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Sherlock couldn’t handle it anymore. He had to know. So that morning, after John left for a shift at the local surgery, Sherlock waited for the front door to close behind John with its familiar click. He waited another four seconds for John’s usual wallet-keys-phone check. Then, like a giddy child afraid of getting caught, Sherlock lept up the stairs to John’s bedroom.
He needed to know. Know more. Know everything there was to know about John. This desire usually only appeared to Sherlock for a case, a suspect of interest, or a new forensics diagnostic method, not for people, especially not for people like John.
But John consumed him. His waking thoughts, his sleepless dreams.
So, Sherlock needed to know. For his own sanity. For science.
He needed to put this obsession to rest as much as he could. It would not due to let John find out about these kinds of things, the urge to calm him with a hand on his shoulder, the itch to stroke his long fingers through graying locks. No, no. It would most definitely not due to let John find out about these things. Hence, the need to snoop.
At the top of the stairs, Sherlock paused in front of John’s door knowing how much John would disapprove of this invasion of privacy. He hated Sherlock even using his laptop, let alone entering this solemn, sacred space. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock grabbed the knob and turned it. He needed to know.
As the door swung open, light streamed in through the window onto a neat, taught single bed. The dull beige blanket wrapped snug around the corners. The nightstand, neat and tidy, stood almost lonely next to the small bed. Remnants of his military training most likely.
Sherlock’s gaze continued around the room to another corner that did not fit this military regimen. “Ah.” The real John. Sherlock scurried over to the dresser, strewn with knick-knacks of varying sentimental value based on the dust patterns, the watch John only wore for dates, a left sock missing its match, and a single framed photo.
Leaning in closer, careful not to leave a hint of his presence in the room, Sherlock stared at the picture. It was a cut-out newspaper clipping: Sherlock in the deerstalker hat and John just behind him.
“Hmm.” That seemed a bit odd. Why would that be the photo John choose to display? It’s not a particularly good shot of either of them; it wasn’t their first case together; it wasn’t even a proper photo. But it was a memorable day. Sherlock smiled. He remembered walking through the hallway and out into the sea of journalists all vying for their attention.
He tucked this memory away to consider later. Something to add to his pondering of John.
As he turned towards the closet, a small something under the bed caught his eye. The smallest break in the military sharpness. More of the real John slipping through. This was exactly what Sherlock came here for. The hidden, the secrets, the things that people hid beneath their beds.
Dropping to his stomach, Sherlock lifted the edge of the blanket to peek underneath. A box, overflowing with…stuff.
Without leaving a scratch, Sherlock drug the box out from under the bed and began to dig through memories: The oatmeal jumper, a photo album, a manila folder filled with clippings, and a pair of knitting needles stuck in a ball of yarn attached to what Sherlock could only guess was a half-finished cardigan.
Interesting.
Sherlock took the photo album and began to flip through it. Photos of him and Harry, his mother, his father, an odd collection of events through his school years, a group picture from his army days, a close-up of John’s hands practicing a suturing technique. But one stopped Sherlock in his quick review.
He stared at a photo of John. He was mid-laugh, knitting away at what appeared to be the oatmeal jumper and looking at a group of people. They were his friends from the army, all wearing similar-looking jumpers, arms swung around each other's shoulders, paper crowns strewn haphazardly on their heads. They seemed to be, drunkenly, singing some song; a Christmas carol no doubt. John looked, happy. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back at the man not looking at him from the photo. Sherlock swiped his thumb over the smiling face, then reached out and pulled out the oatmeal jumper.
John had made this. With his own two hands.
Sherlock scrunched the fabric together in his hands, feeling the soft texture, and smelled it. A bit musty from lack of wear, but still innately John. Sherlock’s shoulders dropped. And then he frowned.
Why had John stopped wearing this jumper? Holding it up to look at it in full light, Sherlock studied it. It was a little worn in places, likely a little loose in some and tight in others, but it was John. Why would he have packed it away?
Insatiable, Sherlock folded it into his lap and dug out the manila folder. Maybe this would hold the answers he needed.
Careful to not change the order, he shuffled through the clippings: Their first case together, the Study in Pink; the cases they had solved; the ones they didn’t; boring ones that never even came across Sherlock’s desk, likely because John stopped them before they got there. Every single one connected to Sherlock in some way. John must have scoured the papers every day and collected each reference.
