Chapter Text
The kiss was gentle, almost chivalrous in its hesitance. John’s lips were soft and warm against Sherlock’s, who didn’t dare breathe. It seemed John was surprised, too — too stunned to move at all, in fact. He stood, solid as a statue, against Sherlock’s mouth.
The realization of what he’d just done — what he was still doing — and the lack of response from John made icy tendrils of horror snake around Sherlock’s ribs. He moved back as suddenly as he’d lunged forward, and time stood still as he forced himself to meet John’s eyes.
John’s mouth hung open the slightest bit — in surprise or in preparation to speak? Sherlock had no way of knowing. There seemed to be countless unreadable emotions filling John’s wide eyes. Regret? Pity? Betrayal? Disgust? Sherlock could barely manage all his own hateful human emotions, many long buried and some rather new. It was hard enough juggling and categorizing and controlling the mess of his own feelings, let alone deciphering John’s. The mask of stoicism and indifference Sherlock hid behind like second nature was impossible to conjure now, even as he grasped desperately for it. His emotions were on full display, released like plagues from Pandora’s box; his secret was out — he may as well have ripped his heart from his body and handed it to John, still warm and beating. He wished he could snatch it away, shove it back in his chest behind the walls that used to guard it. Did he even know how to rebuild those walls? Why hadn’t he realized they had crumbled?
What on earth had he been thinking?
“Sherlock,” John said in an exhale, barely a whisper, but it filled the air between them.
“I’m not actually gay,” John had told him, repeatedly. Sherlock felt like he was suffocating. How could he have been so stupid? He wanted to flee, but John was blocking the door to the street. Sherlock dropped his eyes and tried to swallow around the thick lump in his throat.
“John, I —”
He hadn’t known what to say, what words were about to come from his own mouth, but suddenly it didn’t matter, because suddenly … suddenly John closed the distance between them, and his lips were pressed to Sherlock’s.
John was kissing him. John was kissing him. Sherlock hadn’t misread the signs. He had been prepared to apologize and deny — ready to run — but John was answering him in kind. It was hesitation and softness, a gentle warmth, an unspoken confession.
Sherlock’s mind went blank, caught in the surreality of the moment. John’s hands hovered before settling, feather-light, on Sherlock’s waist, and he melted into the embrace, somehow so intimate in its innocence. A shiver ran through him as John’s warmth chased away the cold night air that had settled deep in his bones.
John pulled away, and they stared at each other for a moment.
“I —”
“You —”
John huffed a nervous laugh but Sherlock found himself too awestruck to even smile.
“I thought you were married to your work,” John said bashfully.
Sherlock cringed at the foolishness of his own words from so long ago. It was almost impossible to believe how much had changed — how much he had changed — since that first night at Angelo’s.
“Before you, all I had was the work,” he said reverently. “I couldn’t imagine anything would ever be more important, because nothing ever had been.”
“But Irene — ”
Sherlock couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he remembered John’s threatening, delirious diatribe at Baskerville.
“Irene Adler is gay, John,” Sherlock said gently, needing to put the matter to bed once and for all. “I believe she told you as much herself. She’s an intriguing intellectual sparring partner, but our undoubtedly unique relationship was never romantic or even erotic. I never wanted it to be.” He shook his head fondly. “She is gay, and so, for the record, am I.”
John unconsciously licked his lips. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “That’s … that’s good. I, um … I never knew.”
‘ Good’ ? Sherlock frowned. How is it ‘good’, suddenly? He shrugged. “It never seemed relevant, since you’re not actually gay,” he said, imitating the declaration John had made to Irene when Sherlock had been hiding in the shadows.
John nodded and bit his lip, unable to keep eye contact any longer. “I’m …” John rubbed the back of his neck and let out a deep breath through his nose, focusing on the floor. “Well, I guess… I’m… bisexual, then,” he finally managed, glancing up at Sherlock quickly before looking away again. “I’ve never really said it out loud like that before, but… yeah. I guess that’s… yeah.” He nodded again, decisively, biting the inside of his cheek, then straightened his back, and met Sherlock’s gaze head on. “I’m bisexual.”
Denial via technicality, Sherlock mused. Truth by way of omission. John really wasn’t gay, but that hadn’t exactly meant what he’d been implying — that he wasn’t attracted to men at all. It had just been the easy way out. Really, John should be thanking Irene Adler for giving him the final push to admit what Sherlock had hoped was the truth for a while now. Then again, if that were the case, what should he be thanking for his own push? The HOUND virus and John’s near-death? Unthinkable.
