A/N: Keep safe and keep strong. -csf


.

'What are you up to today, Sherlock?'

I worry. My friend spends an awful amount of time on his own these days, up to whatever tricks his mind conjures for him as a challenge. He has always welcomed solitude – he chose to study the dead, after all – but I don't want him to regress back to the muted genius times of his youth, long before I met him. It would be an incredible waste to the world, the same world that is being deprived of his wit, his brave courage of action and generosity of heart.

Those don't translate online as well as they should. They are misplaced in memes and contrived in quick posts.

And of course Sherlock keeps track of Mrs Hudson's progress trying on the flute (that could carry some revenge on all those midnight sonatas of her tenant), Greg Lestrade's exploits learning how to bake bread (he can't seem to follow through a recipe without leaving something important out; there's a supermarket shelves' shortage of flour for a reason), and Molly's tenth woolly hat she knitted for her cat (none of which that cat has approved yet).

Sherlock being Sherlock, he needs to do his own thing. Or several things, all at once.

Today he seems to be focused on less intellectual pursuits. Unless your standard is that of a five year old child.

'What does it look like, John?'

'Like a fort, built on pillows and blankets.'

'Oh', he says, like a comment. 'Just drop it, John. You wouldn't understand anyway.'

I know I'm being reeled in, but I accept my fate.

'Try me.'

I take a closer look to the skinny genius. His lanky body has still got some good muscle definition, for although most of Sherlock's workout has traditionally been through his work routines of chasing criminals in fast sprints across rooftops and such, he loves to groom and care for himself in his cat-like attitude of superiority, and he really would not let himself go. His eyes are as bright as ever, reflecting sparkles of the rapid mind behind them. His skin is a bit pale from less time spent outdoors, I would say, but that is just Sherlock.

'John, when you're ready to stop sizing me up...'

I glare at my friend, being caught in the act. Sherlock is much too independent to have anyone worrying about him, not even his doctor flatmate.

'Go on, you're building a fort in the living room.'

He seems taken back by my simplistic relay of his creation.

'John, it's a safe space. A modern den. A man cave. An urban hut of isolation for the contemplation of life's mysteries.'

I tilt my head as I watch the precarious structure of sofa cushions, bedroom pillows and an old bed spread that he got from Mrs Hudson's closet upstairs.

'It's still in progress, then?'

'Yes, not done yet', he agrees, a bit deflated.

'Want a hand with that?' I ask, with a broad smile.

He smiles a genuine smile, taking on the offer eagerly.

Yes, it's childish, sure. But it's also brilliant. Escapism and comfort entangled in a temporary structure of safety. Why not? There are no clients these days anyway, no one will suddenly come crashing in to our little make believe world, full of judgement and superiority. We don't take on judgemental clients anyway.

Mycroft might still have a hidden camera in 221B, but this should give him a chuckle too.

Speaking of which, Sherlock seems to follow my mind's wander.

'Mycroft would never join in when we were kids. Really, John, you've got one up on Mycroft any day of the week.'

'We need a torch', I reply, feeling awkward.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. 'A torch', he repeats, displeased, a bit icy too.

'What is wrong with a torch?'

'We're not... camping, John!'

'Ohhh', I say, rounding my ohhh in quiet sarcasm. 'You're getting competitive, now. I like that. Two huts, one by you and one by me, Sherlock.'

He nods, mischievous. 'How do we ascertain which is best?'

'We'll figure something out. Give me half those sofa cushions, mate.'

'I will not! Why should I?' he protests, already dismantling his early attempt and handing me a cushion.

'We start with the same blank slate. Makes it only fair.'

'How long do we have to create our own den?'

'Five minutes', I state.

'Alright. I can do with that', he accepts, looking me on challengingly.

'Me too.'

.

Two grown folks, playing forts and dens in their living room as the sun sets on a too quiet, too eerie London outside.

When the world is not its demanding normal ways, perhaps we too should give in to some madness and enjoy it.

After all this is done, when fast paced lives return to their desperate hunger for speed and productivity, perhaps then we've learnt to slow down once in a while, and do crazy things that don't belong in the social media feeds or need to be told on Christmas dinners. Perhaps we will find a modicum of personal exuberance that is for our benefit alone, and of a few rare people in our lives who we are blessed to share those with.

Once Sherlock is back at analysing crime scenes and disparaging the efforts of the official investigators, and I'm back with runny nosed toddlers and hypochondriac old ladies at the surgery, maybe we can still challenge each other to good old fashion den building contests.

