Fic: At the Zoo (Part 3 of Applications and Practices of Basic Arithmetic)
Rating: G
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Warnings: None
Summary: In which John bumps into an old friend, Teddy is perceptive, Sherlock is overprotective and Rosie's fingers are not eaten by a goat.
Notes: I was going to post this on Father's Day and then chickened out. Note this is unbeta'd and potentially pointless and even in poor taste, but it's a snapshot of their lives that I've been holding onto for the better part of a year and decided finally to just bit the bullet and share it with you as a thank you for being so eternally lovely - and as proof that I haven't entirely abandoned them after all.
“Christ, that’s never John Watson!”
The sound of his name snaps John out of his reverie and he looks up and around, trying to find where it came from. His eyes come to rest on the very last person he would have expected to see in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon outside the cafe at London Zoo.
“Euan!”
He jumps up and strides toward his friend and they hug, awkwardly and one-armed, in the way that only men who last saw each other in the Afghani desert can.
“Last I heard, mate, you’d been left to die in a ditch in the Kush! But look at you! And is that your bairn there? Christ. Never took you for the settling down type. What was it we called you? Three-Continents Watson was it?”
John laughs. “Yeah, that was me. Not so much anymore. That’s Teddy, he’s knackered, as you can see.” Teddy is sprawled out in his pram seat, his hair plastered to his sweaty face, fast asleep. The excitement of the animals had not been enough to counter his habitual need for a two o’clock nap, and frankly John had been glad of the excuse to sit down for a moment. “His sister’s off somewhere, probably completely covered in mud.”
“Two bairns, is it? Bleeding Christ, Watson.”
“Twins,” John says, grinning. “And are those yours?” He nods towards the little girl and boy, five and seven respectively, hanging around behind the massive Scotsman, clinging to a woman who is presumably their mother. She smiles and waves at John, who nods back.
“Aye, and my wife Ellen. Where’s yours got to?”
“Oh, around somewhere, probably trying to keep Annierose out of the lion’s cage,” John says, purposefully vague. “Last I saw her she was trying to climb the wall to get in to pet the otters.”
“She sounds a handful,” Euan says, laughing.
“And a half,” John agrees. “So how long have you been home, then?”
“Oh, a good few years. I got a bit of troublesome shrapnel, you know, not long after you left. I kept telling them I was fine but they didn’t want to know, and Ellen was more than glad to have me home again to help with our own - alright, there?!”
A tiny canon-ball of tearful pink and brown chooses that moment to hurtle itself at John’s legs, crying loudly as it goes.
“Hey, what’s wrong,” John asks, shooting Euan an apologetic look and crouching to check his daughter for the usual scrapes and cuts. He pushes her unruly hair back from her puffy red face and wipes a few tears away with his thumbs.
“P-p-papa won’t let me pet the goats!” she finally manages to wail. Sighing, John kisses her forehead and stands back up, spotting Sherlock strolling purposefully towards them over Euan’s shoulder.
“John, perhaps you’d like to explain to your daughter why it’s preferable that she keep all ten fingers for use at a later date,” he growls in his rumbling baritone, not paying Euan any attention (impressive, John thinks, as the man is glaringly ginger and at least six foot four with so many muscles he ought to be selling cleaning products) as he swoops in and plucks the tiny girl off of John’s legs and into his arms, “and not have them eaten by a goat at the age of four.” Annierose continues to cry but goes up without further protest, rubbing her snotty nose on his olive green shirt.
“Sherlock, they’re goats in a petting zoo, not crocodiles in the Nile,” John sighs, scrunching his nose. “She can pet them if she wants, that’s the point. They won’t hurt her. Sorry, Euan,” he says, turning to smile apologetically at his friend, who is watching the scene with a blank look on his otherwise expressive face.
Only then does Sherlock spare a glance for the man his husband has been talking to, giving him a quick once over before sighing impatiently and turning to argue with John, who anticipates this and puts his hand up to stop him in his tracks.
“You’re being rude, Sherlock,” he reminds him, less gentle than he could be.
