He blinks at his reflection in the mirror and thinks nothing of it. He turns off the bathroom light and wanders back into the living room where there’s a hot cup of coffee and a warm fire and John waiting for him. John with a red blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a book in his lap.
Sherlock makes himself comfortable, sprawling across John's legs, and John forgets about his book.
*
Two months later, John finally notices it over breakfast. He just happens to glance up at Sherlock as he rises to refill his mug. Then his chewing stops and he lets the newspaper flutter back down onto the table.
“Hang on,” he says. “Come here.”
Sherlock hesitates.
“What for?” he asks.
“Just come here,” John says. He’s smiling, Sherlock can hear it in his voice. He lets out a put-upon sigh and puts his mug on the counter. He shuffles over to John’s side, making sure to keep the impatience in his footsteps obvious. He knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t really care, but he is surprised that it’s taken John this long to see it.
“Down here,” John says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and bends closer to John’s face.
“I thought so,” John smiles, then laughs. He runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I bloody thought so.”
“I don’t understand what the fuss is about,” Sherlock sniffs. “You’ve been grey since I’ve met you.”
“I was dirty-blond when we met,” John says. “And I’m a firm believer that you pretending to kill yourself had me going prematurely grey.”
Sherlock snorts. John pulls at a single hair on Sherlock’s head - most likely one of the grey ones. Sherlock bats his hand away while John laughs and laughs.
*
“Blimey,” Lestrade says, eyes wide. “I didn't even notice before.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps.
John grins from the doorway of Lestrade’s office.
*
A year later and Sherlock is noticeably slowing down at crime scenes. Before he would call out for John to keep up as they raced down side streets and back alleys. Now he finds himself getting winded much sooner, and exhausted when they’re back at their flat. It takes a lot out of him, running and jumping over rooftops and tackling criminals to the ground. Sherlock isn’t sure if his knees will be able to take it much longer.
At night Sherlock runs the shower hot. He closes his eyes as the water pounds against sore muscles in his back, steam curling around his face and warming his lungs. He sighs, and thinks that if he stands here long enough he will eventually fall asleep.
John creeps into the bathroom a few minutes later.
“You’ve been in here ten minutes,” he says. “Unusual for you.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees. “S’warm.”
“Yes, I can see that,” John says. The shower curtain is pulled back a minute later and John steps into the stream. Sherlock opens his eyes and gives him a soft, sleepy smile. John manoeuvres around him to grab the shampoo. Sherlock takes the opportunity to lean his weight against him, resting his forehead on John’s shoulder.
“Get out if you’re going to fall asleep,” John says.
“Not yet,” Sherlock murmurs.
John kisses him once, on the lips. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes again.
*
John gives Mrs Hudson another long, bone-crunching hug. Mrs Hudson is crying and not bothering to hide it.
“Be nice to Mr Grant,” she tells them, though it’s directed more toward Sherlock. “He’s a good friend of my nephew’s and has been in the Realtor business for ten-odd years now. He’s going to fix up the basement flat and try and find someone to rent it. And the couple moving in to my flat have a baby, so try to not blow anything up.”
“We’ll do our best,” John smiles, at the same time Sherlock says, “I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”
He blinks at his reflection in the mirror and thinks nothing of it. He turns off the bathroom light and wanders back into the living room where there’s a hot cup of coffee and a warm fire and John waiting for him. John with a red blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a book in his lap.
Sherlock makes himself comfortable, sprawling across John's legs, and John forgets about his book.
*
Two months later, John finally notices it over breakfast. He just happens to glance up at Sherlock as he rises to refill his mug. Then his chewing stops and he lets the newspaper flutter back down onto the table.
“Hang on,” he says. “Come here.”
Sherlock hesitates.
“What for?” he asks.
“Just come here,” John says. He’s smiling, Sherlock can hear it in his voice. He lets out a put-upon sigh and puts his mug on the counter. He shuffles over to John’s side, making sure to keep the impatience in his footsteps obvious. He knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t really care, but he is surprised that it’s taken John this long to see it.
“Down here,” John says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and bends closer to John’s face.
“I thought so,” John smiles, then laughs. He runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I bloody thought so.”
“I don’t understand what the fuss is about,” Sherlock sniffs. “You’ve been grey since I’ve met you.”
“I was dirty-blond when we met,” John says. “And I’m a firm believer that you pretending to kill yourself had me going prematurely grey.”
Sherlock snorts. John pulls at a single hair on Sherlock’s head - most likely one of the grey ones. Sherlock bats his hand away while John laughs and laughs.
*
“Blimey,” Lestrade says, eyes wide. “I didn't even notice before.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps.
John grins from the doorway of Lestrade’s office.
*
A year later and Sherlock is noticeably slowing down at crime scenes. Before he would call out for John to keep up as they raced down side streets and back alleys. Now he finds himself getting winded much sooner, and exhausted when they’re back at their flat. It takes a lot out of him, running and jumping over rooftops and tackling criminals to the ground. Sherlock isn’t sure if his knees will be able to take it much longer.
At night Sherlock runs the shower hot. He closes his eyes as the water pounds against sore muscles in his back, steam curling around his face and warming his lungs. He sighs, and thinks that if he stands here long enough he will eventually fall asleep.
John creeps into the bathroom a few minutes later.
“You’ve been in here ten minutes,” he says. “Unusual for you.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees. “S’warm.”
“Yes, I can see that,” John says. The shower curtain is pulled back a minute later and John steps into the stream. Sherlock opens his eyes and gives him a soft, sleepy smile. John manoeuvres around him to grab the shampoo. Sherlock takes the opportunity to lean his weight against him, resting his forehead on John’s shoulder.
“Get out if you’re going to fall asleep,” John says.
“Not yet,” Sherlock murmurs.
John kisses him once, on the lips. Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes again.
*
John gives Mrs Hudson another long, bone-crunching hug. Mrs Hudson is crying and not bothering to hide it.
“Be nice to Mr Grant,” she tells them, though it’s directed more toward Sherlock. “He’s a good friend of my nephew’s and has been in the Realtor business for ten-odd years now. He’s going to fix up the basement flat and try and find someone to rent it. And the couple moving in to my flat have a baby, so try to not blow anything up.”
“We’ll do our best,” John smiles, at the same time Sherlock says, “I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”
John glares at him.
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