Archive of Our Own

I knew you through the daze of the blades of grass in summer

Parachutes for the free fall of being younger

Running wild, it’s been a long time

Life has ways of leaving those days behind

But seeing you tonight…

I remembered I loved you

Came back when it mattered

Standing there in the light of the window

Wearing that same smile

I knew it, I knew you

I knew you, all your blues like a mood ring changing colours

But love has ways of bringing things back to life

All you said was, “Hi”

Wondering if I’d made it up in my mind

But now you look me in the eye

And you told me “I loved you”

- I Knew It, I Knew You by Taylor Swift

ONE

Ironically, the first time you met Sherlock Holmes, you met him through a window. It stood to reason, therefore, that when you reunited with him, it would be through a window, too.

The pavements are cold, slushy, and your hands are tucked deep into your coat’s pockets, your chin buried in the folds of your woollen scarf. They were saying it was going to be the coldest winter London had experienced in a decade. Your sinuses definitely agreed.

Big Ben had struck twelve on your way here, but it was already dark and dourly overcast. Everyone had a slightly desperate edge to their walking or driving, like they were going anywhere except where they wanted to be. Apart from you. You were always going where you needed to be, going to the places you would next be needed, leaving from the places where you’d been needed. It was your gift.

Sher-lock Hol-mes. Sher-lock Hol-mes. That’s what the tube’s wheels had said, rattling along the rails as they pulled into Baker Street station and spat you out along with the early lunch-time rush. A name on everyone’s tongues, now. A face plastered across conspiracy reddit threads and whispered about in deli shops. You walk down the street towards the once infamous address and wonder how many of the nameless strangers you pass would recognise the name if you were to stop and ask them about it.

It feels a bit like meeting someone you’ve never met. Meeting someone you’ve only encountered between the yellowing pages of an old paperback, someone real only in your head. Breathing them into life, real, 3D shapes instead of inky words. People change, sometimes too much.

You see the awnings of Speedy’s café and look up at the windows. To the left a bit. Netted. Ordinary.

And him.

He stands there, maroon robe and  curly unbrushed hair and white shirt, visible through and above the nets. Real. Actually real.

And looking at you.

Straight at you, and as your eyes meet you come to a halt. His head tilts. Your fingers curl inside your coat pockets, grasping the lining. He’s like a dream from another century, watching the streets below, standing inside a building older than either of you could ever be; illusionary, momentary, an impossible fragment of notepaper slipping out from your grip. A woman bustles by, knocks into you, and freezing air blows across your cheeks, and Sherlock smiles.

There’s many ways to smile, and many people do it, every day, all the time, and sometimes if you stand too close to a beautiful thing you forget how exquisite it is because to you, it’s commonplace. A smile had never seemed like such a rare thing at that moment. But it’s Sherlock. His eyes crinkle at the corners, softening, and even from here you can tell it’s the same smile you’ve always known. The real one.

And that’s how you reunite, because people do change. They change all the time, beyond recognition. But sometimes they don’t. And sometimes a smile, through a pane of glass and across a busy winter’s street, is enough to know a person again.

You get across the road somehow. It would’ve been ironic if a bus had killed you - but at least Sherlock wouldn’t have been forced to solve your death. Unless, of course, the bus driver was a serial killer who only killed people who had a certain type of scarf that had exactly twenty-five tassels hanging from the ends.

Or something.

Onto the doorstep, and out of Sherlock’s line of sight. Mrs Hudson opens the door. You only saw her a few weeks ago, and she doesn’t keep you; ushers you inside with a smile. If she knows that you knew, she’s forgiven you pretty quickly. You’re glad. Otherwise you’d probably lose most of your friends.

Through the doorway, then; and into the dream; up the steps. Baker Street never changes. Trailing your fingertips along the cool banister, round the curve and up. The door is open but you can’t see Sherlock until you’re standing on the threshold, looking at him across the length of the room. He’s backlit by the window. The entire room feels caught in a certain type of warmth. Almost funereal; blocking out the real world; captured by a slightly hazy, dusty, unused feeling. The home of a dead man, and its host stands there watching you, head still slightly tilted, a faint smile in the corners of his eyes.

