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John sighed when his eyes caught the open door at the top of the stairs. With two armfuls of groceries and a body damp from the mist-not-drizzle outside, he was in no mood for clients. After another sigh he trudged upstairs, hoping – not for the first time in recent months – that whoever it was landed only around the middle of the interesting scale: something curious enough to occupy the morning and early afternoon, but not so much as to catch them being late to pick up Rosie at school.
Once at the landing he dashed to the kitchen, sparing barely a glance at the sofa, and put down the bags before his arms fell off – he might have gotten used to carrying around some forty pounds of an excited toddler over the years, but groceries were a different beast in his head.)
“Doctor Watson!” John’s shoulders slumped at the voice, mostly in relief but at least a tiny bit in resignation – the chances of Sherlock being a touch insufferable today just got higher. He turned to face Mycroft and gave him a tight smile, all while taking off his jacket and shoes and going about his usual routine. His shift wasn’t until two, so he had the space to get comfortable again.
He closed the door absentmindedly and then followed the unspoken cues of this interaction. Somewhere along the way the three of them formed an agreement. John would be Sherlock’s buffer. Mycroft wouldn’t sit in John’s chair. Sherlock would give Mycroft ten minutes of serious attention before succumbing to childish insults. It was a work in progress, but any progress was still progress, so John had no reason to complain. Much.
Once John had settled, Mycroft cleared his throat. John just stopped himself from rolling his eyes – Sherlock had no such qualms. Mycroft just cleared his throat again while Sherlock glared at him. John decided to ignore them both until they started acting their age.
“As I was saying –” Mycroft started, staring straight at John, even though he hadn’t been saying anything “– we were just discussing your feelings on co-ownership.”
John blinked. He glanced at Sherlock but there were clearly no hints from that direction: Sherlock rolled his eyes again and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Co-ownership?” John repeated, to make sure he heard it correctly. “Of what?”
“My birthday present,” Sherlock drawled at the same time as Mycroft said, “A rather… quaint little cottage in Sussex.”
John looked at Sherlock again – he had now also crossed his legs.
“I’d hardly call 827 square feet quaint,” Sherlock hissed, still glaring, but one indecipherable look from Mycroft had him clearing his throat, rolling his eyes and uncrossing himself. He straightened his legs and draped his arms over the armrests. He then thought better of it and lifted one of his hands to pick at his nails. Something was afoot at 221 B Backer Street and John had no bloody idea what he had walked into.
Mycroft clicked his tongue and graced John with what he must have thought was at least a decently pleasant smile but wasn’t. It was a very Mycroftian expression.
Mycroft tilted his head to Sherlock and sighed. “Ah yes – I forgot that your standards have always been decidedly low, brother mine.”
John did roll his eyes his time. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and then cracked said knuckles before gripping the armrests of his armchair and nodding at Sherlock. Sherlock moved his eyes to look at John. John leaned forward, eyes still on Sherlock and spoke lowly and seriously, though as neutrally as he could get in the situation. “Sussex, Sherlock? A cottage? You’re moving?”
The idea – now spoken out loud – made him decisively uneasy, but he tried not to show it. Even after all these years, he had no right to tell Sherlock what to do and even less to demand he changed his mind if what he wanted to do displeased him. While Sherlock might listen when the stakes were nothing but their own health and safety, this? Serious long-term commitments? John was well aware they were out of his jurisdiction.
He watched Sherlock deliberate his answer – John would know his deliberation face anywhere, and he appreciated that Sherlock cared enough to deliberate instead of just blurting out the first semi-sensical thought his brilliant brain had conjured up.
Sherlock licked his lip. “Not quite yet.”
“Then when?”
Sherlock leaned his elbow against the armrest and his head against his hand. Their eye contact remained unbroken. “One day,” he murmured with what would be a careless shrug if anything Sherlock did in John’s and Mycroft’s presence was careless. “When London becomes boring.”
“When you cease to be able to keep up with it, you mean,” Mycroft snorted.
