Ta da, part number four. Aka the epilogue, but let's be honest; this is essentially just an excuse for me to do a fourth chapter.
What can I say? I hate leaving things not 100% wrapped up, or at least happy and resolved. Plus, I can't just leave Rosamund like that. She's just started her crime fighting career, she needs to pursue it continuing forwards like a grown up. Luckily for the few people who actually care about a fictional character's lucrative lifestyle years afterwards, I've addressed that.
You're welcome. I'm smiling, just so you know.
Speaking of resolved, I lied. Not intentionally, of course, but I tried to get out the epilogue and found that I just couldn't do it in a reasonable time restraint. I got distracted and am desperately trying to get out another installment of Transitions and What Dreams May Come. So, as a result, this got pushed to the back burner, even though I had more than half of it completed. Instead of just making you wait for Rosie's section to be finished (it's pretty long already, at about 5k or something insane like that, and it's not even halfway done) I just decided to split the epilogue scene into two parts; Molly and Sherlock's segments, followed by Rosamund a couple years later. Sorry for the wait, by the way.
Wow. I spend a little too much time on this website. I should really be doing productive things like working on my other stories or writing real books or exercising, but why would I do something practical like that? It's an addiction. You know, at least it provides good writing practice.
Anyways, with no further ado, here's the beginning of the end of this story. Hope you enjoy!
Molly's not entirely sure how she ended up where she is now. Only a few years ago, she was still single. She was doing the same job as she had the last two decades of her life. She was 'babysitting' Rosamund whenever she was required.
This was simply how it was. It was a pretty nice, orderly existence, and she adored the people around her.
But boy, Molly Hooper has to admit that her life had changed for the better.
After exactly twenty six months of dating (and good dating, too, even if her date was often called out to work and she ended up accompanying him back to many a grisly crime scene), she had been proposed to. At first, she had scarcely believed it was real, but several a pinch to the arm confirmed the proposal to be reality.
Now, she wasn't a stranger to proposals. She had already been proposed to once before, and seen many a friend get engaged, but this was different. Obviously, she still wasn't married for a reason. Molly had fallen to pieces emotionally after her fiance ("That bastard," Lestrade had called him, and everyone seemed to agree with that assessment) broke it off, and she had been certain it was a sign that she wasn't meant to find love. But Greg was not some random man she had started up a flame for and had a few outings with - he was an incredibly dedicated, loyal man who had staked his career with the police on the fine, if not scarce, ideals of 'doing the right thing', though it often got in the way. And, more than that, he was her friend before anything else, and had been a close friend since Rosie was little. He would never lie or trick anyone, and certainly not Molly.
This was why, when he proposed, she didn't question it. She didn't think he was anything less than serious as he asked. She didn't hound him with doubts or make sure he was certain about this.
After realizing that she wasn't dreaming, Molly said yes without so much as a second thought.
It had been multiple decades, exactly twenty six months of dating, and another five for wedding planning, but in her time knowing Greg, she was finally married.
All the brunette could feel was relieved and overwhelmingly light, as though a great weight had been lifted from her unfortunately lonely chest. Job and murders and ill fated matchmaking aside, she was happy all over for the first time since nearly forever. It was a wondrous sensation that she forgot she could have.
They were living together in her flat, now, as they had been for almost the last year. It had simply made sense for Greg to move in with her; her flat was the biggest of the two, in relatively close proximity to his work, very clean and tidy, and only a five minute ride from 221B given good traffic. There wasn't a need to search for available listings or start looking into new buildings; what they had, much like their relationship, worked. That was all there was to it.
And, naturally, there was her position at the morgue.
After twenty four years of working there, she had finally gotten a substantial raise.
Seriously. She'd more than earned it.
There hadn't ever been much leeway in her job - it was one of the few drawbacks to the position. She examined dead bodies for a living, so it wasn't as if the profession was in high demand or anything, but where would you move up? Much of the work was individual, and you were held accountable for your own lab findings. Improvement in status just wasn't common or easy to achieve, regardless of your devotion to the craft.
Until, of course, her supervisor decided to retire and referred her for the new slot. It came with more off time, an increase in freedom, and a nice bonus. Molly hadn't ever been more excited to come to the morgue and take notes on corpses.
Lastly, there was John and Sherlock's wedding, in which Molly and Lestrade were the best women and men, respectively.
Things had certainly changed.
Today, four months after her own marriage, two of her closest and dearest friends were finally getting hitched. Even more so than her own special day, it seemed surreal. Hadn't it only been yesterday that they had met, that John and Sherlock had became a team in 221B?
Apparently not, as now they were tying the knot, and right before Rosie turned eighteen, no less. Certainly took them long enough.
Molly and Lestrade actually had rather heavy hands in terms of say in the wedding planning, and now, looking at all of it, she had to say that everything was beautiful. They had booked a garden area in London, seemingly at random, as it had no real significance to either that Molly could determine. A small wrought iron pergola stood in the center, old and slightly creaking, but Sherlock thought it was 'interesting' ("I wouldn't be surprised if it caved in and killed someone. It's incredibly unstable and probably approaching fifty years old, given the rust around its joints and the style of the designated overlaps." "Sherlock, that's awful. We should go somewhere else, then." "Are you joking, John? It's by far the most intriguing spot we've scouted out so far, and with any luck it'll fall and decapitate Mycroft for good." "Wait, we're seriously considering booking the terrifyingly unsafe pergola?" "A murder would do everyone some good, I think.") and that was the most they could hope to get out of him. The Holmes had approached wedding plans with the attitude of someone who wanted to get them over with, with Mary's big day and his own, and so she and John had been tackling most of the details that had required a more thoughtful touch.
