The snowflakes glistening like bits of tinsel in Sherlock's hair couldn't hold a candle to the light in his eyes. Laughter creased his forehead and mouth, crow's feet reached toward his temples. He had aged more than his years during his time away – that was what they had begun calling it, by unspoken agreement – and yet…
He's never looked more beautiful.
John Watson marveled at how easily the thought came. How normal it felt rolling around in his mind.
How did we get here?
It had been two years. The worst since John had left home more than half a lifetime ago. And what was Sherlock's first act as a resurrected man? To ruin his date, obviously. And not just any date this time – he stepped directly into John's (admittedly not very eloquent) attempt at a marriage proposal.
At first, it was manageable. When John talked about Sherlock's return every waking moment, when he shaved the moustache Sherlock hated – Mary was supportive.
When he began assisting with cases again, when he occasionally forgot to call to say he'd be out all night – Mary was silent.
When he began mentioning one particular name in his sleep, and his possessions rapidly began disappearing from the apartment – Mary sent a note.
"John? Sherlock!"
The cheerful violin music stopped abruptly, and both men turned toward the sitting room door.
"Letter's just arrived for you."
Sherlock crossed the room in four long strides, accepting the proffered envelope and removing the single page it contained. John had moved to the kitchen, and was switching on the kettle.
"Would you like to sit with us, Mrs. Hudson, have a cuppa?"
"You're too kind John, so lovely to have you back. No, I'm just about to take my evening soother."
"Goodnight, then."
"Yes," Sherlock added, paper in hand, "goodnight."
"What's it say, then? Case?" John inquired when they were alone again.
"It's from Mary."
"Mary? Mary…" John said, as though hearing the name for the first time."Wait… my Mary?"
Sherlock held the note in front of him and read out, "Collect the rest of your things before the end of the month, locks will be changed for the new tenants on the first. I hope you and Sherlock will be very happy together."
"It doesn't say that." John snatched the paper away from Sherlock and read it silently. "It does say that!" Incredulous as his tone was, he didn't sound upset.
"Ridiculous thing to say, really," Sherlock commented over his shoulder as he lifted his violin from the desk.
"Is it?"
"Of course," Sherlock played a few quick notes, "you and I are always happy together." He resumed the melody he'd been playing before the interruption, and not another word was spoken the rest of the evening.
They had stopped laughing and were approaching 221B in comfortable silence, when John suddenly blurted out, "You know that's not what she meant."
"Hm? Oh. Yes. I knew exactly what she meant." He slid the key into the lock and bounded up the stairs into the kitchen, stopping just at the far end of the table to remove his gloves.
"If you knew what she meant," John was struggling a bit for breath as he pulled off his coat, "what did you mean – "
"I meant exactly what I said."
John's brow furrowed. Why is he being deliberately cryptic? If he'd known what Mary meant, and he'd meant what he said… but this is Sherlock. He couldn't really be saying what I think he's saying?
"MRS. HUDSON!" The taller man bellowed suddenly. "There seems to be some sort of weed hanging from our ceiling!"
"Sherlock, Mrs. H. is away for the week. And that's not a weed," he added, looking up, "it's mistletoe. You're supposed to…" John's voice trailed off as he realized what he was about to say. To Sherlock Bloody Holmes, of all people. He swallowed, preparing to apologize for his unspoken mistake, when his eyes met his flatmate's. That light was back, making it impossible to decide whether they were blue or green or –
Sherlock lifted his long, slender fingers and ruffled his curls, shaking snow onto his eyelashes, then slid those same cold hands onto both sides of John's face, not pausing for a moment as he pressed his warm pink lips against John's. His turned-up coat collar brushed the edge of John's jaw, and the smell of wool made the blogger dizzy as that mouth – that beautiful, soft, clever mouth – breathed a new sense of life into him.
When Sherlock finally released him, running a calloused fingertip across John's lower lip before walking into the sitting room to hang his coat, John stood dazed for a moment. Then, as if on autopilot, he began making tea. When he'd brewed two cups – one with milk, one with sugar – he carried them into the sitting room and took up his place directly across from the incredibly calm consulting detective in the leather chair.
"Sherlock... Mrs. Hudson is gone this week."
"Mm. You mentioned."
"She left yesterday evening."
"John, if you're going to lecture me for not keeping track of – "
"She left yesterday. That mistletoe wasn't there this morning. Mrs. Hudson couldn't have hung it there, and since I certainly didn't…"
Sherlock just smiled into his mug, making a mental note to hang some in every room.