“Fine,” Sherlock says, rounding on Euan pointedly and, to John’s dismay, letting loose. “You’re a friend of John’s from Afghanistan. Invalided home on a minor injury, more recently than John but not by much. You hadn’t known John survived his accident until about five minutes ago, and you’re down from Glasgow with your wife and kids to see Wicked on the West End, as it’s your daughter’s favourite musical. You are surprised to learn that John, the famed philanderer, has not one but two children and you will be even more surprised to learn that he shares those children with someone who lacks the usual, shall we say, apparatus you would expect another army man’s partner to possess, namely, with myself and my obvious lack of anything remotely approaching a vagina. You will express surprise that will only thinly hide your horror and will insult us both, though John will never say anything because he is far too polite for his own good. I, however, do not share his compunctions and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with your latent homophobia so if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take my daughter to pet a large, smelly farm animal that will no doubt maim her permanently. John, we’ll be back shortly and if she has fewer fingers than she did before, I won’t say I told you so and you can be the one to explain when she’s older.”
And with that, Sherlock swirls away, striding back towards the petting zoo and leaving John behind him with his face in his hands and Euan staring after him, his jaw nearly on the floor.
“Sorry,” John says, looking up at his friend, still staring after Sherlock looking not unlike someone who’s just had a bomb go off in their face. (John spots Euan’s wife, behind him, grinning into her hand.) “He’s always like that. He doesn’t mean it, he’s just cross he had to leave an experiment running because he’d forgotten he’d promised to bring them to the zoo.”
“To be honest,” Euan says slowly, forcing himself to look back down at John, “I think he actually meant every word he just said. How did he know all that?”
John laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, he’s an actual genius, he’s just not got the hang of manners yet. Sorry, mate.”
Euan waves his apology away, though he still looks shell-shocked. “John Watson, shacked up with a man. And twins! Where’s their mother, then? She take off and leave you with the kids, or...?”
“Eh? Oh, no, they’re not... I mean. Technically they’re my sister’s, well and Sherlock’s, but...”
“No, stop, I don’t need to know,” Euan says, holding up a hand. “Sorry, mate, I mean, do what you like, it’s just …”
“It doesn’t compute, eh?” John grins. He’s always liked Euan; they had been quite close in Afghanistan. He hasn't. looked up any of his old friends after returning to London, fearing what he may find, but it's always nice to see them again if they happened to bump into each other. Very few people understand what it’s like, to be surrounded by civilians but never to belong. Sherlock understands, but that’s not something he can or wants to explain to this man who he hasn’t seen in years.
“I guess nearly dying can change a man,” Euan admits. Sherlock, of course, was right; he does look slightly uneasy, though he’s trying to hide it. His wife and children have moved on, leaving him there to catch up, but John doesn’t mean to force him into staying if he’s uncomfortable.
“Falling in love can change a man,” John corrects, gently. “I wasn’t looking for it, but then it happened and I wouldn’t trade him - them - for the world.”
“Well,” Euan says, slowly. “I reckon I Can understand that. So -” he pauses, awkwardly, clearly casting around for a change of topic. “Does that one talk?” John turns to see Teddy sitting up and watching him with his big, owlish blue eyes.
“Hey Ted, good nap?”
The boy nods, rubbing at his eyes before lifting his arms to be picked up out of the pram. John scoops him up and settles him on his hips.
“This is a friend of mine, Euan. Euan, Teddy.”
“Alright, mate?”
Teddy studies him closely, one arm wrapped around his father’s shoulder. Then he turns to look at John and says, “Papa shouted at him, didn’t he?” Euan bursts out laughing and John grins, ruffling Teddy’s golden hair affectionately.
“You know your Papa,” John says. Teddy wrinkles his nose.
“Papa’s rude to strangers because they confuse him,” Teddy recites, “but that doesn’t mean we get to be rude to strangers because we have manners and we know how to use them.” John winks at him and nods.
“Got it one, mate.”
“He’s a clever kid,” Euan comments, grinning. “You’d get on well with my Amy, she’s whipsmart. About the same age, I reckon.”
“I’m four and three quarters which is nine months,” Teddy tells him, sagely. John grins at him and ruffles his hair again. “Where did Papa go?”
“He took Annierose to pet the goats,” John says, letting Teddy climb down out of his arms when he wriggles. “Do you want to go see them too?”
Teddy ponders this, and then looks up at his dad, grinning. “It’s muddy where the goats are,” he says.
John narrows his eyes. “Yes, it is.”
