Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
Notes: This is going to be a compilation of one-shots which are companion-pieces to my story "Fossils", a story which is set 40 years in the future. Sherlock is 76, John 82 years old.
They can stand alone, but some things probably make more sense if you read the other one first.
This extract of it is the bit which actually prompted this one-shot:
On the other hand, Sherlock is the one who reminds John of his appointments at the dentist's and accompanies him to the ophthalmologist, who is keeping an eye on his intraocular pressure just in case, since John belongs to a high-risk group for glaucoma.
It was the aforesaid doctor's receptionist who, after seeing Sherlock in the waiting room where he was reading a magazine at arm's length, had tentatively suggested he'd have his eyesight tested, which resulted in his having to use reading glasses and a considerable tantrum when he and John were back home. The former detective has meanwhile accepted that he needs an optical aid, but he tends to misplace his pair of glasses and often borrows John's, which works fine for him and annoys his friend to no end.
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Arm's Length
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The young woman who had only recently begun working at the ophthalmologist's surgery surreptitiously shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I didn't mean to offend you," she defends herself, "it's just a suggestion."
The white-haired man keeps staring at her wordlessly, his gaze seemingly burning a hole into her because it is so intense. His eyes are of an unusual colour at that, difficult to determine whether it's blue or grey or something in between. She feels flushed and more than a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
"I see," he says so suddenly that she actually jumps a little. "You think I'm old."
She opens her mouth and closes it again, momentarily at a loss of what she is supposed to answer to that. Of course he is old; well-dressed and still rather good-looking, but he is definitely old.
"You were reading the magazine at arm's length," she points out after a moment of consideration. "It doesn't matter how old you are, sir."
Just as he is going to reply, she is saved by the gentleman who had the appointment just now, and for whom this man has obviously been waiting for: "Sherlock," he says somewhat sternly, obviously having sensed that something is going on.
"Oh, John, good." The man called Sherlock puts the magazine down. "This young lady here suggested I have my eyes checked."
John looks delighted: "Did she? Well. I've been saying it for some time now, but you wouldn't listen to me."
Sherlock sighs: "My eyes are fine."
"You keep borrowing my reading glasses."
"I'm just doing that to annoy you."
"Yeah, right." He beams at the other man: "If your eyes are fine, it shouldn't bother you to have them checked, should it?"
"Unnecessary and a waste of time."
John exchanges a look with the receptionist.
Half an hour later, Sherlock storms out of the surgery with a murderous expression; John follows a little more slowly. Their taxi is already waiting for them, and Sherlock ignores him during the entire ride.
At home, Sherlock slams doors and fusses around noisily for about ten minutes, pulling open drawers and rummaging around in them, before John can stop him: "What are you doing?" he asks in an annoyingly calm voice.
"I'm looking for a medical certificate Dr Lazenby gave me," Sherlock snaps, "it's a literally squeaky clean bill of health, there's nothing on it that says Mr Holmes can't see."
John is doing his best to subdue a grin, but it takes a lot of effort: "That thing is more than ten years old, Sherlock. It's not up to date."
"I don't care!"
"You're being childish."
"And you are gloating!"
"Why would I be gloating just because you need reading glasses? For heaven's sake, it's not that big a deal!"
"For you, maybe." Sherlock is genuinely incensed. "For me, it is. Reading glasses! What's next, hearing aids?"
"Probably."
The look John receives upon that remark could have killed an elephant.
"I'm not that old, John!" With a huff, Sherlock leaves the room.
John looks at the mess he's left behind and shakes his head, smiling: there's no point in trying to appease Sherlock when he's in such a strop. He also knows better than trying to explain to Sherlock that needing reading glasses or hearing aids isn't a matter of age, because Sherlock knows that, of course.
He didn't have any idea that his friend was going to be so sensitive about the issue, however, since he doesn't hesitate to use John's glasses at times, after all. John strongly suspects it's got something to do with having been forced to stop driving. It was quite a blow for the former detective, having to give up such a large piece of his independence.
John shakes his head once more and begins to tidy up after his friend.