Awed, Sherlock leaned back and read through each one. They weren’t written as well as John had written them, and they had even less forensic accuracy, but John had kept them anyway.
Sherlock put the manila folder back where it had come from, and sighed. He hadn’t learned as much about John from this endeavor as he had hoped, but at least it was something. As Sherlock slid the box back into its spot underneath the bed, something else caught Sherlock’s eye he hadn’t noticed before: The corner of an envelope sticking out from underneath the half-finished cardigan. With deft fingers, Sherlock released it from its hiding place. Thankfully, the envelope wasn't sealed. Perhaps it was never meant to be sent.
Ignoring the mild nagging of the John in his head grumbling something about privacy, Sherlock slipped the letter from the sleeve and began to read.
Dear Nan,
I am writing to you because I don’t know what else to do. Yesterday, I woke up in hospital and they told me that I may never be able to hold a gun safely again, let alone do surgery. But I think the thing that has hit me the hardest is that it also means I won’t be able to knit like I used to. I remember the first time you taught me how to knit. You told me that it would be great practice to become a doctor, steady and quick hands. And you were right. It strengthened my fingers and increased my dexterity from an early age. I have remembered every stitch you have taught me, every trick, every count. I have no doubts that I will keep dreaming about the projects I’d planned and never finished, the gifts I’ve wanted to give and never started.
I know you hoped that one day I would be able to pass this on to my own children, nieces and nephews, and grandchildren. But, I don’t see that happening anymore. Your knowledge ends with me I guess.
I have a cardigan that I had started for someone, not even sure who. But I guess that will remain forever stalled. I don’t think I will be able to get rid of it, my last reminder of you.
Do you remember what you told me about cardigans? You said, “The gift of a good cardigan is warmer than a hug, softer than a kiss, and longer lasting than an ‘I love you.’”
I guess that’s why I had started it in the first place, to give it to someone when I got home. The right someone.
But I guess that won’t be happening anymore either.
Who would want a broken soldier?
Your grandson,
John
Sherlock sat, staring at the words on the page. A letter never sent, words written to someone who could never read them, from a man who didn’t feel he deserved a life, who didn’t know who he was anymore. Did he still feel that way? Even after Sherlock brought him to life again? After their adventures together? After the routine they’ve built together?
Determined, Sherlock folded the letter and replaced it. He would not allow it. This man, the man he had, for one reason or another, become consumed by, had to know, had to see his potential, his purpose. John was Sherlock’s conductor of light, guiding his inspiration, making him better. Not only a better detective but a better person. Sherlock was learning to care, to think before he condemned those he deemed incompetent. He had always been kind to those that truly needed it: his network, his non-idiotic clients, Mrs. Hudson. But he was learning to extend that to others as well. To Lestrade, to Molly, to himself.
John had made Sherlock see what he was worth. That he was worth more than just his ability to solve puzzles. That he was valued as a human being.
Reaching down, Sherlock stroked the soft wool of the partially completed jumper. He knew what he needed to do. He would finish this cardigan for John. So John could give it to the one he loves.
Even if that wasn’t Sherlock.
Yarn of various colors, needles of various sizes, patterns, instruction booklets, and several YouTube tutorials surrounded Sherlock as he slumped against the foot of the couch. Learning to knit ended up being a much more difficult task than he had anticipated. Especially since the stitching techniques John had used on the cardigan were so advanced. Over the last week, every time John had been out of the flat, Sherlock dug out his supplies, researched, practiced, cast on, cast off, unraveled, reknit, and still, he was at a loss. For how much he cared, whenever he started, he would get distracted and lose count of how many stitches he had done. Inevitably, he would count, realize he was off by one or two stitches (more or less, never consistent), and would need to start the row over.
Flustered, he cast the current needle set aside and leaned his head back onto the cushion. He wasn’t sure he would ever figure this out.
Mrs. Hudson vacuumed downstairs, blaring whatever music she was listening to, if you could call it music. Though Sherlock assumed she would likely say the same thing about his violin playing when he was in a mood. Mrs. H liked his good playing or when he was composing, but even he understood the dislike of the squeals of his more “dramatic” emotions. Perhaps he could compose a song for John instead. Let him know how his feelings through the string of his beloved violin. That was something Sherlock could do. And it was easier than trying to express himself through words and much easier than learning a whole new hobby that otherwise wouldn’t have captured his attention.