'Sherlock, you need some structural support between the sofa's side and the lamp, your quilt is slipping.'

'Oh, thank you, John. You may want to address the odd shape of your duvet as it seems to have very obviously engulfed your armchair. Perhaps some stretching to soften the shape?'

'I see what you mean, good point.'

'Here, have your Union Jack.'

'Thank you. Are you sure you want to stab the quilt's apex to the wall with your dagger? Mrs H won't be pleased.'

'Mrs H will be surprised at the odd and gigantic moths we have had upstairs this year, John.'

.

'What do you reckon, John?'

'It's nice. It's... Bakerfest", I say, cautiously. 'When was the last time you went to a festival sort of gathering?'

'Undercover, last summer, somewhere I forget.'

'Right.'

I can see the incremented work of the detective and it's very pleasing. A bit free spirited, a bit wild, a bit glamping meets serious artistic study. There are fairly lights twinkling through the quilt roof, extended tent-like over the back of the sofa with its cushions as walls. The quilt overlaps at the front, and is pulled back by ties as a circus tent entrance, or maybe a palm reader clairvoyant's home. Inside, Sherlock has stockpiled on his favourites. His skull rests perched on the fabric's folds on the back, like a little cartoonish devil figure telling him what to do next. Stacks of books hold his cup of tea, now gone cold I'd imagine. There's an old nautical telescope peeking through the entrance, and he's got the cookies jar hostage in there.

'Well, it's not bad...' I say.

His eyes narrow dangerously. In front of him he's got me head on.

'Ugh, against the predictability of your choices, John? From the coat hanger that holds up the duvet spread from the back of your chair to the teapot and tea tray resting on your cushion less chair as a ledge where you have arranged for your current reading book and your notebook and pen... tell me, do you really need a torch? What can you possibly want a make shift flag from a tea towel at the entrance, while you sit on a plush sea of cushions? Most of all, why would you need a camera in there, unless you are playing dutifully the role of tourist?'

I take the camera in my hands slowly and look at it attentively.

And there, I just took a picture of Sherlock in his Holmes den.

'I heard that shutter noise! Give me that evidence!'

'Never!'

He tries to grab my camera, but his legs get caught on the sofa cushions and he ends up diving headfirst into my duvet.

.

We spend the next ten minutes putting it all back up.

It's more lopsided than ever.

'Sherlock, this is my land. You stay on yours.'

'Fine', he replies, aloof. He didn't get the camera, but he used his own phone to take a pic of my den, so we're now even. 'Don't want you to come to mine either. There's a toll, by the way. A payable tax for invasion, if you dare. I can show you the remains of the last traveller who dared on my lands, John', he narrates, pointing at the skull behind him.

Sherlock in a fairy lights den does not make the best warlord.

Speaking of lights, the daylight has diminished steadily as day turn into night. I turn on my steadfast torch to illuminate my den a bit. Sherlock is alright on his side in his starry sky cover.

'I'm sorry I destroyed your man hut earlier, John.'

We feel the quiet seep into us, from the cold night outside.

'I'm sorry I teased you for your glamping tent, Sherlock. It looks amazing.'

'So what do we do now?'

I shrug. 'Tell stories through the night? You know, A Thousand And One Nights style?'

He blinks. 'In summer time the night's length is shorter and over a thousand tales equate to very short stories indeed, John.'

I smile and lean back. 'Tell me one of your cold cases, Sherlock. You've been working hard at them.'

He shakes his dark curls. 'No. You work hard, I just vegetate. Survive. Wait for this impossible constraints to be done with.'

'That's not true. Look at us now. We're adjusting. We're enjoying ourselves. Sure we want life back to normal soon, but— but it's a amazing how well we're actually doing. A bit nuts, a bit emotional at times. We're only human, after all.'

'My cold cases are hardly enough', Sherlock confesses. To keep away the darker times, he means.

'That's because no one seems to know the amazing work you're doing. Tell them to me. Let me appreciate them.'

'But they're commonplace, John!'

I lean forward, interested. 'It's the commonplace case that is the hardest to solve. No intriguing, scandalous traits to put you in the right track from the start? Tell me!' I beckon.

He smiles quietly. 'Only you, John, would know how to appreciate the mundane as a work of art.'

I shrug. Only Sherlock can make the extraordinary become part of our daily lives so faithfully.

.