“Papa will have to go in with Annierose because they won’t let her in herself.”
“Yes, he will,” John agrees, beginning to get an idea of where his son is going with this.
“Papa hates getting muddy,” Teddy continues, beaming. “I love it when he shouts at Annie for getting him muddy. Can we go see?”
John laughs and puts a fond hand on his son’s head. “You know, you’re as bad as your father. Euan, I think that’s my cue. Annierose has her Papa wrapped around her little finger, and Teddy’s right, there’s nothing funnier than Sherlock covered in mud, but he’ll be insufferable for days if I let it get out of hand, and I don’t fancy being in the doghouse.”
“Papa makes Dad sleep on the couch when he’s annoyed even though he knows it makes Dad’s back hurt,” Teddy pipes up.
“Hush, you,” John says, pushing his son playfully. Teddy scowls at him. “Euan, it’s been great seeing you again.”
“It’s definitely been interesting,” Euan fills in, though he’s still watching the two of them with a bit of shell-shock on his face. “You’ve certainly got a handful, Watson.”
John laughs. “I live with three geniuses, two of which are under the age of five. I’m never bored. Listen, look me up next time you’re in London, I’ll slip the madhouse and we’ll go for a pint, yeah? And look, I’m sorry, again, about my husband, he’s just a bit … ”
“Insolent,” Teddy pipes up, helpfully.
“Rude,” John finishes, firmly, steering his son towards the pram by a single hand on his head.
“It’s fine, Watson. God knows you’re a braver man than I am to take on all that.”
“You’ve really no idea,” John agrees, smirking. “Enjoy the musical tonight, then.”
“Oh, I won’t. Musicals don’t do much for me, but my Amy has me a bit whipped, so I’ll put up with it. It was good to see you, Watson. Glad to know you’re not at the bottom of a ditch.”
“You too, McCleod. Look me up, yeah?”
“Will do, mate. And tell that man of yours -”
“To piss off?” John guesses, grinning when Euan blushes and scratches behind his ear awkwardly. “I tell him that on an hourly basis anyway. I’ll pass the message on.”
Euan laughs. “You’re alright, Watson. See you, Teddy.”
“Bye, Mr. Euan.”
The massive Scotsman turns and leaves them alone. John looks down at Teddy, who is using the pram like a climbing frame.
“In or out, Ted?”
“Shoulders!” Teddy shouts. John hefts his son up onto his shoulders, settling his weight there with one hand and pushing the pram along with the other. They are nearly at the petting area when Teddy pipes up again. “Was that man in the army with you, Dad?”
John grins. “How could you tell?”
“He stands like you do, all straight and with his legs exactly the right amount apart.”
A low voice interrupts and stops John from replying. “Good, Hamish, and?” Sherlock has appeared at John’s side, their daughter resting on his shoulders, kicking her muddy shoes against his chest happily. John smirks at him; Sherlock narrows his eyes quickly before turning his attention to his son. “Come on then, what else?”
“He squints funny, even though it’s not that sunny,” Teddy says. “Dad does that sometimes, when he’s thinking about being a soldier.”
“Good. What else?”
“He had a tattoo,” Annierose cries loudly from above Sherlock’s head. “On his arm! You could see it, under the arm of his shirt, it was like the mug Daddy has that we’re not allowed to use.”
“Very good, children,” Sherlock says. “At least we know your eyes are still working.” John looks over at Sherlock fondly. He has a smudge of dirt clear across his face and his shoes are probably beyond repair. Annierose had mud on her hands and her hands worked into his hair, and John thinks the two of them are the most beautiful muddy creatures he’s ever seen. He leans in quickly and kisses Sherlock soundly on the lips; Sherlock looks surprised but pleased when he pulls away. Above them, Teddy laughs and Annierose makes vomiting noises.
“Oi! Quiet in the cheap seats or there’ll be no ice cream tonight,” John says, tugging gently on his daughter’s leg.
“But Dad! It’s always ice cream and Doctor Who on Saturday nights,” she complains, glaring down at him from her throne on top of Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Not if I say it isn’t,” John threatens, winking at Sherlock - who is looking oddly unhappy.
“I was rather looking forward to the macademia flavour you were going to surprise me with,” he mutters, giving John the side eye.
“Shut up,” John says, grinning at him. “As if I’d cancel ice cream and Doctor Who.”
