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flawedamythystTitle: Paris And Permanence
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Sherlock, mention of Mycroft/Lestrade
Word Count: 6,749 words.
Summary: October 2021: John and Sherlock's tenth anniversary. Horse And Carriage 'verse. Masterlist is here.
A/N: Betaed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68. This is basically nothing but schmoop.
John had taken care of Stage One of his plan last night, when he had 'forgotten' to charge his phone. Now he was preparing himself for Stage Two, standing in the corridor at Barts outside Sherlock's favourite lab. Stage Two was going to involve some acting, which was not his strong suit. He was banking on the fact that he'd played this role several times for real, and that Sherlock wasn't likely to be giving him his full attention right now.
He stepped in to the room to find Sherlock bent over a slide with a pipette. So far, so good.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked.
“Busy,” said Sherlock without looking up.
John let out the exasperated sigh that he had years of practice with. “You have to eat, Sherlock.”
“Later,” said Sherlock, setting down the pipette and examining the slide, then putting it under the microscope. “Molly finally found me those brain samples. I'm going to be busy with them for several hours – you'll have to eat alone.”
Just as John had hoped. “Great,” he said, with as much exasperation as he could manage. Too much? Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed anything. “Maybe I'll try Mike, see if he wants lunch.”
Sherlock didn't respond to that. John pulled out his phone, pressed enough buttons to reveal that the battery was dead, then bit out a swear word. “Can I use your phone? I forgot to charge my battery.”
Sherlock let out a very long sigh. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Just get on with it and leave me in peace.”
John scowled at his back and strode over to where Sherlock's jacket was hanging on the back of a chair. He rifled through the pockets until he felt the cold touch of metal. Sherlock's wedding ring; he always took it off when he was doing experiments. John took it out of the pocket as subtly as he could, then pulled Sherlock's phone out with far less care and sent a quick text.
Sherlock's in mad scientist mode. Want to have lunch with me? John
It only took Mike a minute to respond, but then he had been waiting for the text. Sure. I'll meet you in the lobby in 10.
John tucked Sherlock's phone back into his jacket pocket, put the wedding ring in his own pocket, then glanced at the back of Sherlock's head. He was still completely preoccupied with the slide and didn't seem to have noticed a thing. Excellent.
“Want me to bring you any food back?”
“No,” said Sherlock shortly.
John shook his head as he headed for the door, feeling the illicit thrill of having successfully pulled off the deception. “You know, it's a good thing I know you well enough to know the difference between you being distracted, and you being rude.”
Sherlock didn't bother replying.
Mike was already waiting when John got down to the lobby. “Got it,” announced John with some smugness.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “He didn't notice?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” said John. “You know that brain samples are far more fascinating than me.”
“What did you promise Molly in exchange for them?” asked Mike as they headed outside.
John made a face. “Feeding her cats next time she's staying at her mum's.”
Mike shuddered. Molly's current cats included at least one who liked to gouge chunks out of the arms of anyone attempting to get close to it. “Rather you than me, mate.”
“It'll be worth it if I can pull this off,” said John.
They'd reached the closest jewellers to Barts and John pushed the door open, nodding a greeting to the man behind the counter.
“Right on time,” said the jeweller, glancing up at the clock.
“Yeah, it's practically a military operation,” said John. He pulled Sherlock's ring out of his pocket and put it on the counter, then pulled his own ring off and put it next to it.
“He's trying to surprise the man who knows everything,” explained Mike.
“He doesn't know everything,” objected John.
Mike gave him a look. “Last week he knew my youngest was pregnant just by looking at my jacket.”
John blinked. “She's pregnant?” he said, then clapped a hand to Mike's shoulder. “Congratulations!”
The jeweller picked the rings up and examined them. “Okay, I should be able to manage it in the time frame you gave me,” he said. “You'll be back in an hour?”
John nodded. “Brilliant, thanks,” he said. “Come on,” he said to Mike. “Time to establish our alibi. You can tell me all about Sophia at the same time.”
They had lunch at the pub they usually went to and Mike told John about what would be his third grandchild in far more detail than John was really interested in. John nodded and said all the right things, and mentally went through every detail of his plan again. Unless Sherlock lost interest in the brain samples in the next hour, there didn't seem to be any way for John to get caught out. That said, he wasn't a genius and Sherlock was, and Sherlock had spent their whole life together surprising John with just how brilliant he was. John couldn't rule out the unexpected.
The jeweller had the rings ready and waiting when they got back to his shop. John examined the work, then slipped his own ring back on his finger with a smile.
“Perfect,” he said, putting Sherlock's back in his pocket.
“It will wear over time,” said the jeweller. “Gold's a soft metal, you know.”
John nodded. “We can always get it redone,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
Mike left him in the lobby of Barts with a nod and good luck wishes. John got the lift back up to Sherlock's lab, glanced at his watch to make sure he was on time on for the next stage of the plan, and then went inside.
Sherlock didn't seem to have moved. “You may as well go home,” he said, not even glancing up at John. “I'll be here for a few more hours.”
John shrugged. “I'm only going to be writing up the Sutherland case. I can do that here as easily as I can at home.”
“Suit yourself,” said Sherlock. “As long as you're quiet.”
As John crossed to one of the computers in the corner of the lab, Sherlock's phone beeped with an incoming message. Right on time, thought John.
Sherlock let out a long sigh that spoke of how irritating he found all these interruptions. “Look at that and tell me if it needs dealing with now.”
John gave a sigh of frustration, but didn't argue with being ordered about. He slipped his hand into his own pocket and pulled out Sherlock's ring as he crossed to the chair Sherlock's jacket was on. Getting it back into the right pocket while he got out Sherlock's phone was simple enough, although there was a nasty moment when he fumbled it and thought it was going to drop to the floor, giving everything away.
“I don't know why you can't do this yourself,” he grumbled to hide his moment of panic.
The text was from Greg, as expected. John had prearranged for him to text at this time so that he'd have an excuse to go back into Sherlock's jacket. Greg had agreed, but given him the look that said he thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Given that he was seeing Mycroft, John didn't think he had a leg to stand on when it came to judging ridiculous.
Need your statement on the Gulliver murder by tomorrow.
John read it out to Sherlock, who let out a sigh. “Oh, tell him I'll be by in the morning,” he said. “Honestly, the thing was incredibly simple, they shouldn't need my statement. They just need to show the jury the shape of the footsteps in the rose garden.”
“That relies on the jury all being experts in the patterns on the soles of Nike trainers,” John pointed out as he texted Greg back.
Sherlock says he'll be by tomorrow morning. Don't worry, I'll make sure he is. John.
He put the phone away and went over to the computer, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. He'd actually managed to pull it off, despite what everyone had said. All he had to do now was find the right moment to reveal to Sherlock what he'd done.
****
John didn't get a chance to pick the right moment. As in so many things, Sherlock managed to pre-empt him.
Four hours later, after John had written up his blog, answered all the comments on his last entry, and found time to email a couple of his mates, Sherlock finally finished with his experiment. As he cleared up after himself, he told John all about what he'd discovered in the same kind of unnecessary detail that Mike had used when talking about his grandchild earlier.
“I'll need to wait at least eight hours for the results,” he said as he put his jacket on, then pulled his ring out to slide onto his finger. “And then I want to try a solution of-”
He cut himself off. He looked down at the ring with a frown, then pulled it back off his finger and examined the inside of it.
John was more than impressed. He'd been prepared for Sherlock's eagle eyes to spot the change, but he hadn't even been looking at it. He must have just felt the difference in texture as it ran over his finger.
Sherlock looked up from his examination of the ring and his expression was one John only rarely got to see. He was completely surprised, so much so that he was almost speechless. John felt smugness creep in – very few people were able to surprise Sherlock Holmes, and yet he'd managed it.