The small clock on the hall table chose that moment to toll: eleven chimes that shattered the quiet calm of the foyer, and they both startled. Sherlock glanced toward Mrs Hudson’s door, and John nodded and tilted his chin to gesture toward the stairs.
They climbed quietly but quickly, and Sherlock’s mind raced as he counted the steps. What happened now? What was the protocol after flatmates kissed? The surreality of that very question struck him and he felt a bit dizzy. He and John had kissed. Did that mean John wanted more? Did he want what Sherlock wanted, which was all of it, everything, for the rest of their lives … or just some of it, like sex? Could Sherlock just ask that sort of thing? What if John regretted this in the morning? What if he had been caught up in the moment and wasn’t thinking clearly? They’d both been through so much these past few weeks, and it was late, and the adrenaline of their argument barely an hour before might still be taking a toll, and John was still recovering from being so ill —
“Sherlock,” John’s voice over his shoulder pierced through his building panic. A warm hand closed around his elbow, and Sherlock turned. They were in the sitting room, and John had hung up his coat at some point. Sherlock had frozen by the door, thinking so hard it prevented him from even the simple task of walking into the flat. Everything felt odd, as though happening in slow motion. The soft glow of the lamps reflected like warm sparks in John’s eyes, full of fondness and delighted disbelief. The same feelings now hit Sherlock like a punch.
In a rush they closed the distance between them, magnets unable to deny the attraction any longer. Their lips met, and Sherlock felt all his restraint evaporate. He wanted to consume John, suddenly filled with a ravenous hunger, seeking to taste every piece of him. John’s hands cradled his head, fingers twining through curls, thumbs caressing the strong line of Sherlock’s jaw. Gentle but firm. Possessive. Sherlock’s hands couldn’t settle, hungrily roaming every inch from John’s strong shoulders to his soft waist and slim hips. Inexperience and desperation made him sloppy but John guided him, slowing their pace. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, and John hummed a hungry response as they grasped and fondled. John licked his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, and moaned when Sherlock opened his mouth to let him in. Tongues traced and tasted and explored; they sucked and licked and bit. It was exquisite.
The sensations were all at once not enough and too much. Sherlock scrambled to focus and catalog every single one, even as another part of him felt hypnotized, powerless to keep from being swallowed up in it. John’s fingers, soft but calloused from years on the battlefield and in the surgery, stroking at the nape of his neck. John’s chest, warm and solid, pressed against his, heaving with desire. The smell of him, drugstore shampoo and tea and John — was the only thing Sherlock wanted to breathe for the rest of his life.
John’s hands moved down to Sherlock’s waist, thumbs tracing the arch of his hip bones through his trousers. He moaned and shifted, nipping and kissing his way to Sherlock’s neck, sucking at his pulse point in a way that ripped the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. An aching heat throbbed between his legs, demanding more. He couldn’t help but whimper as stubble scraped his sensitive throat when John’s mouth moved to the hollow between his jaw and ear. His entire universe was right here, centered around John Watson. It was everything he had never dared to dream about, things he never knew he could be allowed. He felt surrounded by John, possessed by the man. The world around them ceased to exist. He wanted to fuse with John, for their cells to dance and weave and intertwine themselves the way their bodies were.
He needed to be closer, so much closer.
John started to steer them back towards the couch, but when Sherlock held firm, John pulled away. His eyes met Sherlock’s, nervous, searching.
“We don’t have to —”
“I was thinking my bed would be more comfortable,” Sherlock managed, surprised to find himself quite out of breath.
John nodded emphatically. “Right,” he gasped, and before Sherlock knew it, their lips were crashing together again, John’s tongue insistent, untamed, snaking around Sherlock’s. They stumbled down the hall, pushing and pulling, leading and being led.
The bedroom was dark, the streetlamps and the hall casting the room in soft shadows. Sherlock walked John backwards the few steps to the bed, and pushed him down on his back. John laid back languidly, one leg on the mattress, the other foot planted on the floor, and looked up at Sherlock with a predatory lust he’d never seen before. Sherlock inhaled quickly, deeply, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel himself trembling, desperate and quaking with adrenaline on the exhale. John bit his lip, unsuccessfully hiding a smile and took Sherlock’s hand, pulling him into the space between his legs.
