A/N: Many many thanks to prettybirdy979 for the swift and very helpful beta. *Hugs* to you.
This is a birthday gift for my friend maladroitoracle. She enjoys stories that describe an outsider's point of view regarding Sherlock and John's relationship. So I gave her five of them. Happy Birthday, girl! I hope you enjoy my little offering.
The premise of this story was inspired by lifeonmars' fabulous fic "Scrutiny". If you haven't read that, then Good God what are you doing here reading this scribbling? Go forth and drink in their awesomeness. They can be found on AO3 (Archive of our Own), author name lifeonmars.
Sherlock Holmes was always berating those around him for seeing, but not observing. After several years of being subjected to the workings of the average mind, he had despaired of anyone learning the difference between the two. However, he never stopped pointing out this lack in people and trying his best to correct it, hoping that, despite the apparent futility of the matter, some of what he was trying to teach would eventually sink in. It therefore filled him with justified satisfaction and immense delight when, after he and John finally got together, their friends and associates all came to the correct conclusion without either one of them having to say a word.
Actions speak louder than words, you see. Observation and deduction are a consulting detective's lifeblood, and those caught in his orbit cannot help but absorb some of the same skills and habits.
THE MORNING AFTER
Martha Hudson had been wondering for years if there was more than simple friendship between her two tenants, but she wasn't the sort of person who made a habit of sticking her nose into other people's business, so she had never come right out and asked. It would be easy, she supposed, to just bring it up in casual conversation. But both her boys were intensely private, men of action and few words, not prone to pronouncements of their innermost thoughts and feelings. And she respected that. She figured they would confide in her when the time was right. She was nothing if not patient. Having a husband on death-row had taught her that.
On this particular fine morning she was alert and active earlier than her usual wont. At eight a.m. the morning sun was already shining cheerily through the windows, brightening if not exactly warming her little corner of the world. She was particularly well rested because her hip had not given her any problems during the night, and her sister had refrained from calling her at an ungodly hour to whinge and moan about the uselessness of her son-in-law. So, feeling quite grateful and chipper for all these reasons, she found herself humming a merry tune while she dusted and cleaned the kitchen, a chore she usually reserved for late afternoons.
The morning progressed in a lazy and desultory fashion, until before she knew it the time was ten o'clock, with nary a peep from the upstairs flat. This was a rather unusual occurrence, since Sherlock and John were both early risers – well, Sherlock would be if he actually ever went to bed in the first place. John had clinic hours most mornings. Sherlock would either be off to the morgue or a crime scene, or he would be pacing and fretting in front of a crime board. If he were running an experiment the clinking of beakers would be heard, or the rare mild explosion. But no sound had been heard since late last night.
Martha danced to the radio while she hoovered her sitting room, whistling and snapping her fingers to the tunes. She was just finishing up when she glanced at the clock again. Huh. Eleven o'clock and still no sound. Most curious. Those two were constantly on the move, even on days when they didn't have anything scheduled. Maybe they were having a domestic and were avoiding each other by keeping to their respective rooms.
Finally, at around noon she heard the faint creaking of floorboards overhead and the closing of the bathroom door. A squeaking tap followed by a soft susurration signalled the beginnings of a shower. At least one person was up and about, then. Martha shook her head fondly. The lazy-bones, she thought. And on such a beautiful day, too. Such a shame for them to waste it by lounging around the flat. They were adults, though; they could choose to spend their downtime however they desired.
Several minutes passed after the water shut off before she realised that a second shower hadn't been started. Either one of them was still in bed, or… but no. She chastised herself for her flights of fancy. Surely they would have told her if there had been a change in their relationship.
She gave them another fifteen minutes to complete their ablutions and make themselves decent before she decided to grace them with her presence and that of some cupcakes she had baked the evening before. She gave their door a brisk two knocks and a cheerful "Yoo-hoo" before letting herself in without waiting for an invitation. The sight that greeted her was a balm both for her spirit and her tired old eyes.
