Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. For this month's prompt on Tumblr, "move." I know, very similar to another story of mine, but I needed some fluff for a change.
Moving Day
If you'd told John, back when he first met her. that he'd be utterly grateful to Janine, he would have hummed noncommittally. She was nice, sure, and pretty, but he was about to be married, and she didn't exactly look like a lifesaver.
If you'd told him that a few days later, he would have had a hard time not scoffing. Sherlock's new girlfriend? Grateful? Him? The whole concept was too absurd to even contemplate. Honestly, "Sherlock's girlfriend" was weird enough. Just because he couldn't exactly protest aloud, it didn't mean that he had to like it. Maybe it would be fair to do what he'd been on the receving end of so many times, and just start interrupting their dates with flimsy excuses?
And if you had told him, he might have called as soon as the whole Janine thing blew up on every newspaper. See? His gut was right. She wasn't to be trusted, and technically never had been, just a means to an end. And you shouldn't believe one word that was written in any magazine, either. Their relationship had totally been overblown.
And with that, he'd have forgotten you and her and everything else, because his life afterwards had been busy enough that Janine was little more than a footnote in the story of their lives.
Decades later, when they've long been happy, fits of jealousy past both of them, John starts wondering if maybe they need to slow down. He loves Sherlock, and loves cases, no doubt. But if forced to pick, he'll always choose the first over the latter. And even if his beloved's brain is as sharp as ever, his body is not.
Not that it's a surprise. Sherlock has never spared himself, and even with John doing his level best to care, in all ways, for his genius, there's only so much he can do to avoid the aftereffects of every time they've been separated.
He doesn't know how to broach the idea to Sherlock, though. After all, the man is a bigamist, and John had always been fine with that. Heck, he'd been ok with Sherlock being married to his work before John became his second (and sometimes secondary, he suspects but hey, he's alright with it, if there are innocent lives on the line) spouse.
Suddenly wanting to turn their very happy poly relationship into an ordinary one? No matter how he asks, he can't help but dread Sherlock's reaction.
All the fretting was for nothing, really. It's not the first and won't be the last time that Sherlock reads his mind. Or that he acts in consequence. Hopefully not just to make him happy, but even that wouldn't be outside a pattern for them. The only thing that keeps John from over-worrying is that it's absolutely reciprocal. (He's not an all-around mind reader, but he's proficient in Sherlock not-speak, by now.)
"Remember Janine?" Sherlock asks him out of the blue one day.
"Uh..yeah?" It actually takes John a minute. As much as she'd owned the nation's attention - and his own - long ago, she was a one hit wonder, disappearing from their minds before anyone could care if she lived or died.
"She bought a cottage in Sussex with the proceeds from her interviews. It had bees, John! Until she bought it and removed the hives, at least."
John smiled. His beloved was unreasonably cute sometimes, and even past 50, nerding out about bees, and all pouty for Janine's unreasonable actions, Sherlock was adorable. "Maybe she didn't fancy being stung." Someone had to play devil's advocate sometimes.
"Yes, well, if she had kept them, she wouldn't be forced to sell."
"Ok, what? Weird local regulations?"
"Nope. The neighbours haven't changed one whit in decades, and now when she visits it just depresses her."
John sent him his best "I love you to bits, but you're not making any sense, love" look. He wasn't surprised by Janine's reaction to anyone getting old better than her, even if dismissing her as vain might have been mere residual contempt on his part. But what did bees have to do with it?
"Well, one of these 'might-be-immortal weirdos' has the sweet tooth to end them all," Sherlock replied, with air quotes. "Fresh honey - and honeycomb - might have tempted him into giving up his secret."
John chuckled. "Point taken."
"What do you think of Sussex?"
"What do I...are you thinking of buying her out, Sher?" (Sher, never Sherl. Seriously, it was pronounced as the French word for 'dear', and with Sherlock's French relatives, it might even have been on purpose. Why would anyone use another nickname?)
"There's a mystery waiting."
"No 'Botox, dull'?"
"Janine might not have a Holmes brain, but she wasn't completely blind and stupid. She'd recognize that." His beloved scoffed.
"I guess. Well, I have no objections at all to Sussex. I'll always follow you, wherever you will go. You should have learned by now that it isn't easy to get rid of me." If anything, they've grown more codependent with time.
"It's settled, then."
So they were moving. To Sussex. Just for a case, of course. And then maybe some holidays. And then... John didn't want to hope too much too soon. But maybe eventually, Sherlock might learn to like a quieter life. Incredible as it sounds, maybe someday they won't know all the police, and have the firefighters on a first name basis because of "accidents". And John might try one little underhanded trick to ensure it happened. It shouldn't be surprising that Sherlock had one of his own in mind.
It hits John as soon as they open the door. It's not surprising that there's a hearth here, too. But the chairs in front of it... He actually blinks and pinches himself. Nope, he's not fallen asleep on the way and been trapped in a lovely dream. But – there's no way that Sherlock managed to move their chairs and get them here in time (or would want to), without John realizing, is it? Not even with Mycroft's help.
As ever, his beloved answers John's internal monologue. "Actually, allowing the movers to get ahead of us was the point of that extra long stop for lunch. It's not my fault you're highly distractible."
John can't keep the grin off his face at the memory of exactly how he'd been distracted. Sherlock deciding that sharing dessert went much better if he licked it off John's own mouth, and then...well, nothing as untoward as it would have been twenty years ago. But still, it's true that he'd lost track of time. "Why?"
Because I want us to be comfortable. After all, just collecting data on this mystery might require a very long time. At least a decade. I know what Janine said, but can I really trust her?"
"Love, are you...?"
"John, did you really think that you could start considering retirement and I wouldn't notice? Or be averse to having even more time with you, to make up for all the years we lost?" There's a softness in Sherlock, and John is proud he's the one who gets to see it, and so so in love it hurts.
"Retirement! Right. Papers and - I can't just disappear like that, Sherlock, you know!"
"My brother may have stopped running the government a few years ago himself, but he's still able to quietly expedite some paperwork."
"Shouldn't I have signed that?"
"Are you going to sue me for forgery?" Sherlock smiled crookedly at him.
John snorted. "I should. Teach you a lesson. But I'm too happy with the results."
He offers an arm to his husband. "Before we fall back into our comfortable routine, what do you say about seeing the rest of our new place?"
"Of course." The cottage is cozy and, while nothing will ever be quite like 221b, John gets the same feeling he did on first seeing the Baker Street flat. He could be very happy here. Now, though, he doesn't pretend, not even to himself, that it depends on anything else but the man on his arm. Oh, the place is lovely. But he could be stranded with Sherlock on a guano island, and he'd still count himself lucky.
After they've visited every room (they all bear some small but unmistakably Sherlockian marks) John leads them outside.
The garden was even larger than he expected, though it was mostly flowering bushes of some type (he'll need to research, won't he?) delineating various weed-filled beds. Clearly, Janine let things go lately. But the dandelions are pretty, and so is that fuchsia...whatever. And they must taste good, going by how full of buzzing life they are.
Sherlock goes wide-eyed, and instead of waving any away, sighs a little, between happy and wistful, observing all the bees (and the occasional bumblebee) flying around.
Then John turns a corner and - there. The hives. Three. He holds his husband's arm tighter, because he knows the man. "You are going to suit up properly to handle these. Crime scenes couldn't sting you."
The enthusiastic kiss he gets is definitely worth the trouble of going behind Sherlock's back.