“You purposefully didn't charge your phone last night,” said Sherlock.
It was John's turn to be taken aback. Sherlock had worked out the whole plan already, right back to the first step? He shook his head. “Incredible.”
Sherlock looked back at the engraving on his ring. “And you have finally learnt the date of our anniversary.”
Trust him to focus on that. Well, that had been one of the reasons that John had done it – enough was enough when it came to scathing comments about his memory. “Ten years seemed a bit long to still be clueless about it,” he said. “Thought it might be good to have a reminder.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he put his ring back on, then reached for John's hand and pulled his off instead. John let him take it.
His own ring said the same thing that Sherlock's now did.
SH&JW 23/10/11
Sherlock looked at it for a long moment, then replaced it on John's finger, keeping hold of his hand trapped in both of his own even after he had.
“We're going to Paris this weekend,” he said.
John blinked at the sudden subject change. “For a case?” he asked. This was the first he'd heard about it, but Sherlock had been completely distracted by the brain samples.
Sherlock let out a little sigh at John's slowness. “For our anniversary,” he clarified. “Ten years felt like it needed more than just dinner or a concert.”
“Oh,” said John, then smiled. He hadn't been to Paris in years. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“Of course it does,” said Sherlock. “It's my idea.”
John rolled his eyes at the arrogance, but couldn't prevent his smile widening as he squeezed Sherlock's hand.
****
They got the Eurostar to Paris on Friday evening, then Sherlock led the way to a hotel that was far nicer than anything John would have booked for them. Well, Sherlock's career was going from strength to strength these days, with more and more high profile cases, so they could probably afford to splash out a bit.
“This was my grandmother's favourite hotel,” Sherlock announced as they entered the room he had booked for them.
John blinked. That was possibly the first time Sherlock had ever voluntarily mentioned his family. “Came to Paris a lot, did she?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “She was French. She moved to England for my grandfather, but she insisted on coming back here at least once a year.” He held up his arm so that his sleeve slipped down and revealed his watch. “You know she gave this to him.”
It was the watch Mycroft had given Sherlock at their wedding. Sherlock wore it whenever he was reasonably certain that he wasn't going to end up in a situation where it might get damaged. On the back of it were engraved a few words of French that John had never got around to asking Sherlock to translate.
Well, now was as good a chance as any. “And she had it engraved,” he prompted.
Sherlock nodded. “Vieillissons ensemble. Le meilleur reste à venir,” he recited. His French accent was perfect, of course – or as far as John could tell, it was. He'd long since forgotten almost all his GCSE French. “Grow old with me,” Sherlock translated for him. “The best is yet to come.”
“That was for their fortieth anniversary, right?” asked John.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “They spent it in this hotel.”
And now Sherlock had bought John to spend their own anniversary here. That was incredibly sentimental, especially for Sherlock. John smiled as he set their bags on the bed.
“What's the plan then?”
Sherlock shrugged as if he didn't already have a detailed timetable worked out, like he always did for their anniversaries. “Find something to eat tonight, have a wander around the area at the same time. Tomorrow, take in the least annoying of the sights – I can show you where I solved a triple murder in 2009, if you want. We have a table booked for dinner at eight. Our train home on Sunday isn't until after lunch, so we can either have a lie-in, or fit in a bit more sight-seeing.”
Oh yes, there it was. John wondered how many of the 'least annoying' sights would involve murder or crime in some way. He supposed that it was his career as well now, and there was no point in pretending he didn't find it almost as interesting as Sherlock did.
“Sounds good,” he said. “Let's get started.”
****
Breakfast at the hotel was a posher version of the usual continental breakfast. John was happily tucking into his second croissant before he noticed that Sherlock had barely touched his.
“You're not on a case,” he reminded him. “You haven't got an excuse not to eat.”
“Perhaps I just don't want to end up looking like a badly-coordinated toddler,” said Sherlock, nodding at John's shirt.
John looked down at himself to see that he was covered in flakes of croissant pastry. “Really?” he asked. “You're afraid of a few crumbs?”
“I'm not afraid,” said Sherlock sharply. “Do you have any idea how much this shirt cost?”
John made a face. “I do, unfortunately,” he said. He looked around until he'd spotted a waiter, then got up and headed for him.
“Excuse-moi,” he managed, and the waiter gave him a polite smile. “Avez vous-” continued John, then realised he had no idea how to finish the sentence. He took his best guess. “Um. Le toast pour mon, um, ami?” If he had ever known the word for 'husband', he had long since forgotten it. It wasn't as if he'd been expecting to find he had one when he'd been a teenager memorising vocabulary.
The waiter's smile turned slightly more amused. “Of course, Monsieur,” he said in perfect English. “Made with white or brown bread?”
“Brown,” said John. He might as well take his chance to get some fibre into Sherlock. “And some honey.” Because there was only one thing Sherlock ever wanted on his toast.
The waiter nodded. “I shall bring that straight over for you.”
He was as good as his word. Sherlock was presented with two slices of toast and a tiny pot of honey less than five minutes later. “Merci,” he said to the waiter, then he gave John a wide smile. “You got me toast,” he said.
John shrugged. “Happy Anniversary.”
That made Sherlock laugh. “I think you'll find the theme for ten years is tin, not toast.”
“Well, I thought you'd have more use for toast,” said John. “I can always go and find a couple of tins of beans instead.”
“No, no,” said Sherlock, finally starting to actually eat. “This will do me just fine.”
They set off into the city about an hour later, after John had polished off another two croissants. Sherlock turned out to be almost as knowledgeable about Parisian crime as he was about that of London and he made sure to fill John in on every detail that came into his head as they walked. They visited the catacombs, which John would have guessed would be near the top of any list of Sherlock-approved Parisian sights, and Notre-Dame, which he would not.
They had lunch in a café by the Arc de Triomphe, where Sherlock proved that his deduction skills were not limited to one nationality, and John ate a ridiculous amount of chocolate crepes.
Sherlock flat out refused to even consider going to the Louvre. “Do you have any idea how many idiot tourists there are in that place?” Instead, he took John to the Palais Garnier opera house, where they had a backstage tour, and then to the Paris Crime Museum, which John hadn't even known existed.
They were there for rather a long time. Sherlock examined every exhibit in minute detail, then told John every single thing that the information boards failed to mention, or had got wrong. By halfway around, he had solved at least three previously unsolved crimes, and John was wondering if he shouldn't drop a note in the comments box at the front desk about them.
Sherlock got a text as they were finally coming to the end of the museum. He frowned at it for a long moment.
“Who's that from?” asked John.
“Francois Le Villard,” said Sherlock. Le Villard was a French policeman whom Sherlock had been exchanging emails with about his methods, and being rather smugly condescending about whenever he had the chance. After their last email exchange, he'd claimed that Le Villard possessed two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective.
“He observes, and he deduces, but he's still lacking knowledge,” he'd said, tipping his chair back to an unsafe angle while balancing his laptop on the very edge of his desk. John had been half-hoping he'd overbalance and end up in a heap on the floor. “And knowledge is easy enough to accumulate, if you put your mind to it.” The chair had wobbled slightly, and he'd abruptly straightened it, then tried to look as if he'd been in perfect control the whole time. John had been forced to hide his smile behind the newspaper.
Now, Sherlock glanced up from his phone to say, “I told him I was coming to Paris, and he has a case he wants me to look at.”
“Right,” said John. “Well, are you going?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Would you mind?”
John stared at him. “Sherlock, you have never, ever, not even once, asked for my opinion on whether or not you take a case.”
“I know that,” said Sherlock. “But we are meant to be on holiday. I've heard that engaging in work on a holiday is frowned upon. Lestrade's ex-wife was always rather particular on that point.”