Sherlock was wrapped in his blue dressing gown and lying supine on the sofa, long legs and lanky body taking up the entire space. His nose was buried in a book, lips pursed and brow wrinkled in concentration. On the far end of the couch sat the doctor in a green tartan dressing gown, with a laptop open on his knees and a detective's bare feet nestled cosily in his lap. One of John's hands was massaging said feet, thumb tracing circles in one of Sherlock's insteps. Sherlock didn't even raise his head in greeting at Martha's entrance. John's roaming hand stilled for a few seconds as his eyes caught hers. He gave her a sheepish grin.
"Morning, Mrs Hudson," he greeted casually, resuming the chaste foot-rubbing. "Do you need help with that?"
"Oh, no, no, don't put yourself out, John," Martha tut-tutted. "I know my way around the kitchen, it is mine, you know," she admonished as she fluttered and fussed her way around Sherlock's mess. She smiled to herself as she fished out an acceptable platter from the cupboard and arranged the cupcakes – red velvet with white marshmallow icing – in a pleasing presentation. It hadn't escaped her notice that both her boys had damp hair. With an effort, she schooled her face into something other than a foolish grin, and brought the platter out to set it on the coffee table.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John grinned, his face no longer expressing hesitance or embarrassment. As if it was a normal occurrence for her to walk in on them in such a state.
"You're welcome, dears." She glanced fondly in Sherlock's direction, but he still didn't bother to greet or acknowledge her in any way. He scowled and brought the book even closer to his face.
"I'm very happy for you, by the way. It was a long time coming, but at least you got there eventually. You boys can have the whole place to yourself this afternoon; I'll be visiting Mrs Turner to let her know she's not the only one with – well, that's getting a little ahead of ourselves, isn't it? No need to keep the noise level down, I won't be back for hours." She smirked as she turned away and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face, his eyes wide and unblinking. A faint blush crept its way up his neck and onto his cheeks. It was actually a very attractive look on him.
She practically skipped down the stairs in her excitement and happiness. At last, at long last, Sherlock and John had found their way to each other. This was a day worth celebrating.
FIRST CRIME SCENE AFTER
Lestrade blinked rapidly as he fought back bone-aching tiredness. He wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee and inhaled the aroma from the rising steam. His team had been called in early that morning to assist with one of Dimmock's cases. This was the third body in five days, with no leads and no apparent connection between the victims. He had finally convinced Dimmock an hour ago to let him call in the Dynamic Duo. Sherlock had sounded strangely reluctant to leave the flat, even though the case was most certainly a nine and it was already three in the afternoon. Lestrade knew the doctor had Saturdays off, and weekends were usually reserved for experiments done at home unless the two were busy with a private client. Usually Sherlock jumped at the chance to vary his routine; he certainly wasn't one to stay cooped up at home when there was something interesting going on. Maybe he felt like taking a day off after helping with the postal worker case the day before. Lestrade shrugged; no matter, they were on their way now.
Speak of the devil, he thought fondly as Sherlock stalked into the warehouse, coattails flaring dramatically behind him. John was two steps behind him, following in his wake as usual. Sherlock's eyes were bright and alert as he scanned the area, big brain processing all the data as it streamed in. Lestrade could practically hear the gears grinding and the synapses firing from where he stood. How John survived being in the presence of all that intensity, day after day, was beyond his comprehension. He had nothing but respect for the man. It couldn't be easy living his life under the constant stress of Sherlock Holmes' scrutiny. He didn't seem to mind, though. Instead of burning to a crisp, or wilting from the heat, John Watson thrived in the glare that emanated from his friend. Lestrade remembered the small, limping shell of a man who had wandered onto that first crime scene. He had been lost and broken then. Oh, how things had changed.
Lestrade grinned as he watched the two do their little dance, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Sherlock bent over the body, whipped out his magnifying glass and started his examination. John knelt on the opposite side, observing and determining best he could the cause and time of death. Their soft whispers and light bickering filled the inspector with a sense of normalcy amid the chaos and horror of the scene. Whatever odd thing he had sensed from his phone conversation with Sherlock apparently hadn't affected their dynamic. Their interactions, never precisely normal, were familiar and therefore soothing to Lestrade's frayed nerves. He almost barked out an inappropriate laugh when he heard a muttered "Idiot" thrown in Anderson's general direction.