Sherlock hides for the rest of the day, meaning his mood hasn't much improved. He only leaves his room in the evening for a cup of tea. Silently, he makes two and takes the second one over to John, who's sitting in his armchair in the living room. Sherlock avoids his gaze and retreats as wordlessly as he has come, but John appreciates the gesture.
The new glasses, which Sherlock buys in the following week, come with a lot of complaints: too uncomfortable, too small, too large, too heavy, too flimsy, wrong colour, wrong frame, wrong everything. At one point, John feels tempted to ask Sherlock whether he'd like to swap; unfortunately, their dioptre values don't match properly.
Fortunately though, John's had a lot of practise on how to ignore Sherlock if need be, which he does whenever the topic of the glasses comes up again.
Sherlock however has hidden them somewhere, and has returned to reading the papers and anything else at arm's length.
"I'd really like to see that," Maya giggles when John tells her about it on the phone.
"It's not as funny as you seem to think," he says in an undertone, because Sherlock is in the next room and, contrary to his dark predictions, probably won't need a hearing aid in the foreseeable future.
"No, I can imagine," Maya now replies, sounding a litte more serious. "We've also had some news this week," she then says, "Riley is going to get dental retainers. You know, like braces but not to be worn permanently, only at night."
"I know what they are," John says, momentarily sounding like Sherlock.
"Right. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, sweetheart. Did they already take the casts?"
"Yes, she was very brave. And she could choose between different colours for the things, hers are going to be green with glitter in them."
John grins: "Blimey."
"I'll say," Maya agrees.
A few weeks later, it's the Easter holidays. John has been waiting for them for a long time, because Riley and Tim are coming to visit for a few days. As the date approaches, Sherlock, by unspoken agreement, puts away all his chemicals and anything else which might prove dangerous for the children, and helps John to clean the house, which is his way of showing that he's also looking forward to their visitors.
On the first night, Riley can't sleep. She isn't used to the sounds in the old house and keeps hearing spooky things. John has already tucked her in twice, but around ten o'clock, she comes into the living room, her stuffed dog in her arms, looking for consolation. John is in the bathroom, therefore she climbs on Sherlock's lap.
"Still can't sleep, Bumblebee?" he puts the violin which he was polishing aside.
Riley reaches into her mouth and pulls out her retainers, because she can't talk very well with them: "Something's creaking," she says.
"Probably those," Sherlock says, motioning towards the garishly green devices in her hand.
She laughs: "Don't be silly! I'd have heard it inside my head if it had been them!"
"To me, they look creaky," Sherlock insists.
Riley laughs even harder: "No, they don't!"
"They do. Creaky, and a bit croaky too. Must be the colour, it's reminding me of frogs."
"Frogs don't have glitter on them," Riley all but squeals with delight.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" She calms down somewhat. "And these are important. Mum says I have to wear them if I don't want to have crooked teeth one day."
"And do you wear them every night?"
"Yes, I do. It's a bit icky because there's so much spit, but I got used to it. I just don't like it when Timmy makes fun of me."
"You could always take them out when he does."
"But I don't want crooked teeth," Riley states, all serious now. "Mum says I'm being very sensible about it."
And she's seven, Sherlock hears his inner John point out.
"I bet you are," he replies, refusing to listen. "Come on, let's get you back to bed now."
"Will you stay with me for a while?"
"Yes."
On the following morning it's warm enough to have breakfast outside. While John and the children are setting the table, Sherlock walks into the village to get fresh pastries and the papers.
Jemima and Float soon join the group, feasting on the bowl of grain which has been brought out for them. The children are craning their necks in order to watch the two ducks, who don't seem to mind.
John catches Sherlock's gaze and smiles; it's peaceful, and astoundingly enough, they don't mind that either.
Wordlessly, Sherlock hands his friend a part of the paper and then pretends it's nothing out of the ordinary when he puts on his reading glasses.
John stares at him for a moment, his smile slowly widening into a grin.
"Not a word," Sherlock mutters without looking at him.
His friend however isn't above a bit of revenge: "Riley," he says, "have you seen Sherlock's new glasses?"
She looks up, scrunching her nose: "No, I haven't. I like them! Look, Timmy!"
Tim however shrugs: "All old people wear glasses," he says lightly, "it's nothing special, is it?"
This time, John wisely doesn't even look in Sherlock's direction.
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The End
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