Backseat serenade

He's been gone almost a week, visiting family; the longest we've been apart since the very beginning. I like to think of myself as independent, more than capable of surviving a week alone, it should have been great, not having him around. No violin at three am, no drugs in my coffee. No explosions, no gunshots, no stupid experiments - finally some piece and quiet. But it wasn't. I mean, the first few days it was a blessing, I slept late, I went out and didn't come back to a murder or a mess, but after that I missed him.

Yeah yeah, I know, it's soppy and pathetic and bloody annoying, but its true. I've missed him so much, more than I thought possible. Ive missed having someone around, I've missed having someone to talk to. I've missed surprise hugs from behind while I'm typing, I've missed tangling my hands into his curly mop, I've missed morning kisses and afternoon kisses and goodnight kisses and god I'm sick of sleeping alone.
But it's ok, because he's coming back today. The train gets in at half three and I'm going to meet him at the station. I haven't told him that, its supposed to be a surprise, but no doubt he's expecting me, I probably let it slip through my choice of shoes or something.

The taxi driver's one of those talkative ones, as soon as I open the door and say 'Paddington station please' he starts the interrogation.
"Where you headed?"
I roll my eyes, but try to at least appear interested and sociable when in reality all I can think about is finally getting to see him again. "Uh, I'm not, I'm meeting someone."
"Special someone?" he asks with a smile.
"A friend." I answer curtly. I don't really like to lie, but I hate to tell the truth. It just leads to awkwardness; the 'so, what's she like?' 'he' 'oh' structure, or the 'what, you two?' conversation, or 'sorry, I just assumed, you know...' 'it's fine' followed by awkward silene. 'Friend' closes the comversation, 'boyfriend' leaves it hanging.

We pull in at exactly three twenty-six, four minutes. I glance feverishly at the sign, frantic that its delayed. It's not. 'Platform four' I murmur, pushing through the weekend Paddington crowd to get a clear view of the track.
Three minutes.
People jostle all around me, back from holidays and weekend breaks ready for the working week to start, parents panicking over pesky children, and those standing alone - like me - waiting for partners to return.
Two minutes.
Then comes the announcers voice over a loud speaker, slightly distorted, "the train now approaching platform four is the three thirty service from Manchester. Please change here for Birmingham new street."
even in that bored monotone, her words bring a broad grin to my face.
One minute.
I can here it now, the roar of the diesel engine, the squealing of the brakes, the rhythmical drumming of the wheels on the track, growing louder and louder with every second. The vibrations arrive first in a series of waves, making everything shake: coffee cups on tables, suitcases on the filthy concrete, even people. My whole body is filled with these vibrations, it's as if I can feel my very bones shaking.
And then the train arrives. A streamlined and aerodynamic but nether the less hunk of metal speeds by so fast I have to take a step back, it's almost as if it's not going to stop at all, but speed on to it's next stop. But it does stop, eventually, with an even louder squeal of the brakes on the tracks, sending sparks flying at the wheels. I stand motionless, waiting for the guard's whistle that means I can approach, under starters orders. There, a single shrill blast cuts the air and the doors open. I strain my neck, cursing my height, and try to catch a glimpse of the familiar dark curls.

"Hello." a soft, husky baritone in my ear.
I jump, and spin round to pull him into a bone crushing hug, causing him to almost drop his battered suitcase.
"I missed you."
At first he's stiff and awkward, but as my fingers grip tighter into his long coat he relaxes, slipping his arms round my waist.
"I missed you too John, but I thought you didn't like people staring..."
Crap.
I let go, blushing furiously. "Yes, right, uh, stop smiling like that!" I scold as he starts to laugh at my discomfort, part of me is indignant but really I don't want him to smile that like because he looks so bloody kissable and I doubt I can't wait much longer.
He doesn't stop though, simply grins at me even wider, gesturing towards the exit "shall we?"

We managed to get a cab with a solid screen between the driver and the back, thank god. I hate psa but I haven't kissed him or a whole week and it's driving me mad.
"Two two one b baker street," I say before clambering into the back seat.
Now we're almost alone.
"So, how was it?" I'm trying to keep it casual but I can't help linking our fingers now we're out of sight.
"Horrendous," he shrugs casually, "nothing abnormal."
I can't help sigh, Sherlock has a poor at best relationship with his parents and a frankly appalling one with his brother. "What happened?" I ask, cuddling closer and leaning on his boney shoulder.
"Mycroft knows about us and my parents don't. He's been making hints and threatening all week. Not to mention copious amounts of obligatory social events and absolutly nothing of interest."
I almost feel a little sorry for the rest of the family if Sherlock was as bad as he is at home when he's bored, but I don't say that. "Your parents don't know about us?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I haven't told them."
"Obviously," I say, mimicking his voice. "but why haven't you told them?"
He doesn't answer for a minute, so I raise my head and give him my best puppy eyes stare. "I, I worry they will disprove."
"Oh." well I can certainly empathise; my mum was fine, after all, Harry was already married to Clara, but dad not so much. I mean we still speak and were still friends, but i think part of him was desperate to see his son in a nice house with a pretty woman, three children and an apple pie life after he'd given up on Harry. "Well," I start, fiddling with his coat collar, "they're not here now are they?"
One of the best things about being in a relationship with the worlds only consulting detective is that its almost easy. I don't even have to say anything, it's a mere formality. He knows exactly what I'm thinking right now and although it's usually seen as irritating its a blessing in disguise. As I use the scarf to pull him closer he murmurs in my ear, "driver..."
"I don't care." and then I kiss him.

Usually I do care, but it's been a week after all! He's had a crappy time and I've had a crappy time and now we're finally back to were we belong - locked together.
He's usually more hesitant than this, I suppose the separation must have had its effect. Most of the time he's gentle and careful and I'm the one who's eager to go further, messing up his hair and tracing the outline of his lips with my tongue; this time its both of us and I'm loving it. His long violinist's fingers are finding their way into my sandy hair as I wind mine into his curls. I can feel the scarf tickling my neck. He tastes like salt and i absentmindedly wander why, probably crisps on the train. (Sea salted kettle chips are his favourite but he always pretends he's above the mere snacks of us average minded humans.)
"Crisps?" I ask as I take a breath and he chuckles.
"Good deduction," he answers between kisses "you're learning."
That makes me smile and I reward him by breaking away and planting soft kisses along his cheek and jawline.
He exhales, "you had the last bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes before you came didn't you?"
"Oh shut up, I bought them." I'm moving down to his neck now, and ripping away the scarf so I can kiss his Adam's apple. Despite the near freezing temperatures outside he smells like summer; strawberries and freshly mown grass and humid air and candy floss and seaweed.
And I'm awkwardly unplugging my seat belt and pushing him backwards, still kissing, kissing the pain away.

"Two-hundred an twenty-one b baker street." the drivers voice separates us as quickly as if someone had forcibly driven a glass wall between us.
I can't help but laugh at the look of pure shock on his face, and apparently I must have looked similar because he dissolves into low giggles too.
We scramble out together and I grin sheepishly as he pays the driver. Even as we reach the top of the stairs were still laughing and I feel proud that I've cheered him up.
"Feeling better?" I ask, flopping down onto the sofa.
"Obviously," he hangs his coat up and sits down next to me, leaning in close. "I missed you."
"I missed you too."
Pause.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
And with that we lean together once more to resumed were we left off.

this fic is for my good buddy Bryony, metalicar-parked-at-221b on tumblr. x