Work Text:
John straightened his tie in the mirror on the inside of their closet, pulling the stubborn knot to look as close to normal as he could get it. He smoothed down the lapels of his suit, still feeling mildly uncomfortable in it, but supposing that he looked okay. Or as good as he had expected to look, at forty.
He hadn’t especially wanted to do this, but Harry had insisted, citing the importance of milestones and new chapters in life and other rubbish. He’d protested a little, stating that he didn’t want a fuss, he’d much rather just spend a quiet birthday at home with Sherlock, but she’d refused to be left out of yet another important holiday, so John had acquiesced without too much complaining. Anyway, she’d kept it relatively reasonable; just Lestrade, Stamford, Bill, a couple of his other army mates, and Mrs. Hudson, plus Harry was bringing along a new girlfriend. It could still be relatively enjoyable, as long as John didn’t think too much about why they were all there.
Sherlock appeared behind him, meeting his eyes in their reflection in the mirror. He was wearing one of his nicest suits, and had actually put on a tie for the occasion, and looked even more dashing than his usual near-impeccable figure. His reflection exchanged a smile with John’s and came up behind him, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him close, bending his head to plant a kiss on John’s neck.
“You’re looking very dapper for a man in his forties,” he whispered sweetly against his skin, and John burst into a low chuckle, leaning gratefully back into the warmth of his embrace.
“Oi, don’t get too smug, you’re almost there yourself.” John let his eyes fall closed, an arm coming up to cover Sherlock’s, letting himself sink into the moment.
“I think you’d better always look like this. I can’t be seen going around with an old man, after all.” John could feel the corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirking up into a grin against the side of his neck.
“Hey, watch it.” John turned his head, seeking Sherlock’s lips with a mock-indignant expression. “You’re just trying to get me into a suit whenever you can.”
“Mmm. Maybe.” Sherlock smiled and leaned into the kiss, lips opening warmly over John’s and pulling him firmly against himself. Sherlock’s tongue slipped tentatively past John’s lips, and they stood there for some time just exploring each other’s mouths, enjoying this small moment of peaceful solitude before they had to go out and face the world together.
With a soft, lingering press of lips, Sherlock drew back from the kiss and moved to John’s side, pulling him around so that they were facing each other.
“I was going to wait to give this to you, but with the way you look right now, I think you need to have it.”
John looked downward to see Sherlock holding out a small box he had been concealing in his other hand behind his back. It was simple and black, without any label, and tied up with a red silk ribbon.
“Oh, love, thank you.” John met Sherlock’s eyes – full of fond affection – and stretched up to kiss him once more, chastely, before taking the box and pulling at the ribbon. “You didn’t have to, you know.”
“Yes I did.” Sherlock’s eyes shone brightly with love and happiness and a tenderness so profound it shot right through John’s heart.
He sighed once, trying to convey his incredible gratitude without words, and turned back to tug the ribbon off of the box. He pulled the lid off and resting inside, on the navy satin lining, was a shining pocket watch, with a smooth silver case embossed all along the edges with swirling ornamental designs.
“Oh, Sherlock…” John breathed out, overcome. He lifted it gently out of the box, trailing the shimmering silver chain behind it, pooled in the satin. “Sweetheart, it’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad,” Sherlock said softly, taking the box back so John could hold the chain between his fingers, letting it fall through them, cold and glimmering in the dim light of the bedroom. John turned the case over in his hands, so overwhelmed with its beauty, so touched by the gesture that he didn’t dare speak. The case was magnificent, sturdy and untarnished, the decorative swirls sweeping around the sides like tiny silver vines. John fumbled with the clasp for a moment, opened it up to see the face of it and – oh.
There, on the inside of the casing, engraved in elegant script:
For my conductor of light.
John pursed his lips, feeling tears well up in his eyes, emotion rising up to create a dangerous blockage in his throat.
“It…isn’t much, I know.” Sherlock cleared his throat and cast his eyes downward. “I just thought…I wanted you to know…”
A ragged gasp escaped John’s throat, and he looked up into Sherlock’s beautiful, unsure eyes. He snapped the watch shut and dropped it in his pocket, gripping Sherlock by the base of his neck and pulling him into a hard, deep kiss.
Sherlock melted into the embrace with relief, wrapping his arms around John and holding him tightly. John cradled Sherlock’s face tenderly with one hand, wrapping the other around his shoulders and drawing him in, kissing with a fervour unmistakeable in adoration, in gratitude, in absolute awe of how incredibly much Sherlock loved him, and in how completely and unequivocally John returned that favour.
John broke off the kiss with a heavy breath, his face wet with tears.
“It’s perfect,” he whispered with a watery smile. “I love it, Sherlock. I love you.”
“I love you too.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining brightly, his lips turned up ever so slightly into that small, soft smile that made John’s heart crack with emotion. He leaned in to kiss him again, slowly but just as profoundly, holding him close, so close, close enough that he could convey everything he was feeling in the sturdy press of his hands and the slow movement of his lips, and know without a doubt that Sherlock would understand.
They stayed that way, wrapped in each other, until Mrs. Hudson’s voice came ringing up the stairs, proclaiming that their cab had arrived. Sherlock pulled back reluctantly, but leaned his forehead in against John’s, smiling and gazing into his eyes with incomprehensible wonderment and devotion.
“Happy birthday, John.”
John beamed at him, reaching down to take Sherlock’s hand and thread their fingers together; the other hand coming to rest in his pocket where the watch sat, heavy and shapely and perfect.
“It already is,” he whispered back, and leaned in for one more chaste kiss before leading him towards the door.