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A SHELTER IN THE STORM
Jon’s moods - in their very rare occurrence - were often difficult for Sherlock to navigate.
Whereas Jon’s jovial nature made it near impossible for the man to be in a sour mood, an ill temper could rush in like a summer’s rain - wild and looming one moment, and calm and bright the next. It often left Sherlock perplexed at how quickly Jon could slip through his moods, each as full and brief as the next, and the man unburdened by any. But best of wishes to any man on the other end of Jon’s scrutiny.
Jon’s temper usually flared around ne’erdowells and ruffians, but today Sherlock found himself on the all-too-rare and unfortunate end of Jon’s disdain - an occurrence that was as common as it was for Sherlock to fail at solving a crime. Though, to Sherlock’s attentiveness, Jon’s temper still leaned itself more towards solemn than any sort of outright fury.
Either way, Sherlock knew he had definitely done something wrong - or perhaps, something ill advised for the situation they were in. After all, Jon’s gloomy disposition had not lifted since this morning.
A ceaseless rain had kept Cordona under gray skies and rumbling notes for nearly a week, and it had admittedly left Sherlock in a prolonged bout of irritability - to which Jon, for the most part, seemed to pay no mind. Now whether his companion’s tolerance for Sherlock’s moods were due to his generally unbothered nature or a largely biased fondness, Sherlock was never quite sure. In a rather uncharacteristic speculation, Sherlock considered he was perhaps entirely too lucky.
It was this line of thinking that had Sherlock staring at a corner of his mother’s Cabinet of Curiosities, where a peace offering of pillows and blankets was arranged in what Sherlock could roughly remember the fort looking like so many years ago - an all-together rough attempt at an apology should Jon be open to it. After all, there had no doubt been a better way to request Jon’s….absence…
Sherlock had been loath to admit that their recent cases could not reach their conclusion until the weather cleared up, leading to an ardent few days of sequestering himself to the study’s desk in hopes that his restlessness would be solved by pouring over the case files for anything he might have missed. Jon had unhelpfully noted that a fifth read through could hardly contain any new information of great impact.
The first couple days had been relatively fine, all things considered. Jon had lingered, as he usually did, in the same space, but tried his hardest to keep himself entertained. Sherlock thinks he might have sketched a while and was quite certain he was the subject matter seeing as Jon had sat at a few different places in the room, but all of them facing him. However, he supposed a model who barely moved within the span of a few hours made for poor inspiration, because Jon ended up abandoning his sketchbook and pencils on the floor near the window.
After what Sherlock presumed were some attempts at reading and then an improvised set of exercises that seemed to have no real purpose, Jon seemed to have reached his wit’s end. In retrospect, Sherlock presumed Jon had actually done far better with the silence than his usual. Nevertheless, Sherlock had been at his own wit’s end, and unfortunately, Jon’s more frequent interjections and pleas to do something… anything …else had Sherlock reacting quick and cold as lightning. Their moods clashed like the clouds above Cordona, leaving Sherlock alone in the study and Jon stalking off to who knows where.
Despite the focus Sherlock had been seeking, he found the subsequent silence to his and Jon’s quarrel a heavy and discomforting presence in the study - even moreso, dare he say, than the abhorrent weather that had been keeping both men confined to Stonewood. He had realized - after being unable to properly read through the case report in front of him - that Jon had simply been equally, if not more, restless than he was, seeing as the young man often grew uninterested even with the brief interludes in their cases that required some trial and error or patience. Recognizing this, Sherlock dislodged himself from his desk chair and set out on a more pressing case: reconnecting with Jon.
Sherlock was no stranger to Jon’s ardor for doing almost anything together, though he still struggled on occasion to understand the basis for it - even despite his own appreciation for Jon’s existence and company. It was with this consideration, and the subject of their short squall earlier, in mind that Sherlock considered his idea to be an amenable solution to Jon’s discontent.
However, there was a problem with the peace offering’s current construction.
While this corner may have offered a cozy space for the two of them years ago, they had each grown quite a bit - Sherlock more than Jon, to Jon’s occasional dismay - and Sherlock was quite sure that his long limbs and back would suffer much in the small space, not counting Jon’s presence. He would have to reconsider.
Just as he was entertaining the idea of moving the shelter elsewhere, the door behind him opened. It was clear that Jon hadn’t expected him to be there.