But as he thought back to the box under the bed, Sherlock shook his head and sighed. Finishing the cardigan would mean something more to John than even Sherlock could deduce. It was something he had to do. Pushing himself off the ground, he gathered his things and made his way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson. She might have some tips for him. She was always willing to help Sherlock. That’s part of the reason he liked her so. They had become a sort of family.
Knocking loud enough to be heard through the abomination of noise, Sherlock waited outside her door, a pile of unraveled yarn in hand. Once the vacuuming had ceased and the music stopped, Mrs. H opened the door.
“Oh! Sherlock dear, I wasn’t expecting you.” Her eyes flicked to the wad of loose material in his arms. “What seems to be the problem?”
Sherlock’s eyes met hers. After clearing his throat, he tried to explain. “Well, I’m learning… I found a box… John started a… and now I want to…” Giving up, he lifted the yarn and asked, “Can you teach me how to knit? It’s for a project for John.”
Mrs. Hudson hid her chuckle behind her hand. “Of course, dear. Come on in.” She open the door wider, and they shuffled inside.
Over the next few days, Sherlock met with Mrs. Hudson and learned her tricks to keeping count, changing out colors, and some of the more simple knitting techniques. She had him start with a basic scarf to get the structure down. Eventually, he started to like it. It was calming, routine. It allowed his mind to wander while keeping his hands busy. The rhythmic clicking of the needles kept him grounded. He now craved to work on his projects when John was around. But that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t let John know he was working on this. It also wouldn’t be fair to show off doing a task that John felt he could no longer do. So Sherlock began to sneak out. Pretend to go on a case that didn’t need John or say he was going to work on some experiments at the lab.
Sometimes, he would go to a park in disguise and knit on a bench and deduce people as they walked by. Sometimes, he went to Mrs. Hudson’s through the back door and sat knitting and chatting with her. Sometimes, he would go to the lab. He was finally getting around to some of those experiments that required a lot of waiting time.
But the more time he wasn’t at home, wasn’t with John, the more Sherlock began to miss him. It was a terrible situation to be lying to John, to be hiding something from him in a way that also kept him from John. But determination won out. Sherlock needed to do this. For John.
After the scarf came the blanket, then the knit cap, then the gloves. He almost had a full winter set. Each project he finished, he gave to one of his homeless network to keep them warm as the weather would be turning soon.
After a few of these, Mrs. Hudson told him it was time. He could finally work on an easy shirt pattern. It would be the first real step towards working on John’s cardigan.
John took forever to leave the flat that morning. First, he trudged down the stairs, then he used all the hot water for his shower. A full breakfast was apparently needed because John then made toast, eggs, and ham to go along with his french-pressed coffee. He was in quite a leisurely mood this morning, which was exactly the opposite of what Sherlock needed. Practically vibrating out of his chair with excitement, he did everything he could to rush John out the door and off to the surgery. Sherlock was eager to head off to the lab to start on the shirt.
Once John was finally out of the door, Sherlock swung into his room, grabbed his tote with his knitting supplies and new pattern, and headed for Barts.
He settled into his regular station with his earbuds in, violin concerto playing. Astutely, he cast on his stitches and started counting, following the pattern row by row. He got lost in the music and the rhythm of the knitting, swaying along as his mind roamed into memories.
His last case with John’s careful, but terribly off-the-mark, deductions. His last experiment at home that John had scoffed at for its lack of sanitation. John’s awe at his most recent denouement in the case. John’s laugh at his joke at Anderson’s expense. John’s hair glinting in the sunbeam from their window. John’s eyes twinkling at the…
The door swinging shut startled Sherlock out of his reverie. Molly stared at him from the doorway, confused at the scene in front of her. Removing his earbuds, Sherlock greeted her. She stood still, looking at him expectantly. After clearing his throat, Molly seemed to regain her footing and asked, “So, what are you working on there? Is it for a case?”
Sherlock glanced down at the partially formed sleeve in his hands. “A shirt. And no.”
“Oh.” Her confusion was evident. “What’s it for then?”
“If you must know,” Sherlock scoffed, “it’s for someone in my homeless network. I thought they might like something a bit warmer this season.”
“Oh. That’s… nice of you,” Molly said. “I didn’t know that you knit.”
“It’s new. The repetitive, mundane, quiet nature of the work does wonders for my thought processes.”
“Ah! That’s good.” She smiled before it melted from her face. “Oh. I… I didn’t mean to intrude. But I do need to use the equipment in here.”