“Right,” said John. “And what on earth makes you think I'm anything like Lestrade's ex-wife? Go on, solve a case. We both know you'll be distracted and irritable if you don't.”
Sherlock beamed at him and sent off a text. “You're welcome to come with me,” he said as he tucked his phone away. “You're always welcome to come with me.”
“I know,” said John. “But you and Le Villard are going to do the whole thing in French, right?”
“We are in France,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I don't really fancy spending the next few hours not understanding a thing that's going on. I'll do some sight-seeing on my own. See some of the things you're going to refuse to see with me, like the Eiffel Tower.”
Sherlock made a face. “God, that's even worse for tourists than the Louvre. I can't even begin to imagine why people would want to queue for hours just to look at Paris from the top of some glorified scaffolding.”
“My point exactly,” said John. He reached out for Sherlock's elbow and squeezed it. “Go on. Just text me if there's likely to be any excitement.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I should be able to solve it just from the paperwork.”
“Even more reason for me not to come,” said John.
Sherlock let out a deep and faked sigh. “Sometimes I think you only associate with me for the near-death experiences.”
“Yep,” said John. “Those, and the way I can always count on you to have used up all the milk just when I need a cup of tea.”
“You should start drinking it black,” said Sherlock. “I'll meet you in the hotel bar at seven thirty then, if I'm not done before then.”
John nodded and let him leave. It was only after he'd gone that he realised he had no idea how to get to the Eiffel Tower from where he was. Perhaps his first priority should be finding a map.
****
The Eiffel Tower was lovely, even if it was as packed with tourists as Sherlock had predicted. Afterwards, John wandered down the Champs-Élysées for a bit, wondering who on earth would buy any of the extremely overpriced and odd-looking clothes in the designer shops. They didn't even seem to have any jumpers.
He went back to the hotel after that to get ready for dinner. He'd brought along his one nice suit for the occasion, figuring that he might as well take the opportunity to wear it. Besides, it meant he could wear the cufflinks Mycroft had given him at their wedding, which he had only managed to do a handful of times in the last ten years. He and Sherlock didn't exactly lead the kind of life that came with black tie dinners. At least, not the kind that didn't end with a brawl with a criminal, and he didn't want to risk losing them. Mycroft would probably have him disappeared if he did.
When he was ready, he headed down to the bar. He was a bit early, so he fumbled his way through ordering a drink, trying to ignore the amused look the bartender gave him.
“I recognise that brand of French,” said a woman sitting a few seats down at the bar. “You haven't had much practice since school, right?”
She was roughly the same age as John and wearing a blouse that John would have said was more suited to a younger woman. That didn't mean he didn't appreciate the view that the low neckline gave him.
“That obvious?” he replied. “It's funny, I thought I'd remembered quite a bit, until I actually needed to use it.”
“It's never the useful phrases you remember,” she said with a smile. “I could talk about how old my hamster is, but trying to remember how to buy a newspaper is almost impossible.”
John smiled in recognition. He'd had to resort to sign language in his quest for a map earlier. “I'm John,” he said, holding a hand out.
She moved a few seats closer in order to take it. “I'm Hannah. I take it you've not been here long?”
“Since yesterday evening,” said John. “Just a flying weekend visit.”
They chatted for several minutes, exchanging stories of poor communication with the locals. Hannah ordered them both another drink before John could say he was waiting for someone, but a glance at his watch showed he still had ten minutes, even if Sherlock managed to tear himself away from the case in order to get there on time.
“So,” she said with a flirty little smile when they were about halfway through the drinks, “want to find somewhere for dinner? Then find some way to find pass the evening together?”
Her tone made it very clear precisely what she meant by that, and usually John would be more than happy to take her up on the offer, but not this evening. Time to play a card he usually hid when talking to women who might be up for a bit of no-strings fun.
He held up his left hand to display his ring. “I married, I'm afraid.”
Her smile didn't waver. “So am I,” she said, holding her own hand up. “Not here now though, are they? One evening of fun while we're both away from home is hardly a big deal, is it?”
“Unfortunately, John already has plans for this evening,” said a welcome voice behind John. “However, his morning is still free, if you wish to make arrangements for sexual intercourse then.”
The statement and the delivery was so Sherlockian that John couldn't hold in a smile as he glanced back at him. “I thought we might go to the Père-Lachaise Cemetery tomorrow,” he said. He'd done his own research on sights that Sherlock might actually want to visit while stuck in the queue for the Eiffel Tower.
Sherlock blinked, then returned his smile. “Yes, that seems like a good idea.”
John turned back to Hannah. “This is Sherlock,” he said. “My husband.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously taken aback.
John felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't exactly tried to stop her flirting, after all, and he had even been flirting back a bit. “Almost any other weekend, I'd have said yes,” he said, “but it's our anniversary.”
She looked even more taken aback, and glanced at Sherlock. “Ah, okay.”
Oh, right. Most married people who had sex with people other than their spouses had to keep it all a secret. Thank god John didn't have to bother with that.
“Come on, John,” said Sherlock, apparently bored with the conversation. “We should be getting to the restaurant.”
They left Hannah in the bar, still looking bewildered.
****
John had been worried that Sherlock had booked some unspeakably posh and pretentious restaurant for dinner, so when they arrived at a small, quirky-looking place that was tucked away on a back street in Montmartre, he was more than relieved.
Sherlock shot him an amused look as if he could read his every thought. “I'm not Mycroft, you know,” he said.
Apparently he could read John's every thought. “And thank god for that,” said John. “Apart from anything else, Greg would kill me.”
“You and my brother would be completely incompatible,” said Sherlock firmly. “Especially considering your heterosexuality.”
“I'm not sure I can claim to be completely heterosexual after ten years of marriage to a man,” said John thoughtfully. “It smacks a bit of denial.”
Sherlock threw him a surprised look but before he could respond the restaurant owner descended on them, greeting Sherlock effusively in a torrent of excited French.
“Let me guess,” said John once they were seated with menus and the owner had disappeared again. “You solved a case for him.”
“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “Although, if his wife is going to be that obvious about stealing bottles of wine for her lover, I probably will have by the end of the night.”
John glanced over at the woman behind the bar, who was glancing shiftily at her husband. “Do me a favour,” he said, “and leave mentioning it until we've finished our meal. Seems like the kind of thing that could disrupt the service a bit.”
Sherlock nodded. “Agreed. I'd hate to miss out on pudding; the profiteroles here are excellent.”
Sherlock waited until after they'd paid the bill to have a quiet word with the owner, who immediately flushed red and rounded on his wife with a furious outpouring. She immediately responded with equal fervour, gesturing wildly.
“Oh dear,” said Sherlock as he put his coat on. “She's insulting his sexual prowess.”
“Unlikely to end well,” commented John as he shrugged his own coat on.
“No,” agreed Sherlock. “He's now saying that her sister is much better-looking.”
The wife let out a screech of rage, grabbed an empty glass from behind the bar, and launched it at her husband. He ducked and it shattered against a wall.
“Come on,” said Sherlock. “Before things get even more out of hand, and we get caught up in it all.”
“Right,” said John, but he kept watching the action over his shoulder as they left. The owner had thrown his hands up to the sky as if imploring God to help him, while his wife stuffed more bottles of wine in her bag, then threw on her coat.
“This way,” said Sherlock once they were outside and away from the shouting. He put his hand on John's back to guide him, then left it there as they climbed up the hill.
It was a clear night and when they reached Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the top of the hill, the lights of Paris spread out below them were reflected by the stars above them.
“It's lovely,” said John.
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. He was standing close against John's back, trapping a welcome warmth between their bodies. Paris in October was cold enough to make standing outside this late at night a chilly activity, but John wasn't really prepared to suggest going back to the hotel just yet.