Then he frowned as more observations started filtering into his admittedly hazy consciousness. Something was just a bit – off about how Sherlock and John were behaving. He shook his head and forced himself to focus. He hadn't reached the position of detective inspector, after all, by being a slouch at his job, no matter what Sherlock had to say about the matter. Something was different, and damned if he wasn't going to suss it out.
Sherlock straightened up from his crouch and started to turn away. He paused in the middle of his movement, then turned back around to face his friend. John grimaced as he prepared to get up, hesitating with his hand on his right knee. Lestrade remembered that sometimes John's leg still gave him a bit of trouble at times, twinging during the most inconvenient times. Sherlock reached out, offering his hand for support. John gave him a grateful look as he accepted the gesture, placing his hand in Sherlock's as he rose gracefully from his kneeling position.
Okay. That was more than a little unexpected.
Sherlock released John's hand and strode over to something that had caught his attention in the far corner, gait hurried but smooth. John rushed to follow him (nothing surprising there). Sherlock pointed at something hanging from the beams. He pulled out tweezers and a plastic bag from the confines of that great bloody coat, and carefully teased whatever it was off the wood. He turned and presented it to John, who nodded and murmured something before Sherlock placed it in the bag and sealed it with a flourish.
"Oi, Freak! Feel like sharing with the rest of the class?"
Lestrade winced. Anderson. Great, there went the fragile peace out the window.
Sherlock turned around sharply to face the forensic specialist. He took in a breath and opened his mouth for what could only be a scathing retort, when John shook his head and placed a placating hand on Sherlock's arm, squeezing gently. The doctor leaned in close and whispered something, his lips practically grazing the shell of Sherlock's ear. The detective's eyes fluttered shut and his entire body relaxed from its stiff rigidity. Sherlock dipped his chin down in silent acknowledgment before opening his eyes again to catch John's gaze. The grey orbs shone with something Lestrade had never before seen in regards to Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't the look he got when presented with a tantalising puzzle, nor was it a reflection of some sort of chemically-induced state of mind. It was something else entirely. Then John's features shifted and softened as he reached two fingers up to stroke Sherlock's temple. It was then that Lestrade's brain broke.
"Hey, I asked you a question, Holmes! Oh for the love of – get a room, will you?"
Sherlock and John jerked apart as Anderson's nasal voice reverberated unpleasantly off the walls. With complete aplomb and nonchalance, and only a spot of red on his cheeks, Sherlock responded, "No, I don't think I will share, Anderson. You seemed to have overlooked something that could turn out to be a crucial piece of evidence. I found it, so I shall be examining it myself. We're off to Bart's, John. Come along." Sherlock's ridiculous coat swirled and twirled around him as his long legs carried him outside and to the kerb, arm raised imperiously. Immediately (of course) a cab pulled up in front of him. Sherlock pulled the rear door open and, in an uncharacteristic display of chivalry, motioned for John to get in before him. Sally Donovan happened to be standing outside at the time. Her jaw dropped. Sherlock smirked.
"Good day, Sally," he said before entering the cab himself and pulling the door shut.
She turned disbelieving eyes on Lestrade, who still stood inside the building, looking just as gobsmacked as she did.
"Did you see that?" she asked incredulously.
Lestrade blinked. "Um… yes, I believe I just did. All of it." He cleared his throat, and the two of them stared at each other for several minutes before they both broke out in huge grins.
"So," Sally asked, "who won the pool?"
FIRST VISIT TO BART'S AFTER
"Molly, could you get us some coffee, please?" Sherlock asked as he peered through his microscope at the hair he had retrieved from the crime scene.
"Um, sure… I don't want anything just now, but I can get you some. Black, two sugars, right?"
"Yes. And John doesn't take any sugar, just milk."
"Oh. John? Yes, of course. Be right back, then."