There were only a grand total of fifteen people at the ceremony, positioned on wooden benches beneath the rickety pergola. Mycroft, the one exception to this rule and number sixteen, stood up, refusing to sit, and remained off to the side, watching the proceedings with a casual fondness. In the left wing, there was Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Rosamund and Reyna, as they were inseperable, Mike, Sarah, Harriet and Clara (they had, miraculously, been available at the last possible moment and had flown in just for the wedding - Harry even seemed to be sober this time, and Molly didn't doubt for a second that this had to do with Clara coming back into her life), and another two friends from the hospital. The right side, containing the smaller Holmes party, lied Ms. Hudson, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Billy Wiggins, and then, of course, Greg and Molly Lestrade themselves. A sparse population, save the officiator, but it worked. Only those who were immensely important were present, just the way the two men would have wanted (Rosamund herself had wanted another guest, Bailey the malamute, but John had firmly turned her down - the dog would have been an absolute nuisance in a cab). The only music came from classical violin recordings, many of those directly from Sherlock's endeavors in their own flat, and as the garden was already filled with flowers - it was a garden, after all - there were barely any arrangements, and where they were present, the buds were white and simple.
It was hardly extravagant - if Sherlock had his way, this would have been an open-and-shut affair, where the men went down to the courthouse, signed off together, and got takeout on the route home. He wasn't one for frivolities for frivolities' sake, though the consulting detective could appreciate many of the finer things in life. Anyhow, this was much more laid back, and after a quick brunch in the garden ("Do we have to, John? It's our wedding, we should be able to go when we want to." "Too bad. It's a social event, Sherlock, and we have to stay and eat and socialize like normal people." "Again, our social event. Emphasis on ours. Something as insipid as brunch has little appeal." "Well I think it sounds nice and relaxing, for a change. You'll just have to tough it out for two hours." "Why are we getting married again, Watson?" "Hush up, you're the one who proposed.") the entire event would be concluded.
She can't recall most of the fine details (she was tearing up dreadfully, alright?), but she had watched patiently as the service began.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," rambled the officiator, stopping often to push up his spectacles. Sherlock, wearing the same outfit as he did every day - a three piece suit, sans tie because he despised being choked - clearly wasn't paying attention to the man speaking. He was looking at John, observing thoughtfully as though to make sure he was still certain about this. He wanted to know John wasn't having doubts.
Joke was on him, really. John Watson was nothing if not devoted.
Molly had to admit that she, too, began to tune out the officiator. He wasn't boring, per say, but he talked in a leisurely, raspy manner, and if she didn't stop paying attention she would have surely fallen over the back of the bench, completely asleep. Her husband gripped her hand, squeezing. It was a small comfort, knowing she wasn't the only one who felt like they might drop any second.
Sherlock's voice, though, jolted her out of her trance. It was a stark, sudden contrast to the speaker before, and the experience was far more jarring than one would expect.
"John, I think I'm supposed to say something about how great of a person you are and how proud I am to have you at my side, but I won't." Molly glanced down the benches, observing the other guests. All of them looked completely confused.
Sherlock and John hadn't wanted anyone to help them with their vows - frankly, it was the one aspect of this entire wedding they planned alone - and now she was seriously terrified of whatever might have been written. John's were probably alright, but Sherlock had no sense of propriety, and the brunette just realized maybe she should have forced him to show her the script. In case it needed editing.
"I'm not going to say any of that because everyone already knows those things. And honestly, John, if I didn't see anything in you we wouldn't have been friends in the first place, let alone been here today." Alright, that was better. "In sickness and in health, death do we part - we've lived that already. There's no point in restating it, though we will in just a moment. I did die, actually, and we're still together. If we can make it through that, I doubt the rigors of marriage are going to stop us." Sherlock smiled, faintly, and John laughed. "So, instead of talking about how great you are, I'm going to talk about how great you've made me. I would be dead about a thousand times over if you hadn't been there alongside me. I wouldn't have had nearly as much success, and I certainly would have relapsed. Unfortunate, but no doubt true - you were the anchor that grounded me, that told me to pick up my messes, that forced tea and sandwiches down my throat, that made sure I actually slept occasionally. I would never have been anything more than myself. It's easy to be described as a great mind, but a good man is far rarer. I still don't know if I am there yet, but for you, John, I am trying to be one. For you are, undoubtedly, the best man I've ever met, and I'm never going to leave you alone. Never again." Molly would wager good money that the doctor was ready to kiss him, right there. Mrs. Holmes cooed, tears in her eyes, and Sherlock, upon seeing her bat at her face, rolled his eyes with incredible fondness before turning back to John. "Your turn, I'm afraid."
"How am I supposed to top that, Sherlock?" he said, trying not to grin uncontrollably. "You realize anything I say now is going to sound weak in comparison."
"Of course. Wasn't that the idea?" the man replied, smirking. "We're waiting, Watson." The blonde took a deep breath.