Sherlock crawled over John, bracing himself on his forearms as John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, running his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Dipping his head to recapture John’s mouth, Sherlock gasped as their hips rocked together, and his erection found an answering hardness. Opening his eyes in surprise, Sherlock found himself lost in a raging sea of sapphire blue. John’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in exhilarated awe.
For a beat they were still except for their heaving breaths, then John’s strong hands moved to grip Sherlock’s backside, pulling him closer as John bucked up, grinding them together. Molten hot pleasure poured through Sherlock, and he pressed back into John, eliciting a deliciously tormented groan.
Sherlock tugged at John’s shirt, pulling it loose from where it was tucked, fingers sliding under layers of shirt and vest to caress the smooth skin of his waist. John shifted up, swiftly pulling the whole mess of fabric over his head and throwing it across the room. Sherlock’s hands began to roam John’s chest, coarse golden hair and the gentle outlines of muscles. Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck, suddenly certain he would go mad at the intoxicating smell of him, and John’s fingers fumbled at his dress shirt buttons. Trousers and pants were next, shucked and tossed, carnal evidence in piles of clothes strewn about the room.
“Jesus,” John breathed in awe as his eyes roamed Sherlock’s body, unconsciously licking along the outline of his bottom lip before he bit it. He guided Sherlock to lie down and straddled him, gently rutting against him where their arousal met. Sherlock whimpered and threw his head back, eyes closed against the wave of pleasure. John moaned in response. “Even more bloody gorgeous like this than I imagined.”
Sherlock felt a flush creep into his cheeks, suddenly self-conscious, and remembering just how inexperienced he was. He felt overwhelmed with emotion and savage greed, equal parts nervous and excited about what they were about to do. It was all happening so fast.
“Sherlock?” John asked, pulling away, worry lacing his voice. “Are you — is this — alright? Do you want to stop?” His fingers traced Sherlock’s upper arms before gripping them lightly. “I … I got a little carried away, I’m sorry, we should slow down —”
“No,” Sherlock whispered, leaning up for John to kiss him. “I want this. I don’t want to wait. We’ve already wasted enough time.”
John searched his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Sherlock murmured against his lips, then swallowed and ducked his head, reticent. “I’ve just — I’ve never —”
John’s palms cradled Sherlock’s cheeks, tilting his head back up. He kissed his temple, working his way down along Sherlock’s jaw until he reached his mouth. “I’ve got you,” John breathed. “I’ll take care of you.”
John was soft and slow, deft fingers and awestruck praise as he felt every inch of Sherlock and showed Sherlock how to feel him. The pleasure was agonizing, devastating and beautiful. John’s hands touched him in ways he’d never known to touch himself. His eyes roamed Sherlock’s body hungrily, reverently, filled with affection. Their hearts pounded in tandem, tribal drums setting their chests to heaving. Every breath was desperation and exultation. Every caress and embrace, every flex and shift was a dance their bodies knew without being taught. Sherlock felt like a living bolt of lightning, electricity crackling through him in waves of heady lust as he came apart in John’s arms.
Afterwards, they lay sated — drunk on oxytocin and prolactin, which Sherlock could not resist pointing out — tangled in the sheets and each other. Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck; John shifted and dipped his head to lay his cheek along Sherlock’s. John’s warm arms enveloped him, and he hummed softly, content.
We can have this now. What Sherlock had believed would remain firmly in his fantasies was his reality now, and that reality was unimaginably better than what he’d dreamed.
He could feel John smile, face buried in Sherlock’s curls, even as his body started to relax into the first stages of sleep. Sherlock realized John must be exhausted — the last time John had done anything so physically taxing was when he’d been running through the moor weeks ago.
The memory of the last time they’d been close overwhelmed him. A damp cave in the forest. John, radiating fever instead of comforting warmth. The smell of blood, sweat, and the moor. Rapid, pained breathing instead of eager gasps and moans. Antiseptic and alarms, tubes and wires, electricity arcing through John’s body.
They’d walked along a razor’s edge — come so close to never having this moment. If the DRACO had not worked, Sherlock would be alone now. He could almost feel John evaporate from beneath him as he imagined it. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, and he sniffed and blinked them away.