"Fine. Thank you."
Well, if that wasn't the oddest thing, Molly Hooper thought to herself as she paid for two cups of coffee, one black with two sugars, one black with milk. Sherlock had never asked her to get anything for John before, not once during the myriad times the doctor had joined him in the lab. When he asked for coffee, he only ever asked for himself, usually after deducing she was preparing to get some for herself. This was decidedly out of character. She was slightly intrigued, and more than a little bit worried. She did make a living determining cause and manner of death on a daily basis, though, so she figured that she would be able to puzzle out this little conundrum.
Molly took a deep breath and nudged open the door to the lab. She paused, taking in the scene before her. Both men were facing away from her, Sherlock seated at the lab bench in front of his microscope, John peering over his shoulder. Molly had frequently seen John place his arm around the back of the chair or his hand on Sherlock's shoulder when the detective was seated and wanted him to take a look at something. This time, however, the palm of John's hand was resting on the nape of Sherlock's neck, fingers (quite unconsciously, Molly was sure) playing with the curls lying there. Molly noticed how the set of Sherlock's shoulders weren't quite as tense as they usually were when he was focussed on his analysis. In fact, she could swear that he was leaning back into John's touch, probably another unconscious act. Natural and inevitable, like everything else between them. No effort was being made to hide anything from anybody, and yet at the same time nothing was being done to draw attention to themselves either. Just Sherlock and John being themselves, however and wherever their continually changing relationship took them. As if this was just the way things were supposed to be, and nothing needed to be acknowledged or commented upon.
Molly found it both very refreshing and ridiculously endearing. Romantic, even. She sighed.
"Here you go," she said, setting the coffees down next to them.
Sherlock looked up, and gave her a crooked smile. "Thank you, Molly," he said sincerely before returning to his work.
John smiled at her too, thanking her in his usual charming manner, throwing in a wink for good measure. His hand never left Sherlock's neck.
"You're welcome," Molly responded warmly before turning her attention to her own work. She leaned against an adjoining bench and closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of self-pity and resignation. When she opened them after a few seconds, all she felt was warmth and joy. They were so good for each other, these two. The changes that had occurred in Sherlock since John had stumbled into his life were all positive ones. John no longer had a bum leg, nor was he washed-out and depressed. She bravely turned around to face them.
"Congratulations," she said softly. She didn't expect a verbal acknowledgment. Her mind had already jumped ahead to what her mentor would have to say about all this. Surely Sherlock and John wouldn't mind if she told him, would they? After all, if it hadn't been for him, they wouldn't all be together here right now.
Sherlock chuckled smoothly. "Go right ahead, Molly. You have our permission to inform Stamford. Let him know that the favour he did us all those years ago has been a smashing success."
Molly tittered. "How… okay, yes. I'll just be next door, you can come and get me if you need me, it's… fine."
She made her escape as quickly as possible, the hammering of her heart due to both embarrassment and exhilaration. As soon as she was out in the hallway, she pumped her fists and let out a little squeal. Mike would be chuffed to hear about this. Even though he now had to take her out to that expensive place two streets down from her place. Molly had a feeling this was one victory he wouldn't mind conceding.
FIRST DATE AFTER
Angelo had always known that underneath that gruff exterior resided a heart of purest gold. Sherlock would deny it until he was blue in the face, claiming that sentiment of all kinds was beneath him, even friendship. Angelo was hurt at first to hear this. After all, he counted Sherlock among his own meagre supply of friends; it would have been nice to have had that feeling reciprocated.
As time went on, and he got to know Sherlock better, he learned that it was all just a matter of semantics. Sherlock knew how to be a good friend, and he extended that courtesy to Angelo by giving him his business on an almost weekly basis. However, he never expected other people to feel the same way about him. Hence his I don't have friends speech, which he delivered on a maddeningly frequent basis to anyone who tried to get close to him. He believed it himself, the poor misguided fool, never realising how many people surrounding him wanted to be exactly that – his friends.