"Right. Well, I guess most couples date, get married, have children, and then live out their days under the same roof as a unified front. I'm afraid I didn't get the memo; when it came to me and Sherlock, everything was always a little bit off book," he started sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "There wasn't anything about becoming a unified front, bypassing everything else, getting over the death and resurrection of your partner, marrying somebody new, widowing, raising a child together, and then dating and becoming remarried. We're all over the map. I am an absolute mess of a human being. When I first met Sherlock, I had no idea why I was even still alive. PTSD, bullet wounds, no real connections and a very vague concept of where I would be staying - that was me, when I walked in. I needed a fresh start, but I didn't have anything to believe in. And yet, you, Sherlock, took one look at me and knew everything there was to know. You were absolutely brilliant. You have no clue what you did by just giving me a purpose, by allowing me to be your best friend. You gave me back my life, and from that day onwards, my world started to center on yours. Thank you for being here, for not giving up on my ordinary self through everything - through every argument, every injury, every struggle in raising Rosie. Thanks for choosing me." Molly didn't quite know how, but she had started to clap. A glance over at the other guests confirmed that they were doing the same, though, so she didn't feel too out of place.
Sherlock was absolutely frozen.
"You can say something, now, you git," John reminded, nudging the detective slightly. "Bloody hell, it wasn't that terrible."
"You were completely wrong, John," he muttered after a second, blinking.
"About what? The speech being worse?"
"That too, but about us. I'm the lucky one. You chose me." The officiator took that as que to start speaking again.
"Do you, Sherlock Holmes, take John Watson as your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, til death do you part?"
"I do. Wasn't that abundantly evident?" His nose crinkled up, as if the very notion of the contrary was perplexing, and Molly wondered for the first time if Holmes wasn't nervous.
"And do you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes as your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, til death do you part?"
"I do, for some reason. Haven't quite figured it out yet." He was smiling brightly.
"Then I now pronounce you married. You may kiss." The officiator, with gray hair fading to white, nodded in approval. The lapels of John's suit were gripped as his partner pulled him in, putting lips on lips before John truly registered anything. It was sweet, actually, and the brunette nearly looked away. This was their moment, after all, and she almost felt as though she was intruding.
Actually, she started to squirm when it continued a few seconds past socially acceptable. Rather uncomfortable to view. However, they looked happy, and that was more important than her mild self consciousness.
"So, let's all get brunch over with, shall we?" stated Sherlock, absolutely unphased, as he drew back. "I imagine most of you are hungry, as is John, who might be in need of a drink. He looks a little pale." He began to stride off, John quickly following out of instinct, and the other guests got up.
It figured, really. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he did as he wanted when he wanted to.
John Watson (Watson-Holmes, now, but who cared?) grabbed his husband's hand, groaning, "I can't believe you did that."
"What? You could use a pint, John, to get the color back into your face."
"Harriet's always going to think you're a conniving arse, now. In the best possible way, of course, but she'll be waiting for you to humiliate me further today."
"You forget that I am a conniving arse, John. And a sociopath, a consulting detective, and I've been called a prick on numerous occasions. Obviously, though, I have my charms, or you wouldn't be here with me."
"Just a heads up."
"I think you're the one who needs to be worried. Never underestimate the potential for siblings to rag on eachother." Their fingers intertwined, anyhow, and they walked off to their table together.
Molly assumed they'd be more than fine.
There weren't extra tables for people to be arranged individually. There was only one long, skinny stone platform, equipped with benches on either side. They ate thai (because if the cast of 221B wasn't going to get takeout for their troubles the very least they were going to do was get catering from the same restaurant), which was positioned on a small buffet at the foot of the stone. Accompanying this was a drinks cart, heavily supplied with wine for those who wished to drink everything away.
Most of the wine, Molly pretended not to notice, was gifted from Mycroft. He actually did care about the two men, though his methods of expressing this were clearly lacking. Wine was what he could do, a token of good will without a big gesture.
She's not even ashamed to confess to the consumption of three plates worth of food from the buffet. She had rarely eaten at their favorite food haunts, but she could see why they ordered thai so often. The meal was delicious.
Maybe that was just the wine talking, though. It's entirely possible, after three glasses.
About thirty minutes in, Greg stood up and tapped on his glass with his spoon. Many people were confused by this, as there hadn't seemed to be any reason to interrupt the endless eating. However, the traditional speech of the best man wasn't delivered yet, and it had been proposed that it be given in the middle of the brunch so everyone would already be silent and stuffing their faces. Unorthodox, yes, but wasn't everything revolving around John and Sherlock?