“Oh, Sherlock…thought you’d still be working in the study…” He already moved to step back out of the room, gaze barely meeting Sherlock’s. “I’ll go somewhere else-”
“Just a minute, Jon.” The request came unbidden from Sherlock’s lips, seeing as he thought a surprise might have lifted his companion’s spirits more than an unfinished project. But Sherlock admitted that he couldn’t bear to see the neutrality in Jon’s normally bright gaze much longer. Jon lingered in the half-closed doorway, uncertain. Sherlock reached out a hand. “I’d like you to see something.”
There was a slight hesitation, but it seemed enough invitation and intrigue to get Jon to peel away from the door. He moved to Sherlock’s side, grazing their hands together as his attention moved immediately to the corner that Sherlock had been analyzing. Sherlock saw a small break in the clouds of Jon’s gaze.
“Our wigwam? You rebuilt it?” Sherlock nodded as he appraised his work again.
“Yes, but without the appropriate considerations for our growth unfortunately. I meant it to be a surprise, but…alas, it’ll have to be rebuilt.” Sherlock snuck a glance to gauge his companion’s reaction. “I was thinking perhaps the main hall?”
“That would be our biggest one yet!” Jon replied, eyes widening, and Sherlock could see his imagination working color back into his eyes. “Do we even have enough sheets?” Sherlock smiled to himself.
“I suppose we could always gather what we can from the various bedrooms. Perhaps the closets that we have yet to go through…” Jon pat at Sherlock’s shoulder.
“I’m on it!” And just like that, Jon was bounding out of the room, not leaving Sherlock much time to even ponder how Jon felt about having to build his own surprise - not that it was at all unclear. Sherlock released a breath, unable to keep the smile off his lips. He felt light again.
Thunder continued to roar and rumble as Sherlock and Jon searched Stonewood for every sheet, pillowcase, and rod they could find. They had stripped the two beds in their old shared room, the queen mattress in Mycroft’s room, and the daybed that the doctor occasionally rested in. They avoided Violet’s room, as they often did - a silent agreement between them - but managed to find an unsearched closet within a guest room that they had only recently opened. Cataloging Stonewood had been a slow and deliberate task - interrupted not only by their cases, but also by the sheer mental load it sometimes required.
“Sherry…” Jon had called as Sherlock rummaged through the boxes and shelves of the guest bedroom’s closet. “Why have we never thought about making this room ours?” Sherlock walked out with another load of sheets in his arms, transferring them to Jon’s outstretched ones. He surveyed the room with a hum.
“Never got around to it, I suppose,” he replied, properly taking in the sparse furnishings, the queen bed against the main wall, and the dust covered windows. They had instinctively been using their old room as lodgings since settling into Stonewood, more out of habit than anything. Sherlock paid no mind to the sleeping arrangements being a bit too small for him, as he rarely slept long and fitfully anyway. Jon had complained on occasion, but was also able to fall asleep relatively anywhere, so there was not much effort put into changing anything. There was also the nostalgia and comfort that he suspected both of them to share - another unspoken understanding between them.
But…perhaps…
Sherlock could feel Jon’s gaze from over the tower of fabric in his hands.
Perhaps building a space of their own could be…nice. An oasis in the desert of memories that was Stonewood, so to speak. Sherlock nodded softly.
“It could be a welcome adjustment, but…” Sherlock eyed the sheets in Jon’s hands, remembered their original quest. “…let’s perhaps save that for another day.” Jon’s responding grin brought with it a warmth that Sherlock had sorely been missing.
“Sounds good to me.”
Even with all the linens they had gathered, it seemed not enough for the vision they had for the main hall. The stairwell was simply too vast a space to spread the beddings across, even with makeshift posts and curtain rope. Sherlock and Jon stood in front of their failed attempt.
“Apologies, Jon, it seems we must reconsider again.” Jon pressed a shoulder to Sherlock’s, let himself lean against his companion as he shook his head with a smile.
“Ah, that’s alright, Sherry. I appreciate the thought.” Jon fit his hand within Sherlock’s, a silent thanks to go along with his verbal one. Sherlock noted the warmth of his palm, the slight chill of his own.
With the storm keeping the sun at bay, Cordona’s nights had fallen to almost frigid temperatures - often urging Sherlock and Jon to huddle onto one of their childhood beds together or to keep to the study and the warmth of the fireplace. Sherlock straightened.