John’s arms tensed around him. “Hey,” he said quietly, lips brushing Sherlock’s ear. “What’s wrong? Was it too much?”
“I almost lost you,” Sherlock murmured, his chest suddenly tight, barely registering that he was speaking out loud. “We came so close to never having this.” His vision blurred and he swallowed against a lump in his throat. Emotions raged within him, the fear of loss still so real warring with relief which seemed like it couldn’t possibly be.
“Sherlock,” John said calmly. “Look at me.”
Sherlock sat up, and forced himself to meet John’s gaze. A pained look crossed John’s face as he took in Sherlock’s anguish, but his eyes were full of affection. He brushed an errant curl off Sherlock’s forehead.
“But you didn’t lose me,” he whispered. “I’m here.” He reached for Sherlock’s hand, and laid the palm flat against his chest. Beneath Sherlock’s fingers, beneath John’s ribs, a strong, steady drum. “I’m right here,” he said, leaving Sherlock’s hand on his chest, and kissed him again, soft and slow, solid and warm and so, so real. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock bowed his head and rested his forehead to John’s for a moment just breathing.
“And you want … this?” Sherlock said, pulling in a shaky breath. “With … with … me?”
“God, yes,” John whispered, voice laden with the desperation of a man offered water after being stranded in the desert. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Even — ?”
“You really still need to ask?” John spread his arms to indicate the state of the bed. “Anything you want,” he promised.
“I want everything,” Sherlock whispered, his heart clenching in his chest. “I want things I don’t even know I want yet. Not just this, now, what we’ve just… but –– everything .”
John lifted Sherlock’s hand from where it still lay, warm and heavy, over his heart, and brought it to his lips, kissing Sherlock’s palm. “Everything sounds perfect to me.”
They kissed again, gentle and tender: a promise exchanged in the space between.
Epilogue - Two Weeks Later
“Yoohoo! Boys?” Mrs Hudson called as she climbed the stairs.
“Good morning, Mrs H,” John replied from behind her, carrying a stack of his folded shirts down to meet her in the kitchen.
“Good morning, dear. Mrs Turner and I spent the whole day canning yesterday, and I made a batch of strawberry jam. Thought you and Sherlock might like a few jars.”
“Ta very much. That jam is the only way I can get any food into him at all some days,” John said with a grin, walking through the kitchen entryway and setting the clothes down on the table. He accepted the small, quilted glass jars from Mrs Hudson. “He can’t resist it. He’s just getting ready after a shower, but I’m sure he’ll grab a spoon when he comes out here and sees these. I’d hide a jar for myself, but he knows all the good spots in the flat.”
She smiled, pleased at the praise. “I also brought up your post,” she said, laying the bundle that had been tucked under her arm on the table next to John’s stack of shirts. “You boys packing to go away on another case?”
John ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, uh … no —”
Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows. “On holiday, then?”
“Not quite …” He took a deep breath and looked up at her, ready to explain, to tell the first person in their life that he and Sherlock were together, really properly together now, but found nothing but mirth. She was all but biting her lips and her eyes were twinkling with anticipatory delight. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she knew all along. In retrospect, it was obvious she’d been rooting for this all along. John had to admire how well she held herself together for someone who must have been gloating inside.
“So, you won’t be needing two after all, then,” she teased, knowingly.
John felt himself blush and couldn’t help but smile. “Guess not.”
She clasped her hands together and grinned at him fondly. “Oooh! I knew you’d both catch on eventually ,” she said, squeezing his arm affectionately. “I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.”
“You knew that we’ve––?”
“I may be old, but I’ve kept all my hearing,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “And it’s not like you two seem to go to any great lengths to keep things quiet in the bedroom.”
John’s mouth dropped open and he snapped it shut, staring at the floor and wishing he could sink into it.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sorry about that … We’ll, uh … We’ll be church mice from now on.”
“Just when I’m home, dear. If I’m out you can go wild. Good for the soul to let it out sometimes, you know.”
John nodded once and cursed Sherlock for being lucky enough to avoid this living nightmare.
“Send him down later so I can give him my well-wishes?” she asked sweetly as she turned to leave, and John hummed an agreement dumbly.
He stood for a moment after she’d gone, replaying all the times they’d made love (in two short weeks he’d already lost count), trying to remember the things that had been moaned or shouted. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. They were going to need to figure out how to soundproof the bedroom. Maybe a thick rug would absorb some noise. He and Sherlock would definitely be having a conversation about this.