“When I cease to wish to keep up with it,” Sherlock replied and jumped out of his seat. His dressing gown swished dramatically as he walked to the window. John frowned.
“And that could happen… how soon?” he asked hesitantly. Without meaning to, he stopped breathing while waiting for the answer.
“One day… Eventually…” Sherlock droned on, glancing at John only briefly but otherwise staring down at the street. “What other expressions of undetermined distant future would you have me use?”
John didn’t answer, but his heart settled. The distant part of that sentence made him able to think properly again. Sherlock wasn’t moving. Not yet anyway. Not for a while. Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t leaving them – John and Rosie.
It was a big relief, especially when the possibility of it – and the fear that followed – had struck John only ten minutes ago.
“So,” Mycroft said loudly, interrupting his train of thought, “Doctor Watson – on the deed? Off the deed?”
John leaned back in his chair and looked at Mycroft. The man was smiling like John was still missing something, but John honestly didn’t care to guess what it was right now. The silence stretched. John knew that it looked like he was struggling to make a difficult decision, but in reality, his whole mind was filled with bafflement.
How could either of them wait for his answer? Since when do either of them wait for John’s input? The logical course of action would have been to put John’s name on the deed without his knowledge and for John to find out about the said deed in the undetermined distant future when Sherlock got bored of keeping up with threes and fours of upper-middle-class cases.
Mycroft was still staring at him – unlike Sherlock whose eyes were firmly fixed away. Apparently, John’s answer was obligatory.
“Yeah, sure, yes,” John exhaled finally, waving his hand around. “Put my name on the deed. Why not?”
Mycroft’s scrutiny stayed on him for a moment longer but whatever test he’d constructed in his mind this time, John seemed to have passed because a blink later he was leaving and Sherlock was swooshing into the kitchen demanding a newly brewed cup of tea.
𓆸
Sherlock went as far as filling the kettle with water and putting it on the stove to boil before relinquishing the rest to John. He sat down at the table and focused on the wall in front of him, uncharacteristically silent. John had expected at least a couple of comments on Mycroft's choice of socks or haircut or something, but none came.
Sherlock hummed when John walked past him. “Sure, why not?”
“Sorry?”
“Sure, why not put your name on the deed?” Sherlock repeated. John frowned and busied himself with trying to find a pair of clean cups.
“Yes…” he replied hesitantly. “Why not?”
Sherlock hummed again. John plucked out a weirdly angular mug from the back of the cabinet and put it on the counter.
“Why not?” Sherlock said when John turned around. Their eyes met. John frowned again. He leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest, giving Sherlock a good look but there was nothing apparent for him to see. Sherlock was all picture-perfect neutrality.
“Was I–” John cleared his throat. “Was I not supposed to tell Mycroft to put my name on the deed?”
“I thought you were fond of London,” Sherlock said quickly straightening in his chair.
John raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were fond of London.”
Sherlock just hummed again and John sighed. They’ve become better at proper communication since John moved back to Baker Street – mostly out of necessity for such things while raising a child together – but falling into old habits was still frightfully easy.
He turned his back to Sherlock and started washing his favourite mug in the sink. The water took a while to heat and they were almost out of dish soap but it gave him something to do and an excuse to feel Sherlock’s piercing gaze on his neck rather than his face. And he really did need a clean cup too.
“I thought you were fond of London,” he breathed out in a rush and then added, haltingly, “But you’re moving.”
“One day.”
“Eventually,” John muttered. He located a clean dishrag and gave his cup a customary wipe on the outside before putting it on the counter too. “Sherlock, what do you think happens when you move? Watson and Watson of 221B Backer Street doesn’t really have the same ring…”
Sherlock sighed loudly and stood up. He stopped in front of John, shoulders hunched and expression open – curiosity, fondness, exasperation: they were familiar expressions to John as he came to learn that they were the ones most often present when Sherlock initiated any kind of important conversation in their home. (Their home. That might not be their home forever.)
“Sherlock and Watson does sound better,” Sherlock said and John smiled.