“Jon, I’ve another idea. Let’s bring everything to the study.” Jon frowned a little, glancing from their wigwam prototype to Sherlock.
“Are you sure?” Sherlock nodded without hesitation, conscious of where Jon’s was coming from.
“It doesn’t seem this storm will be letting up anytime today, so we can presume it’ll be another cold night. We can set up there. Leave the fire for the night.” After searching Sherlock’s gaze for what he assumed was any hint of inconvenience, Jon seemed placated enough to nod.
“Alright then.” Jon clapped and rubbed his hands together. “To the study it is.”
From there, Sherlock and Jon managed to construct their shelter for the night relatively quickly. They worked in a comfortable silence, soundtracked by the pattering of rain that echoed through the house and baritone swells of thunder.
They had moved the two armchairs in front of the fireplace a bit further apart, facing away from each other so it was easier to stretch and secure their linen roof across. From there, they piled in all the sheets and pillows they could find until there was enough padding to provide a decent place to lie for the night.
A collection of multi-colored, tasseled scarves served as decoration, the braided ends hanging over the edge of the roof so that it had a curtain-like effect. They brushed at Sherlock and Jon’s heads and backs as they climbed in and out, arranging and rearranging the decorative pillows.
Once the fixings were organized in a way that was both aesthetically and functionally pleasing, they considered their work complete, and Jon set to the fire. Meanwhile, Sherlock double checked the support beams, only getting back to his feet once he was sure the roof would not fall in on them.
“Not too bad if I do say so myself,” Sherlock commented as he got back to his feet. Jon laughed from his place crouched in front of the fire.
“Definitely an upgrade,” he said as he stood and brushed off his pants, fire crackling as he moved to stand beside Sherlock and appraise their little shelter himself. He grinned, resting a forearm on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’ll be pros in no time. Then we can build a palace of pillows in the hall.” Sherlock tilted his head, touching a knuckle to his chin.
“There is something quite charming about this one, though…” Jon chuckled, softer this time, and rested a hand at the small of Sherlock’s back.
“Yea. Nice and cozy.” Jon toed off his shoes, nudged them to the side. "Should probably climb inside to get the full effect though, hm?" Sherlock ignored the very slight flicker of mischief that passed across Jon's brow, also ignoring the hint of a lower hum in his voice. The man hit that lower register more times than Sherlock could count, and he wasn’t entirely convinced Jon always realized when he did. Then again, there was a knowing glint in his eyes more often than not. It was suspicious to say the least.
“Yes, though, I’m surprised I need to remind you that it’s about time for supper.” Jon was already half crouched, on his way into their fort, when Sherlock’s words caught him. His hand dropped to his stomach and his eyes widened, looking down at his abdomen as if he had personally offended it.
“Blimey, you’re right!” He looked back into the fort though, as if torn. Sherlock chuckled at the level of indecision on Jon’s face.
“I believe we still have some sandwiches left from our visit to Miss Nini’s yesterday. They should be well enough to serve as a respectable meal.” Jon’s eyes lit up.
“Didn’t she pack cream puffs too? We can put them on a tray and eat them here!” Sherlock smiled.
“Yes, I suppose we can forgo some decorum for the evening.”
"Excuse me,” Jon interjected, raising a haughty finger. “This is the very height of decorum, I'll have you know." Jon grinned, ear to ear. “The very latest craze among the nobles.”
“Ah I must have missed that bit of news.” Jon laughed, about to get back to his feet when Sherlock held out a hand to stop him, shaking his head. “Stay here, Jon. I’ll get us the food. You get comfortable.” Jon raised an intrigued brow.
“Oh? First class service from the Sherlock Holmes?” The smirk on Jon’s lips was far too mischievous. “I’m a lucky man.” Sherlock really needed to find a way to tame his companion’s ego.
“Either way, do try not to deconstruct all our hard work in the short time I’ll be gone.” Jon gave a playful salute, already shrugging out of his suspenders and reaching to pull off his socks. Sherlock shook his head with a soft smile as he left to collect their sustenance for the evening.
When he returned, Jon was indeed the epitome of comfort - laid out on his stomach among the pillows with a book - False Idols , Sherlock realized with mild exasperation - and his suspenders, vest, socks, and shoes strewn haphazardly on the floor just outside their linen shelter. Sherlock noticed his shirt untucked and one or two more buttons undone as well.
