Mankind Should Be Our Business, chp. 5
By the time the sun comes up, Sherlock has retreated deep into his mind palace. There’s too much new information- he needs it catalogued and put away safely, where it won’t be lost or ignored. He’s cradled each moment in his hand like a gem, extrapolating every bit of data possible. What it tells him is clear; how to deal with it is less obvious.
Changes will be required, and he will make them. He never wants to catch so much as a glimpse of that possible future. Refuses to allow it to sneak up on him- on them (that there will be a ‘them’ is not in question). John, however unknowingly, has made his feelings clear. All that remains now is to convince him that those emotions are returned. It took a ghostly intervention for Sherlock to realize the depth of his own feelings; for his own sake, he hopes that it is somewhat easier to persuade John. He swallows hard and reaches for his mobile. It’s been nearly thirty years since he asked Mycroft for help; hopefully the shock doesn’t kill his brother where he sits.
“Sherlock- getting the required Christmas day greeting out of the way early, are we?” Mycroft’s tone is as dry and composed as always; if it didn’t involve asking for a favor, Sherlock would enjoy the confusion he is about to inflict.
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Sherlock catches the faintest of pauses before Mycroft’s reply.
“Thank you. The same to you, and to John, of course.” John. He probably should have spoken to John before setting this all in motion, but Sherlock wants to reveal it, fully-formed, like one of his deductions. Then John will smile his particular smile, and maybe call him ‘brilliant’ or ‘fantastic.’ Perhaps he will even... Sherlock cuts that thought off before he becomes any more distracted.
“Do you have plans for later today?” The pause is significantly more noticeable this time.
“Christmas lunch with David, of course. He inquired about your attendance, as always, although I’m not sure why, at this point.” Since they’ve been married, Mycroft’s husband has been trying to get both brothers in the same room for a meal. Sherlock has never understood why he persists in asking, and has never been interested in attending until now.
“I was thinking, actually, that John and I might attend. If that’s alright with you.” A sound, instantly stifled, which Sherlock correctly interprets as Mycroft trying not to choke.
“Might I inquire as to the reason for your change of heart? Surely the realization of your feelings for the good doctor haven’t made you any more inclined to grace us with your presence.” He’d expected that Mycroft would deduce it immediately, and finds that it doesn’t bother him. It’s nothing he’s interested in hiding.
“As it happens, I’ve recently been reminded that one should spend Christmas with the people one... cares about.” Sherlock hears the rapid clicking of keys on the other end of the line. He imagines that Mycroft is accessing the surveillance cameras around 221B, verifying that no one is holding Sherlock at gunpoint to prompt this confession.
“We’ll expect you at 3, then. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sherlock?” He’s probably expecting to hear one of their emergency code words, but they’ve never worked out a code for something like this.
“I need food. Breakfast. Something that John would like.” Mycroft doesn’t even bother to hide his laugh at this, but for the first time in years Sherlock doesn’t feel like Mycroft is laughing at him.
“It will be there within thirty minutes. Should I have him delivered to you within the hour, as well?”
“That would do nicely. Thank you.”
: : :
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is... not panicking, because, he tells himself, Sherlock Holmes does not panic. His earlier confidence has given way to speculations about the ways this plan could end; most of them have to do with John shouting at him. He adjusts the dishes spread across the table- Mrs. Hudson, who’d curiously followed Mycroft’s assistant upstairs, had informed him that presentation was key in these sorts of situations.
It will be fine. It will be fine. He knows that John is in love with him, there’s no reason to be so- concerned. There’s the possibility, though, that John has changed his mind in the intervening hours. He almost certainly spent the evening with Lestrade, both men were inebriated, anything could have... No. No, he refuses to have doubts. Even if something happened, Sherlock has decided on this course of action, so John will simply have to change his mind back. It’s only reasonable.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he might have missed the sound of John coming up the stairs, had he not been stomping his way up them. Obviously being brought back to Baker Street at nine in the morning has done little for John’s temperament. Sherlock can only hope that the rest of his plan will be more well-received.
John slams his way into the flat, looking exhausted, rumpled, and more than a bit hung-over. Sherlock is relieved to see that he’s spent the night alone on Lestrade’s sofa.
