A/N: SO sorry about the late update! It's been a crazy couple of days, but I'm back now (hopefully)
It had been one month since that fateful day at the church; one absolutely crazy month, John thought, pausing to bolt the door carefully behind him. He didn't do monthly anniversaries, but this felt worth remembering. He'd survived one month with a mad genius, and said genius had put up with him, too. He shifted his gift uneasily from hand to hand - a fresh set of glass slides and some test tubes. It seemed a pathetically small gesture, but he didn't want to overwhelm Sherlock.
As he mounted the stairs, he sniffed the air uneasily. Something's wrong, he decided, running up and throwing the door open. Sure enough, there was a cooking pot on the stove, spewing smoke. He quickly put the lid on and turned off the stove, waiting for the flames to die down. Sherlock came out of the bedroom then, looking rather disoriented, holding a marker.
"Was something on fire?" he asked absentmindedly.
"Yes! Didn't you put the sauce on?"
"What sauce?" Sherlock strode over to the stove. "Oh, that one. I completely forgot about it - I was working. Sorry."
He looked so genuinely mortified and guilty that John couldn't even bring himself to be angry. "It's fine. Where's Rosie?"
"Coloring in our bedroom. I'm sorry about the fire."
"It's no big deal. I put it out before it could get worse, just - be careful in the future. "
"No, you don't understand." Sherlock said, pouting in frustration. "You always cook, so I thought I'd be nice and cook for you today, since it's...you know…"
"Wow. I can't believe you remember."
"I know the knitting pattern of each of your jumpers by heart. I think I can remember a single date." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he reached out to wrap his arms around John's waist.
"Yes, of course. Just didn't think you'd give up space in your precious mind palace for that."
"Oh, there's an entire attic dedicated to you."
John pecked him on the cheek and held out his gift. "Did you know that you're actually a hopeless romantic?"
"So I've heard. And I wouldn't say hopeless." Sherlock said, letting go of him to eagerly unwrap the equipment. "Ah, yes! I needed these. Somebody swept the last ones off the table in a moment of passion."
"You didn't mind it so much back then. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it. If I recall correctly, your exact words were - "
"Say we move on." Sherlock said hastily.
"We should do something. Something special."
"Like what?" Sherlock asked, eyes gleaming.
"For starters, we could go on an actual date."
"Fair idea. I've just received some intelligence about that theft we were investigating yesterday. We'll have to head out and visit this pub - "
"I'm taking you out somewhere after that." John said firmly. "Just us, no cases, no suspects."
"What about Rosie?"
"I'm not going to take my infant daughter to a pub! What kind of a father do you think I am?"
"The best kind."
Although it was barely eight o'clock, the pub was fairly crowded. The music was loud, the kind of stuff John might have enjoyed in his uni days; but by now, he was too used to Sherlock's dulcet violin. It seemed like a fairly innocuous place (or as innocuous as bars can get), and he couldn't imagine what they'd possibly find here.
Sherlock placed a hand on the small of his back. "Make yourself comfortable." he said, "I'll just go finish what I came here to do."
Before John could react, Sherlock had vanished into the crowd of people. He shrugged and made his way to the bar and got himself a drink. Somebody slid onto the stool next to him - a man with dark brown hair and a vaguely familiar face. He turned to look at him, confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared.
"Hey. You're the one who worked with Sherlock Holmes on that Van Coon case, right?"
"Yea, that's me. John Watson. And you are...Sebastian Wilkes?"
They shook hands, and John stared into his glass, not sure how to make conversation. The only thing he really remembered about Sebastian was that he was a pompous prick.
"Any idea how Sherlock's doing now?" Sebastian asked. "I heard he died for a bit there. Couldn't have been easy."
John wasn't sure if he was joking. "Er, yea, he's fine -"
"So you two are still in touch? Hats off to you. He really is a bit of an asshole."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, you know, he thinks he's so smart, because he knows a bunch of tricks. Really, everyone hates him. What's that thing he calls himself - a 'consulting detective'? It's a load of crap he made up because he couldn't get a job."
John took deep, steadying breaths. People insulting Sherlock when he was rude to them was one thing, but unprovoked attacks like this made John's blood boil. What he wouldn't give to punch Sebastian right now, break that nose and ruin his overconfident face...but he'd promised both Ella and Sherlock - no violence.
"I'll have you know," he finally said, "That that man, Sherlock Holmes, happens to be the best damn person I know. He's also my boyfriend, so you can shove your unwanted opinion right up your -"
Sherlock materialized soundlessly at his shoulder. "Time to go, John. Oh, hello, Sebastian. Didn't expect to see you here."
Sebastian blushed furiously, embarrassed, unable to make any sounds apart from a dry squeak.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Sherlock asked.
"Er - I come here on Friday nights." he said meekly.
"Good for you. Come on, John, I'm positively starving."
"Just a moment." John said. He turned back to Sebastian and smiled, then raised his glass and splashed the contents at his face. Sebastian, sputtering and cursing, wiped his forehead on his coat sleeve, then gazed at it in horror.
"What the hell?" he asked angrily. "Do you know how much this suit costs?"
"No, and if you tell me, I won't hesitate to empty another glass on it. Have a good night." John said smugly, then followed Sherlock out into the street.
"Oh, confound these." Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his chopsticks down on the table.
"So you accept it. You don't know how to use chopsticks."
"That kind of knowledge is hardly useful in my work."
"Sure."