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Warnings: None
Summary: In which John bumps into an old friend, Teddy is perceptive, Sherlock is overprotective and Rosie's fingers are not eaten by a goat.
Notes: I was going to post this on Father's Day and then chickened out. Note this is unbeta'd and potentially pointless and even in poor taste, but it's a snapshot of their lives that I've been holding onto for the better part of a year and decided finally to just bit the bullet and share it with you as a thank you for being so eternally lovely - and as proof that I haven't entirely abandoned them after all.
“Christ, that’s never John Watson!”
The sound of his name snaps John out of his reverie and he looks up and around, trying to find where it came from. His eyes come to rest on the very last person he would have expected to see in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon outside the cafe at London Zoo.
“Euan!”
He jumps up and strides toward his friend and they hug, awkwardly and one-armed, in the way that only men who last saw each other in the Afghani desert can.
“Last I heard, mate, you’d been left to die in a ditch in the Kush! But look at you! And is that your bairn there? Christ. Never took you for the settling down type. What was it we called you? Three-Continents Watson was it?”
John laughs. “Yeah, that was me. Not so much anymore. That’s Teddy, he’s knackered, as you can see.” Teddy is sprawled out in his pram seat, his hair plastered to his sweaty face, fast asleep. The excitement of the animals had not been enough to counter his habitual need for a two o’clock nap, and frankly John had been glad of the excuse to sit down for a moment. “His sister’s off somewhere, probably completely covered in mud.”
“Two bairns, is it? Bleeding Christ, Watson.”
“Twins,” John says, grinning. “And are those yours?” He nods towards the little girl and boy, five and seven respectively, hanging around behind the massive Scotsman, clinging to a woman who is presumably their mother. She smiles and waves at John, who nods back.
“Aye, and my wife Ellen. Where’s yours got to?”
“Oh, around somewhere, probably trying to keep Annierose out of the lion’s cage,” John says, purposefully vague. “Last I saw her she was trying to climb the wall to get in to pet the otters.”
“She sounds a handful,” Euan says, laughing.
“And a half,” John agrees. “So how long have you been home, then?”
“Oh, a good few years. I got a bit of troublesome shrapnel, you know, not long after you left. I kept telling them I was fine but they didn’t want to know, and Ellen was more than glad to have me home again to help with our own - alright, there?!”
A tiny canon-ball of tearful pink and brown chooses that moment to hurtle itself at John’s legs, crying loudly as it goes.
“Hey, what’s wrong,” John asks, shooting Euan an apologetic look and crouching to check his daughter for the usual scrapes and cuts. He pushes her unruly hair back from her puffy red face and wipes a few tears away with his thumbs.
“P-p-papa won’t let me pet the goats!” she finally manages to wail. Sighing, John kisses her forehead and stands back up, spotting Sherlock strolling purposefully towards them over Euan’s shoulder.
“John, perhaps you’d like to explain to your daughter why it’s preferable that she keep all ten fingers for use at a later date,” he growls in his rumbling baritone, not paying Euan any attention (impressive, John thinks, as the man is glaringly ginger and at least six foot four with so many muscles he ought to be selling cleaning products) as he swoops in and plucks the tiny girl off of John’s legs and into his arms, “and not have them eaten by a goat at the age of four.” Annierose continues to cry but goes up without further protest, rubbing her snotty nose on his olive green shirt.
“Sherlock, they’re goats in a petting zoo, not crocodiles in the Nile,” John sighs, scrunching his nose. “She can pet them if she wants, that’s the point. They won’t hurt her. Sorry, Euan,” he says, turning to smile apologetically at his friend, who is watching the scene with a blank look on his otherwise expressive face.
Only then does Sherlock spare a glance for the man his husband has been talking to, giving him a quick once over before sighing impatiently and turning to argue with John, who anticipates this and puts his hand up to stop him in his tracks.
“You’re being rude, Sherlock,” he reminds him, less gentle than he could be.
