nothing has really changed, he thought. From the first day they've me up to the here and now, they're still so very them. He waited until Sherlock interrupted his dreamy gazing-session with John before he went up to him and gave him a tight hug without warning. Sherlock, of course, did what he always did when it came to body contact with bodies that were not John's, and simply let himself be hugged. Immediately after, though, he gave John a knowing sort of look.
"See? Beards can be very itchy. And it ages him, too."
"Sherlock!" John could hold himself back from laughing then, to at least pretend to be polite and decent, but who was he even kidding? This was the guy who had witnessed them giggling at crime scenes probably more often than he had seen them anywhere else.
And, knowing Sherlock, Lestrade just ignored his cheeky comment and was grinning at him instead. "Oh, look at you. Actually, look at the two of you. You're such an old, married couple!"
He probably had no idea how pleased and happy John was about him saying this, because somehow finding someone to be a part of an old, married couple with was something he had always wanted, initially.
"Of course, Gunther. What else would we be?"
Greg was about to complain about the name thing again, but as he looked at Sherlock he saw him smiling mischievously, and he knew he was just messing with him. God, he had grown so much. After that, Sherlock told them both to take a seat and grab a cup of tea (coffee for Lestrade, just how he liked it) and they complied. Because, in the end, nothing really changed, indeed. Greg hesitated, but eventually sat down on Sherlock's armchair and took a sip. It was still a bit awkward to be here, and he was feeling a little judged, with John sitting in the opposite chair and Sherlock standing behind him all protectively.
"So Greg ... This sounds pretty odd on my tongue, are you sure you want me to call you that?"
Greg let out a bemused snort at this, but he kind of had a point. It did sound weird on his tongue. "You could also just continue to call me Lestrade. Since that's also my name."
"I might as well do that. So Lestrade, what are you doing here on this particular day, in this particular house? Has someone died? Are you ill? Some unspoken love confessions that are bothering you?"
"What, no!" Greg started laughing out loud this time. "No, I just thought ... well, I thought it would be nice to see you again. How you're doing and all."
"We're doing fine. How did you get here?"
Sherlock's suspicion bothered him a bit, but before he could think of a reply, he felt a soft bump on his left leg. When he looked down, he saw that it was a small cat with russet furr, rubbing its cheek against the fabric of his jeans.
"Oh, there she is. Lestrade, say hello to Hudders. Hudders, Lestrade."
Greg bent down to pet her, then looked from Sherlock to John again with furrowed brow. "Hudders?!"
After they had moved down here five years ago, the feeling that something was missing wouldn't leave them alone and they realised that not having a landlady in the flat downstairs anymore (because there wasn't even a downstairs here) would take a while getting used to. When they had kept on missing Mrs Hudson, they eventually decided to adopt a cat, so it would not only be the two of them in an otherwise lonely, big house. What a coincidence it was then, that said cat turned out to have furr of a similar colour as Mrs Hudson's real hair colour. A complete coincidence, of course! But it was also quickly established quickly that they would call her Hudders. Sherlock's idea, by the way.
It was also Sherlock who, on one day, came home with a little, worn out looking dog, soaking wet and whimpering (the dog, not Sherlock in this case). He had found him on the street on his way home and asked John to check on him. John, unable to refuse him anything, eventually gave in after arguing that he wasn't, in fact, a vet. They ended up keeping the dog and, fortunately for everyone, Archie and Hudders got along most of the time.
Greg's expression gave away that he was feeling rather fond of both of them right now. "You really miss her, don't you?"
Sherlock knew exactly how to pretend that he hadn't heard someone implying he would do something for sentimental reasons (although he did do that quite often these days). Almost as good as Greg knew how to ignore another ridiculous name with a G that someone might throw at him. Sherlock drove his hands along the back of John's chair, silently watching him drink his tea, before his eyes snapped up again as if he could see right through him. Which he probably could.
Hudders was sitting on Greg's lap by now, letting herself get petted into oblivion, and Sherlock gave her a quick glance before his eyes found Greg's again. "Ah, so you asked her how to find us."
"What? Oh, come on! I was a Detective Inspector, after all, I worked for the bloody Scotland Yard for decades, and I-"
"Did you ask Mrs Hudson?"
"Fine, yes!"
Sherlock's answer was a triumphantly grin and he quietly added, "Even cat Hudders gave you away."
John chuckled in his teacup at this and almost choked on it. He put it on the little table next to him, then placed a hand on top of Sherlock's, which was casually laying on his shoulder now. "She doing well?" He looked up at Sherlock after asking. "We ought to visit her again, too."
"Yeah. Yeah, she did very well when I visited her, I mean ... I don't wanna sound too surprised at this, but she still seems very fit for her age. And she's married now!"
"Yes," John chuckled again, "Yes, she is. Quite a nice fella. A bit quiet. To be honest, I thought she would easily be bored by him!"
Greg laughed at this, too, although he could not believe how he had not heard from her marriage.
"It was a very little, intimate ceremony, don't worry about it," said Sherlock, reading his mind. Honestly, they had all been a bit surprised as Mrs Hudson had decided to marry again. But she had always been someone who loved to just do what she felt like doing, and this man really seemed like the right one. Sherlock and John were very happy for her, and also quite touched as she told them she wanted to keep her last name because she always wanted to be their Mrs Hudson.
After a while, Sherlock spoke up again. "How's Molly? Why didn't she come with you?"