He really needs to brush his hair.

You look at him, then look away, around. It’s all the same, pretty much. You can’t discern any differences. It’s too clean, maybe. There’s not case-notes dumped everywhere and woollen jumpers thrown over the backs of chairs. It doesn’t smell of chemicals and over-steeped tea and old cologne.

You look back at Sherlock. He takes a step closer, hands hanging loosely by his sides. There’s a curl over his forehead.

What are you even meant to say to a man you’ve haven’t seen in two years, that you’ve thought about daily?

Well, nobody can tell you what the norm is, because there isn’t a norm.

“Your parents are coming up on Saturday to see you,” you announce.

Sherlock stares at you. Arches an eyebrow.

Bursts out laughing.

You smile slowly, like the sound is fuel, powering your facial muscles. It’s a deep, hearty laugh. Kind of surprising. Mostly, heart-warming.

“For God’s sake,” he says. “I’ll book them a matinee. Get Mycroft to take them. A ballet - Sugar Plum Fairy or something, that should do nicely.”

“They want to see you.”

“Yes, well, that’ll be tedious. I’m supposed to be saving the country.” He cocks his head arrogantly. “Not having tea with the parents. That’s Mycroft’s duty. Eldest son and all.”

You’ve both taken several steps closer. You can’t stop smiling, now that you’ve started. He’s not a dream anymore. He’s real. Really, actually real.

“Are you glad to be back?”

“Yes. Very.” His eyes trail over you. “You look tired. Bad breakup? No, don’t answer that. It’s a pity you had to leave the dishwasher behind, but really. It was just a dishwasher.”

You blink. “…What?”

He waves his hand impatiently. “You moved. Had a breakup with your old flat and decided to move to London. Good decision, all the interesting stuff happens here. Plus! You’re closer to Baker Street. Closer to your new workplace, too, though that wasn’t a deciding factor, was it? You just needed to escape your overly-broody neighbours who had five children under the age of seven and were still very sexually proficient. Leaving the dishwasher behind nearly broke your heart, but at least I know what to tell Mycroft to get you as a Christmas present now. Did I get anything wrong?”

You stare at him for a moment. The lapels of his robe aren’t straight. You want to reach out and neaten them.

And then, just as Sherlock’s eyes narrow, you let out a laugh.

“Oh god, I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know.” A pause. “Oh, wait. I’m supposed to say it back, aren’t I.”

You let out another sniffly laugh. You’re not on the verge of tears, are you? That’d be embarrassing. “Only if it’s true.”

“It is. Oh, look, I said it.” Sherlock tilts his head. “Do you like living in my city?”

“Your city?”

He huffs.

“Oh, is it your city?” You grin now, enjoying yourself. “I didn’t know that bit. King Sherlock. Hey, you’d look good with a crown. If London’s yours, then what does Mycroft own?”

“Kent,” Sherlock says without missing a beat.

For some reason, both of you find that funny. You laugh and laugh and it’s mostly relief, overwhelming relief, because how do you convince a dead man is alive for two years when everyone else thinks the story’s over? How do you keep believing that there’ll be a glorious sequel when it appears to be inky ashes?

And then the sequel begins with a smile, and Kent, and it’s almost too good to be true.

You take a deep breath at last. Sherlock looks over your shoulder at the kitchen. “Fancy some tea?”

You’re not cold anymore. “Yeah, why not.”

He gestures for you to sit down and walks into the other room. You sit down in his armchair so that you can still watch him - the way he puts the kettle under the tap; the clink of mugs; the rustle of teabags. “Mrs Hudson made a lemon drizzle traybake.”

Your stomach rumbles. “Ohh, yes please.”

He shoots you an amused glance. “I didn’t offer you any.”

“Thank you, I’ll have two squares.”

He reaches for two plates. “It has poppy seeds in it. Mycroft was here earlier, I almost offered him a slice. But then he annoyed me.”

“Brotherly love in a nutshell. What did he do?”

He pulls a face. “Nothing. He can’t handle a broken heart, did you know that?”