"A little late, I know, but as best man, I'd like to say a few words," Lestrade started, holding out his cup. "Now the internet had told me that the correct format for a best man's speech is as following: come up with a good opening line, thank any other speakers, congratulate the couple, praise the bride while making cracks on the groom, read messages from those who couldn't make it, and then quote something insightful before proposing a final toast. I don't know if the rest of you noticed or not, but clearly that's not going to happen. Much of that outline doesn't fit our situation - Sherlock certainly doesn't strike me as a blushing bride, anyways - and I'm nowhere near clever enough to invent an original, funny opener. Nobody else has really spoken before me, either, except the couple in question - thanks for saying your vows, I guess, or this would have been awkward." Most of the guests smiled at that. Mike, from down the table, gave him a thumbs up. "Congratulations, then, to Sherlock and John for having remained in eachother's company for an intense twenty plus years without killing eachother or going entirely insane. That alone is phenomenal - it's wonderful that you've made it here. We all couldn't be happier for you." Greg straightened up and cleared his throat. "I guess I can't really think of the right words to say. I'm rubbish at words, really. Probably because the best man is supposed to be the best friend of the man getting married, and though I'm serving as John's today, I know without a doubt that your best friend is the person sitting next to you. I'm just a stand in, though I do think I've gotten pretty close to you both over the last several decades of camaraderie. You won't find two crazier, intelligent, hard working, incredible men anywhere else in the world, and even though I'm just John's filler for today, I'm honored to be chosen. John, you're a great man and a great friend, and I wish you the best." Another short pause ensued in which Molly's husband caught his breath. He glanced over at her, and she lifted the corners of her mouth in encouragement. He appeared relieved at the prospect that he was doing alright. "I find myself in the situation where I have very few embarrassing stories on John and far too many for Sherlock - " Mycroft, from his position next to his mother and Harry, snorted loudly, disguising the undignified sound beneath a cough and sneeze. " - so I will bypass that altogether. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes would come into Molly and I's flat and smother me tonight if I attempted to poke fun at him during his own wedding, and I don't want to die just yet. There aren't any messages on the wedding itself, though a few of John's army mates sent personal emails about the occasion. In summation of all of them, they are saying 'good luck'. There's an undertone of 'if it all goes to shit, we can mug Sherlock at 3am', but I doubt that will be necessary. Anyone with eyes can see that he's just as devoted to John as John is to him, and that's the long and short of their relationship. It's not a 'jump' vs 'how high' scenario, but a delicate balance of wills, and even a genius like the one sprouted in Sherlock has to submit now and again. This is the partnership that we all aspire to, and romance is really just an added bonus. I've never seen two people so in tune to one another; it's astounding. As one random person on the internet once said, 'You may only be one person to the world, but you may also be the world to one person.' I believe the same is true today about Sherlock and John." Finally, he raised his glass. "To you. Have a great one."
All eighteen glasses lifted in unison, and all eighteen took careful sips of their drinks.
Molly stood up, and everything fell silent again.
"Yes, sorry you have to listen to another speech. I'm sure you're all very sick of people talking today. Nothing against him, poor dear, but I nearly fell asleep during the officiator's role." Rosamund laughed, Reyna putting a quick hand over her best friend's mouth. "Anyways, I'm sorry to admit this, but I didn't look up any template or ask the web for advice on writing my 'best man' speech. I decided to wing it in terms of structure, to hang the unofficial rules, which is rather odd for me. If any of you have ever met me, you'd know that I'm a very organized, on-book personality, and mostly mild mannered. This was new, so here's to hoping it turns out okay, right?" She took another small swig of her glass. "Sherlock asked me to be his 'best man' at his wedding, and to be honest I was surprised. I've known Sherlock longer than he's known John - and trust me, that's a very long time indeed - and I had yet to find a single person who was capable of keeping up with him, physically and mentally. Even during that period, working with him constantly, he never opened up. It was like he didn't know what friends were, how to make them. I have to say, my initial instinct was to take care of him, as Sherlock is very much a man who needed constant companionship but didn't desire it in the slightest. Neither I nor anybody else who interacted with our genius quite knew how to do that. But John - after a day, he made more progress with Sherlock than anybody had in years. I've never seen two people form a bond so quickly, or, in the times to come, two people undergo so many challenges and still come out on top. If they could withstand all of that, if Sherlock and John could still survive and stick together, than I have no doubts that they'll be able to sustain this marriage. And, even if things get tough, know that you'll always have me, and Greg, and everybody else who showed up. We're with you, no matter what." She smiled at her friends, dimples and all. "Congratulations, and have a wonderful life, boys." Rosamund began clapping, eyes misting up slightly.
"That was really nice, Aunt Molly," she murmured, beaming from across the table. The order of seating had been Clara, Harriet, Mycroft, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, Reyna and Rosie, inseparable as they were, John, and then Sherlock on one side of the stone. On the opposite were John's hospital buddies, both of which were talking avidly to Clara and Harriet, Sarah, also known as one of the few people who hadn't found Mycroft 'a tremendous meddling pain' (Sherlock's words, not Molly's), Mr. and Mrs. Watson, who were getting to know the parents of their new son in law, then Mike, followed by Billy, Ms. Hudson, and finally Molly and Greg, who was facing a very happy looking John.
"Very well said," Sherlock muttered, and she raised an eyebrow.
"Is that a compliment I detect, Sherlock? Marriage has already softened you."
"Never," he responded instantly, frowning without a hint of offense.
"Take it as a good thing. You'll be much easier to manage at work, I believe," Lestrade interjected, grabbing his wife's hand. "But don't worry, you're just as brilliant and irritable as ever, I'm sure."
"Shove off, Gregory." John laughed.
"I think that's the first time you've ever said his full first name correctly, if memory serves," the blonde man noted, a teasing smirk playing over his lips. "Are you actually showing maturity for once?"
"I am a grown adult, John, don't act so surprised."
"I never said I was."
"You didn't need to. I know you."
"Well, drat. You got me there." John gets up to get more noodles, and for once, Sherlock is the one chasing after him. Frankly, she's never seen two people so glad to be bickering, so glad to simply be. It's beautiful, really.
A lot has changed in the last few years for Molly Lestrade nee Hooper.
It's more than okay, though, in her book.
Sherlock Watson-Holmes has been Sherlock Watson-Homes for exactly one hundred eighteen days, eleven hours, and twelve minutes.
He doesn't see much of a point, actually.
The name, for one, is almost completely ceremonial. Watson-Holmes is a bit of a mouthful, actually, and it rolls over his tongue in an unnatural way. He knows he must become accustomed to it sooner or later, and with a little time, logic dictates he will learn to take the title in stride as an everyday occurrence.