“Quite right. As long as you are quiet, I don’t see why we both can’t work in here.”
She nodded and shuffled to a nearby station.
Sherlock listened to his music again, hoping to tune out any of her small fussings. But as he worked, he could feel her eyes on him. On his hands in particular.
Glancing at her, Sherlock continued knitting, trying his best to ignore the prickly gaze.
Once or twice, she started to open her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Sherlock couldn’t handle it anymore; he tore out his earbuds and sputtered at her, “For God’s sake, Molly, just spit it out.”
Flustered, Molly startled and dropped her pipette. “Oh. Sorry. Umm… well. I was just thinking that that stitch would be much easier if you held the needles like this.” She took the needles from his grasp and showed him. He realized it did look much easier the way she was doing it.
“Thank you, Molly. How did you know that?”
“My nan taught me to knit when I was young. It's one of the few hobbies that I’ve kept up with over the years. I don’t do it as much anymore. Well, if I’m honest, not at all anymore. Though I used to enjoy it a lot when I did.”
Setting down his project, Sherlock studied her as she picked up her pipette with deft fingers and resumed whatever test she was working on.
“Is it something you wished you did more of?”
“What?” Molly didn’t look up from counting the drops she placed on the agar.
“Is knitting something you wished you did more?”
“Oh.” She finished her count and looked up at him again. “Yes, I guess I do. It tends to make nice Christmas gifts without a large budget, and it’s a soothing pastime.”
“Quite right.”
They both went back to their tasks as Sherlock mulled over her response. After another few quiet minutes, Sherlock broke the silence again.
“Would you be interested in starting a knitting club with Mrs. Hudson and me? I wouldn’t mind learning from your expertise, and Mrs. Hudson always enjoys spending time with company.”
Molly’s eyes lit up. “Really? Yeah. Actually. If you’re serious…” Her sentence trailed off.
“I am. I’ll talk with Mrs. Hudson this afternoon. Tuesday afternoons?” He knew that was when John filled in for a woman currently on maternity leave, and a time that was slow in Molly’s schedule. Sherlock had begun paying attention to these things, though he didn’t quite remember when that started. Perhaps that was another thing John had nurtured in him.
The Tuesdays came and gone, meeting after meeting with Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. They traded stories and tips, each adding a bit more to their projects as they went along. Sherlock hadn’t ever had a group like this. A regular group to check in with, to learn about and learn from. And it wasn’t nearly as boring as he had originally feared. Mrs. Hudson always had stories from her youth with her husband in Florida. And Molly shared wonderful tidbits about the bodies she was doing autopsies on. It even lead to a few more cases than Sherlock would have taken this time of year.
It wasn’t until a Wednesday morning that Sherlock started to notice something was off. John acted strangely as he went about his lazy day routine, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, poking his head around the corner to see if Sherlock was still in the living room, casting looks at him from behind his book as he read by the fire.
Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Problem?” he asked, raising an eyebrow without taking his eyes from his laptop.
“Hmm? Oh, no. No problem.” John shifted in his chair. Sherlock waited. John would spit it out eventually.
“Where have you been going on Tuesdays?” He turned the page of his book without reading it.
“What do you mean? I’ve been here.” Sherlock wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, but he knew he would have to proverbially let the cat out of the bag now that John had caught on.
“No. You haven’t. And there’s been dust collecting on your microscope.”
With a sigh, Sherlock decided to confess. “I’ve… been meeting with Mrs. Hudson and Molly for a knitting club,” he mumbled.
Taken aback, John squinted his eyes at Sherlock. “A… knitting club?”
“Yes.”
“And what are you knitting?”
“Right now, I am working on a jumper. I haven’t gotten the hang of the cable knit stitch.”
John’s shoulders dropped as he leaned back into his chair. Ah. He had worried it was something more sinister, something that might have needed Mycroft’s involvement.
“That is a tricky one.”
“Oh? You know?”
“Took me ages to get that one down. Became my favorite once I did though.”
No wonder the oatmeal jumper had that pattern.
“You can join us sometime if you wish.” Sherlock wasn’t sure how John would take that.
Picking up his book again, John replied, “Perhaps, I might.”
