Chapter Text
The sky is just beginning to lighten when Sherlock gets up.
He never understood the aversion people have to rising early. It’s so quiet, so peaceful. When most of the world is still asleep, there are no distractions, no clutter, no noisy commotions. The people you do meet are subdued, tired after a long night’s work, or not quite yet awake enough.
He rolls over to his side and enjoys the cool sheets against his skin for a moment. It’s August, and the days are endless and hot, and he enjoys these mornings for the cool, fresh air as much as for the quiet.
He gets up, pours himself coffee and checks his emails. He deletes the ten obligatory slur-filled comments from Moriarty’s troll army. They’ve been more active lately since Moriarty ripped his bakery to shreds on his blog. Ironically, it’s been rather good for business, driving people to their doorstep to find out whether they’re really that bad. As always, he refuses to engage with the trolls, or with Moriarty himself. He knows it drives Moriarty nuts that Sherlock never engages with him, but Sherlock doesn’t want to reward Moriarty’s behaviour by contributing to his social media engagements. He also has better things to do with his life.
Comments deleted, coffee empty, Sherlock goes downstairs. There’s a note on the fridge in Mr Chatterjee‘s handwriting. Please use up the egg whites.
Sherlock nods to himself. Mr Chatterjee is always on his case about leftovers, and he’s right. They can’t afford to bin half their ingredients. They’ve yet to break even at the end of the month, though Sherlock is confident that this month they will finally achieve it. The revenue from his sponsorships and the YouTube channel are enough to stop the gap for now, but if everything goes according to his business plan, they won’t need the help much longer.
He contemplates the egg whites and thinks about meringues.
But first, bread.
The loaves are resting on the workbench and the scones are in the oven by the time the front door is unlocked. Sherlock can hear the familiar sound of the shutters opening. The bell over the door dings.
John walks in, still wearing scrubs. He gives Sherlock a tired smile and comes over to the workbench. “Morning,” he says, voice gravelly from lack of sleep.
Sherlock leans down for a quick kiss, hands deep in a vat of dough. “Scones should be done in five minutes, if you want to wait around.”
John shrugs and looks into the oven. “They smell good, but I think I’ll head right to bed. It was a long night.”
Sherlock looks at John critically. “Bad night?”
“Not really, it was mostly quiet. I even got to sleep a bit, but around three we got this car accident in. Chap wrapped himself around a lamp post. We spent an hour trying to stabilise him enough so he’d survive the lift ride up to the OR.” John rubs a hand over his face and goes to the fridge to check on the apple strudels they made together last night. Five of them, resting beneath a tablecloth, waiting for the oven. The strudel is the second-best seller of their Watson specials, right after the Punschkrapfen.
“You need to really slather them with melted butter before they bake,” John says, turning back to Sherlock, biting down on a huge yawn.
“Yes, John, I know. You already told me twice.”
John checks his watch. “When do we need to leave?”
“Around noon.”
John smiles at him and pecks another kiss on his cheek. “Wake me at eleven? And save me some strudel.”
Sherlock nods absently, and John wanders up the creaky stairs to 221B to fall into bed.
Sherlock briefly admires the way the scrubs hug John’s arse and accentuate his shoulders, then he focuses back on his dough.
*-*
Around eleven, Sherlock takes off his apron and cracks the door open to the bakery proper.
“Amit, I’m off,” he calls out into the shop.
“Have fun,” Mr Chatterjee calls back from behind the counter before continuing to serve the line of customers. He turns to Sherlock between serving two customers. “Can you just push another tray of the croissants into the oven before you go?”
Sherlock nods and sets the oven timer before taking a tray of freshly thawed croissants and putting them into the hot oven.
Then he goes upstairs, carrying a plate with a piece of the still warm strudel. It’s the last piece, they sold out thirty minutes ago.
John is fast asleep in the darkened bedroom. Sherlock slowly undresses and crawls into bed. He fits his body to John’s and starts kissing his neck. “Time to get up,” he mutters against the shell of John’s ear.
John shudders and turns, pulling Sherlock into a sleepy, languid kiss. John’s sweaty and his morning breath is sour, but Sherlock doesn’t care, he kisses back with enthusiasm.
“Mhmmm… can you wake me like this every day?” John mutters between slow, sweet kisses that are still demanding and pushy enough for Sherlock to know that John has a destination in mind.
John’s hands travel languidly over his body, curve over his arse.
“None of that, or we’ll be late,” Sherlock says with a laugh, moving away.
John makes a protesting sound and cracks one eye open. “Sod being late.” He grabs Sherlock’s arm and pulls until Sherlock’s sprawled over him.
“How about this,” Sherlock says, evading John’s mouth, which lands on his neck instead. John bites down on his neck and he gasps as John’s teeth graze over sensitive skin. “I was about to take a shower. How about you join me?”
John draws back and grins. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
*-*
Mid-day traffic isn’t too bad, and they’re out of London in good time. John falls asleep against the door before they even reach the end of Baker Street, hopelessly wrinkling his shirt, but Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to wake him. The shower, coffee and strudel somewhat revived John, but a 12-hour shift is a 12-hour shift and John often complains about how he’s really too old for A E night shifts. But there’s a spring in his step when he goes to work, so Sherlock doesn’t take his griping too seriously.
Sherlock wakes John reluctantly about ten minutes before they reach their destination.
