With great thanks to sevenpercent, ghyllwyne, kate221b, SailOnSilverGirl, and jballier for beta-eyeballs and cheerleading, and to jamlockk for the original concept.
This fic is a sequel some flexible number of months following the events of A Traditional Scotsman.
John heard the front door close and Sherlock's measured tread on the stairs. He smiled as he put the finishing touches on his blog entry and hit the post button.
"Why are you receiving mail from Scottish men in Paris?" Sherlock asked as he entered the flat carrying the day's post.
"What now?" John asked, looking up from his laptop in time to catch the small package Sherlock tossed in his direction.
"Address is in the fourteenth Arrondisiment. Surname is Scottish. Handwriting is clearly male."
"'Clearly male', is it?" John asked, grinning as the other man approached and leaned in for a kiss.
"Obvious," Sherlock replied, breathing the word against John's lips.
"'Course it is," John said, smiling, as Sherlock stepped away to hang his coat and scarf.
John shook his head and glanced down to read the label on the package.
N MacDomhnaill
10 Rue Thibaud
75014 Paris
FRANCE
"I'm going to kill her," he said with a groan that trailed off into a bemused chuckle.
"Oh, that should be good. Any murder you commit is sure to be at least a seven."
"A seven?"
"At least," Sherlock replied. "Who are you killing, then?"
"Harry," John replied, his tone both exasperated and amused.
"What does Harry have to do with strange Scottish men in Paris sending you gifts?"
"First, it's not a gift," John said, tossing the box back to Sherlock. "And second, he's not a 'strange Scottish man'. Niall is my cousin. Well. My second cousin once removed. My dad's cousin's son. Haven't heard from him in years. Not since he got married, I think. Back in 2013." John's smile faded.
"Ah," Sherlock said, clearly noticing the shift in John's tone and deducing the cause.
John could hear the apology in it. They'd been over this ground before, each still hurting for the pain the other lived through during their time apart, and the disastrous first year after their reunion. Each still feeling a stab of self-loathing – of guilt – for their part in causing those hurts, even knowing it had all been forgiven.
John stood and crossed the room to reach for Sherlock.
"Hey," he said, resting his hands on Sherlock's waist. "We survived everything they threw at us, and all our own missteps, and only got stronger, yeah? We're better now. Together."
"Mmmm, yes," Sherlock agreed, dipping his head to press his lips to John's forehead. "Much better."
John smiled and tilted his head up to steal a kiss. He stepped away, moving into the kitchen and filling the kettle.
"Did you go?" Sherlock asked, falling gracefully into his chair and turning the package over in his hands.
"Hmm?"
"To Niall's wedding?"
"I sent my regrets and an espresso maker."
"And in return, what has cousin Niall sent you?"
"You mean you haven't deduced it?" John asked, pulling out a box of loose Lapsang Souchong tea, as well as a box of a bagged chai blend buried behind it.
"Your cousin is better at packaging than you are."
"Oi!" John protested, grinning as he measured the loose tea and dumped it into the teapot. "Go on, then. What's in the box?"
"Shape of the box is too narrow to be a book, too heavy to be socks. It's well balanced and packed tightly to prevent shifting. You said it wasn't a gift, and believe that Harry is in some way responsible for it. It's clearly got family connections, and a significance that has you both irritated and pleased. What is it, John?"
"It's the murder weapon," John replied cheerfully, pouring the boiling water over the tea.
"May I open it?"
"You don't usually ask."
"You've just threatened to murder your sister with whatever is in the box. It seemed prudent," Sherlock replied.
John looked out into the sitting room to see Sherlock in his armchair, pulling wads of crumpled newspaper out of the box. When Sherlock finally pulled out his prize, John sighed, shaking his head and smiling slightly.
"John? Why did your sister have your cousin send you a sgian dubh?" Sherlock asked.
"You know what it is, then? Wait, what am I asking? Of course you know what it is."
"What it is, yes. Why it is both motive and means for murder, no," Sherlock replied, glancing up from the knife to meet John's gaze. "It bears the Watson clan crest and motto," he said, running a finger over the carving in the antler handle.
"Yeah," John agreed. "It belonged to my great-great grandfather."
"Inspirata Floruit," Sherlock read, then translated, "'It has flourished beyond expectation'."
