Sherlock unlocks the door to 221B Baker Street, feeling more exhausted and worn down than he has in months. Ever since his return, his body has been thrumming with energy and purpose. First there were the reunions, and then there was the wedding planning. But tonight, there is silence, and he wants nothing more than to curl up under the covers and sleep.
As he enters his bedroom, it is immediately clear that something is amiss. Or, rather, there is something new. His eyes fall on a small box on his bedside table, wrapped in lilac paper and a crisp white ribbon. Too curious to wait another second, he pounces, tearing into the card affixed to the top of the package.
Sherlock,
Knew you'd leave early. Call it a hunch. Maybe even a clever deduction?
This is for you.
John
Sherlock scans the words three times, committing them to memory before setting the card aside. Fingers trembling, he removes the ribbon and unwraps the paper on the gift with great care.
Inside the box rests a pocket watch, gold and gleaming in the dim light of his bedroom. His mind races. A standard gift, really. After all, it is traditional to present the best man with a token of gratitude. That's all this is.
Sherlock has nearly convinced himself when his eye is drawn to a small detail on the back of the watch. He looks closer. An engraving: one tiny word etched in elegant cursive.
Best.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, typing a message with surprising efficiency for a man whose hands are shaking so considerably.
In the middle of a slightly embarrassing dance to an even more embarrassing rock song, John Watson's phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and opens the message, allowing Mary to read it over his shoulder.
Come to brunch tomorrow. Both of you. I'll cook. –SH
He smiles and sends a reply without hesitation.
11 a.m.? Start thinking of baby names. We'll need your list of favorites as soon as possible. – JW
Across London, in a flat that no longer feels so empty, Sherlock Holmes smiles.