Sherlock picked up a fork, defeated, and moodily stabbed his food. The cutlery squeaked against the plate, and the waiter gave him a sour look.
"You're fretting." John said. "Don't fret."
"I can't not fret. There's still so much that we don't know. What about the colours? Why do they keep alternating between red and yellow? I doubt it's for aesthetic value."
John reached out and took his hand. "We are not made to know and understand everything." he said softly. "You're here with me, right now, at this restaurant with frankly mediocre food, and that is more than I could ever have hoped for. Let's just try to enjoy this, yea?"
Sherlock nodded and took a sip of water, trying to force his brain to relax. They were at a Chinese restaurant opposite the Lucky Cat, a candle flickering between them. The table was small and cramped, which just made it all the more convenient for their feet to slot together under it. For years, they'd both tried to keep their legs tucked away (or at least John had) to avoid accidental touches. But now, John bumped his knee against Sherlock's, who tried not to smile too widely. More leg space and more John.
"That was a good thing you did back there." Sherlock said.
"Drenching Sebastian Wilkes?"
"Yes."
"I couldn't help it. He was trash-talking you."
"I heard." Sherlock said demurely. "And I saw you clench your fists and prepare to punch him, but you didn't. You now only react with violence and anger to a fourth of the situations you did earlier; that's good progress, John."
"You heard him? Don't take him seriously - "
Sherlock snorted. "As if I'd care about what Sebastian Wilkes thinks. The only way those words could ever hurt me is if they were to come from you."
"I would never even think something like that about you."
Sherlock just smiled. He'd long accepted how much sway John held over him, and at the same time trusted him not to misuse it. But he pushed the thought to the back of his mind, deciding to focus on being here instead of thinking too much.
"Hey, Sherlock...do you have a plan?"
"I thought you wanted me to stop thinking about that. Well, since you brought it up, the plan is to continue digging around in the Edmund family's - "
"No, no, that's not what I meant. I meant for the future." John seemed hesitant to bring the topic up, as if afraid of what answer he might get. "You're eventually going to get too old to run about solving crimes and handling clients all day. Or do you plan on being a consulting detective till you're grey and old? Because I can see you doing that too, to be quite honest."
"Are you asking me when I'm going to retire?"
"Yes. And what you're going to do after that. If you've thought that far ahead, that is, because if you haven't then that's totally - you know. It's all fine."
"Well, I don't have a very concrete plan - but one day, I'm going to move to Sussex. I've already started saving up for a down payment on a cottage there. I'll still solve the occasional murder, but other than that - they have bee farms."
"Bee farms."
"Yes. To make honey."
"I know what bees do."
"Good."
There was a loaded silence, and Sherlock swirled the water in his glass, trying to collect his thoughts. He had thought about it quite extensively - what he'd like to do if he ever wearied of solving crimes. Up until now, John had never been a prominent feature in his plans, because he was married to Mary and living his own life with her. Obviously, things were different now.
"Rosie's going to need a bigger place to grow up in." Sherlock ventured tentatively.
John looked up from his plate. "I suppose."
"And I'd be happy to lend her some space, if she wants it."
"I'm sure she'll be very glad to hear that."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "And, you know, if the bees don't bother you - you could come too. Assuming we're both still alive, of course, and on good terms with each -"
The remainder of his words were lost as John pulled him forward and kissed him, and the rest of the restaurant seemed to recede into the background. It wasn't until John pulled away did Sherlock realize that he had knocked the candle over, setting the tablecloth on fire. He would've gladly burnt the entire place down if it meant he could prolong the moment just for a little while; there were at least six health violations in the kitchen, anyway.
The waiter gave them another sour look as he extinguished the fire, John apologizing profusely for the mess. They quickly paid for their meal, leaving a hefty tip to compensate for the tablecloth, and John pulled him out and into a cab. The entire ride back home was silent, both trying hard to keep their hands off each other, not wanting to make the cab driver uncomfortable. After what seemed like an eternity, they were back at their flat in Baker Street, standing in the doorway.
"Say it properly." John said firmly.
"When we're both old and cranky and want to get away from the filth of central London, I would love for you to move in with me."
"And if the bees bother me?"
Sherlock hesitated.
"I'm joking, you moron. I would never make you get rid of the bees."
Five nights later, Sherlock woke up to his phone buzzing. He snatched it up, convinced that it would be Lestrade with news of the latest break-in, but it was only Mycroft. He just yawned and rejected the call, settling back into the sheets. Next to him, John stirred.
"Whazzat?" he asked sleepily.
"Mycroft. Go back to sleep."
His phone buzzed again, and John cocked an eyebrow. "Could be important."
Sherlock just shook his head and rejected the call again. John shrugged and closed his eyes; he had barely drifted off to sleep when his phone rang.
"Hello? Mycroft, why the bloody hell are you calling me at 2 AM? Yea, you've already woken me up, so I don't see why not. Here, Sherlock, talk to him or he'll keep calling me."
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
On hearing what he had to say, Sherlock went deathly quiet, the blood draining out of his face. John reached out to touch his arm, concerned, but he didn't react. He lifted his chin and spoke into the phone almost mechanically.
"I'll be there."
He hung up and quickly slipped out of his bed, collecting the clothes strewn across the floor and hurrying into them, motioning to John to do the same.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" John asked, putting on his jumper inside-out in his hurry.
"The fifth crime."
"So why is Mycroft calling you?"
"It's at Xavier Trevor's. Victor Trevor's father."