Since Sherlock emphatically denied having even the most casual of attachments, Angelo despaired of him ever finding anything more than that. If he didn't consider himself likeable, then he most certainly also believed himself unlovable. If Angelo hadn't already been happily settled in a civil partnership, he might have taken it upon himself to disabuse Sherlock of that particular notion. It was just as well, really; he was probably old enough to be the boy's father. When he came in that first night with John Watson in tow, Angelo immediately sensed that this one might be different. The man was obviously besotted with Sherlock (about time the boy found someone who appreciated him for the great man that he was), so he decided he'd have a little fun, throw out some well-timed innuendos and see if that might ignite something between the two of them. Maybe all that was needed was just a little nudge in the right direction.
So Angelo made a crack about the meal being free for Sherlock and his 'date', and he even offered to bring a candle to their table. He smiled to himself as he left the two alone, keeping his fingers crossed that maybe this time a spark would fan into a flame.
No such luck. What actually did happen turned out to be even more suprising, and extremely gratifying. Bit by bit, at a glacial pace, Sherlock's flatmate/colleague proved a fast and true friend. With such a steadfast and loyal presence constantly at his side, Sherlock could no longer wax poetic on his lack of friends, even though he still insisted that he just had one. Every time the two of them graced his business with their presence, he would amuse himself by watching the interactions between them. As close as they were, and as epic as their friendship was, it always seemed like it teetered on the cusp of becoming something more, something – legendary. Angelo laughed at himself whenever this thought crossed his mind, and chided himself for his hyperbolic musings. Really, legendary? The only legendary partnerships that existed were ones that resided firmly in the imagination and portrayed in fictional stories, television shows and Hollywood movies. Butch and Sundance, Frodo and Sam, Kirk and Spock, Sheridan Hope and Ormond Sacker… all enduring characters, but none of them real.
At any rate, Angelo was happy that the man who had saved him from a murder charge had finally found camaraderie and rapport, even if it was in a strictly platonic sense. One could never have too many friends, after all. Romance tended to be fleeting and utterly unpredictable. Friendship, on the other hand, was more solid and had a better chance of surviving long term.
On this particular night, when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered his establishment, Angelo didn't immediately notice anything different. They were acting like themselves, flush with the satisfaction of a case successfully solved, talking over each other and giggling like twelve-year old boys sneaking a peak in the girls' locker room. Billy walked them over to their usual table, and it was then that Angelo noticed the first sign that something had changed.
Instead of sitting opposite each other, John took the seat adjacent to his friend. Angelo's eyebrows rose into his hairline. That was… different. He sauntered over and smiled indulgently as he took their order. When he turned to leave, Sherlock said, "Oh, and a bottle of your most expensive, Angelo. It's a special occasion."
John blushed. "Sherlock, really, that's not necessary…"
"Hush, John. It is necessary. Let me do this for you. Please."
John heaved an exasperated sigh, belied by the fond look on his face. "If you insist. I'll make it up to you later."
Sherlock smirked. "I'm sure you will."
More blushing from the soldier. Could something actually be going on between the two of them, now? After all this time?
Angelo cleared his throat. "If it's a special occasion, I'll be happy to provide this all on the house."
"Not a chance." Sherlock snapped his menu shut and handed it to Angelo. "I'm treating John tonight."
"Alright then." Angelo winked as he gathered up the menus. "Anything else I can get you?"
"Yes," John piped up. "Could you bring us a candle?"
###
Angelo didn't dare hope, but he also couldn't bring himself to completely snuff out the flare in his chest. All indications seemed to point to one inescapable conclusion, but he had been warned by Sherlock time and again to never assume, to never theorise before having all the facts. So he held off for the moment, at least until he had more data.
He insisted on serving Sherlock and John himself; he hustled Billy away to another section and commandeered their table. He kept his eyes and ears open each time he approached them, whether it was to present them with the wine, serve them their appetisers, or refill their water glasses. Each time he came over, he noticed something different.