“Sherlock and the Watsons,” he corrected and Sherlock smiled back. “We sound like a band. A lousy opening act.”
“It is a common trend that people don’t recognise a main act when they see one,” Sherlock replied and they shared a short laugh. John, now more at ease – if Sherlock was in a mood to laugh then whatever was on his mind should be conquerable – found the box of tea and the sugar tin and put them down in preparation.
Sherlock took a step closer to John. “I thought it was customary for young adults to reach for their first grasps of independence by moving out of their childhood homes during university, so it would be back to just Sherlock and a singular Watson.”
John tried to catch Sherlock’s eye, but the man was back to avoiding it – staring at the sugar tin. “So we’re really talking distant-distant here?”
Sherlock nodded once. “And undetermined.”
John bit his lip. He shuffled closer still until their shoulders were almost brushing. One of his hands caught the belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown and he started fiddling with it.
“Then why did Mycroft decide to buy the cottage now?”
“He noticed my growing collection of books on apiculture obviously.”
“Obviously,” John huffed snapping the belt at Sherlock’s arm.
“Auch,” Sherlock said.
“I barely touched you.” John touched the place the belt had hit either way. He patted Sherlock’s arm, letting his hand linger.
“You hurt me,” Sherlock whispered mock-affronted but no matter how good a liar he never bothered here.
John snorted and nudged their shoulders together. “Why do I put up with you again?”
“Because I constantly dazzle you with my brilliance,” Sherlock recited like it was a joke, but as soon as he said it John knew it was true. Sherlock was brilliant. John was dazzled. He’d been dazzled for years.
“You are, you know,” he said, softly, touching Sherlock’s arm again. “Brilliant.”
Sherlock didn’t respond and there really was no need to. Sherlock never really got used to compliments, but John was still trying to up the dosage in hopes that one day Sherlock might actually absorb them and believe them in a more subjective way than an acknowledgement of the objective truth of the universe in regard to his intelligence. Because yes, Sherlock was intelligent – objectively, but there were so many other things that made him brilliant.
“So,” John started, deciding to change the topic and give Sherlock some breathing room. “Bees?”
“Bees.”
“Okay.” John nodded in acceptance. “Bees. We’re moving to Sussex so you can keep bees.”
He turned to the stove to attend to the just-boiling water. He turned the heat off. Pulled the cups closer. Sherlock moved behind him, hovering over his shoulder and then, a blink later, he slowly but surely leaned against John’s back, draping himself all over and hooking his chin against John’s shoulder. John took the tea box as he relaxed into the touch.
It wasn’t expected, but it also wasn’t unexpected. In a way, this felt as natural as breathing – as natural as making tea for two and having his designated armchair and walking up the stairs to see the door open. He got used to this by now – this gradual but unmistakable evolution of intimacy.
A touch here, a touch there. Hands lingering. Comfortable, lazy silences.
He expected them to kiss one of these days – almost on a whim, but also with the underlying feeling of habit though they’d never kissed before. It would be in a moment similar to this: filled with unvoiced, but not unarticulated understanding.
Sherlock’s breath tickled John’s neck when he sighed. The steam rose in the air as John filled the cups. Two pointed jabs with a teaspoon dunked the teabags underwater. John pushed the cups further away from the edge of the counter just as Sherlock muttered, “Don’t think your growing collection of books on narrativity hasn’t been noticed also.”
John huffed and turned around. Sherlock moved away slightly but not so far away they stopped touching. John leaned his shoulder against Sherlock’s.
“So books and bees in Sussex.” He looked up at Sherlock with a smile that was impossible – and unnecessary to – keep off his face. “That’s the plan?”
Sherlock hummed. “That’s the plan. I keep bees. You write books. We bicker about the dog Rosie will make us adopt because we are so terribly lonely without an incredibly intelligent though hyperactive creature to chase after.”