They get out of the car, and Sherlock takes a moment to help John straighten his suit, and drags his fingers through John’s hair to make him more presentable. John’s eyes darken with promise as Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair, and John pulls him in for a kiss, deep and dirty and hungry.
“Oi!”
They break apart and turn around to see Janine standing behind them, dressed to the nines. “You’ve been here twenty seconds, and you’re already snogging. Disgusting!”
Then she pulls them both into a three-way hug and plants loud, wet, wholly unnecessary kisses on their cheeks. “Hello boys.”
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says, removing her from both himself and John. “We need to get the cake.”
“Changing the subject from your blatant public display of affection, I see,” Janine grouses, but she gets out of the way, letting John help her over the uneven, gravelly terrain of the car park which her stiletto heels make difficult to navigate.
John turns back to Sherlock. “Need help?”
Sherlock points at the box. “No, no, you go ahead and play gentleman, I’ll just drop the cake and ruin Molly’s wedding.”
John rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he steps up to help Sherlock, and together, they carry the cake to the tent.
“Deja vu,” Janine mutters as she walks behind them.
Sherlock snorts in amusement, though he does see Janine’s point. The tent looks almost exactly like the one they filmed Bake Off in.
“I think she used the same tent company,” John says, nudging Sherlock with his foot. “Where to with the cake, Maestro?”
Sherlock huffs a laugh and leads the way to the caterers. They deliver the cake, then make their way over to an outdoor area where about sixty folding chairs have been put up.
Guests are already milling about, greeting friends and family. Irene, Neela, Mary and Mike are standing in the shade under a nearby tree, with Mike’s wife and Irene’s girlfriend. Irene calls their names and they make their way over to join them.
*-*
Weddings, Sherlock concludes after four tedious hours, are boring. The ceremony was thankfully short, but afterwards, they all stood around the lawn, sipping champagne and munching on mediocre canapes while the bride and groom were whisked off somewhere to take pictures.
Then, after too many hours of bad champagne and tedious small-talk, they finally go into dinner. It’s hot in the tent. The food is fine but a bit on the boring side, but at least they’re seated with the Bake Off crowd, so the conversation isn’t quite as inane as it could be.
“Can we go yet?” Sherlock groans into John’s ear as hour six begins with speeches from assorted friends and relatives of the bride and groom.
“We have to wait until they cut the cake,” John answers, voice as low as Sherlock’s.
“I still can’t believe she let you make the cake,” Irene complains.
“He won the mini-Bake Off, stop complaining,” John says, reaching for his wine glass.
“You should talk, you were the grumpiest when he won.” Neela points at John with her dessert fork.
“Because I knew he was going to be unbearably smug about it. He was happier when he won the mini-Bake Off than when he won the actual Bake Off.” John grins at Sherlock, soft and fond. He’s shed his jacket and has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and he’s looking just about good enough to eat. Sherlock has to restrain himself from dragging John off somewhere for a shag; there has to be a secret corner around here somewhere, a good snog at least might get some of the antsy energy out of his system.
Sherlock leans closer and drapes his arm around the back of John’s chair. “Want to find a quiet corner and snog?” Sherlock murmurs, making sure to ghost his breath over John’s sensitive ears.
John turns his head to look at Sherlock, and there’s so much heat in his deep blue eyes that Sherlock’s knees go weak. John grins. “Yeah, all right.”
*-*
Hour eight, and still no sign of the cake.
Janine is complaining about the dearth of handsome men at the wedding. “So unfair,” she sighs. “The two most good-looking men came here together.” She gestures at Sherlock and John.
John grins. “Thanks for the compliment. If I were here alone, I’d totally go home with you.”
“Hey!” Sherlock swats John’s arm.
“I said ‘if’,” John says, returning the swat.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
They all turn to face the front of the tent, where Molly and her husband - Sherlock thinks his name is Geoff or thereabouts - are making their way to the small dance floor.
“Oh god,” Sherlock groans. “Another cliche.”
Neela smirks at him over her coffee cup. “I’m looking forward to mocking everything at your wedding.”
“And I’m looking forward to winning the mini Bake Off,” Irene adds with a grin.
John, who’s been leaning against Sherlock, sleepy and content, perks up at that. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, okay? We haven’t been together for a year.” He turns his head and looks at Sherlock, obviously alarmed and half afraid that an off-hand comment like that might spook Sherlock. But Sherlock is done being afraid, so he only tightens his arm around John, giving him a reassuring squeeze.
John relaxes back against him, warm and trusting and sure, and suddenly Sherlock can see it perfectly. Small ceremony. Expensive suits. No jumpers in sight. Canapes, good champagne. Rings, worn on thin silver chains around their necks when they’re working with their hands all day. Promises that no longer scare him, that say I trust you with my heart, because you've proved that you deserve it.
Sherlock smiles. “If you think I’d let anyone else make our wedding cake, you’re certifiably insane.”
John snorts and turns to look at Sherlock again. “You already know exactly what our wedding cake will be like, don’t you?”
Sherlock hesitates, because of course he does. Dark chocolate, cranberry jelly for the bottom cake, vanilla and raspberries for the middle cake. On top, a small cake, just for the two of them, poppy seed, raspberry jam, sloppily baked, entirely perfectly imperfect. “If I did, would that be a problem?”
John smiles at him softly and leans in for a kiss. “Absolutely not.”