Chapter Text
“Do we have to?” Sherlock whines again, buttoning his shirt as John ties his shoelaces from where he sits on the other edge of the bed.
“For the last time, we’ve said we’d go, so let’s just go and get it over with. You’ve never had a New Year’s kiss, I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss I’ve ever given a damn about. I just wanted us to be together and ring in the new year with people we love.” He looks over his shoulder, adding, “If you’re having a terrible time, we can leave early. Alright?”
John stands up and walks over to him, curling an arm around Sherlock’s waist, holding him tight and brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. “Alright?” he asks again, softer this time, like he’s really asking.
“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock replies. “But only if you promise to rescue me from any hideous small talk. I mean it. The very minute you hear one of Molly’s dull friends comment on the weather or anything to do with politics, you have to make up an excuse.”
“I’ll save you every time, don’t worry,” John promises.
“Let’s get this over with, then.”
They take a cab to Molly’s, opting to escape the cold, but realise their mistake when it takes almost double the time with all the traffic. They had eaten dinner before leaving the flat, taking their time over a lasagne that John had made from scratch. Sherlock had ended up feeding most of his portion to John, smearing greasy kisses on his mouth and giggling into their desserts. If only the evening could have ended there, with John taking him to bed and stripping him down in the dark of their bedroom, he would’ve been a happy man.
John’s right, though: they did say they’d go. He also wants to give John what he wants, and John seems to want this.
He doesn’t even realise that his leg is bouncing anxiously up and down until John’s hand is on his thigh, soothing, stilling, silencing.
He looks over at John, who offers him a warm, knowing smile as they pull up outside Molly’s flat. “We can leave whenever you need to,” he reiterates quietly before taking him by the hand and leading him out of his side of the car.
John holds on firmly while they knock on the door and are invited in by somebody Sherlock swears he has never seen before but who John knows by name and they greet Molly and put the wine they brought with in the kitchen.
He holds him still while they stand to the side chatting to Lestrade about a cold case he’s going to send over and while they laugh over an old story from a time they almost arrested the wrong twin.
At some point, John gets caught up in a conversation about some kind of sport (rugby? Tennis? Cricket? Who’s to say) with Lestrade and Molly pulls him to one side.
“Congratulations,” she says, beaming up at him. “Mrs H told me about your engagement. I think it’s brilliant. Really, really brilliant.”
He searches her face for any sign of insincerity or wistfulness, but finds only genuine joy there.
“Thank you, Molly,” he says, and squeezes her hand with a small smile. “I wish you all the same.” He finds that he, too, means it.
She looks at him for a moment, probably discerning his intention as well. “Thank you. I don’t know that it’s possible to find something like the two of you have, but I’ll be lucky to have even a little bit of it.”
He looks over at John, who’s smiling into his conversation, eyes brilliant and focused.
Molly follows his gaze. “What’s the secret?” she asks softly.
“The right person,” he says, without even having to think twice. “And the right timing,” he adds with a tinge of melancholy sentiment on his heart.
“Excuse me.” He dismisses himself to find a quiet space, opening Molly’s bedroom door and letting himself in. He just needs a moment to gather himself.
The room is, by all accounts, extremely Molly-esque, with cat-themed accessories and fluffy pillows adorning the bed. He sits by the window on an ottoman and look out into the night. Although he’s not having a terrible time, he finds himself wishing once again that he could just be alone with John easing his nagging insecurities and pressing his mouth to his neck in the darkness.
It’s still so fragile, what they have, so new. And yet, the strength of their love for and devotion to each other provides the perfect cornerstone upon which they are able to blossom into what they now are and have.
It’s not that he doubts John’s love for him; it’s that he sometimes doubts his worthiness for that love.
As he’s ruminating on this and more, the door opens slowly, John slipping through the crack with a little smile.
“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, walking over and kneeling on the floor in front of where Sherlock sits. He braces his hands on Sherlock’s knees, asks, “You alright?”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Just gathering my thoughts.”
“Hmm.” John lifts his hand to stroke Sherlock’s hair from his temple. “Care to share?”
“Well. I’m wondering how is it you’re able to love me as ferociously as you do.”
“Ah,” John lifts his eyebrows with something like understanding. “The age-old question. That one’s easy, though. Don’t you have any tougher ones for me to answer?”
Sherlock smirks, leans forward to place his forehead against John’s.
“The reason I’m able to love you as ferociously as I do,” John murmurs into their joint breath, “is because you’re you, and I’m me. It’s really as simple as that.”
Sherlock considers this for a moment, knowing instantly how truthful the effortless statement is. He knows it because he feels it and, more than that, because he feels the same: because he’s Sherlock and John is John, they love one another. They were made to love one another, in this universe and any other they happen to find themselves. The course of their lives could not be made whole without this fact.
“Want to go home?” John asks.
“No, I’m okay. We can stay a while.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Right, then. Let’s go out and see who’s keen to talk about all this rain we’ve been having lately, yeah?” John stands and offers a hand to Sherlock as Sherlock laughs easily.
“I don’t know,” he counters, rising to his feet and crowding over John, silently requesting a kiss. “I thought maybe we could hear more about Molly’s friend’s uncle’s leg surgery. I didn’t get enough of it the first time round. The riveting and slightly gory medical details will provide us with an endless amount of witty, insightful back-and-forth, I’m sure.”
John barks a laugh between chaste kisses to Sherlock’s mouth and cheeks and nose-tip.
They rejoin the small throng of people, John not losing contact with him at any point - he holds him by the waist, the wrist, the hand. This silent reassurance is enough for him to be able to take the edge off, and he actually finds himself beginning to have a good time, joining in the various conversations when it isn’t too fatuous.
“Five minutes everybody!” Molly shouts from the middle of the room after some time, and a blanket of excitement sweeps over everybody.
Sherlock has never understood the point of this celebration, really. New years, to him, don’t represent anything more than a pointless observance culminating, oftentimes, in disappointment owing to the ridiculously ambitious resolutions made during the previous year - as though one could become, just by the passage of time moving them from one minute to the next, an entirely different person with entirely new habits, motivations and intentions.
Now, more than ever, he doesn’t see the purpose. He has John, he has the promise of a future with him; why would he need to look forward to another year in order to appreciate his good fortune?
John takes him by the hand and pulls him into a quieter corner of the room, away from the little group.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, taking both of Sherlock’s forearms in his hands and pulling him closer.
“Not much. Just how nonsensical the celebration of the changing of the date is.”
John grins, the one that’s filled to the brim with love and tenderness and Sherlock ducks his head.
“Well. Regardless, I’m glad I’m here. With you.”
“As am I,” he responds, hoping to convey just how much he means it.
“It’s almost time.”
“Yes.”
“So. Any resolutions? I know you think it’s pointless, but maybe just one?”
He looks down into John’s face, so open and sincere, so full of promise and ardour. “To marry you,” he says, turning serious.
John beams, lighting up the room with his glee.
“What about you?”
“Well, I was going to say I wanted to eat healthier and maybe be a bit more organised, but now I look like a prat after what you said.”
A beat passes while they look at each other, and then they burst into giggles, sweet like Sunday mornings in bed together.
All around them, the exhilarated anticipation builds as there are incoherent shouts, finally culminating in the inevitable countdown.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
As they shout out, John turns to face Sherlock, looking him directly in the eyes. He begins to mouth along: “Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.”
Sherlock even joins in for the “Two. One.”
“Happy New Year, love,” John says amidst whoops of Happy New Year! “Here’s to us.”
“Happy New Year, darling,” Sherlock says, right before John brings him down for a gentle, slow kiss.
He quite thinks he could get used to this, knowing he has forever to do so.