John snorted and went to see if they had any biscuits left. He was feeling a bit peckish. He also had a good feeling that he might be able to persuade Sherlock to eat some to push lunch to lunch hours. Maybe they could pick up Rosie together and then grab a bite to eat. It had been a couple of days since all three of them had gone on an outing together. Usually, it was Rosie and Sherlock gallivanting across the city when John was at work, or John and Rosie meandering the street when Sherlock needed some quiet time. Some time together would be nice.
He located an empty cereal bowl and poured in the last couple of some buttery, orange-flavoured things that must have been part of some gift or another because neither John nor Sherlock would ever have bought them. He brought the bowl to the table – Sherlock sat down again.
John sat down too and nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own, pointedly pushing the bowl closer to the man. Sherlock pursed his lips and then took a biscuit. He bit into it and chewed silently. He looked at John.
“Stale.”
John broke off half a biscuit to try for himself. They were very stale. “Tea will be done soon.”
“I don’t like crumbs,” Sherlock replied.
“They settle to the bottom.”
“You can taste them in the tea.”
“You don’t have to dip the biscuit,” John suggested. He watched Sherlock crumble the remaining biscuit as he spun it between his fingers, avoiding another bite. “You can chase it with tea.”
“The biscuits are stale,” Sherlock simply said again, and John rolled his eyes. He bumped Sherlock’s foot again, this time in reprimand. Sherlock snorted, bumped him back and then raised an eyebrow in challenge. But John refused to rise to this challenge as it was a rather pointless waste of time and there was a singular itchy thing still at the back of his mind.
“So,” he started, clearing his throat. Sherlock’s eyes were immediately on him. “Why not put my name on the deed?”
Sherlock blinked at him. John waited a moment but then, when no reaction was forthcoming, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms against his chest. Stretched his legs – they crossed over Sherlock’s, his ankles over Sherlock’s shin.
“You asked me that,” John continued. “Sure, why not put my name on the deed? But you asked like it was the wrong answer.”
“Not wrong,” Sherlock intercepted.
“No, not wrong,” John nodded, agreeing. “But it was unexpected, right? You didn’t think I would want my name written on the deed.”
Sherlock said nothing, but he continued looking at John which John considered a good sign. Both of them were waiting for something – Sherlock maybe for John’s continued deduction, and John perhaps for Sherlock’s reluctant admittance.
In the end, John looked away. He moved his legs and uncrossed his arms and stood up from the chair. He dumped out the tea bags, put a spoonful of sugar into each cup and alongside two paired splashes of milk. He stirred.
“We’re your Watsons, Sherlock,” he said. He put away the milk and the sugar. He put the kettle off to the side to cool.
He took his cup in his left hand and Sherlock’s in his right. He turned around. Sherlock was watching him, his lips pressed together. John walked around Sherlock’s chair, slowing down as he neared his chair. On impulse – simply because he wanted to and because he thought Sherlock might at least need if not appreciate it – he pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. He put down the cups and sat down, pulling his chair closer to Sherlocks.
“So that’s why my name goes on the deed,” he said quietly. He caught Sherlock’s eyes and held on until Sherlock tentatively brought his hands to his cup. John picked up his own cup and clicked them together.
“Was it a wrong decision?” John asked, even though they’d already established the answer.
“Not wrong,” Sherlock said again. “Merely… unexpected.”
“But welcome?” John couldn’t help but prod. Sherlock smiled and clinked their cups again. He took a sip, then picked up the half-demolished biscuit from earlier and dipped it into the tea. Crumbs floated off and then sank to the bottom of the cup. Sherlock took another sip.
“Bees, books and a dog, John – that’s the plan.”
“For one day.”
“For a distant-distant undetermined future,” Sherlock confirmed with a nod. “London is more than satisfactory for now.”
John looked over Sherlock’s face for a moment and then exhaled deeply. He leaned back in his seat and said, “Good.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Your tea is cooling.” Sherlock pointed at John’s cup with his head.
“Your tea is full of crumbs,” John pointed at Sherlock’s cup with his head.
Sherlock shrugged and took a sip with a grin that looked only a touch forced. “The biscuits are stale.”