“John,” said Sherlock, after they had passed a few minutes in contemplation of the view. “You are nearly fifty.”
John hadn't expected that. “Yes,” he agreed. “Thanks for reminding me. I'd almost forgotten I was an old bastard now.”
“Not quite yet,” said Sherlock. “Besides, I'm not far behind you. In another ten years, we will be close to sixty. The chance that we'll still be fit enough to run after criminals is slim, and it's even slimmer that we'll still come out best in a fight with men much younger than us.”
John turned to look at Sherlock's face. “Is this you realising that one day we're going to have to retire? I'm sure they'll still let you consult on cases that don't require running about, you know. You'll still be the best person at putting together the tiniest clues to point towards a solution.”
Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. “I am aware of that. However, they will be able to send me that sort of puzzle electronically. There would be no need for me to remain in London.”
A memory came to John of a long ago day spent wandering through a country park together, and Sherlock talking about bee-keeping when he retired. “You want to move somewhere where you can have a hive.”
Sherlock smiled. “You remembered,” he said, sounding pleased. “I have finalised some of the other details of my plan now. I want to be able to get some distance from the pervasive stupidity of the general public and find somewhere quiet. Probably in Sussex – I grew up there, you know.” John didn't know, but he nodded as if he did. “I find apiology almost as fascinating as criminology. I wouldn't be bored.”
John hoped very much that Sherlock was right about that. The very last thing he wanted was to spend his old-age with a bored and frustrated Sherlock. He pictured a small cottage in the country, with Sherlock tending to his hives while John finally found the time to write up their cases into proper stories, and found himself nodding. “It sounds great.”
Sherlock's shoulders relaxed a very tiny amount, and John realised just how tense he was. “Good,” he said. “Good, I was hoping you'd say that. You- John.” He took a deep breath. “John, you will come with me, won't you?”
John stared at him for several long moments, during which Sherlock started to tense up even more. What kind of a question was that? “Sherlock,” he said eventually, restraining himself from shaking him with some effort. “Where the hell else would I go?”
Sherlock relaxed so completely that for a moment John thought he was going to collapse against him. “Oh,” he breathed out. “Good. That's- good.”
John shook his head. “You're an idiot,” he said. “Seriously, where else would I be but with my husband?”
A tiny smile curled Sherlock's lips up, and he reached out to take John's hands. “Nowhere else,” he said. “I just wasn't sure. Originally this was short-term, after all. You were hoping to find a woman to marry.”
John snorted. “Yeah, I think we both know that's never happening,” he said. Sherlock's smile grew and he squeezed John's hands, glowing with pleasure.
John had never even considered that Sherlock might have missed all the signs that John considered this a permanent arrangement. He shouldn't be worrying about that at all. He took a deep breath, glancing down at their hands and seeing his cufflinks and Sherlock's watch as well as their wedding rings.
Sherlock's grandmother had made her feelings clear. “Vieillissons ensemble. Le meilleur reste à venir,” he forced out.
Sherlock stared at him. “John,” he said, sounding appalled. “Never let the French hear you mutilate their language like that.”
John rolled his eyes. “Git,” he said, with affection.
Sherlock smiled. “Yes,” he agreed, sliding an arm around John's shoulders and guiding him away from the view. “Eventually, I'll be an old git.” He let his arm fall back down to his side, but John wasn't having that.
“Looking forward to it,” he said as he reached out and took Sherlock's hand, entangling their fingers.
The pleased smile Sherlock gave him was more than worth giving up a night in Hannah's bed. In fact, thought John as they headed back down towards their hotel, there was nothing any woman could offer him now that would be worth giving up a moment of this strange marriage with Sherlock.
****
Later that night, John took off his cufflinks and set them on the bedside table while Sherlock was in the bathroom. He could still remember the panic he'd felt when Mycroft had given them to him. He'd thought Mycroft was taking the whole thing far too seriously, that it was just one of Sherlock's strange whims that John was falling in with because- Well, because that was what he did. Sherlock had crazy ideas, and John just nodded and followed along behind, without really stopping to wonder why.
And here they were, ten years later, and the whole thing had fallen into place as if it was meant to be. He remembered Sherlock's excited mood that day, a rare example of him being eager about something that didn't involve crime or chemistry.
“Sherlock,” he called. Sherlock's head appeared around the bathroom door with a toothbrush in his mouth. “Did you know it would be like this?”
Sherlock removed the toothbrush from his mouth. “Paris?” he asked.
“No. When you proposed, did you know our marriage would turn out like this?” John did a vague gesture that took in Paris, the double bed that they'd soon be curled up in together and, hopefully, every other aspect of the life they shared.
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “As much as I would like to claim that level of foresight, I had no idea. I was merely acting on the impulse of the moment.”
“Because you wanted access to my hospital room,” said John.
“Access to you, wherever you might be,” corrected Sherlock.
John looked back at the bed and thought that, actually, that much hadn't changed at all. It was just that Sherlock had broadened his definition to include access to John whether he was awake or sleeping, as well as to John's undivided attention as a priority over everything else in his life. He nodded. “Fair enough.”
Sherlock disappeared back into the bathroom.
It was after John had taken his turn in there and they'd both put their pyjamas on that Sherlock resumed the conversation. He took his grandmother's watch off, setting it down on the bedside table.
“Irritatingly, I strongly suspect Mycroft knew,” he said. “He tends to look to the future more than I do.”
“That would explain his wedding presents,” said John. The idea that Mycroft had seen that this marriage would be far more permanent than either Sherlock or John had when they entered into it rankled, and he couldn't help reflecting Sherlock's annoyed expression at the thought.
Sherlock nodded, then gave John a smirk as he climbed into bed next to him. “He probably regrets at least one of those now, if it makes you feel any better. After all, at the time he didn't think he'd ever find someone of his own to give Mother's pearls to.” He nodded over at where John's cufflinks were.
John laughed. “Don't see Greg as the pearl type, really.”
“And you are?” asked Sherlock.
John raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Well, they're not thinking of getting married, are they?” he pointed out. “If they were, they'd have done it by now.” Greg and Mycroft had been together nearly eight years by now. That was more than long enough for at least one of them to have brought it up.
“Mycroft sees marriage as largely pointless, now that the tax benefits have dwindled,” said Sherlock. “I suspect Lestrade was rather put off by his first attempt. That doesn't mean that Mycroft wouldn't want to give him some kind of over-the-top family heirloom as a mark of commitment and longevity.”
“Well, he'll have to find something else,” said John, snuggling down under the covers with a yawn. “They're my over-the-top family heirloom now.”
Sherlock gave an amused snort and flicked the light out. He draped himself half over John in the same way that he did every night. “His fault for being too slow,” he agreed, settling in against John's shoulder.
John took hold of the hand that lay on his chest and squeezed it. “Damn straight,” he said. “Should have proposed first and sorted out the rest later.”
“It's much the best way,” agreed Sherlock.
John let his eyes fall shut, thinking that if they hadn't done it that way, it seemed very unlikely that they'd be where they were right now, and that he wouldn't give that up for anything. He touched the metal of Sherlock's ring, thinking of what it now read inside. There was something oddly pleasing about the idea of their initials engraved next to each other, displaying just how permanent this whim of Sherlock's had become.
“Good night, John,” said Sherlock.
“Night,” replied John, and let himself slide into sleep.
****
Next fic in the 'verse: Hearts And Flowers
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Sherlock, mention of Mycroft/Lestrade
Word Count: 6,749 words.
Summary: October 2021: John and Sherlock's tenth anniversary. Horse And Carriage 'verse. Masterlist is here.