John was seated on Sherlock's left, so their non-dominant hands were lying on the table side by side, barely touching. When Angelo arrived with their wine, their pinkies were brushing up next to each other. He was headed their way with their appetisers when Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. His head fell back against the back of his chair, one arm wrapped around his shaking belly. In the midst of his giggle fit, he reached out with his other hand and grasped John's arm in wordless affection. Angelo placed the dishes in front of them and poured more water into their glasses.
When he turned to leave, he noticed Sherlock's hand was still on John's arm.
Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of activity – greeting and seating customers, checking up on the chefs' progress, delivering beverages – before Sherlock and John's main courses were ready. Angelo's heart swelled when he made his way over to their table and saw that Sherlock's hand now rested directly on top of John's own, fingers curled in a light grasp. The swelling turned into an actual ache when neither man made a furtive attempt to hide the gesture.
"Enjoy the rest of your meal, gentlemen," Angelo said warmly. "Let me know when you're ready for dessert."
Angelo hadn't meant that as a double-entrendre, he really hadn't, but his face heated up as soon as the words left his mouth. John cracked a wide grin and responded, "I think we'll probably get ours to go so we can enjoy it at home." Sherlock made a strangled noise into his wine glass and his face turned beet red.
Angelo grinned back, and made a little bow. "As you say. Summon me when you're ready."
He turned on his heel and marched smartly back to the kitchen. He reached into his pocket and, with an unreadable expression, slipped a fifty-pound note into Billy's waiting hand.
Since nothing else had slipped his notice that night, Angelo didn't fail to see that when Sherlock and John left for the evening, their dominant hands were clasped tightly together.
REWIND TO 24 HOURS EARLIER, FIRST KISS AND FIRST DECLARATION
It will come as no surprise to the reader, of course, as to the identity of the person who first became aware of Sherlock and John's changed – circumstance. However, it wasn't due to superior observation skills or a lifetime of carefully honed leaps of logic. No indeed. In this case, it was a simply a matter of watching the scenario unfold before his very eyes.
Mycroft Holmes was a very busy and important man. At least, that's what he was told on an almost daily basis, by some of the most powerful people in the country, if not the entire world. He accepted it as his due and as an unapologetic truth. There was no room for humility when reality didn't support such a perception. The fate of nations regularly depended on the decisions he made and the strings that he pulled. Lives of very important people – and not so important ones – hung in the balance, requiring his total focus and dedication, not allowing for any distractions or wandering thoughts. He was constantly under stress, every move he made under intense and unforgiving scrutiny from the highest levels of government. Every order he gave had to be done with the clearest of heads and the complete absence of emotions. To say that he held a minor position in said government was a woeful understatement at best and a deliberate lie at worst.
So yes, Mycroft Holmes was a very important person, with very little time to spare to indulge in family matters or personal relationships. He had no less than three laptops open on his desk at all times, every one dedicated to a different project or agenda. So it would probably come as a complete surprise to pretty much everyone that at least thirty per cent of his mental hard drive was taken up with matters concerning his younger brother. And that one of those laptops contained a continuous video feed of the front steps of 221B Baker Street.
This evening was a typical one for Mycroft. He was ensconced in his study in his frankly ostentatious townhouse (paid for by the government, thank you very much, he wasn't that wealthy), seated behind his rich mahogany desk on a chair with plush cyan cushions. A fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace, lending the illusion of domesticity to the scene. A suit jacket was draped carelessly across the back of the chair. The time was edging towards ten p.m., obvious by the way Mycroft's shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his tie was loosened. He never allowed himself to relax his appearance so unless it was past nine o'clock. Even then, his mien might be relaxed, but his mind never was. He considered himself to be on the job twenty-four seven, so even though he was at home alone on a Friday night, he was bent over his iPad, composing his weekly report to the Home Secretary. It wasn't due until Monday, but idle time was wasted time. He had to spend the entire afternoon the next day at a dull fund-raising event, so he was going to get actual, productive work done when he had the chance, re-election be damned.