You look at the Operation board-game, half packed away on the table between the two armchairs. “Interesting.”

His voice echoes over the ricochetting roar of the kettle. “He told me not to be smart.”

Automatically, you lean forward, pulling the board out of the box, only to pack it up more neatly. The cardboard is old, the box’s sharp edges softened by time, stinking faintly of damp and tobacco. “That takes me back.”

You glance up, over the back of the opposite armchair, just in time to see Sherlock giving you an unguarded smile, kettle held aloft, a mug in the other hand. It takes your breath away, makes your fingers tighten around whatever tiny thing you’re holding.

“That was precisely what I told him.”

You look down, slotting something into its place. Even after so many years, you still remember the first time you met Sherlock. His family had just moved into the cottage beside yours; the one your parents still lived in; two cottages slightly too far out to be convenient. The other house had stood empty for almost a year, and then…

*

The entire Holmes family had seemed entirely shellshocked, too quiet. A tinge of smoke and ashes seemed to follow in their wake, trauma written across their faces. It manifested in different ways. Mr Holmes baked cakes; wore a floral apron and painted the garden gate and seemed to be, in some strange strange unfathomable way, slightly scared of you. His wife was too upbeat, too cheerful, and yet even the smallest movements, like locking her car, were forced, like limestone squeezed through a grinder. The older son was quiet, supercilious, and never once looked at you, not to start with, almost like he couldn’t bear to. And then there was a younger son, or so you were told, because you didn’t see him for a long while.

You didn’t understand what they’d been through. You heard whispers, local rumours. Their house had burnt down. Someone had died. But this wasn’t normal grief. You understood enough to know that. This wasn’t ordinary. The people next door were not, and had never been, from the day they had first moved into the old cottage that had the garden gate with nettles growing through it, ordinary.

Then, one day, you had been standing in the lounge-room window, watching the front garden and the quiet street.

You’d seen him then. Quiet. Even through a pane of glass, you tell he was quiet. Watching you, staring silently from the pavement at you. The younger son that, in two months, no one had seen.

You stared back at him, curious. What boy didn’t go out of the house for two months? Was he scared? Why would he be? Why did he look at you like that? A little scared, nervous; almost challenging. Not looking away. More scared than anything else.

You smiled at him.

You weren’t someone that anyone needed to be afraid of. So you smiled, and then you’d opened the window, contemplated the bush and whether you could jump off the outside sill and over the hebe bush and into the grass on the other side. Up, through the window, teetering on the white outer windowsill, flecks of paint peeling off. You considered the bush. Glanced up at the boy again. He was still staring at you, less afraid now and more curious.

You bent your knees slightly and jumped.

You couldn’t quite make it over the bush, your feet snagging on the purple flowers with a loud rustle. You hit the grass with a breathless laugh, rolling over and getting an eyeful of a grasshopper and then the blue skies above. Your knees had taken the brunt of the fall but it didn’t hurt, so you sat up.

The boy was at the fence now, leaning over, peering at you. He looked horrified. Maybe he’d thought you had hurt yourself?

You grinned at him. “Hi,” you said. When he didn’t say anything, you squinted curiously. “Are you going to tell anyone I did that?”

He still didn’t say anything. You’d almost given up hope when he suddenly shook his head, dark curls bouncing.

Over the following months, you realised you’d somehow won his friendship. There was a small river at the back of some fields, down a path with too many thistles, wending alongside the field where the cows were kept. You would sit at the edge of the river sometimes; sketching or just leaning back on your hands, swinging your feet above the rippling water, twirling sticky grass between your fingers. One late afternoon, the boy appeared in your peripheral vision; he walked up the bank until he was a few metres away, and then sat. Glanced at your legs, suspended over the grass over the water, and then copied. He was wearing shorts too.

You looked at him, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t talk.

“Your brother’s tall,” you said.

Nothing.

“So’s your dad.”

Silence.

“Do you want to be as tall as them?”

His hands fiddled with the grass, uprooting a strand.