"Always liked that," John said, glancing over. "Stop testing the blade on your finger, you berk."
"It's got no edge to speak of," Sherlock replied, resheathing the sgian dubh. "I'd bruise myself before it broke the skin. It'll be a horrible murder weapon."
"I'll use it to bludgeon her, then," John said with a shrug as he poured the steeped tea through the strainer into the waiting mugs.
"Not heavy enough."
"Are you going to shoot down all my plans?" John demanded as he added milk and sugar to the mugs.
"Calling either of those ideas 'plans' stretches the definition of the word to the breaking point."
"I'll think on it," John said with a smile. He could hear Sherlock moving across the room.
"At least a seven, John. Don't disappoint me," Sherlock said, one hand snaking forward to take his mug off the worktop. His other hand fiddled with the sgian dubh.
"Wouldn't dream of it," John replied. He could feel Sherlock's curiosity about the sgian dubh as a palpable thing. Sherlock was watching him with an expression of mild interest, but his eyes were intent. His restraint was impressive.
"Go on, love. Deduce it."
"Not this time, I think," Sherlock replied, his thumb running idly over the carved crest on the handle of the sgian dubh. "Tell me?"
John smiled.
"It's a family tradition of sorts," he explained. "It gets passed back and forth among the cousins. Receiving it is part blessing, part jibe."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's a way for the family to express approval, and provide a bit of a kick."
"Approval?"
"Not strictly necessary, but the support can be a welcome thing."
"I see. And the kick?"
"Impetus. For a thing that needs doing. It started at my great-grandfather's wedding, in 1895, when he gave it to his cousin with firm instructions to stop procrastinating."
"What precisely was he putting off doing that he needed such a 'kick'?" Sherlock asked, with a hint of excitement coloring the curiosity of his tone.
"Same thing I've been putting off doing," John replied, putting his mug down and picking up the box of bagged chai tea. "It's a thing I've wanted to do for ages."
"And why haven't you?"
"Was waiting for a sign, I guess. Had thought it would come from you, though. Not from Harry and Niall."
"What kind of sign?" Sherlock asked, putting the mug down with an uncharacteristic thunk that caused tea to slosh over the sides. The knuckles of his other hand were white with the strength of his grip on the hilt of the sgian dubh.
"The kind that said this was what you wanted for your life. For the rest of your life."
"Big, bright, flashing neon, John. How you could miss it?" There was no mistaking the flush on his cheeks. "Why are you opening that travesty that purports to be tea?"
"Knew it was one place you'd never look," John replied with a smirk. "Bagged tea is a criminal offense in your book. And chai may be actually blasphemous. You'd avoid looking at the box, let alone touching it. This would be safe here while I waited for the right moment," he said, shifting the paper-wrapped sachets out of the way to reach below them and pull out a grey metal band striped with darker grey and a shimmering line of blue. He set the box of tea back on the worktop and dropped to one knee.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband? Will you marry me?"
Sherlock dropped the sgian dubh onto the worktop and used both hands to pull John to his feet, then swooped forward for a kiss.
"Is that a yes, then?" John asked after a moment.
"Idiot. Of course it's a yes."
"Good," John said, reaching for Sherlock's hand and sliding the ring onto his finger.
"Wait - what does it say?" Sherlock asked, prizing the ring back off his finger to peer at the inscription.
"an seo a 'cleachdadh m'," he read aloud as John climbed back to his feet.
"'Here, use mine,'" John translated as Sherlock replaced the ring on his finger. "The first words I ever said to you. I thought I was talking about my phone, but, really, it was me. All of me. It was my heart and my whole life I was offering."
"Toirt taing dhut," Sherlock replied sincerely, pulling his gaze away from the ring encircling his finger to meet John's eyes. "Thank you."
John smiled, picking up his tea and taking a careful sip. He couldn't help but grin at the way Sherlock's eyes were drawn back to the play of light on the grey and blue band on his finger.
"John ..." Sherlock began, his tone mischievous.
"Yes, love?"
"Will you wear your kilt for the wedding?"
"Oh, absolutely," John replied, picking up the sgian dubh, flipping it into the air, and catching it. "The full kit, down to the murder weapon in my stocking."
"Excellent. You plan how to get away with murder, I'll book a venue for April."
"Why April?" John asked.
"It's historically the windiest month of the year ..."