That next Tuesday found John meeting them at Mrs. Hudson’s place after his shift. He didn’t partake in the actual knitting, but he did swap stories with Molly about learning to knit from his nan, traded tales about the ridiculous circumstances he had knitted during with Mrs. Hudson’s experiences, and even threw in some tried and true tips of his own for the cable knit stitch.
Sherlock sat back and observed, taking in the scene before him. Some of the people he most loved in this world. How had he kept this from John? Now that he saw them all together, he realized how silly he had been to assume John wouldn’t enjoy this, find some peace in it.
The ritual stood in place: John provided tea and guidance and stories while everyone else whittled away at their various projects. Eventually, Sherlock graduated from one jumper and began another. This time with some alternating colors. He would have to figure out how to practice adding buttons for the cardigan, but that could come later. Spending time with John now seemed to be the most prudent choice.
As they continued, the cold weather brought some strange characters into the criminal world, though criminal may be a loosely held term in this case. As John and Sherlock strolled around London, running errands or closing cases, they each noticed a new form of graffiti. Something called “yarn bombing” apparently. It cropped up everywhere: on trees, around lampposts and bollards, atop post bins, and even little characters lining curbs. They were lovely additions to the neighborhoods they were found in. Mrs. Hudson even considered adding one to Baker Street herself. Since it was such a harmless crime and would allow her some long-past adrenaline kicks, they all encouraged her to try it out someday. Molly even offered to help.
But one Tuesday, their knitting club was disrupted by a call from Lestrade. Someone had overdosed on a new street drug that couldn’t be identified. It had been cropping up everywhere recently, but no one seemed to be able to determine its source.
“Idiots,” Sherlock muttered as he hung up the phone. “They wouldn’t be able to find their heads if they weren’t attached. How can they not find one simple drug dealer?”
Gathering his coat, wallet, and kit, Sherlock called out for John to follow him as he headed for the door. “Come along, John. The game is on!”
Arriving at the crime scene, Sherlock took in everything, spouting off observation after observation that John noted down. Lestrade hung in the doorway, watching, hoping that Sherlock would see something he hadn’t yet. Find a direction to follow after all.
But, to Sherlock’s surprise, there wasn’t. It appeared to be a regular man, a regular overdose, at a regular party, in a regular abandoned lot. The only different thing was the drug used, this new concoction that was clearly under testing.
Without anything more to go on, Sherlock knew intel was needed. So he took to the streets, to his homeless network. After weeks of passing out scarves, hats, gloves, and jumpers, he was sure to have someone willing to pass on a bit of information.
And he was right. Quite a few of them were.
There had been a revolving party, cropping up here and there, location only known by word of mouth. This was where the new high was being sold. But no one was quite sure how the information was passed on to begin with.
That is, until John. Ah, John. The conductor of light. His funny little brain noticing the right things in all the wrong ways.
As they drove away in their cab from their last stop, he pointed out the lovely bit of yarn bombing on the corner. Flashes of graffiti flitted before Sherlock’s eyes from all the places they had recently stopped. Each one had its own bit of graffiti, unlike the others they had seen around town. Usually, it was a simple pattern with many colors. These, however, had been bumpy with only one or two colors each time.
“Stop!” Sherlock flew out of the cab and back to the street corner with the graffiti, leaving John behind to ask the cabbie to wait. Sherlock hunched down to observe the knitting. The bumps along the ridge seemed intentional. Though how, he wasn’t sure.
“Look here, John. What is it that you see?”
Crouching down beside him, John leaned in close. “You mean the bumps? Well, wait a second… I think… I think that might be morse code! Look at the pattern, long and short points intermixed. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, the color differentiation isn’t strong enough to notice it. But that is most definitely a message in plain sight.”
Sherlock smiled. Finally.
“And what does it say?”
John took a moment, running his fingers along the edge, almost seemed to be counting in his head. “It’s an address. But I’m not sure where.”
“Tell me.” Sherlock dug out his phone and search the map.
It was the abandoned warehouse they had just left.
“That’s it! That’s how they’ve been passing on the information, John. They’ve been using yarn bombing. Look. See how this one is so different than the usual ones? It’s smaller, tighter, only two colors that aren’t that contrasting. They want it to blend in and stand out. Only those that know what to look for would even notice it and know to feel for the code. They must scout out a location, and then send out the message this way.”
“Brilliant. You’re bloody brilliant, you are.”
They headed back to the cab, where Sherlock messaged Lestrade giving him the update. There likely wouldn’t be a party for another week, if they were to continue to follow the pattern, so as long as the force kept an eye out for similar yarn bombing incidents, they would be able to stop the next event before it happened.