The thing with Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade had turned out to become like a slowly developing romance. They had known each other for so many years, but their aquaintanceship had always been tied to John and Sherlock. But since their major problems had stopped getting in the way, and Molly had finally managed to geniunely get over Sherlock and be happy for him and John, she was able to see something in another man - a man that was always sort of there, but she had never been able to actually realise who he really was. This man, as should be obvious by now, was Lestrade, and someday - after a case that had brought them together again - she had asked him to maybe drink a coffee with her while talking to him over a corpse with abdominal stab wounds. He had to say yes, of course.
They were dating each other for almost as long as Sherlock and John were married by now, and they were very happy, still living the busy London life. They didn't plan on marrying themselves, though, because Greg's last marriage had not ended very well. Neither of them minded. "Oh, she's fine. She's at a funeral right now, but they weren't very close. She would've loved to come here, though."
Life could be pretty odd, John thought to himself. While he and Sherlock were here, being happily married for fourteen years now, keeping bees and pets, a whole bunch of other people died, or even got murdered, on a daily basis. But that had always been what was surrounding them. Murders used to be what they were living on, and most of their exciting adventures had taken the price of another one's life. Fortunately, they were able to spare at least a few of them. And Sherlock would always, always be a hero to John.
"I think you should, someday."
John and Lestrade both looked at Sherlock, a little taken aback.
"Sorry, what?"
"Come here. Molly and you. That would be nice."
Lestrade just frowned at him, but John was smiling fondly and carassing his hand with his thumb. Sherlock has gone so soft, he thought. And somehow he found that unbelievably hot.
"Yeah ... Yeah, we actually might."
The rest of the day went by rather nicely. The little sense of awkwardness from the beginning eventually retreated, and they shared some funny stories from the past and even a bottle of white wine. (Wouldn't that be a bit irresponsible of me, as a former copper? I'm here by car. - I wouldn't have believed your tolerance for alcohol to be that low, having seen the way you used to toss down brandy like water. Also, the roads around here generally aren't very frequented. - Oh, fine, you got me!)
Sherlock showed him around the garden as long as there was still daylight. He proudly presented his bees to him, although Lestrade refused to wear a protective suit, so they had to keep their distance. He showed him his flowers, knowing all of their names in Latin, explicitly explaining which of them were poisonous and how slowly the poison could kill you at what amount. He even showed off in John's name, with the tomatoes.
John was sitting on the bench again, long since given up to pretend he was reading his book and listened to them instead. Archie was lying next to him, silently demanding his attention, and he was stroking him behind his ears, absentmindly. Greg was probably just listening politely, though Sherlock talked with the excitement and passion of his old detective self at a crime scene. To John, he could make almost everything sound interesting.
They all went inside again when the sun was going down, drowning the outside world in a soft layer of orange, and Greg was about to say goodbye. Before he left, he let them know how glad he was for them to have all this now because he could not have know if they would be able to find their way and finally find each other. That had a greater effect on Sherlock than he would allow himself to admit, but John could see it in his eyes anyway. They told him to give their best regards to Molly and watched him driving off.
When they did go to bed that day, John snuggling up behind him, and Sherlock felt many several things at once. He felt warm, the wine still making him feel lighter, protected and loved. He took one of John's hands that had been wrapped around his waist and intertwined his fingers with his own.
"Today was actually pretty good," he whispered in a low, sleepy voice, "Sometimes I forget that we have friends."
John laughed at this very softly. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Was very nice to see Greg again."
"Who?" Sherlock asked, and John frowned at him, but of course he couldn't see that. "Just kidding."
"Oh, good. Sometimes I forget you're not that ignorant around people that aren't me." He placed a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades then, out of a possessive habit. "But yeah, it was quite nice. Even though it was our anniversary. Fourteen years, Sherlock. Can you believe it?"
"No. Seems to me like thirteen and a half, at most."
"Funny. But seriously, please never stop having this dry humour. I really love that about you."
"I see, we're at the stage again where we tell each other what we love about them. How romantic."
John chuckled. "Yeah, you telling me something about romantic. Says the one who made breakfast this morning and brought it upstairs, so I could eat in bed when I woke up."
Sherlock turned his head around to search for John's deep blue eyes in the dark before he spoke firmly and in the most serious of tones, "I love you, John Watson. Please, never forget that."
"I won't, Sherlock Watson," he promised, evenly serious but smiling warmly. He was feeling it now, too. The power of the name. Sherlock belonging to him. Now and forever. But instead of forever he said, "Not in another fourteen years."
He pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple and placed their interwined hands above his heart. Sherlock felt warm and protected and loved, and there was another feeling that only seemed to grow with each new day he was lucky enough to spend by John Watson's side. He was sure it was going to kill him someday, but he would rather die than stop having this feeling settled deep inside of his very bones, for he needed it like air.
He had almost driven off to sleep by now, quietly whispering under his breath, "To another fourteen years."
Meaning forever.
The last birds could be heard chirping outside, and the leaves of the green trees in their garden would change in colour when the last of the gold was in the sky, and the day met the night.
Sherlock had never felt more at home.
*********************************************************************************************
When the moon fell in love with the sun
All was golden in the sky
All was golden when the day met the night
When the sun found the moon
She was drinking tea in a garden
Under the green umbrella trees
In the middle of summer
When the moon found the sun
He looked like he was barely hanging on
But her eyes saved his life
In the middle of summer
[...]
Well he was just hanging around
Then he fell in love
And he didn't know how
But he couldn't get out
Just hanging around
Then he fell in love
In the middle of summer