In the meantime, it is large and bulky and inordinate, as well as unnecessary. He had grown used to 'Holmes' - it had an acceptable atmosphere of mystery while still being solid, relatively brief and to the point, and easy for most people, the imbeciles they may be, to spell. However, he did not need to be called 'Watson-Holmes' in order to officiate his marriage. Everyone they interact with already knows that he belongs to John, anyways, so there was little use in adapting his given name.
John's lips quirk up, slightly, when Sherlock is referred to as Watson-Holmes. It's a minuscule change, wrought from a mixture of amusement, pleasure, and fondness, but one that makes him seem all the brighter, all the warmer (Warmer. It makes no sense, that phrase. Body temperature changes and reactions are regulated by hormones and chemical impulses, not people. This is basic fact. However, John makes everything better, and this is also an indisputable fact. Perhaps the motivators cancel out one another?). It's as if the doctor's smiles, his thoughts are seeping through his skin.
Sherlock, though, is clearly not the only person with a new name.
"You don't have to, of course, Ro," John had explained. "But I'm updating mine, and if you want to, the option is available. Having a famous family name associated with you probably would be an advantage further down the road."
"Please, John, it's a shallow formality at best and she probably has no interest in any of the paperwork following. What difference does it make if we've all got Watson and Holmes mashed together as our last names?" Sherlock had spoken up while crouched above a bunsen burner, observing how organs with different calcifications reacted under immense heat and stress. Perhaps this made him more open to unsheilded disagreement, as only half of his attention was being put into the conversation and very little effort was expended on maintaining social graces.
"It doesn't make a difference at all. I just figured we could give our daughter the option," he had retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know you don't give a damn."
"It's pointless. It's just a contrived notion carried around for decades that says you should change your name after you wed."
"Excuse me, I might be wrong, but isn't the question meant for me?" Rosamund interrupted, sighing dramatically.
"Yes, Rosie, I'm sure Sherlock is very sorry for jutting in," John murmured, sending a pointed look in the genius' direction. An impossibly small shrug, as was customary, was the only response. "And there's no pressure to decide anytime soon. But, if you'd like to be called 'Rosamund Watson-Holmes' on official documents, then we can arrange for that." The teenager stood up and pressed a kiss to the doctor's cheek.
"Daddy, of course I'd want to change my name." She smirked as she walked to the stairs, going up to her room. "Wasn't I a Watson-Holmes already?"
So, their daughter is following them, as she has in all other areas of life. It is less surprising than he would care to admit, given the nature of her future career choice. She and Reyna, since their first traipse into 'The Foul Fouls', as John has nicknamed it, had been surprisingly effective in their personal investigations. And, what with uni right around the metaphorical corner and the prospect of professional partnership on the table, he has no doubt that the two will begin hunting for suitable flats. You cannot live with your parents forever, even at 221B.
Besides, their line of work was a heavily demanding profession. Rosamund would soon need more space than just her room; she will need a full office and laboratory for cases and equipment storage, and her own way of storing and analyzing data in depth. And, if Reyna was to be on hand at all times, than she would require a bedroom right next door. It's the most efficient way to have full access to someone at any time.
But, of course, this was all the future, and speculation about that insipid and unnecessary name alteration, no matter how much John and Rosie seemed to like it. Right now, this moment - that's fairly alright, shockingly.
There is a murderer at large - isn't there always, though, in this crime-riddled city - and he's been pouring over the case files for the last half hour. His Watson (Watson-Holmes, for the last time - he really must get used to it) is up again, brewing tea in a new peppermint blend that he has been particularly fond of. Frankly, Sherlock cannot fathom why this is - he enjoys tea greatly, but this variant of peppermint is hardly different from any other brand, but John has declared it 'the best'. Then again, John has also declared him the best for quite a while, and he hasn't figured that mystery out either. He never wants to.
The tea is nearly done, the kettle warm and letting boughts of steam loose in an almost cheerful fashion, and John is poorly humming as he lines up two old mugs. He pours in the liquid, letting it settle at the bottom and slosh around, sizzling. The cream disappears in after it, the rich whites churning until they are folded into a new color entirely, lathered in the aromas of mint. Lastly, sugar is added to each, sinking in with a satisfying plop, and John stirs each one with a spoon.
There's something magic about it, these golden afternoons. There is something special about loosing yourself in the work, letting the thrill of an unsolved mystery race up your spine, and something particularly appealing about the light catching through the drapes, illuminating everything ordinary with watercolor outlines and traces of silver. There is something incredibly entrancing about the way John makes their tea, no different than usual, but vibrant and intriguing all the same now. Tea is not just tea - it is a part of the organism, the beast known as the golden afternoon, and sharing them with John, watching the silly ring on his finger glint brightly, makes it all the more brilliant.
Waxing poetics, maybe, but this is one of the few areas of life where he indulges in fine words and beauty for the sake of beauty. The other is in music, in the long and sometimes brutally honest notes he coaxes from the violin when all of London is asleep, but that was different. Those were private symphonies, unique to Sherlock Holmes. But anyone, anyone at all, can capture the golden afternoon under the right circumstances, and that is what makes them so interesting. Perfection is rarely achieved in such open doses.
"This one's yours, Sherlock," John says, the words like quicksilver slipping through the air. He sits next to him, his hair catching fire through the augmented sunbeams from the window. He is smiling as he hands him a mug - bright blue, much like John's eyes - and Sherlock Holmes smiles back for no real reason at all. "How far have you gotten?