At their next knitting club, John regaled the story, exactly the way he wrote, full of intrigue and mystery with none of the science or logic. But that didn’t matter, not with the way John looked at him these days now. With each meeting of their little club, John had opened up more of himself, shining a little brighter, gazing a little longer. There was no doubting it now. Not after this last case. Something had shifted between them, the edges no longer curled.
It was time.
Sherlock had to finish the cardigan. He knew he was ready, but he didn’t know how to do it without John knowing. He’d think of something. He always did.
It was the first day of December that the idea came. During one of John’s shifts (there were always more during the holidays, people sick or taking the time off), he would sneak it out from the box under the bed, replaced by enough wool to be the same weight and size if John decided to take a quick peek. It would be enough to disregard but wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny. But with the amount of dust that had collected, Sherlock wasn’t concerned. From then on, he worked on it at night, being as quiet as possible. Whenever he got stuck on a particular section, he would send John to get milk or hobnobs or something for the “experiment” he was working on. It was always long enough for a quick chat with Mrs. H before tucking the project back away in his room. It had to be perfect. Like his John.
He had enough time to finish it before Christmas came around. He rarely gave gifts, so he wasn’t quite sure of the best protocol, especially for this one. Should he wrap it?Place it under the tree? Or should he just bring it out Christmas morning?
Sherlock agonized. In the end, he decided on simple. He placed it in a bag with some tissue topping, and gave it to John Christmas morning, shoving it into his hands with a “Here.”
“Oh. Oh, thank you, Sherlock. But,” Sherlock swallowed, prepared for the rejection, the scolding for not doing it right. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Oh. “Oh, never mind that.” Sherlock waved away the concern. “Just open it.”
John looked down at the red tissue peaking out of the top of the lumpy bag. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to open a gift like this.” He shook the bag, shifting its weight from one hand to the other. “Hmm…”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I doubt you’ll guess what it is.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Knitting Projects” John poked Sherlock in the ribs as he chided him. Sherlock swatted his hand away.
“All right, all right. Have it your way.” Sherlock turned away and plopped into his leather chair, arms crossed.
Smiling, John sat down across from him. “Really though. Thank you.” He took the paper from the bag and peered inside. Pulling out the deep navy cardigan, John stared at it in shock, bag tossed aside. He laid the gift in his lap and stroked the stitching with his thumbs.
“It’s… beautiful. Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispered through a tight throat.
Softly, Sherlock instructed, “Feel the inside of the left cuff.”
John ran his fingers over it, feeling the bumps one by one. He smiled. “You bugger.” Then John’s smile turned to a scowl, though his eyes didn’t change. “You snooped!”
Ah. Sherlock looked at his knees. He’d been caught. “I did, yes.”
There was a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. John was standing over him, the cardigan in his hand, and the soft smile had returned.
“Is this why you started knitting then?”
Sherlock gulped, unsure of the right response. “Yes.”
John’s hand trailed down his arm to his hand. He pulled Sherlock to stand, crowding his space.
“And, of course, you read the letter?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock breathed, unable to give full voice right now.
“So you know, this cardigan really should be yours.”
Sherlock’s brow raised.
"Mhmm. If I could have, I would have finished this and given it to you. I don’t know if I would have been as brave as you, telling you what exactly it meant. But I would have.”
Sherlock’s heart, impossibly, stopped. If only for a split second.
“But, of course, instead you invade my privacy, steal my things, finish off what I had planned to, and, somehow, take something that was meant to be selfless and turned it into something selfish.” Sherlock could feel John’s breath against his chin now, warm. He couldn’t figure out if John was upset, glad, furious, or ecstatic. All he knew was John was close, so close.
“You took my old life, and you knit it together with your own, into our life. You sod.”
A strong hand landed on the nape of his neck, and Sherlock melted.
“Well,” he swallowed, “you are my blogger after all.”
“I know. It says it right here on the cuff.” John tugged, and Sherlock followed.
Their lips met, softly at first, then more sure. The pressure was divine. Sherlock had never felt something quite like it before. Soft and hard, giving and taking, warm breath and moist skin. Pulling back, Sherlock rested his head on John’s, soaking in the moment, the one he thought he would never have.
John spoke into the small space between them. “Your blogger.”
“My blogger.”