“Sherlock- care to inform me why Mycroft showed up at Lestrade’s flat and insisted ‘it was of the utmost importance that I return to the flat immediately,’ when I know for a fact that you’ve got nothing on but some experiment? It’s bloody Christmas morning, you could at least...” He trails off as he catches sight of the frankly ridiculous amount of food in the kitchen.
Sherlock can’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching, so he clasps them behind his back. “Merry Christmas, John. Breakfast?”
John simply stands there, dumbfounded, so Sherlock steers him into the kitchen and sets him gently into their one remaining chair. He fills a plate with John’s favorites and places it in front of him expectantly.
John eyes the food suspiciously. “What...why...what? Is this poisoned? What on Earth is going on, Sherlock?”
“John. It’s come to my attention that I- that you- what I mean to say is- oh, sod it all.” He claps both hands around John’s head and leans down to kiss him, rather forcefully, on the mouth.
Rather than kissing him back, as Sherlock was hoping, John splutters and shoves him away.
“Get off me, you git! What the bloody sodding hell is happening? I’m gone for one night and suddenly there’s breakfast and, and, and kissing? I want an explanation, Sherlock, and I want it now.”
Sherlock takes a deep breath and locks his eyes on John’s face, which is getting steadily more flushed. “I love you, John. I love you and I think that we should solve crimes and have adventures and maybe get a dog- you like dogs- and I’ll be brilliant and you’ll be brave. I love you. We can travel- I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt, do you like Egypt- and grow old and hold hands and raise bees and live in the country. I’ll compose a sonata for you and you’ll turn your blog into a book. I love you.”
John’s knees wobble and he props himself against the table, but his gaze is steady as he looks at Sherlock. “So... that’s the plan, is it?”
Sherlock swallows and nods.
John pushes himself away from the table and steps into Sherlock’s personal space. His John, who never hesitates and walks into danger with wide-open eyes.
“I think you’d better kiss me again, then, hadn’t you?”
: : :
Later there will be time for explanation and discussion. They will go to Christmas lunch at Mycroft’s, and John will look dashing in a suit. Night will fall, and they will climb under the blankets and find a new way to share secrets. There will be plans, and arguments, and chases through London, grey hair and tears and lives well-lived. For now there are kisses, first and cherished and lovely, and in the air the sound of church bells on Christmas morning.
Changes will be required, and he will make them. He never wants to catch so much as a glimpse of that possible future. Refuses to allow it to sneak up on him- on them (that there will be a ‘them’ is not in question). John, however unknowingly, has made his feelings clear. All that remains now is to convince him that those emotions are returned. It took a ghostly intervention for Sherlock to realize the depth of his own feelings; for his own sake, he hopes that it is somewhat easier to persuade John. He swallows hard and reaches for his mobile. It’s been nearly thirty years since he asked Mycroft for help; hopefully the shock doesn’t kill his brother where he sits.
“Sherlock- getting the required Christmas day greeting out of the way early, are we?” Mycroft’s tone is as dry and composed as always; if it didn’t involve asking for a favor, Sherlock would enjoy the confusion he is about to inflict.
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Sherlock catches the faintest of pauses before Mycroft’s reply.
“Thank you. The same to you, and to John, of course.” John. He probably should have spoken to John before setting this all in motion, but Sherlock wants to reveal it, fully-formed, like one of his deductions. Then John will smile his particular smile, and maybe call him ‘brilliant’ or ‘fantastic.’ Perhaps he will even... Sherlock cuts that thought off before he becomes any more distracted.
“Do you have plans for later today?” The pause is significantly more noticeable this time.
“Christmas lunch with David, of course. He inquired about your attendance, as always, although I’m not sure why, at this point.” Since they’ve been married, Mycroft’s husband has been trying to get both brothers in the same room for a meal. Sherlock has never understood why he persists in asking, and has never been interested in attending until now.
“I was thinking, actually, that John and I might attend. If that’s alright with you.” A sound, instantly stifled, which Sherlock correctly interprets as Mycroft trying not to choke.
“Might I inquire as to the reason for your change of heart? Surely the realization of your feelings for the good doctor haven’t made you any more inclined to grace us with your presence.” He’d expected that Mycroft would deduce it immediately, and finds that it doesn’t bother him. It’s nothing he’s interested in hiding.