"I'm fairly certain the wife did it. It all depends on whether or not the family owns a record player," he says, crossing his hands over his knees. "And, naturally, whether or not that hypothetical record player has its needle or not. It's crucial to the incrimination of the woman." John laughed, a warm, hearty sound that lit up the room.
"Should I even ask how you came to that conclusion based on a picture of the corpse and a couple of files?"
"You could, but the explanation might take longer than it is worth repeating. You'd almost certainly get lost in the fine details," he mused, waving him off and sipping the tea. It actually was quite good - perhaps he'll go along with John's favoritism of the branding, just this once.
"Fair enough. And where's Rosie?"
"She ducked out when you went to the bathroom. She traveled over to Reyna's for the afternoon; she mentioned something about giving her violin lessons."
"Some days I worry she's going to turn out exactly like you. She even took up the same instrument," he said, leaning back into his usual chair with his cup in hand.
"What's wrong with that?" Holmes questioned, raising an eyebrow. Watson shrugged.
"Not a thing. But bloody hell, it will make life more difficult for her down the road. She chooses to live in the shadows of London, chasing strangers at the crack of dawn - it does terrible things to your diet and sleep schedule, I have to admit."
"If it's any consolation, she doesn't berate her partner constantly yet." John's beam went from soft to unbelievably wide.
"Yet?"
"Yet. I'm almost confident that the path towards the satire will hit her soon." John got up, kissed him on the forehead, and took the case file, putting it back on the surprisingly clean kitchen counter.
"Let's hope not. We skipped the teenage rebellion phase, so bypassing 'jaded towards life' in its entirety shouldn't be too much to ask for."
"Quite, John." Just like that, there was comfortable silence again, blanketing and almost drowsy in its languid atmosphere. It almost - almost, mind you - made him want to take a nap.
Then a swift opening of the door broke the calm, accompanied by a 'hello, brother mine' and the unmistakable click of an umbrella on the floorboards.
Mycroft, then. Always an unwelcome surprise.
Sherlock made no move to get up to greet his brother. He ignored him, as he often did with trivialities he didn't care for and yet couldn't dispel entirely. And, though he was family, his tenancy to prod into one's personal matters was much akin to the attitudes of a persistent splinter refusing to be removed.
A splinter, actually, was quite a wonderful metaphor for Mycroft's coexistence with Sherlock Holmes' affairs. Perhaps a thorn in one's side though, was more fitting - a thorn was a far greater nuisance, and slightly wider around the base.
"Mycroft, I didn't know you were coming," John said, putting down the newspaper he had picked up and shooting a glance at his significant other. "Was I supposed to know anything, or . . . "
"I wasn't informed, either," Sherlock answered, still pointedly looking away from his relative. "How peculiar."
"Nice weather outside, brother dear," sniffed the eldest son anyhow, not the least bit put out by the common disdain Sherlock displayed. "Perfect for a stroll, and 221B isn't so very far."
"Rubbish. You wouldn't go out for a stroll if your life depended on it. You enjoy cakes far too much," he muttered lowly, turning towards his companion. "John, I believe Lestrade wants us down at the station. There's work to be done." John sighed, already foreseeing the obvious conclusion, while Mycroft blinked.
"You actually assumed a silly ruse was going to convince me to leave? Sherlock, I do believe you're losing your touch," the man drawled, taking off his coat and folding it over the coffee table. The consulting detective scowled deeply.
"I didn't assume, I hoped. Contrived as the notion may be, if a higher power existed, it would have already deemed fit to eject you from the premises." Mycroft turned to John.
"Do you prefer blueberry or strawberry?"
"What?"
"Muffins, John. I'm sending you a gift basket for keeping my brother from destroying the rest of polite society these last many years. You have earned them in full."
"I sincerely hope you aren't referring to yourself when you mention polite society," the detective called, crossing his arms. Mycroft cheerfully paid him no heed.
"Um, strawberry, if you're serious," the doctor answered, and his partner gave him a look bordering on the incredulous. "Honestly, Sherlock, if you two insist on feuding every time you see eachother and if I have to put up with dismembered heads beneath the cabinets and moldy fingers in the fridge I will at least poach free muffins from your brother." He frowned but didn't object. "Mycroft, since you clearly aren't going to leave yet, would you like some tea? I can make another cup."
"Tea would be marvelous, thank you." He gave a lidded smile towards a disgruntled Sherlock Holmes. "As would a conversation with my brother."
If it was possible, Sherlock's frown deepened.
"Well, I'll be back in just a minute, then," John remarked, getting up. Mycroft shook his head.
"I believe you misunderstand, John. I would prefer a conversation with my brother alone." He braced his umbrella on the floor, hands resting firmly atop it, and the younger Holmes realized that this might be the first time in years that he had seen Mycroft without John at his side.
How dreadful. Much like a terrible exchange at the supermarket - something good for something foul in nature.
Still, Watson looked at him, eyes locked on eyes, silently asking if the consulting detective wanted him to stay anyways. Mycroft be damned, the doctor wasn't going to voluntarily leave Sherlock alone without approval.
It was little things like these that had made the dark haired man fall for his partner in the first place, as odd as it sounded.
He sighed, rolling his eyes, and John nodded and got up. His intrusive brother raised an eyebrow.
"It's fascinating, your interactions. You speak without speaking," he mused, lifting his shoulders and slightly disrupting the suit. "Tell me, how is the good doctor?"