You inhaled, the sickly-sweet scent of ferns and warm grass and chlorine-treated water. “I think you should try to be as tall as them. ‘Specially since you’re the youngest. It’d be funny.”

Nothing.

You leaned back on your hands and kicked your legs again. The crickets are louder than you, you thought, but you didn’t want to say it. So you waited, and waited, and eventually you just sort of forgot about his existence.

And then you noticed his legs, from the corner of your eye.

They were swinging in time with yours.

*

A few days later you were sitting in a tree. You had several different trees you liked to climb and sit in. This one overlooked the cottages; your home and his. Mr Holmes was cutting the grass. It seemed very hot to be doing anything that wasn’t sitting in the leafy shade of an oak tree, your legs wrapped around a thick bough, cool bark scratching against your bare arms. There was a wood-pigeon somewhere above you.

A rustle, too violent to be the breeze. You peered over the edge and saw him climbing up. He glanced up, saw you watching.

You shifted over. He chose the opposite bough, testing the weight cautiously before settling.

You both watched his father, pushing the lawnmower up and down the back garden.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

He looked at you.

“I’m Y/N.”

For a moment you didn’t think he’d reply. Why would he? He hadn’t said anything yet. You glanced back at the houses, your attention caught by his older brother walking out of the front door.

His voice was soft. Shy.

“I’m Sherlock.”

*

For months, Sherlock would find you, wherever you were sitting, whatever you were doing - sketching, or reading, or, once September started, homework - and just…sit. In silence, mostly, though if you asked questions you didn’t know the answers to - what kind of a frog is that? Do you know that butterfly? Is it true that black panthers and black leopards are the same? - he would speak, never quite looking at you. He was the shyest person you’d ever met.

Your parents applauded you, telling you what a kind person you were for putting up with him so patiently. His parents thanked you. You didn’t understand why.

“I don’t get it,” you said, one chilly October evening. You closed your book and stared down at the rushing river, about to stand up and go home. You were both wearing enormous coats, protection against the cold breeze. “I’m not doing you a favour.”

He didn’t say anything. You carried on thinking aloud. “But they’re acting like it’s a chore. It isn’t. You’re my friend.”

He inhales, just loud enough that you hear it over the sound of water and pebbles. You look at him. “Aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

You blink. “Yes?”

“Oh.”

As declarations of friendship go, it’s hardly ground-breaking. But from that point on, Sherlock talks more. You notice it, because the next time he finds you - taking your gloves off so you can climb up into a sycamore that’s shed most of its amber leaves - he says your name, and then he smiles. Just a little.

Then he offers you a golden pencil with a scarlet eraser.

The first winter comes by, and your friendship becomes much more obvious, because when you have to spend time inside, Sherlock’s forced to seek you out. These days, looking back, you wonder what your and his parents agreed with each other. As children, it didn’t even matter; one of you would knock at the other’s house and be let in, no questions asked, to find the other and sit with them. Because sometimes you sought Sherlock out - it wasn’t always the opposite way round. He had interesting stairs in his cottage, cool stone walls curving around like a tower or a lighthouse. Mycroft would always be pushing past the two of you, muttering in mild annoyance about how stairs were for walking, not sitting.

You’d gone different ways, and come back, throughout teenage years and college, to find each other and sit in silence. It wasn’t a grand friendship. You didn’t have anything in common.

But it had never mattered.

*

All of that meant that you were already close to the Holmes parents. So when Moriarty struck and Sherlock ‘died’, you were made a confidante. You had been summoned to Mycroft’s offices; told the news alongside his parents, wondering silently what the hell you were doing there. You were, Mycroft had explained afterwards, the person that they would talk to about ‘all this, with all their emotions’ - and he’d sneered. “Of course, you will be paid for your-”

“God, Mycroft, I don’t need to be paid to talk to people.”

“If you are quite sure-”

“Yeah. All it requires is a bit of, you know, human compassion.”

So whenever you went home to visit your own parents, you dropped in; talked to the Holmes parents and looked at the pictures of Sherlock as a child, the pictures of you as a child; reminisced and  patted their hands and wished you had something to tell them, anything, but Mycroft didn’t tell you, a civilian, what Sherlock was doing overseas, so you had nothing but memories to offer them.