“As it happens, I’ve recently been reminded that one should spend Christmas with the people one... cares about.” Sherlock hears the rapid clicking of keys on the other end of the line. He imagines that Mycroft is accessing the surveillance cameras around 221B, verifying that no one is holding Sherlock at gunpoint to prompt this confession.
“We’ll expect you at 3, then. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sherlock?” He’s probably expecting to hear one of their emergency code words, but they’ve never worked out a code for something like this.
“I need food. Breakfast. Something that John would like.” Mycroft doesn’t even bother to hide his laugh at this, but for the first time in years Sherlock doesn’t feel like Mycroft is laughing at him.
“It will be there within thirty minutes. Should I have him delivered to you within the hour, as well?”
“That would do nicely. Thank you.”
: : :
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is... not panicking, because, he tells himself, Sherlock Holmes does not panic. His earlier confidence has given way to speculations about the ways this plan could end; most of them have to do with John shouting at him. He adjusts the dishes spread across the table- Mrs. Hudson, who’d curiously followed Mycroft’s assistant upstairs, had informed him that presentation was key in these sorts of situations.
It will be fine. It will be fine. He knows that John is in love with him, there’s no reason to be so- concerned. There’s the possibility, though, that John has changed his mind in the intervening hours. He almost certainly spent the evening with Lestrade, both men were inebriated, anything could have... No. No, he refuses to have doubts. Even if something happened, Sherlock has decided on this course of action, so John will simply have to change his mind back. It’s only reasonable.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he might have missed the sound of John coming up the stairs, had he not been stomping his way up them. Obviously being brought back to Baker Street at nine in the morning has done little for John’s temperament. Sherlock can only hope that the rest of his plan will be more well-received.
John slams his way into the flat, looking exhausted, rumpled, and more than a bit hung-over. Sherlock is relieved to see that he’s spent the night alone on Lestrade’s sofa.
“Sherlock- care to inform me why Mycroft showed up at Lestrade’s flat and insisted ‘it was of the utmost importance that I return to the flat immediately,’ when I know for a fact that you’ve got nothing on but some experiment? It’s bloody Christmas morning, you could at least...” He trails off as he catches sight of the frankly ridiculous amount of food in the kitchen.
Sherlock can’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching, so he clasps them behind his back. “Merry Christmas, John. Breakfast?”
John simply stands there, dumbfounded, so Sherlock steers him into the kitchen and sets him gently into their one remaining chair. He fills a plate with John’s favorites and places it in front of him expectantly.
John eyes the food suspiciously. “What...why...what? Is this poisoned? What on Earth is going on, Sherlock?”
“John. It’s come to my attention that I- that you- what I mean to say is- oh, sod it all.” He claps both hands around John’s head and leans down to kiss him, rather forcefully, on the mouth.
Rather than kissing him back, as Sherlock was hoping, John splutters and shoves him away.
“Get off me, you git! What the bloody sodding hell is happening? I’m gone for one night and suddenly there’s breakfast and, and, and kissing? I want an explanation, Sherlock, and I want it now.”
Sherlock takes a deep breath and locks his eyes on John’s face, which is getting steadily more flushed. “I love you, John. I love you and I think that we should solve crimes and have adventures and maybe get a dog- you like dogs- and I’ll be brilliant and you’ll be brave. I love you. We can travel- I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt, do you like Egypt- and grow old and hold hands and raise bees and live in the country. I’ll compose a sonata for you and you’ll turn your blog into a book. I love you.”
John’s knees wobble and he props himself against the table, but his gaze is steady as he looks at Sherlock. “So... that’s the plan, is it?”
Sherlock swallows and nods.
John pushes himself away from the table and steps into Sherlock’s personal space. His John, who never hesitates and walks into danger with wide-open eyes.
“I think you’d better kiss me again, then, hadn’t you?”
: : :
Later there will be time for explanation and discussion. They will go to Christmas lunch at Mycroft’s, and John will look dashing in a suit. Night will fall, and they will climb under the blankets and find a new way to share secrets. There will be plans, and arguments, and chases through London, grey hair and tears and lives well-lived. For now there are kisses, first and cherished and lovely, and in the air the sound of church bells on Christmas morning.