Trying to distract himself, John picked up the stack of mail, thumbing through, weeding the bills from the junk, when the last item in the pile caught his eye: a glossy postcard covered in balls of white, tan, brown, and black fur. Upon closer inspection John realized they were bunnies.
Greetings from Okunoshima! was written across the bottom in a thick white font. John turned the postcard over to see a large international stamp from Japan, just as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, still-damp curls frizzing a bit at the ends. John held the postcard up to show him.
“We got a postcard with a flock of bunnies on it,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“A fluffle,” Sherlock corrected absently, eyes going wide in delight at the sight of the new supply of jam lined up on the worktop.
“Excuse me?” John replied, cocking an eyebrow.
Sherlock produced a spoon from the drawer and picked up one of the jars. “It’s not a flock of bunnies, John. Those are wild rabbits. A group of them is referred to as a fluffle.”
John’s jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed. “You’re putting me on,” he said with a huffed out a laugh.
Sherlock sighed and set the spoon and jar down on the table. His expression was stoic as he plucked the card from John’s hands, scrutinizing the photo. “Never. Though the term is most commonly used in northern Canada, so I suppose you can also refer to them a colony or a herd. But not a flock of bunnies.” He raised his eyes to look at John, who caught a glimmer of mischief.
John rolled his eyes. “Cheeky git.” He stood next to Sherlock, sliding an arm around his waist. The back of the postcard was covered in tiny blocky handwriting, completely legible but obviously written by a child.
Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,
Thank you for the lovely trip to Japan! I can’t believe they have a whole island covered in rabbits! I hoped Bluebell had found her way there, but I didn’t see her. We visited during the day so I don’t know if any of the other rabbits glowed. Mummy said it was too kind of you but she is excited to get to Hawaii. We hope Dr Watson is feeling much better!
Lots of love, Kirsty Stapleton age 8
John looked up at Sherlock in surprise. “You sent Doctor Stapleton and her daughter on holiday?”
“Well, Kirsty is rather fond of rabbits, and Japan just happens to have an entire island full of them. Granted, it has a bit of a nefarious history, as the Japanese Imperial Army manufactured thousands of tons of poison gas there during World War II. It’s unclear if the rabbits were originally test subjects, released into the wild after the war, or if a group of school children in the 70s left a few behind on a field trip. In any event, with no natural predators, the island’s rabbit population grew exponentially, and now they enjoy their days being fed cabbage by tourists.”
“And then onto Hawaii?” John said in disbelief.
“It was the least I could do,” he admitted with a shrug, voice going soft. “I owe quite a debt of gratitude to Doctor Stapleton for all she did for you. For us.”
“Yes,” John said, angling for a kiss. “Still, that’s very sweet of you. Sending them to visit the froofles.”
“Fluffles,” Sherlock corrected, exasperated.
“Yeah, well whatever they’re called, it’s still a bit … sentimental for you, isn’t it?”
“Is that the last of your clothes, then?” Sherlock asked, turning to the kitchen table and picking up the stack of John’s shirts.
John chuckled. “I know what you’re doing, Sherlock. You can’t fool me.”
Sherlock looked up innocently. “Hmm?”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“I’ll just go and put these away, shall I?” Sherlock replied primly over his shoulder, and started down the hall.
John shook his head and tried to school the grin on his face as he watched Sherlock disappear into the bedroom ( our bedroom! ) before he followed.
The warm morning sun filled the space with light. Most of John’s wardrobe was laid out on the bed in neat stacks; folded trousers, shirts, and jumpers on hangers all awaited placement. Sherlock stood by the dresser, his back to the door, attentively filling a newly emptied drawer with John’s underthings. He had approached the project with his usual possessed dedication, and the masterfulness of an army general. John doubted he’d be able to maintain as meticulous a sock index as his partner did, but for Sherlock he’d be willing to try if it was that important.
He cleared his throat. “You know, Sherlock … Doctor Stapleton’s not the only one we need to thank.”
Sherlock paused for a moment, a pair of John’s red pants in his hand, but he didn’t turn. “Indeed,” he agreed, and resumed loading the drawer. “I checked your schedule. You’re accompanying Lestrade to see a football game this Sunday. He’s the newest season ticket holder for Manchester United. He was delighted. So was Mycroft, since you’ve awarded him a stay of execution, and postponed his first sporting event a little longer.”