“Fine,” Sherlock says, rounding on Euan pointedly and, to John’s dismay, letting loose. “You’re a friend of John’s from Afghanistan. Invalided home on a minor injury, more recently than John but not by much. You hadn’t known John survived his accident until about five minutes ago, and you’re down from Glasgow with your wife and kids to see Wicked on the West End, as it’s your daughter’s favourite musical. You are surprised to learn that John, the famed philanderer, has not one but two children and you will be even more surprised to learn that he shares those children with someone who lacks the usual, shall we say, apparatus you would expect another army man’s partner to possess, namely, with myself and my obvious lack of anything remotely approaching a vagina. You will express surprise that will only thinly hide your horror and will insult us both, though John will never say anything because he is far too polite for his own good. I, however, do not share his compunctions and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with your latent homophobia so if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take my daughter to pet a large, smelly farm animal that will no doubt maim her permanently. John, we’ll be back shortly and if she has fewer fingers than she did before, I won’t say I told you so and you can be the one to explain when she’s older.”
And with that, Sherlock swirls away, striding back towards the petting zoo and leaving John behind him with his face in his hands and Euan staring after him, his jaw nearly on the floor.
“Sorry,” John says, looking up at his friend, still staring after Sherlock looking not unlike someone who’s just had a bomb go off in their face. (John spots Euan’s wife, behind him, grinning into her hand.) “He’s always like that. He doesn’t mean it, he’s just cross he had to leave an experiment running because he’d forgotten he’d promised to bring them to the zoo.”
“To be honest,” Euan says slowly, forcing himself to look back down at John, “I think he actually meant every word he just said. How did he know all that?”
John laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Oh, he’s an actual genius, he’s just not got the hang of manners yet. Sorry, mate.”
Euan waves his apology away, though he still looks shell-shocked. “John Watson, shacked up with a man. And twins! Where’s their mother, then? She take off and leave you with the kids, or...?”
“Eh? Oh, no, they’re not... I mean. Technically they’re my sister’s, well and Sherlock’s, but...”
“No, stop, I don’t need to know,” Euan says, holding up a hand. “Sorry, mate, I mean, do what you like, it’s just …”
“It doesn’t compute, eh?” John grins. He’s always liked Euan; they had been quite close in Afghanistan. He hasn't. looked up any of his old friends after returning to London, fearing what he may find, but it's always nice to see them again if they happened to bump into each other. Very few people understand what it’s like, to be surrounded by civilians but never to belong. Sherlock understands, but that’s not something he can or wants to explain to this man who he hasn’t seen in years.
“I guess nearly dying can change a man,” Euan admits. Sherlock, of course, was right; he does look slightly uneasy, though he’s trying to hide it. His wife and children have moved on, leaving him there to catch up, but John doesn’t mean to force him into staying if he’s uncomfortable.
“Falling in love can change a man,” John corrects, gently. “I wasn’t looking for it, but then it happened and I wouldn’t trade him - them - for the world.”
“Well,” Euan says, slowly. “I reckon I Can understand that. So -” he pauses, awkwardly, clearly casting around for a change of topic. “Does that one talk?” John turns to see Teddy sitting up and watching him with his big, owlish blue eyes.
“Hey Ted, good nap?”
The boy nods, rubbing at his eyes before lifting his arms to be picked up out of the pram. John scoops him up and settles him on his hips.
“This is a friend of mine, Euan. Euan, Teddy.”
“Alright, mate?”
Teddy studies him closely, one arm wrapped around his father’s shoulder. Then he turns to look at John and says, “Papa shouted at him, didn’t he?” Euan bursts out laughing and John grins, ruffling Teddy’s golden hair affectionately.
“You know your Papa,” John says. Teddy wrinkles his nose.
“Papa’s rude to strangers because they confuse him,” Teddy recites, “but that doesn’t mean we get to be rude to strangers because we have manners and we know how to use them.” John winks at him and nods.
“Got it one, mate.”
“He’s a clever kid,” Euan comments, grinning. “You’d get on well with my Amy, she’s whipsmart. About the same age, I reckon.”
“I’m four and three quarters which is nine months,” Teddy tells him, sagely. John grins at him and ruffles his hair again. “Where did Papa go?”
“He took Annierose to pet the goats,” John says, letting Teddy climb down out of his arms when he wriggles. “Do you want to go see them too?”
Teddy ponders this, and then looks up at his dad, grinning. “It’s muddy where the goats are,” he says.
John narrows his eyes. “Yes, it is.”
“Papa will have to go in with Annierose because they won’t let her in herself.”
