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The papers weren’t very interesting, John realised as he surprised himself by having read through them completely. It was almost as if the criminal minds of England had stopped bothering with being a little more creative since Sherlock Holmes had decided to retire and move out of the capital. Or maybe, John found himself thinking, by having lived the most fantastic chapters of his life with Sherlock, and spending a shocking amount of that time escaping death by only a hair’s breadth, all of their ridiculous and dangerous adventures had simply spoilt him by now. Speaking of those, he thought to himself as he folded the papers to put them down on the empty chair next to him, he should really write up some more of the yet unwritten tales of The Detective and His Blogger. Not on his old blog, though. That one had not been used since their retirement announcement.
No, John had started to write down their stories in his own private, digital journey. With a little more depth. With all the words he had never dared to publish back when he had met his madman of a husband, and the following years after. Sometimes, on quiet nights when Sherlock was fast asleep, dead to the world and lovely next to him in bed, he wondered, just briefly, and not for long because it would make him mad to think about it too much, what would’ve happened if he had said too much for once. If he hadn’t deleted the words that were for no one but his fragile, lovesick heart to read. If it had made things easier. But he dismissed these thoughts. He had to. And deep down he knew, he knew that the bond they shared now had been made strong by great losses, pain and heartbreaks. This was what made them who they were now. This was why they could never let go. It was so much more than love, and yet, as simple as that.
Someday, maybe for their twentieth marriage anniversary, he would hire someone who could format everything he wrote down these days. Make it into a beautiful book for Sherlock to have it sleeping beside him on his bedside cabinet. He imagined it ever once in a while, how Sherlock would react to it, how he would adore it. He had become so soft over the years, maybe he would even shed a tear or two. Or he would just try to give him a mocking smile (and fail), call him a soppy romantic and kiss him. As if he wasn’t the one who still read John’s old blog posts about him more than just occasionally. And not even the long and clever ones, no. The ones where John called him arrogant and rude and about twelve, a bit public school and charming. Yes, especially that one.
He let out a fond sigh full of butterflies and silly feelings and looked over to the window where he struck a dashing figure against the light. From behind, from the striking sillhouette alone, he didn’t look like he had aged even one day. It was almost unfair because he really hadn’t, not a lot at least. His wrinkles had deepened, as had John’s own, the ones on the forehead and lines around his eyes drawn by laughter and warm smiles. He had gotten more of those freckles John adored and kissed on a regular basis. Sherlock still wore tight and expensive shirts and dark trousers, most of them fitting him still. His hands were clasped behind his back and dark curls were covering the back of his head down to where they curled lovely over his nape, accuentuated by a few grey hairs that shone silver in the light.
“You’re beautiful,” John told him from the kitchen table a few metres away.
“I’m afraid that won’t help me today, dear John.” His back was still turned towards him.
The sigh John let out at this was a dramatic one, adjusted to the sheer melodrama Sherlock was putting on so well. In his defence, it suited him perfectly.
“It’s been raining for days,” the tall man mumbled under his breath.
John was just about to respond to that as the soft pitter-patter of paws and claws drew his attention.
“Hey, boy!” He greeted Arthur with a pet and then continued to stroke him behind one of his floppy ears, just how he knew he liked it. Arthur, or Archie as they often called him, was a dark brown Retriever hybrid that Sherlock had found and rescued from the street on one rainy day, similar to this one. They had agreed to keep him after John had taken care of him, playing doctor once more.
It wasa good thing that Sherlock had managed to get John to also agree on buying a house with a garden that were both, admittedly, far too big for two old men. (Mycroft Holmes could be a very generous man, too, when it came to his baby brother.) It was perfect. John had his little beds and tomatoes (which would’ve been long dead if Sherlock weren’t taking care of them, but none of them mentions it) and Sherlock had his flowers and bees. Bees, which had been the cause of Sherlock’s still racing mind being worried since yesterday, building a bridge above his nose through a crinkle that even John couldn't kiss away.
“Stop worrying. They will be fine.” Archie was panting with his tongue out beside him. He wasn't worried about the bees either, because he was a dog.
Sherlock snorted. He still wouldn't turn around. “You have to feed Archie.”
John wanted to snap back that he didn’t always need a reminder to know when it was time to feed their dog but, just like with the tomatoes, he let things slide more and more these days. In this moment his own stomach gave a rumble, and he remembered that he hadn’t even finished breakfast yet, too occupied with reading the papers and thinking about Sherlock, (when will this lovestruck madness end?) so he had only managed to eat half a slice of toast this morning.
He looked down to his plate on which he had abandoned his toast, only to hear it chinking loudly as Archie jumped up, put his paws on the edges of the table and snatched the toast, along with the strawberry jam on it, with his teeth and ran away.
“Hey! I was gonna eat that!”
John called after him furiously, but in his attempt to jump up and run after the dog he realised that it was quite pointless. Archie was a rebellious teenager in the pink of his youth, and John had grown… old.
“Told you,” Sherlock had the audacity to comment.
“Oh, shut up.”
John sighed, once again deeply and dramatically, and slowly got up to walk up behind Sherlock. He clearly tried not to move, but John could feel how his body was losing some of its tension the moment he put his arms around him from behind. After the first few seconds of pressing their warm bodies against each other and John nuzzling his chin in between Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, they both hummed contently.
“They’ll be fine,” John said again, this time soft and whispering against Sherlock’s ear. His brown and grey hairs were tickling his nose.
“I know,” Sherlock replied, sounding not entirely convinced.
In that exact moment John’s stomach decided to let out a loud growl, which must have been sensible for Sherlock through the fabric of his shirt.
He laughed. “And you’ll be fine, too.”
“I know.” John pressed a kiss to the skin beneath Sherlock’s jaw. “But I really need to have some proper breakfast soon-”
“It’d be brunch now, John-”
“-or the temptation to just eat you up will get impossible to resist.”
Sherlock let out a low chuckle and finally turned around in John’s arms. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind.”
He leant down and John stretched to stand on his tip-toes to meet him halfway until their lips were pressed together and their bodies were united as if they had always been one person. And sometimes, in a way, it felt like they would be.
John’s fingers disappeared in Sherlock’s thick curls before he kissed him again.
“I know.”