“His first sporting event? Really?”
“The most athletic thing Mycroft has ever set eyes on is the opera,” Sherlock said with a smirk.
John smiled, but couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He knew the brothers’ relationship was strained on the best of days, but the lengths Mycroft had gone to to see that John had the very best chance at survival were undeniable. He’d mobilized a helicopter search of Dartmoor, assembled the best doctors in Great Britain, and procured an expensive and rare experimental antiviral which ultimately saved John’s life. He’d rearranged his schedule and set up a makeshift office at Baskerville so he and Lestrade were able to stay until it was clear John was on a solid road to recovery. His efforts went above and beyond, reached a level of dedication that even Sherlock couldn’t refute. It was proof that, no matter Mycroft’s often dubious morals or motivations or inability to display conventional signs of affection, he did truly love his little brother.
As hard as it might be for Sherlock to admit, Mycroft was more deserving of their gratitude than anyone.
As if he could read John’s mind ( of course he could ), Sherlock closed the drawer and braced his arms on the dresser. He ducked his head towards his shoulder to regard John out of the corner of his eye. “I’m sure Mycroft will hold his involvement in your recovery over my head for the rest of my life.”
“Sherlock —”
“For once, I agree that he should,” Sherlock said, turning to face John, who couldn’t hide the shock from his face. “I will never take for granted the fact that you are with me,” Sherlock said quietly, and although his voice was steady, his eyes were fraught with emotion. “I know that would not be possible without my brother’s intervention. If he calls on me, I will assist him in whatever capacity he asks, without too much complaint.”
John found he was speechless, completely caught off-guard. This level of humility and thoughtfulness didn’t — couldn’t — develop overnight, or even in the few weeks they’d been together. John couldn’t deny that their romantic relationship had changed Sherlock, but thoughtful gifts of gratitude? Admitting and accepting he owed his adversary of a sibling an open-ended favor? This type of change didn’t happen instantly. It had been in Sherlock all along, John realized; he’d just been hiding it behind the carefully constructed façade of a pretend sociopath. What had happened to John, and what they had now become, was merely a catalyst giving Sherlock permission to cautiously allow his sentimental side out into the light of day — to reveal a bit more of his true self.
Sherlock cleared his throat and picked up half the stack of John’s jumpers by their hangers. He opened the wardrobe and pushed aside his suits to make room. “Still,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m sure his new subscription to Sponge’s Cake-of-the-Month Club will help to alleviate any ravenous hunger for recompense.”
John finally allowed himself to dissolve into giggles, and when Sherlock turned away from the wardrobe John saw the grin lighting up his face in a way that made John’s heart feel like it might burst.
Sherlock’s expression softened and he worried his lower lip, eyes boring into John’s in a lascivious way that sent a shock straight to John’s groin. “Speaking of ravenous hunger,” Sherlock purred seductively.
John chuckled. “Bed’s a little occupied right now,” he said, gesturing to his homeless clothes.
Sherlock scooped up the tower of trousers and whipped open a drawer, packing them in at lightning speed and turning back to look at John with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye.
John put his hands on his hips. “Second round this morning? You sure?”
“Are you saying you don’t want to?” Sherlock challenged, yanking open another drawer and quickly loading in a pile of John’s shirts.
John shook his head and laughed. “You are incorrigible. Let me at least go lock the doors, lest Mrs Hudson come up for another jam delivery and be delightfully scandalized. We need to talk about soundproofing this room, by the way,” he said, amused when Sherlock’s eyes went wide with horror as understanding dawned on him.
John closed and locked the kitchen and sitting room doors quickly, stopping in the kitchen en route back to the bedroom. He surveyed the fridge for a moment, pulling down a few expired coupons and a takeout menu from a shawarma restaurant that had closed. Clearing a space front and center, he affixed the bunny-covered postcard in the blank space with a large magnet, then stood back for a moment to admire it.
It was amazing how much impact a single glowing rabbit had ended up having on their lives.
John took a few steps down the hall in time to see Sherlock’s pants fly across the room and drape themselves over the top of the standing mirror. Doubling back, he grabbed one of the jam jars and spoon off the table. There was only one kind of experimenting they were allowed to do on each other these days, and John figured it was his his turn for some delicious retribution.
THE END