"Benedict."
"Sorry what?"
"Benedict."
"Who's Benedict? Is this a new case? Is that where you were all of yesterday-?"
"No, not who. A benedict."
"Sorry, breakfast was a while ago, but if you wanted an eggs benedict-"
"Oh for God's sake, John, don't be thick."
"I'm not trying, Sherlock, you just said 'benedict' twice-"
"Three times."
"-was that really necessary?"
"No need to shout, you'll wake Mrs. Hudson."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Yes?"
"Why's she still asleep at three in the afternoon?"
"Well, based on the natural circadian rhythm of the average woman in her 70s-"
"I swear to God-"
"-and given that she'd taken her soothers before falling asleep at 5 o'clock this morning-"
"Wait what-?"
"-and assuming that she got up at her normal hour of 9 o'clock yesterday morning-"
"Hold on, was she awake all night?"
"-she had been awake approximately 20 hours, yes, so I'd presume that-"
"What was she doing awake for 20 hours?"
"-she was helping me last night, so now she's catching up on her rest, if I'm not butchering that idiom-"
"You made Mrs. Hudson, a 60-year-old woman, stay up 20 hours-"
"73-year-old, and no, she volunteered to help and that required her to stay up an additional few hours, the rest was her own choice-"
"Sherlock, I've been in two lines of work that involve committing violent, bloody deaths-"
"I have seriously begun to question your record as an Army doctor-"
"ARE YOU TRYING TO PISS ME OFF?!"
"No."
"YOU SURE?!"
"Well, maybe a little, it's a bit amusing to watch."
"FOR FUCK'S SAKE-!"
"Lads." In walked in a very tired, very unamused Mrs. Hudson in a lilac dressing gown. "Would you mind keeping it down? There's no need to shout."
"Sorry, sorry- wait, Mrs Hudson?" John called out before the old woman closed the door. "Why did Sherlock keep you up for so long last night?"
"He hasn't yet told you?"
"No, I'd like a better explanation for the police when they find his mangled body in a dumpster this afternoon."
"My goodness, John, I don't understand where on earth you boys get the impression that things like that are funny-"
"Sorry, but he has no right making an elderly woman-"
"I beg your pardon?"
John sighed. "Sorry, he has no right making you do something like that-"
"My dear, it was no trouble. You'll see what I mean soon enough."
"But-"
"You'll see soon enough." She gave John a warm though weary smile before closing the door softly. John listened the sound of her slippers shuffling down the stairs.
He turned back to Sherlock. "Doesn't mean I'm not still cross with you."
"But-"
"Still not right to make an old woman do that."
"John-"
"And where the hell were you yesterday, at any rate?"
Most people believed that Sherlock Holmes, being the mastermind that he is and the emotionless robot that he seems, had an innate talent for lying. And he did, sometimes, when he was on a case and he really tried. But to John, Sherlock's face was all but an open book. So when the corner of Sherlock's mouth gave that quiver, combined with the gentle crease of his outer eyes and the slight lift of his statuesque cheekbones, John already saw the smile before it broke on the hopeless man's face. And when that smile burst forth, it took all of John's willpower to remind himself that he was supposed to be angry with this man.
"You remember the photographer?"
"The photographer?"
"The one Mycroft hired. For the-"
"Yeah, yeah." John tried to hide the smile creeping on his own face. "Paid him in advance, he came, took the photos, then ran off to France or something?"
"Belgium, actually."
"Could we not argue for once today?"
"Sorry." Every time Sherlock gave a genuine apology, John still got a jolt in his aorta. "Anyway, I found him."
"Really? Where?"
"Back in London, up to his old tricks. Had a crude motel room in Whitechapel as a 'studio'. I told him I would give him a three-hour headstart from the police if he did me a favor. He complied. I gave him an hour instead."
"You conned a con-man?"
"Mycroft was bothering me earlier, something about not using his credentials to track citizens in Belgium. Put me in a mood."
"What was the favor?"
"To hand over all his files, every flash card, memory card, and floppy disk he ever used. After he fled and was later arrested, I wasted half the day dealing with the pathetic excuse for adult humans known as policemen, phoning Lestrade over whether said motel room was in fact a 'crime scene,' and negotiating over what stuff they would allow me to take for myself (even though half of what they claimed as evidence is useless to their investigation), and finally transferring all the equipment I needed to the basement in 221B Baker. Tedious process. Police never make anything easy. Don't."
" 'Don't' what? I didn't say anything."
"You were rolling your eyes, means you disapprove. But before you do, let me finish. Mrs. Hudson caught me bringing everything downstairs. I explained to her what I was doing and she got all annoyingly giddy and said she wanted to help. The work didn't require much expertise, so I allowed her. By then it was evening and I heard you stumbling home from the pub, so I knew you were home and plenty drunk enough to not notice my absence."
"I didn't have that much-"
"John, you, your bloodshot eyes, your extra crankiness, and the pill you slipped into your tea this morning are all terrible liars. As I was saying, we worked most of the night, and Mrs. Hudson actually provided some helpful insight into my experiment-"
"What did you say that was, again?"
"I never told you in the first place. Then we returned everything to Scotland Yard – half at Lestrade's insistence and half at Mrs. Hudson's moral indignation otherwise – and she made me hot cocoa and then we went off to bed."
"Alright then." John bit his lip. "What was in his files?"
"The secret key to El Dorado. He was a photographer, John."
"I know, Sherlock, I'm asking if those photos were still there."
"Yes."
John's heart skipped a beat. "They were?"
"Yes."
"So…where are they now?"
"On a hard drive in an evidence bag at the Yard, I suppose."
"But you made a copy, right? You burned a copy of them on a disk or something?"
"Why would I do that?"