A/N: Betaed by the lovely
earlgreytea68. This is basically nothing but schmoop.John had taken care of Stage One of his plan last night, when he had 'forgotten' to charge his phone. Now he was preparing himself for Stage Two, standing in the corridor at Barts outside Sherlock's favourite lab. Stage Two was going to involve some acting, which was not his strong suit. He was banking on the fact that he'd played this role several times for real, and that Sherlock wasn't likely to be giving him his full attention right now.
He stepped in to the room to find Sherlock bent over a slide with a pipette. So far, so good.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked.
“Busy,” said Sherlock without looking up.
John let out the exasperated sigh that he had years of practice with. “You have to eat, Sherlock.”
“Later,” said Sherlock, setting down the pipette and examining the slide, then putting it under the microscope. “Molly finally found me those brain samples. I'm going to be busy with them for several hours – you'll have to eat alone.”
Just as John had hoped. “Great,” he said, with as much exasperation as he could manage. Too much? Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed anything. “Maybe I'll try Mike, see if he wants lunch.”
Sherlock didn't respond to that. John pulled out his phone, pressed enough buttons to reveal that the battery was dead, then bit out a swear word. “Can I use your phone? I forgot to charge my battery.”
Sherlock let out a very long sigh. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Just get on with it and leave me in peace.”
John scowled at his back and strode over to where Sherlock's jacket was hanging on the back of a chair. He rifled through the pockets until he felt the cold touch of metal. Sherlock's wedding ring; he always took it off when he was doing experiments. John took it out of the pocket as subtly as he could, then pulled Sherlock's phone out with far less care and sent a quick text.
Sherlock's in mad scientist mode. Want to have lunch with me? John
It only took Mike a minute to respond, but then he had been waiting for the text. Sure. I'll meet you in the lobby in 10.
John tucked Sherlock's phone back into his jacket pocket, put the wedding ring in his own pocket, then glanced at the back of Sherlock's head. He was still completely preoccupied with the slide and didn't seem to have noticed a thing. Excellent.
“Want me to bring you any food back?”
“No,” said Sherlock shortly.
John shook his head as he headed for the door, feeling the illicit thrill of having successfully pulled off the deception. “You know, it's a good thing I know you well enough to know the difference between you being distracted, and you being rude.”
Sherlock didn't bother replying.
Mike was already waiting when John got down to the lobby. “Got it,” announced John with some smugness.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “He didn't notice?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” said John. “You know that brain samples are far more fascinating than me.”
“What did you promise Molly in exchange for them?” asked Mike as they headed outside.
John made a face. “Feeding her cats next time she's staying at her mum's.”
Mike shuddered. Molly's current cats included at least one who liked to gouge chunks out of the arms of anyone attempting to get close to it. “Rather you than me, mate.”
“It'll be worth it if I can pull this off,” said John.
They'd reached the closest jewellers to Barts and John pushed the door open, nodding a greeting to the man behind the counter.
“Right on time,” said the jeweller, glancing up at the clock.
“Yeah, it's practically a military operation,” said John. He pulled Sherlock's ring out of his pocket and put it on the counter, then pulled his own ring off and put it next to it.
“He's trying to surprise the man who knows everything,” explained Mike.
“He doesn't know everything,” objected John.
Mike gave him a look. “Last week he knew my youngest was pregnant just by looking at my jacket.”
John blinked. “She's pregnant?” he said, then clapped a hand to Mike's shoulder. “Congratulations!”
The jeweller picked the rings up and examined them. “Okay, I should be able to manage it in the time frame you gave me,” he said. “You'll be back in an hour?”
John nodded. “Brilliant, thanks,” he said. “Come on,” he said to Mike. “Time to establish our alibi. You can tell me all about Sophia at the same time.”
They had lunch at the pub they usually went to and Mike told John about what would be his third grandchild in far more detail than John was really interested in. John nodded and said all the right things, and mentally went through every detail of his plan again. Unless Sherlock lost interest in the brain samples in the next hour, there didn't seem to be any way for John to get caught out. That said, he wasn't a genius and Sherlock was, and Sherlock had spent their whole life together surprising John with just how brilliant he was. John couldn't rule out the unexpected.
The jeweller had the rings ready and waiting when they got back to his shop. John examined the work, then slipped his own ring back on his finger with a smile.
“Perfect,” he said, putting Sherlock's back in his pocket.
“It will wear over time,” said the jeweller. “Gold's a soft metal, you know.”
John nodded. “We can always get it redone,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
Mike left him in the lobby of Barts with a nod and good luck wishes. John got the lift back up to Sherlock's lab, glanced at his watch to make sure he was on time on for the next stage of the plan, and then went inside.
Sherlock didn't seem to have moved. “You may as well go home,” he said, not even glancing up at John. “I'll be here for a few more hours.”
John shrugged. “I'm only going to be writing up the Sutherland case. I can do that here as easily as I can at home.”
“Suit yourself,” said Sherlock. “As long as you're quiet.”
As John crossed to one of the computers in the corner of the lab, Sherlock's phone beeped with an incoming message. Right on time, thought John.
Sherlock let out a long sigh that spoke of how irritating he found all these interruptions. “Look at that and tell me if it needs dealing with now.”
John gave a sigh of frustration, but didn't argue with being ordered about. He slipped his hand into his own pocket and pulled out Sherlock's ring as he crossed to the chair Sherlock's jacket was on. Getting it back into the right pocket while he got out Sherlock's phone was simple enough, although there was a nasty moment when he fumbled it and thought it was going to drop to the floor, giving everything away.
“I don't know why you can't do this yourself,” he grumbled to hide his moment of panic.
The text was from Greg, as expected. John had prearranged for him to text at this time so that he'd have an excuse to go back into Sherlock's jacket. Greg had agreed, but given him the look that said he thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Given that he was seeing Mycroft, John didn't think he had a leg to stand on when it came to judging ridiculous.
Need your statement on the Gulliver murder by tomorrow.
John read it out to Sherlock, who let out a sigh. “Oh, tell him I'll be by in the morning,” he said. “Honestly, the thing was incredibly simple, they shouldn't need my statement. They just need to show the jury the shape of the footsteps in the rose garden.”
“That relies on the jury all being experts in the patterns on the soles of Nike trainers,” John pointed out as he texted Greg back.
Sherlock says he'll be by tomorrow morning. Don't worry, I'll make sure he is. John.
He put the phone away and went over to the computer, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. He'd actually managed to pull it off, despite what everyone had said. All he had to do now was find the right moment to reveal to Sherlock what he'd done.
John didn't get a chance to pick the right moment. As in so many things, Sherlock managed to pre-empt him.
Four hours later, after John had written up his blog, answered all the comments on his last entry, and found time to email a couple of his mates, Sherlock finally finished with his experiment. As he cleared up after himself, he told John all about what he'd discovered in the same kind of unnecessary detail that Mike had used when talking about his grandchild earlier.
“I'll need to wait at least eight hours for the results,” he said as he put his jacket on, then pulled his ring out to slide onto his finger. “And then I want to try a solution of-”
He cut himself off. He looked down at the ring with a frown, then pulled it back off his finger and examined the inside of it.
John was more than impressed. He'd been prepared for Sherlock's eagle eyes to spot the change, but he hadn't even been looking at it. He must have just felt the difference in texture as it ran over his finger.
Sherlock looked up from his examination of the ring and his expression was one John only rarely got to see. He was completely surprised, so much so that he was almost speechless. John felt smugness creep in – very few people were able to surprise Sherlock Holmes, and yet he'd managed it.
“You purposefully didn't charge your phone last night,” said Sherlock.
It was John's turn to be taken aback. Sherlock had worked out the whole plan already, right back to the first step? He shook his head. “Incredible.”
Sherlock looked back at the engraving on his ring. “And you have finally learnt the date of our anniversary.”