And so it continued, until two days ago, when the tabloids exploded with Sherlock’s face and that goddamn deerstalker. Until yesterday, when you received a text from an unknown number with four words and two initials and a calendar-schedule date.

It’s me. Baker Street? SH.

*

Sherlock brings a tray over, two white-green ceramic plates with mouthwateringly soft, lemony squares of cake on them, covered in a pale icing and dotted with flecks of poppy-seed. Two mugs, chipped and battered, steam spiralling up in incoherent whorls. You move the Operation box to the floor under the table and he lowers the tray carefully.

You’re so intent on making sure the cake reaches base safely that you almost miss the agony on his face.

And then you do, and you’re standing.

“Ohmygod, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock straightens fully and takes a step back. “What do you mean? I’m fine. It’s fine. No need to worry.”

You spent years of your childhood helping him patch up minor injuries. Once he’d broken his wrist and lied to everyone about how much it hurt - everyone except you, because you saw straight through the lie. You’d made him tell his parents. No one could understand how he hadn’t been screaming with pain.

You’d seen him cry.

This is the same feeling. Helpless worry. You swallow, shaking your head. “I’m not buying it, Sherlock. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you injured?” You replay the movement in your head. He bent forward. Arms out stiffly. Not his arms. Shoulders?

His back.

“Your back.”

His eyes flicker away.

You’re right.

“What is it?”

Sherlock sighs. “When I got this-” He brushes his hand across his lower lip. You narrow your eyes and realise that it’s slightly puffy, a little too red; “-and this-” Now he touches his nose gingerly. It’s not normally that bulbous and sore - “courtesy of John’s overwhelming delight to have me back in the land of the living, he also wrestled me backwards to the floor. Propelled us both halfway across a rather genteel restaurant, actually. It’s a miracle we didn’t knock over more tables than we did. It exacerbated my previous injuries, which had been healing quite dubiously. But it’s fine.”

You hesitate. “That sounds horrific.”

“Yes, well.”

“Previous injuries?”

He looks away again. You watch the flicker of his eyes. “Yes. Still fairly recent. A few days ago.”

You swallow. Suddenly you’re a child again, trying to understand the ghosts that haunt your new neighbours, painfully aware that they’ve faced things you pretend are just monsters under the bed. “What injuries?”

“Serbia.” He bites the word out, addressing the mantelpiece. “Torture.”

You stare at him. He can’t keep his face turned away forever. “For God’s sake,” he snaps, “stop it. Stop pitying me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

He scoffs. “Then what are you doing?”

“I’m…oh, God, Sherlock, I’m caring.”

He blinks rapidly. “I…Oh. Well. An improvement on the last time someone stared at me like that, I suppose.”

“Which was…John?” you guess tentatively.

“Yes. Although admittedly, before that, it was Lestrade.”

“And what did he do?” You’re still standing, uselessly, like either of you are actually going to do anything apart from sit down and have your tea and cake.

“Hugged me. Thought he was going to punch me, actually, he was breathing very rapidly.”

You look at him for a moment. The thought pops into your head and won’t leave.

“Would you - Should we - hug?”

“Smooth.”

You blink, taken aback. “Shut up. Hug?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at you. “Why?”

“For the love of God, you idiot, would you like a hug or not?”

He does. You think he does. He turns his face away again, lips curling into a reluctant smile. It makes you smile too, stepping around the corner of the coffee table and up to him. “C’mon, hug me.”

“What if someone sees?”

“Like who?”

“A client could walk in at any moment.”

“No they won’t. Come on. Hug me.”

“I’m sorry, am I hugging you, or is this intended-”

“You’re hugging me, and doing all the work, because I’m not going to touch your back.” He looks at you in astonishment then, and you roll your eyes. “Like, obviously?”