Jon looked up at Sherlock’s approach, and where Sherlock was expecting a smirk, the smile that touched Jon’s lips was soft, echoing the glow of the fire on his tan skin.
“Back with our feast, Sherry?” After blinking away a mild daze, Sherlock nodded.
“Indeed. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
“Starved.” Sherlock set the tray down, letting Jon pull it into their little cave as he, with much more intentionality, removed his shoes and vest to put them on the desk. Sherlock marveled at the hold those clippings and reports had had on him the past few days, their pull nearly non-existent now next to the little haven they had built for themselves and the promise of a quiet evening together.
Not wanting Jon to partake in all of their food for the night - he was actually feeling a bit hungry himself - Sherlock headed back to their fort’s entrance, undoing a button or two of his own shirt for comfort as he knelt down.
“Miss Nini should open a bakery with these puffs.” Jon said, finishing off one of said pastries as Sherlock crawled inside. They had been brilliant enough to ensure they could both sit with a comfortable distance between their heads and the fort’s ceiling.
“I believe she’s kept busy enough with her tailoring. Especially with all the disguises she’s helped us with.” Jon hummed, picking up a sandwich.
“Maybe she could find an assistant? Bakery by day, tailoring by night?”
“Or…” Sherlock offered, taking a sandwich of his own. “…I could simply ask her for more whenever she finds the time.” Jon laughed, caught.
“That works too.”
The two settled into another comfortable silence as they ate, Jon finishing much faster than Sherlock and settling himself further back against the pillows. He picked up his book again. This time Sherlock couldn’t hold back a quip.
“Are you seriously reading that drivel again?” Jon chuckled, unaffected by the comment.
“Yes, well, there’s only so many titles of research books I can read before I get bored. Your brother’s taste in literature is worse than yours.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is informative.”
“No, I’m sure I meant boring.” Jon winked at the banter, promising no ill will in his teasing. Despite having picked up his book, he suddenly seemed disinterested in it, choosing instead to sit up and lean a bit closer to his companion. His expression was careful, maybe even a little abashed. “Were you able to find out anything new about the case?” Sherlock swallowed around the bite of sandwich in his mouth, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief at the question - guilt at the reminder of their altercation and relief that he could express his thoughts on the matter.
“No, I…Jon, I am sorry for that. I know you were likely feeling as restless as I was. I was… perhaps a bit too harsh.” Jon shook his head with a soft smile.
“No, no, it’s alright.” He shifted so that he sat directly in front of Sherlock, their crossed knees brushing as he reached for Sherlock’s hands. “You’re right, I was definitely feeling a bit irritated from being stuck inside. I was pushing some buttons.” Jon met Sherlock’s gaze, embarrassed, but gentle and understanding. “I know work helps you focus.”
“It does but…” Sherlock switched their hands so that he was holding Jon’s now. “…I hope you know how much I cherish your company, Jon.” Jon’s smile widened, the fire catching the warmth in his eyes.
“I do, don’t worry.” Jon lifted one of Sherlock’s hands, pressed a light kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I think it’s pretty obvious how I feel.” Sherlock chuckled, nodding.
“Quite. You’d make a terrible criminal.” Jon’s grin was back.
“Even though I’ve clearly stolen the great Sherlock Holmes’s heart?” Sherlock fiercely ignored the flush he could feel on his face. Perhaps Jon had made the fire too hot.
“Perhaps I should turn you in. It may teach you some humility.”
“The only turning in I want to do right now, Sherry, is turning in for the night.” Jon stretched his arms the best he could in the small space. “It was a long day of doing nothing, I’m exhausted.” The mischievous glint in Jon’s eyes was back.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but agreed that he was quite ready for some sleep. The warmth from the fireplace, the steady rain, and their cozy quarters made for an inviting place to rest. After clearing their tray of food and bunching the sheets and pillows into a makeshift mattress, the two of them settled down for the night, Jon all too happy to invite Sherlock to rest in his arms. Sherlock happily obliged, letting his head rest on his companion’s shoulder. Jon’s hand searched to thread their fingers together.
“G’night, Sherry.” It was a murmur, soft and warm against Sherlock’s temple - a promise.
“Sleep well, Jon.”