Trust him to focus on that. Well, that had been one of the reasons that John had done it – enough was enough when it came to scathing comments about his memory. “Ten years seemed a bit long to still be clueless about it,” he said. “Thought it might be good to have a reminder.”
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he put his ring back on, then reached for John's hand and pulled his off instead. John let him take it.
His own ring said the same thing that Sherlock's now did.
SH&JW 23/10/11
Sherlock looked at it for a long moment, then replaced it on John's finger, keeping hold of his hand trapped in both of his own even after he had.
“We're going to Paris this weekend,” he said.
John blinked at the sudden subject change. “For a case?” he asked. This was the first he'd heard about it, but Sherlock had been completely distracted by the brain samples.
Sherlock let out a little sigh at John's slowness. “For our anniversary,” he clarified. “Ten years felt like it needed more than just dinner or a concert.”
“Oh,” said John, then smiled. He hadn't been to Paris in years. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“Of course it does,” said Sherlock. “It's my idea.”
John rolled his eyes at the arrogance, but couldn't prevent his smile widening as he squeezed Sherlock's hand.
They got the Eurostar to Paris on Friday evening, then Sherlock led the way to a hotel that was far nicer than anything John would have booked for them. Well, Sherlock's career was going from strength to strength these days, with more and more high profile cases, so they could probably afford to splash out a bit.
“This was my grandmother's favourite hotel,” Sherlock announced as they entered the room he had booked for them.
John blinked. That was possibly the first time Sherlock had ever voluntarily mentioned his family. “Came to Paris a lot, did she?”
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “She was French. She moved to England for my grandfather, but she insisted on coming back here at least once a year.” He held up his arm so that his sleeve slipped down and revealed his watch. “You know she gave this to him.”
It was the watch Mycroft had given Sherlock at their wedding. Sherlock wore it whenever he was reasonably certain that he wasn't going to end up in a situation where it might get damaged. On the back of it were engraved a few words of French that John had never got around to asking Sherlock to translate.
Well, now was as good a chance as any. “And she had it engraved,” he prompted.
Sherlock nodded. “Vieillissons ensemble. Le meilleur reste à venir,” he recited. His French accent was perfect, of course – or as far as John could tell, it was. He'd long since forgotten almost all his GCSE French. “Grow old with me,” Sherlock translated for him. “The best is yet to come.”
“That was for their fortieth anniversary, right?” asked John.
“Yes,” said Sherlock. “They spent it in this hotel.”
And now Sherlock had bought John to spend their own anniversary here. That was incredibly sentimental, especially for Sherlock. John smiled as he set their bags on the bed.
“What's the plan then?”
Sherlock shrugged as if he didn't already have a detailed timetable worked out, like he always did for their anniversaries. “Find something to eat tonight, have a wander around the area at the same time. Tomorrow, take in the least annoying of the sights – I can show you where I solved a triple murder in 2009, if you want. We have a table booked for dinner at eight. Our train home on Sunday isn't until after lunch, so we can either have a lie-in, or fit in a bit more sight-seeing.”
Oh yes, there it was. John wondered how many of the 'least annoying' sights would involve murder or crime in some way. He supposed that it was his career as well now, and there was no point in pretending he didn't find it almost as interesting as Sherlock did.
“Sounds good,” he said. “Let's get started.”
Breakfast at the hotel was a posher version of the usual continental breakfast. John was happily tucking into his second croissant before he noticed that Sherlock had barely touched his.
“You're not on a case,” he reminded him. “You haven't got an excuse not to eat.”
“Perhaps I just don't want to end up looking like a badly-coordinated toddler,” said Sherlock, nodding at John's shirt.
John looked down at himself to see that he was covered in flakes of croissant pastry. “Really?” he asked. “You're afraid of a few crumbs?”
“I'm not afraid,” said Sherlock sharply. “Do you have any idea how much this shirt cost?”
John made a face. “I do, unfortunately,” he said. He looked around until he'd spotted a waiter, then got up and headed for him.
“Excuse-moi,” he managed, and the waiter gave him a polite smile. “Avez vous-” continued John, then realised he had no idea how to finish the sentence. He took his best guess. “Um. Le toast pour mon, um, ami?” If he had ever known the word for 'husband', he had long since forgotten it. It wasn't as if he'd been expecting to find he had one when he'd been a teenager memorising vocabulary.
The waiter's smile turned slightly more amused. “Of course, Monsieur,” he said in perfect English. “Made with white or brown bread?”
“Brown,” said John. He might as well take his chance to get some fibre into Sherlock. “And some honey.” Because there was only one thing Sherlock ever wanted on his toast.
The waiter nodded. “I shall bring that straight over for you.”
He was as good as his word. Sherlock was presented with two slices of toast and a tiny pot of honey less than five minutes later. “Merci,” he said to the waiter, then he gave John a wide smile. “You got me toast,” he said.
John shrugged. “Happy Anniversary.”
That made Sherlock laugh. “I think you'll find the theme for ten years is tin, not toast.”
“Well, I thought you'd have more use for toast,” said John. “I can always go and find a couple of tins of beans instead.”
“No, no,” said Sherlock, finally starting to actually eat. “This will do me just fine.”
They set off into the city about an hour later, after John had polished off another two croissants. Sherlock turned out to be almost as knowledgeable about Parisian crime as he was about that of London and he made sure to fill John in on every detail that came into his head as they walked. They visited the catacombs, which John would have guessed would be near the top of any list of Sherlock-approved Parisian sights, and Notre-Dame, which he would not.
They had lunch in a café by the Arc de Triomphe, where Sherlock proved that his deduction skills were not limited to one nationality, and John ate a ridiculous amount of chocolate crepes.
Sherlock flat out refused to even consider going to the Louvre. “Do you have any idea how many idiot tourists there are in that place?” Instead, he took John to the Palais Garnier opera house, where they had a backstage tour, and then to the Paris Crime Museum, which John hadn't even known existed.
They were there for rather a long time. Sherlock examined every exhibit in minute detail, then told John every single thing that the information boards failed to mention, or had got wrong. By halfway around, he had solved at least three previously unsolved crimes, and John was wondering if he shouldn't drop a note in the comments box at the front desk about them.
Sherlock got a text as they were finally coming to the end of the museum. He frowned at it for a long moment.
“Who's that from?” asked John.
“Francois Le Villard,” said Sherlock. Le Villard was a French policeman whom Sherlock had been exchanging emails with about his methods, and being rather smugly condescending about whenever he had the chance. After their last email exchange, he'd claimed that Le Villard possessed two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective.
“He observes, and he deduces, but he's still lacking knowledge,” he'd said, tipping his chair back to an unsafe angle while balancing his laptop on the very edge of his desk. John had been half-hoping he'd overbalance and end up in a heap on the floor. “And knowledge is easy enough to accumulate, if you put your mind to it.” The chair had wobbled slightly, and he'd abruptly straightened it, then tried to look as if he'd been in perfect control the whole time. John had been forced to hide his smile behind the newspaper.
Now, Sherlock glanced up from his phone to say, “I told him I was coming to Paris, and he has a case he wants me to look at.”
“Right,” said John. “Well, are you going?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Would you mind?”
John stared at him. “Sherlock, you have never, ever, not even once, asked for my opinion on whether or not you take a case.”
“I know that,” said Sherlock. “But we are meant to be on holiday. I've heard that engaging in work on a holiday is frowned upon. Lestrade's ex-wife was always rather particular on that point.”
“Right,” said John. “And what on earth makes you think I'm anything like Lestrade's ex-wife? Go on, solve a case. We both know you'll be distracted and irritable if you don't.”
Sherlock beamed at him and sent off a text. “You're welcome to come with me,” he said as he tucked his phone away. “You're always welcome to come with me.”