He hugs you then, and it somehow takes you by surprise, the force and fierceness. But then, Sherlock Holmes never did anything by halves. You adopted him, like a stray, spiky-haired, waif of a kitten, without ever intending to; and he’s a fully grown idiot now, taller than you and too tough to be shy, but he’s still hanging around, because that’s what stray cats do. You can’t just keep your hands by your sides, because you want to hold him, to reciprocate, do anything to show you care. You lift your arms up and around him, and then put your left hand at the base of his neck, your fingertips touching his hair, and your right palm lies flat just above, on the back of his head. His curls are short and bristly and precise, like they’ve been cut very recently.

“Is this okay?” you murmur.

“Yes.” His grip tightens.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

You half-nod, standing there like the life-raft for a drowning man. He’s bigger. Stronger. You can feel muscles in his arms. He was always lanky - even after he moved into Baker Street, he was more height than width. But now he’s broader.

Tougher.

You inhale, musty tobacco and cologne and buttery toast, and then tilt your head away from his robe’s lapels. “I nearly joined the club of that guy you hated, you know.”

“Guy? Which guy?”

“You know. That one. Anderson?”

Sherlock blinks. Well, you don’t see it, but you can almost hear it. “Anderson? Good god, what on earth about him?”

“Yeah. Him. He started this whole fan-club thing.”

“What.”

“It was pretty popular. They wore deerstalkers and theorized about how you weren’t actually dead. I was going to join, so I could take pictures and amuse you when you got back.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well…” You lean your forehead against him. “I knew you weren’t dead, didn’t I? That takes some of the magic out of it…”

“Sorry to disappoint.” His voice is thick with sarcasm.

“It’s okay. I’m bearing up under the crushing misery of knowing you didn’t actually spend two years on Mars. Sherlock Armstrong.”

He huffs a laugh. “Highly improbable. I deleted most of whatever knowledge I ever possessed about astronomy.”

You gently take a step away. His hand flattens against your back as you look up. His eyes are soft.

“Well?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you going to tell me how you did it?”

“Did what?”

Your arms are still up, holding his head, keeping him near enough that you can see the quirk of his lips and the glimmer of teeth between them and the little red line of a half-healed cut. “The fall. How you survived that. How’d it work? Come on, tell me.”

“That’s top secret. International security. Not sure you have the clearance.”

You widen your eyes. “Yeah, but you’re gonna tell me, right?”

He laughs.

And then he tells you.

****

TWO

Clothes shopping was one of those…Things. A necessary evil. Sometimes enjoyable. Sometimes a headache. Usually just meh. Often something you cruised through and then felt, afterwards, like a vaguely functioning human.

Not today. Today was one of those days where every sizing tag was out to get you. The hangers had personal vengeances. Every store you walked into played One Kiss until you wondered if you were actually in some sort of a horror movie.

And that was before you saw the man.

You had sighed, meandered over to a rack of fancy shirts on discount, and were flicking through the hangers miserably. Then you spot the man at the rack parallel to you, the man with his head down, in a long blue coat, collar up over his face.

You edge around the rack and go to stand alongside him. “Hi?”

Sherlock looks at you. “Oh. Hi.”

“Are you undercover?”

“Not particularly.” He glances down at the shirt his hand has landed on. It’s a Hawaiian shirt, floral and purple and orange. Not something you can especially imagine him.

“Is that in your sizing?”

“God, I hope not.”

You nod for a few seconds, idly shoving the shirts with your finger, before looking up at him. “Is it a coincidence that you’re here?”

He muses. “How likely are you to believe me?”

“I dunno, it depends on your excuse.”

“Don’t have one.” Sherlock turns. “Though a shirt that will do well for that conference is over there. You’ve walked past it four times and missed it because you’ve been too busy looking wistfully at the beach dresses over there. Get one of those as well, you’re allowed to dream. And do get over there and grab that shirt before that woman gets it. It’s a size too small for her, but she’s aiming to show off her décolletage and impress the boyfriend she wants to win back. She cheated, by the way.” As Sherlock speaks, he puts his hand on your back and propels you past a woman in a leather jacket and dark lipstick, past several tables of folded-up jeans, and over to a purple blouse you hadn’t noticed. “There you go.” He plucks it off and passes it, the hanger left swinging gently on the rail. “Checkouts are downstairs. Two of the self-service ones are broken, so go to the cashiers.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you open-mouthed.