John suddenly felt as though a giant wooden stake had skewered him in the gut. "Why would you- Oh, I don't know, maybe because I wanted them, because I've been without those photos for only five bloody years now, because I'd all but given up on the idea that I'd ever have anything to show my family, anything to remember that day by-"
"Have you that poor a memory?"
"THAT'S NOT THE BLOODY POINT! IT'S CALLED SENTIMENTALITY, YOU UNCARING ARSE! YOU SAW THOSE PHOTOS, WE FINALLY HAD THE CHANCE TO GET THOSE PHOTOS (AND THEY'RE MY FUCKING PHOTOS TOO), AND YOU THREW THEM AWAY! YOU KNOW WHY I WAS AT THE PUB LAST NIGHT? YOU KNOW WHY?"
"John-"
"'COURSE YOU DON'T, BECAUSE YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW WHAT YESTERDAY WAS! PROBABLY THREW IT OUT OF YOUR MIND PALACE BECAUSE IT WASN'T THE LEAST BIT IMPORTANT TO YOU!"
"John, you're shouting again-"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Looks like I'm being rude, and insensitive. Looks like I don't care. Do you want me to go? I'm going to go."
"Wait, John-"
"No, Sherlock. I'm done right now. I'm tired of- of- I just can't do this anymore right now. I need to-"
"John, don't you want to know what my experiment was?"
John whirled around, absolutely livid. He stomped over to Sherlock and glared straight at the infuriatingly calm man, an inch from his face. "What. makes. you. possibly. think. I care. at all. about. your goddamned experiment. right now."
"Because it has to do with societal traditions, certain ones that are related to sentimentality, in fact, which you just happened to bring up. Gift-giving is a longstanding cultural tradition-"
"I'm done, Sherlock-"
"-practiced the world over for many a century. Today it is commonplace (and even expected) at many celebratory events including birthdays, housewarming, certain religious events like Christmas and the Muslim Eid al-Fitr, engagement parties, weddings-"
"Fantastic time to bring those up, Sherlock. Really, just screw the knife in further."
"-and anniversaries."
John went silent.
"I remembered, John."
John remained silent.
"Lestrade told me five years is a Big One, and since you've never been impressed with expensive things, I experimented with a sentimental one."
Sherlock reached behind him. He pulled out a thick book bound in old mahogany leather. In its center inset was a photo of two men in black tuxedos, their heads thrown back with laughter. Each man had an arm around the other's waist. One with sandy-brown hair, the other with thick black curls.
John let out something between a cry and a choke.
"The conman wouldn't develop the photos himself, no matter how hard I compelled him. But learning how to develop film and actually developing photographs didn't take half as long as trying to convince what seemed like the entirety of the London police department to let me use the conman's equipment, even with Lestrade on my side."
Embossed in the corner was '1968'. "The album was Mrs. Hudson's idea," continued Sherlock. "She believed that giving you the photos in an envelope was, to be brief, 'unsuitable'. Neither of us, however, had an empty photo album at our disposal nor a place to purchase one at 10 o'clock. So she went and pulled out her own wedding album. 'About time this got filled with some happy memories,' was how she put it, if I recall correctly."
John just stood there, his eyes wide and mouth gaping like a goldfish. He reached out and pulled open the cover. There it all was, every part of that magical day, from the elaborate invitation to the white rose bouquets on the reception tables (all paid for by Mycroft). From Molly and Harry checking each other's blue satin dresses to Sebastian Wilkes with Mike Stamford having cigars (later confiscated) in their tuxes. There was Lestrade doing Sherlock's bow tie; and Mrs. Hudson fixing John's collar. Mycroft with his certificate of ordainment printed off the web. Sherlock about to roll his eyes during the readings; John giving him a warning look not to.
Molly becoming too weepy to finish her speech. A twinkly-eyed Angelo serving empanadillas in his 'Tapas Brindisa' apron. John and Lestrade making embarrassments of themselves while dancing. Mrs. Hudson giving Sherlock a peck on the cheek. A shy Henry Knight sitting besides an aloof Anthea. Mycroft with his wife and two boys, caught in the act of an authentic smile.
A taxi pulling away (headed towards a small inn in Dartmoor) and leaving behind a hastily-written sign reading 'Just Marreid' (someone had forgotten how to spell).
John was already a sniveling wreck before he reached the last page. But when it came, his hand flew unabashedly to his mouth and his eyes began to brim. There, in two giant spreads, were just John and Sherlock. In one, their heads tilted, both grinning like idiots at the camera in their tuxedos. In the other, they looked towards each other, eyes barely closed, as they shared a small, sweet kiss.
On the page lay a garish yellow Post-It. In graceful script, it read:
'To a couple of benedicts who took long enough, best of luck to you both. Love always, Mrs. Hudson.'
"Are you alright?" Sherlock's eyebrows knit together in concern.
"Yeah…yeah." John gave a loud sniff. "Not bad- not bad photos for a conman, you know."
Sherlock shrugged. "He was a genuine photographer, so I suppose it was vanity (common weakness of the great, you know); he couldn't bring himself to do a bad job."
A laugh escaped John, causing Sherlock to twitch a smile. "So a benedict means…what, exactly?" asked John.
"A man newly married, after having long been a bachelor."
"Ah…"
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"The gift? Good?"
"…perfect."
Silence.
"So…are we…good?
John put the book down on a chair, leaving it open to the last page. He let his arms slip around his husband's waist. "Yes, good," he whispered in between kisses. "Very good."
NOTES: This story is already published on my ao3 page, but I thought I'd share it with all y'all too.
'Benedict' was Merriam Webster's Word of the Day for July 3rd, 2013, which was the inspiration for this story. I spent more time imagining the details of their wedding than of my own.
That concludes my first one-shot and my first Johnlock fic ever! Hope you liked it!