"Perfectly well, as you just observed, no doubt. I was, too, before your impromptu visit," he said, letting boredom and barbs seep into his voice. As always, these qualities were noted by Mycroft but then disregarded.
"Now, Sherlock, who said anything about impromptu?"
"So you admit that you managed to scheme your way into pestering me this afternoon? You probably had to pencil me in before the Prime Minister - I suppose I should feel important."
"Oh, please, deduce away. You are a detective, aren't you?" the eldest stated, letting lose a rare, rather amused smile, as though a puppy had just performed a trick.
"Consulting detective," he grumbled, but sat up with reluctance and began to talk. "Your shoes have been shined, your hair more put together than usual, the suit is a tint above black - indicative of strength and an air of power, but not so dark that it makes you appear imposing. It's a subtle strategy, typically employed against higher ups in status if not actual power. It's a deference of appearances, yet not wills. You probably did consult with the Prime Minister before this, actually. And, on that note, you wouldn't decide to stroll outside and wander across London to our flat, of all places. It's sheer common sense. You never choose to do anything without an ulterior motive, and you would certainly never leave caution to the wind in order to go on a walk." Mycroft nodded insightfully.
"Very true, though it wasn't the Prime Minister - I had a lunch meeting with him yesterday. It was the Minister of Defense." Sherlock waved his hand as if dismissing the offending idea.
"There's always something. Insignificant details." He brought his tea cup, which hadn't quite stopped steaming yet, to his lips, taking a careful sip. "But you did come here for something. What do you want?" Mycroft, obviously exasperated, sat down on the couch. He might have taken up residence in John's chair had Sherlock not glared at him so viciously.
"I want to check in, see how you and the Watsons are holding up. As you already stated, John seems to be doing fine."
"That's because John is fine, Mycroft, do keep up."
"Yes, but are you and John as a group 'fine'? How is your marriage fairing?" he pressed, crossing his legs.
The crossing of the legs meant comfort within a situation, the assurance of further conversation. This was basic human instinct at its finest, the same with blushing as a product of attraction and smiling when one is immensely happy.
Mycroft intended to trap him in something as insipid as a chat.
If he didn't have his occasional moments of usefulness (and if his family - parents and John and Rosamund - wouldn't be so very dissapointed in him) Sherlock would have certainly murdered his brother by now and hid the body far, far away.
"Our marriage is hardly your business."
"I'm your brother, Sherlock."
"Cain and Able were brothers and there was no love lost between them when favorites were played. Tell me, should I get a knife to demonstrate? We could produce a lovely reenactment." Of course, his meddling sibling only latched on to the unimportant details of that assessment.
"You read the Bible?" Mycroft asked instead, blinking. "But it's theological." As though Sherlock wasn't well aware of this fact. He straightened, anyhow.
"For a case or two, it was necessary. A man used references to chapters in the book to correspond to his murders - it was for research. One of the most alluded to texts in the world."
"Still, you read the Bible. You."
"You sound surprised. Perhaps all the sugar you consume on a daily basis is finally giving you a stroke."
"You know, one of these days you're going to have to come up with a new source of bait material. As genius as you are, brother dear, I believe the rest of London has already grown accustomed to your oh so witty cracks on my physical appearance," the man mused. "Be more creative."
"Troublesome old hag, perhaps?"
"Not much better, but my condolences for trying and flopping. But, again, this is far off track. You're avoiding actual conversing." Sherlock snorted.
"You're just now realizing this, Mycroft? Have the years made you duller as well as larger?"
"And there we are again, your old standbys," he said, not quite sighing but glaring at his brother as if he very much wanted to. "For sake of queen and country, Sherlock, I merely meant to ask if you were okay. If you were alright, still. Things for us are known to . . . degrade, over time." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"You don't seriously mean to insinuate that I relapsed or injured myself or . . ."
"Wasn't it obvious? I only stopped in for a spot of tea - John is quite good at preparing it - and to see how you were faring." He gestured around the flat vaguely. "If you were happy. If you are content being married to John as opposed to just being whatever it was you were." The consulting detective's lips puckered.
"You're Mycroft. You don't care about my happiness, especially not in romantic relationships. Holmes don't have romantic relationships." Mycroft did, in fact, sigh this go around.
"I care quite a bit about your happiness, brother mine. Otherwise I wouldn't be here today, or in any of the numerous days past." He clicked his umbrella on the ground in a matter one might classify as indignant. "And regardless of what I think of romance, that hardly matters. It does seem impossible for people like us, yes, and I've certainly never found anyone I could consider as a potential mate," he paused, shivering as though the word alone was nightmarish in nature, "but you have, apparently. Haven't you always been about doing the impossible?"
"John's an anomaly," the dark haired man muttered, settling back into his chair and hiding his self inflicted scrutiny with his tea cup. "Not me. He's . . . "
"Wonderful, I assume you were going to say?" the eldest Holmes interjected, face blank. "Not boring, like the rest of humanity?"
"He's an idiot. He got it wrong when he called me the brilliant one, back when we first met - clearly he didn't realize how brilliant he was." Sherlock blinked, scouring his memories briefly. "He still doesn't see it, some days. But he stays, anyways." Mycroft stared at him. No condemnation, no joy, no twitch or give in his movements. For once, Mycroft was the superimposed British government - cold, analytical, and absolutely unreadable. This made him dangerous.
Mycroft had never truly struck him as dangerous before, despite his influence. He was Mycroft, meddlesome but harmless where Sherlock was involved.