“Yes, he will,” John agrees, beginning to get an idea of where his son is going with this.
“Papa hates getting muddy,” Teddy continues, beaming. “I love it when he shouts at Annie for getting him muddy. Can we go see?”
John laughs and puts a fond hand on his son’s head. “You know, you’re as bad as your father. Euan, I think that’s my cue. Annierose has her Papa wrapped around her little finger, and Teddy’s right, there’s nothing funnier than Sherlock covered in mud, but he’ll be insufferable for days if I let it get out of hand, and I don’t fancy being in the doghouse.”
“Papa makes Dad sleep on the couch when he’s annoyed even though he knows it makes Dad’s back hurt,” Teddy pipes up.
“Hush, you,” John says, pushing his son playfully. Teddy scowls at him. “Euan, it’s been great seeing you again.”
“It’s definitely been interesting,” Euan fills in, though he’s still watching the two of them with a bit of shell-shock on his face. “You’ve certainly got a handful, Watson.”
John laughs. “I live with three geniuses, two of which are under the age of five. I’m never bored. Listen, look me up next time you’re in London, I’ll slip the madhouse and we’ll go for a pint, yeah? And look, I’m sorry, again, about my husband, he’s just a bit … ”
“Insolent,” Teddy pipes up, helpfully.
“Rude,” John finishes, firmly, steering his son towards the pram by a single hand on his head.
“It’s fine, Watson. God knows you’re a braver man than I am to take on all that.”
“You’ve really no idea,” John agrees, smirking. “Enjoy the musical tonight, then.”
“Oh, I won’t. Musicals don’t do much for me, but my Amy has me a bit whipped, so I’ll put up with it. It was good to see you, Watson. Glad to know you’re not at the bottom of a ditch.”
“You too, McCleod. Look me up, yeah?”
“Will do, mate. And tell that man of yours -”
“To piss off?” John guesses, grinning when Euan blushes and scratches behind his ear awkwardly. “I tell him that on an hourly basis anyway. I’ll pass the message on.”
Euan laughs. “You’re alright, Watson. See you, Teddy.”
“Bye, Mr. Euan.”
The massive Scotsman turns and leaves them alone. John looks down at Teddy, who is using the pram like a climbing frame.
“In or out, Ted?”
“Shoulders!” Teddy shouts. John hefts his son up onto his shoulders, settling his weight there with one hand and pushing the pram along with the other. They are nearly at the petting area when Teddy pipes up again. “Was that man in the army with you, Dad?”
John grins. “How could you tell?”
“He stands like you do, all straight and with his legs exactly the right amount apart.”
A low voice interrupts and stops John from replying. “Good, Hamish, and?” Sherlock has appeared at John’s side, their daughter resting on his shoulders, kicking her muddy shoes against his chest happily. John smirks at him; Sherlock narrows his eyes quickly before turning his attention to his son. “Come on then, what else?”
“He squints funny, even though it’s not that sunny,” Teddy says. “Dad does that sometimes, when he’s thinking about being a soldier.”
“Good. What else?”
“He had a tattoo,” Annierose cries loudly from above Sherlock’s head. “On his arm! You could see it, under the arm of his shirt, it was like the mug Daddy has that we’re not allowed to use.”
“Very good, children,” Sherlock says. “At least we know your eyes are still working.” John looks over at Sherlock fondly. He has a smudge of dirt clear across his face and his shoes are probably beyond repair. Annierose had mud on her hands and her hands worked into his hair, and John thinks the two of them are the most beautiful muddy creatures he’s ever seen. He leans in quickly and kisses Sherlock soundly on the lips; Sherlock looks surprised but pleased when he pulls away. Above them, Teddy laughs and Annierose makes vomiting noises.
“Oi! Quiet in the cheap seats or there’ll be no ice cream tonight,” John says, tugging gently on his daughter’s leg.
“But Dad! It’s always ice cream and Doctor Who on Saturday nights,” she complains, glaring down at him from her throne on top of Sherlock’s shoulders.
“Not if I say it isn’t,” John threatens, winking at Sherlock - who is looking oddly unhappy.
“I was rather looking forward to the macademia flavour you were going to surprise me with,” he mutters, giving John the side eye.
“Shut up,” John says, grinning at him. “As if I’d cancel ice cream and Doctor Who.”