A Vivaldi concerto poured forth from the piped-in system through the walls. This one had been Sherlock's favourite as a child, the first piece he had tried to play on his new violin. It had been an unmitigated disaster, of course. Mycroft's mouth twitched at the memory of a curly-haired six year old stubbornly trying to coax the same lovely notes from the strings that he remembered hearing earlier that day, frustration warring with determination. He did eventually get it right – ten years later. That performance had been flawless.
As thoughts of Sherlock insinuated themselves into his mind, Mycroft glanced at the far left laptop. Those particular thoughts – and all others – stuttered to a halt as he drank in the image on the screen.
Sherlock and John had rarely bothered with personal space between the two of them, frequently violating boundaries that most other people held firmly in place. At this moment, the two were standing closer than Mycroft had ever seen them before. And why were they just standing there, mere feet from their own doorstep? It was obviously freezing out; he could see the puffs of their breaths intermingling. John was hunched forward, shivering and stamping his feet. If they were going to have a conversation, why didn't they go inside first, where it was comfortable and warm?
Then Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder, and their body language instantly changed. Mycroft narrowed his eyes when his brother wrapped both his arms around John, pulling him closer. He knew he should stop watching now, leave them to their privacy, but he couldn't tear himself away, not now, when he was about to have concrete evidence – recorded evidence – of what he had suspected for months now… that there was something deeper than friendship tying Sherlock and his partner together.
And there. At long last, the smoking gun. Mycroft smiled in satisfaction as he watched his baby brother and his flatmate/colleague/best friend move in for their first kiss. A very public, very messy kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. Undeniable, incontrovertible proof that left no room for a mistaken conclusion. Anthea will be pleased, he thought.
Then he noticed that John was saying something. There was no audio, but Mycroft was an expert lip reader, and something inside him twisted unpleasantly as those three damning words escaped the doctor's mouth.
Oh no, Mycroft thought as his heart sank. There was no way Sherlock was going to react well to such explicit sentiment, not according to his past history with this sort of thing. He held his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable fall-out of a heart being offered too freely. He watched in surprise as Sherlock gently stroked John's jaw with his fingertip, and he opened up his mouth to respond with….
The very same three words. Words that Mycroft was absolutely positive had never graced Sherlock's lips before now. Pride and relief swelled in his chest. He lifted his hand to wipe at the unexpected moisture in his eyes. Well done, Sherlock, he thought. Mummy would approve.
He took out his phone and pressed #2 on his speed dial. "Good evening, my dear. I have some good news. It looks like we'll be getting that free week in Venice after all. Yes. Yes, that sounds lovely. I'll shoot the dates off to Secretary May when I send her the tape. Excellent. See you Monday morning. Good night."
Mycroft ended the call with his assistant, a small smile tugging at his lips. Exactly six months from today, he would be sitting in a gondola with a lovely woman, soaking up the sun and listening to harmonious music. All thanks to Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. He decided this warranted a belated Christmas present, so he ordered the immediate cessation of all surveillance in and around 221B. Not permanently, of course; just for the night and the following morning, to give them some privacy. He wasn't about to give up the satisfaction of always being the first to know about every major event in his brother's life.
He sent a text to the number one spot on his contact list.
Thank you for your timely realisation. Anthea and I will send you both a post card while we're in Italy. Best wishes for the furtherance of you and Dr Watson's acquaintance. Do let me know when you need me to show up as a witness for the ceremony.
He smirked as he shut his phone off, forestalling any attempts at a snarky retort. He was sure he would wake up to several irate messages from his brother, but he would deal with that another day. He grinned at the monitor, now showing Sherlock and John finally entering their home, hand in hand.
It was going to be interesting to see how the following day played out.
END NOTES: VAGUE SPOILERS FOR "SCRUTINY"
After I read Scrutiny, I kept imagining what the next day would be like for Sherlock and John, concerning the reveal of their new relationship to those closest to them. Taking their personalities into account, I decided they would neither go out of their way to keep things under wraps, nor would they make a big production out of it. They would carry on as usual, and let people draw their own conclusions. This is what I came up with.
Huge thanks to lifeonmars for allowing me to play in their sandbox for a bit. I hope that I did justice to your creation.