This was different. This was the stoic, unmovable Mycroft that everybody else saw.
"That's all I needed to know, Sherlock." He said, despite his brother's sudden glimpse of a steel backbone, smiling slightly and twisting his umbrella authoritatively. "He's never going to stop staying, either. He loves you."
That had to be the nicest thing he had ever heard his brother say, and it wasn't even a compliment.
"Thank you. I think." Then the consulting detective immediately began to scowl magnificently again, for thanking Mycroft for anything left a rather unpleasant taste in his mouth, much akin to nauseating chemicals in a lab.
"You're welcome. He tells you the same thing, I'm sure. You shouldn't question it, if you start to over-analyze this - John is a man of his word, and Rosamund thinks the world of both of you. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out, but how fortunate for us that we're both geniuses, anyhow." Mycroft got up, sniffing as a new scent had breached his nose. A bloodhound, his brother, when there was food involved. "I daresay the tea is ready."
"Tea. And here I thought you wanted to investigate my marital status."
"As much as I care for you, Sherlock, tea is a high priority."
"Of course you'd think so."
"As if your hands aren't curled around a mug already."
"Here you are," John interrupted neatly, holding out another steaming cup towards Mycroft, the spoon bobbing along inside. "Do you still need me to leave, or are you done conspiring yet?" The dark haired man nodded.
"Please stay, John. I'd much rather be around you than my insidious brother." The corner of the doctor's lips quirked up.
"Mmm. Yes, well, you didn't marry Mycroft, did you? Clearly spending forever in his presence wasn't your plan."
"I'd rather drown, I think."
"Or jump off a building? I'm fairly certain you'd manage to survive." The blonde settled into his chair, looking absolutely right there. He belonged in that silly overstuffed thing, right aside of Sherlock.
It was where he should be seated for the rest of their lives.
"Low blow," the genius remarked, stirring his drink absentmindedly. He wasn't upset at all.
"Oh, you've delivered far better." Sherlock smirked in response.
"Naturally. Someone has to put you in your place."
"Why, Sherlock, are you talking to yourself again?"
"Good, then, you are capable of making comebacks. I was beginning to wonder."
"No, seriously, why are we married? How did we even remain civil for this long?" The consulting detective shrugged.
"Logic alludes this, doesn't it?"
"Yup." The both sipped their beverages again, this time in unison. Mycroft, from his quiet holding on the couch, carefully watched them, looking down at his glass and frowning when he realized it was empty after only five minutes.
The posh Holmes sighed, got up, and adjusted his suit jacket, tugging the sleeves back into position, though they had been impeccable as always.
"The tea was spot on as usual, Watson. I'd best be going." He stamped down his umbrella as if this was finalized.
"Actually, it's Watson-Holmes now," Sherlock corrected, swallowing a swig of tea. "Do try to remember." Mycroft paused.
"Watson-Holmes? You're actually using that ridiculous name?" he asked, brow furrowing. "I honestly thought you hated it."
"John likes it, and I'm John's. Even Rosie seems to have an affection for it. I suggest you grow used to it," he answered, and perhaps, if one looked hard enough, they could observe the tinge of pink coloring the back of his ears.
A stupid, entirely biological affliction. 221B could be ever so drafty this time of year, you know.
"Well, then," the government official said, a grin slowly eating away at his face. "Marriage certainly has changed you. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Watson-Holmes, and try not to muck everything up too soon. The separation paperwork alone would be a nightmare." Encouraging, as ever.
"Which one of us are you talking to now?" John questioned, almost amused.
"Both." And just as he had arrived, he had left, leaving the flat with a bang of the door and the click of fine leather shoes.
"What was all that about?" John finally voiced aloud the thought that had arisen since Mycroft Holmes came in, as expected. John was very straightforward, and much like clockwork. A brilliant, very friendly, wool-jumper-wearing machine.
How ridiculous, that concept, but how very fitting.
"I've no idea," Sherlock simply replied instead of giving an actual response, flicking out his violin and setting down the cup. "Mind if I play for a bit?" John, surprised that Sherlock would ever ask permission for anything having to do with his music, merely smiled once the shock has set in.
"As if anybody in London could stop you from playing. Where was that question at four this morning?" The detective grinned back, relaxing all of his numerous features, and he appeared years younger.
He strummed the strings in no particular fashion, gliding over each line with his bow like one skims the crests on waves, and John leaned back into the cushions, the paper in one hand and the tea in another. They enjoyed the remaining time before Rosamund came back in a companionable haze, a solid tether filled with billowing curtains, music crafted from memorabilia, and the press of sunlight through the windows as page after page of newspaper was scoured.
A golden afternoon, re-secured despite intrusions.
And Sherlock Holmes (Watson-Holmes, really) was satisfied.
Hey. So that was the end of that.
Any good? Be sure to let me know.
This has been a pretty long ride for me, and I'm so sorry, again, that this update took fifty years to get out. And don't worry; as promised, you will still get to see Rosie again, all grown up and ready to take on her own cases. That'll be next chapter.
Wow. This is so much more extensive than I thought it would be. I was envisioning a story about 30k at most, wrapped up by January at the latest. I thought it would be short and quick, just a brief reprieve from some other content.
Ha.
Nope.
I'm a better procrastinator than I imagined, I guess.
I almost don't know what to say. I'm nearly at the end of this massive 'short story' and it's going to be weird, thinking it won't be around anymore. It was really great to write, though.
See you next installment, and I hope you've had fun.