“I know,” said John. “But you and Le Villard are going to do the whole thing in French, right?”
“We are in France,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Yeah, well, I don't really fancy spending the next few hours not understanding a thing that's going on. I'll do some sight-seeing on my own. See some of the things you're going to refuse to see with me, like the Eiffel Tower.”
Sherlock made a face. “God, that's even worse for tourists than the Louvre. I can't even begin to imagine why people would want to queue for hours just to look at Paris from the top of some glorified scaffolding.”
“My point exactly,” said John. He reached out for Sherlock's elbow and squeezed it. “Go on. Just text me if there's likely to be any excitement.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I should be able to solve it just from the paperwork.”
“Even more reason for me not to come,” said John.
Sherlock let out a deep and faked sigh. “Sometimes I think you only associate with me for the near-death experiences.”
“Yep,” said John. “Those, and the way I can always count on you to have used up all the milk just when I need a cup of tea.”
“You should start drinking it black,” said Sherlock. “I'll meet you in the hotel bar at seven thirty then, if I'm not done before then.”
John nodded and let him leave. It was only after he'd gone that he realised he had no idea how to get to the Eiffel Tower from where he was. Perhaps his first priority should be finding a map.
The Eiffel Tower was lovely, even if it was as packed with tourists as Sherlock had predicted. Afterwards, John wandered down the Champs-Élysées for a bit, wondering who on earth would buy any of the extremely overpriced and odd-looking clothes in the designer shops. They didn't even seem to have any jumpers.
He went back to the hotel after that to get ready for dinner. He'd brought along his one nice suit for the occasion, figuring that he might as well take the opportunity to wear it. Besides, it meant he could wear the cufflinks Mycroft had given him at their wedding, which he had only managed to do a handful of times in the last ten years. He and Sherlock didn't exactly lead the kind of life that came with black tie dinners. At least, not the kind that didn't end with a brawl with a criminal, and he didn't want to risk losing them. Mycroft would probably have him disappeared if he did.
When he was ready, he headed down to the bar. He was a bit early, so he fumbled his way through ordering a drink, trying to ignore the amused look the bartender gave him.
“I recognise that brand of French,” said a woman sitting a few seats down at the bar. “You haven't had much practice since school, right?”
She was roughly the same age as John and wearing a blouse that John would have said was more suited to a younger woman. That didn't mean he didn't appreciate the view that the low neckline gave him.
“That obvious?” he replied. “It's funny, I thought I'd remembered quite a bit, until I actually needed to use it.”
“It's never the useful phrases you remember,” she said with a smile. “I could talk about how old my hamster is, but trying to remember how to buy a newspaper is almost impossible.”
John smiled in recognition. He'd had to resort to sign language in his quest for a map earlier. “I'm John,” he said, holding a hand out.
She moved a few seats closer in order to take it. “I'm Hannah. I take it you've not been here long?”
“Since yesterday evening,” said John. “Just a flying weekend visit.”
They chatted for several minutes, exchanging stories of poor communication with the locals. Hannah ordered them both another drink before John could say he was waiting for someone, but a glance at his watch showed he still had ten minutes, even if Sherlock managed to tear himself away from the case in order to get there on time.
“So,” she said with a flirty little smile when they were about halfway through the drinks, “want to find somewhere for dinner? Then find some way to find pass the evening together?”
Her tone made it very clear precisely what she meant by that, and usually John would be more than happy to take her up on the offer, but not this evening. Time to play a card he usually hid when talking to women who might be up for a bit of no-strings fun.
He held up his left hand to display his ring. “I married, I'm afraid.”
Her smile didn't waver. “So am I,” she said, holding her own hand up. “Not here now though, are they? One evening of fun while we're both away from home is hardly a big deal, is it?”
“Unfortunately, John already has plans for this evening,” said a welcome voice behind John. “However, his morning is still free, if you wish to make arrangements for sexual intercourse then.”
The statement and the delivery was so Sherlockian that John couldn't hold in a smile as he glanced back at him. “I thought we might go to the Père-Lachaise Cemetery tomorrow,” he said. He'd done his own research on sights that Sherlock might actually want to visit while stuck in the queue for the Eiffel Tower.
Sherlock blinked, then returned his smile. “Yes, that seems like a good idea.”
John turned back to Hannah. “This is Sherlock,” he said. “My husband.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously taken aback.
John felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't exactly tried to stop her flirting, after all, and he had even been flirting back a bit. “Almost any other weekend, I'd have said yes,” he said, “but it's our anniversary.”
She looked even more taken aback, and glanced at Sherlock. “Ah, okay.”
Oh, right. Most married people who had sex with people other than their spouses had to keep it all a secret. Thank god John didn't have to bother with that.
“Come on, John,” said Sherlock, apparently bored with the conversation. “We should be getting to the restaurant.”
They left Hannah in the bar, still looking bewildered.
John had been worried that Sherlock had booked some unspeakably posh and pretentious restaurant for dinner, so when they arrived at a small, quirky-looking place that was tucked away on a back street in Montmartre, he was more than relieved.
Sherlock shot him an amused look as if he could read his every thought. “I'm not Mycroft, you know,” he said.
Apparently he could read John's every thought. “And thank god for that,” said John. “Apart from anything else, Greg would kill me.”
“You and my brother would be completely incompatible,” said Sherlock firmly. “Especially considering your heterosexuality.”
“I'm not sure I can claim to be completely heterosexual after ten years of marriage to a man,” said John thoughtfully. “It smacks a bit of denial.”
Sherlock threw him a surprised look but before he could respond the restaurant owner descended on them, greeting Sherlock effusively in a torrent of excited French.
“Let me guess,” said John once they were seated with menus and the owner had disappeared again. “You solved a case for him.”
“Not quite,” said Sherlock. “Although, if his wife is going to be that obvious about stealing bottles of wine for her lover, I probably will have by the end of the night.”
John glanced over at the woman behind the bar, who was glancing shiftily at her husband. “Do me a favour,” he said, “and leave mentioning it until we've finished our meal. Seems like the kind of thing that could disrupt the service a bit.”
Sherlock nodded. “Agreed. I'd hate to miss out on pudding; the profiteroles here are excellent.”
Sherlock waited until after they'd paid the bill to have a quiet word with the owner, who immediately flushed red and rounded on his wife with a furious outpouring. She immediately responded with equal fervour, gesturing wildly.
“Oh dear,” said Sherlock as he put his coat on. “She's insulting his sexual prowess.”
“Unlikely to end well,” commented John as he shrugged his own coat on.
“No,” agreed Sherlock. “He's now saying that her sister is much better-looking.”
The wife let out a screech of rage, grabbed an empty glass from behind the bar, and launched it at her husband. He ducked and it shattered against a wall.
“Come on,” said Sherlock. “Before things get even more out of hand, and we get caught up in it all.”
“Right,” said John, but he kept watching the action over his shoulder as they left. The owner had thrown his hands up to the sky as if imploring God to help him, while his wife stuffed more bottles of wine in her bag, then threw on her coat.
“This way,” said Sherlock once they were outside and away from the shouting. He put his hand on John's back to guide him, then left it there as they climbed up the hill.
It was a clear night and when they reached Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the top of the hill, the lights of Paris spread out below them were reflected by the stars above them.
“It's lovely,” said John.
“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. He was standing close against John's back, trapping a welcome warmth between their bodies. Paris in October was cold enough to make standing outside this late at night a chilly activity, but John wasn't really prepared to suggest going back to the hotel just yet.
“John,” said Sherlock, after they had passed a few minutes in contemplation of the view. “You are nearly fifty.”
John hadn't expected that. “Yes,” he agreed. “Thanks for reminding me. I'd almost forgotten I was an old bastard now.”
“Not quite yet,” said Sherlock. “Besides, I'm not far behind you. In another ten years, we will be close to sixty. The chance that we'll still be fit enough to run after criminals is slim, and it's even slimmer that we'll still come out best in a fight with men much younger than us.”
John turned to look at Sherlock's face. “Is this you realising that one day we're going to have to retire? I'm sure they'll still let you consult on cases that don't require running about, you know. You'll still be the best person at putting together the tiniest clues to point towards a solution.”
Sherlock huffed out an impatient breath. “I am aware of that. However, they will be able to send me that sort of puzzle electronically. There would be no need for me to remain in London.”
A memory came to John of a long ago day spent wandering through a country park together, and Sherlock talking about bee-keeping when he retired. “You want to move somewhere where you can have a hive.”
Sherlock smiled. “You remembered,” he said, sounding pleased. “I have finalised some of the other details of my plan now. I want to be able to get some distance from the pervasive stupidity of the general public and find somewhere quiet. Probably in Sussex – I grew up there, you know.” John didn't know, but he nodded as if he did. “I find apiology almost as fascinating as criminology. I wouldn't be bored.”
John hoped very much that Sherlock was right about that. The very last thing he wanted was to spend his old-age with a bored and frustrated Sherlock. He pictured a small cottage in the country, with Sherlock tending to his hives while John finally found the time to write up their cases into proper stories, and found himself nodding. “It sounds great.”
Sherlock's shoulders relaxed a very tiny amount, and John realised just how tense he was. “Good,” he said. “Good, I was hoping you'd say that. You- John.” He took a deep breath. “John, you will come with me, won't you?”
John stared at him for several long moments, during which Sherlock started to tense up even more. What kind of a question was that? “Sherlock,” he said eventually, restraining himself from shaking him with some effort. “Where the hell else would I go?”
Sherlock relaxed so completely that for a moment John thought he was going to collapse against him. “Oh,” he breathed out. “Good. That's- good.”
John shook his head. “You're an idiot,” he said. “Seriously, where else would I be but with my husband?”
A tiny smile curled Sherlock's lips up, and he reached out to take John's hands. “Nowhere else,” he said. “I just wasn't sure. Originally this was short-term, after all. You were hoping to find a woman to marry.”
John snorted. “Yeah, I think we both know that's never happening,” he said. Sherlock's smile grew and he squeezed John's hands, glowing with pleasure.
John had never even considered that Sherlock might have missed all the signs that John considered this a permanent arrangement. He shouldn't be worrying about that at all. He took a deep breath, glancing down at their hands and seeing his cufflinks and Sherlock's watch as well as their wedding rings.
Sherlock's grandmother had made her feelings clear. “Vieillissons ensemble. Le meilleur reste à venir,” he forced out.
Sherlock stared at him. “John,” he said, sounding appalled. “Never let the French hear you mutilate their language like that.”
John rolled his eyes. “Git,” he said, with affection.
Sherlock smiled. “Yes,” he agreed, sliding an arm around John's shoulders and guiding him away from the view. “Eventually, I'll be an old git.” He let his arm fall back down to his side, but John wasn't having that.
“Looking forward to it,” he said as he reached out and took Sherlock's hand, entangling their fingers.
The pleased smile Sherlock gave him was more than worth giving up a night in Hannah's bed. In fact, thought John as they headed back down towards their hotel, there was nothing any woman could offer him now that would be worth giving up a moment of this strange marriage with Sherlock.
Later that night, John took off his cufflinks and set them on the bedside table while Sherlock was in the bathroom. He could still remember the panic he'd felt when Mycroft had given them to him. He'd thought Mycroft was taking the whole thing far too seriously, that it was just one of Sherlock's strange whims that John was falling in with because- Well, because that was what he did. Sherlock had crazy ideas, and John just nodded and followed along behind, without really stopping to wonder why.
And here they were, ten years later, and the whole thing had fallen into place as if it was meant to be. He remembered Sherlock's excited mood that day, a rare example of him being eager about something that didn't involve crime or chemistry.
“Sherlock,” he called. Sherlock's head appeared around the bathroom door with a toothbrush in his mouth. “Did you know it would be like this?”
Sherlock removed the toothbrush from his mouth. “Paris?” he asked.
“No. When you proposed, did you know our marriage would turn out like this?” John did a vague gesture that took in Paris, the double bed that they'd soon be curled up in together and, hopefully, every other aspect of the life they shared.
“Ah,” said Sherlock. “As much as I would like to claim that level of foresight, I had no idea. I was merely acting on the impulse of the moment.”
“Because you wanted access to my hospital room,” said John.
“Access to you, wherever you might be,” corrected Sherlock.
John looked back at the bed and thought that, actually, that much hadn't changed at all. It was just that Sherlock had broadened his definition to include access to John whether he was awake or sleeping, as well as to John's undivided attention as a priority over everything else in his life. He nodded. “Fair enough.”
Sherlock disappeared back into the bathroom.
It was after John had taken his turn in there and they'd both put their pyjamas on that Sherlock resumed the conversation. He took his grandmother's watch off, setting it down on the bedside table.
“Irritatingly, I strongly suspect Mycroft knew,” he said. “He tends to look to the future more than I do.”
“That would explain his wedding presents,” said John. The idea that Mycroft had seen that this marriage would be far more permanent than either Sherlock or John had when they entered into it rankled, and he couldn't help reflecting Sherlock's annoyed expression at the thought.
Sherlock nodded, then gave John a smirk as he climbed into bed next to him. “He probably regrets at least one of those now, if it makes you feel any better. After all, at the time he didn't think he'd ever find someone of his own to give Mother's pearls to.” He nodded over at where John's cufflinks were.
John laughed. “Don't see Greg as the pearl type, really.”
“And you are?” asked Sherlock.
John raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Well, they're not thinking of getting married, are they?” he pointed out. “If they were, they'd have done it by now.” Greg and Mycroft had been together nearly eight years by now. That was more than long enough for at least one of them to have brought it up.
“Mycroft sees marriage as largely pointless, now that the tax benefits have dwindled,” said Sherlock. “I suspect Lestrade was rather put off by his first attempt. That doesn't mean that Mycroft wouldn't want to give him some kind of over-the-top family heirloom as a mark of commitment and longevity.”
“Well, he'll have to find something else,” said John, snuggling down under the covers with a yawn. “They're my over-the-top family heirloom now.”
Sherlock gave an amused snort and flicked the light out. He draped himself half over John in the same way that he did every night. “His fault for being too slow,” he agreed, settling in against John's shoulder.
John took hold of the hand that lay on his chest and squeezed it. “Damn straight,” he said. “Should have proposed first and sorted out the rest later.”
“It's much the best way,” agreed Sherlock.
John let his eyes fall shut, thinking that if they hadn't done it that way, it seemed very unlikely that they'd be where they were right now, and that he wouldn't give that up for anything. He touched the metal of Sherlock's ring, thinking of what it now read inside. There was something oddly pleasing about the idea of their initials engraved next to each other, displaying just how permanent this whim of Sherlock's had become.
“Good night, John,” said Sherlock.
“Night,” replied John, and let himself slide into sleep.
Next fic in the 'verse: Hearts And Flowers
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Date: 2012-11-28 05:33 pm (UTC)Haha!
Wonderfully fluffy!
It was really nice to meet you at the Sherlopalooza and it's great to have a face to go with the username! :)
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Date: 2014-01-29 04:09 am (UTC)I really like Sherlock's plans for Paris, John shooing him off to go solve crimes (oh! and Le Villard!), and John's version of "never argue with the waiter (or clue in the proprietor) until the bill arrives"...
... and the watch, of course, but you've probably already gathered that.
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Date: 2014-01-29 08:29 pm (UTC)