*

Three days later, you’re walking with your head down against the miserable winter gusts. It’s bitter, stinging your cheeks and your teeth. You’re wearing a woollen hat, and a scarf, tucked tight into your supposedly water-and-wind-proof coat, but your legs are cold, even through your thick jeans, and your fingers are curled into fists inside your pockets, shoulders hunched.

It isn’t a season for tourists. That stops neither the tourists or the enormous tourist stalls set up on corners of pavements, with dangling keyrings and souvenirs and paddington-bear teddy bears.

You walk past one, past a gaggle of American tourists laughing uproariously, and then frown. Your peripheral vision has never failed you yet. You turn, looking back at the stall, before going over.

Sherlock looks up as the vendor gives him his change. “Y/N.”

“...Hi?” you say slowly. London’s a very big place, filled with too many people to even count. Sherlock nods at the vendor and turns away, elbow bumping yours; you start walking again.

“What did you get?”

He shows you a fridge magnet, on his gloved palm, Big Ben and the House of Lords, painted a cheap, gaudy gold. “Seems fitting. After all, the originals are only there this morning because of me.”

“...What?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says drily, “I didn’t tell you. Wait, this is me telling you. Bomber, terrorist attack, a hijacked train carriage that had been filled with explosives, a timer that went off while we were buried under London without any help. It was very dramatic. Don’t stop.”

You’ve come to a halt in the middle of the pavement, red light from traffic and traffic-lights washing over his face as he looks back at you. “Are you okay?” you demand.

“What? Yes. Obviously, I’m fine.” His eyebrows screw up. “Don’t worry, for heaven’s sake, it’s over.”

You shake your head, a trembly laugh escaping from between your teeth. “Ohmygod.”

He takes your arm. “Come on, keep moving or we’ll freeze.”

You feel the grip of his fingers, twist your hand until you can take his hand in yours and squeeze, the black leather cold against your colder skin. “Thank God you’re okay,” you say, soft enough that he can’t hear under the roar of traffic.

But he squeezes your hand before you drop it.

*

The next day he walks you home in the drizzle, popping out from nowhere by vaulting over railings that lead to the embankment of the river. You don’t ask what he’s doing, and he doesn’t volunteer information.

The day after that you’re looking for him, and then you tell yourself off. No. Bad idea.

Or is it? Because he does appear, gloved hands tucked into his Belstaff pockets, and tells you he caught a serial adulterer on the verge of their first foray into serial killing.

It’s a tough time, you know. John is preoccupied with Mary, the woman he loves, and Sherlock is left on the sidelines while Molly Hooper is engaged and Mycroft is busy and Lestrade is rising through the ranks. He’s left behind in a world that moved on. The only person who hasn’t moved on - who, instead, moved in, closer, moved to London - is you. You’re not quite a last resort, but you’re a source of entertainment. Of company.

Friendship.

And so, day after day, it continues. No matter what you’re doing, at some point during your day you’re going to see Sherlock Holmes, and it’ll be prefaced by a ‘hi’, never a question, just the company. Chitchat. Sherlock Holmes’s version of small-talk is both hilarious and fascinating, and you search faces in crowds for him; blue eyes, blue eyes, not him not him not him. And when you meet those glacial eyes you wonder how you could ever have mistaken anyone else for him.

The warning signs. You probably should’ve seen them.

But you got lost in the niceness of it all. There’s a world of strangers, and then there’s Sherlock, coming from nowhere and into your path, and you’re not alone anymore.

*

“Fancy ‘eh ride, Miss?”

Your hands clench convulsively in your pockets, around your keys, as you turn to the car that’s just pulled up alongside you. You relax a tiny bit when you realise it’s a black cab-

And relax more when you see the glinting eyes of the driver, grinning across the empty passenger seat at you.

“Ohmygod, Sherlock. You nearly scared the shit out of me.”

He scoffs. “It’s going to be the coldest night of the year so far. Or so the forecast says. Mycroft often gets it programmed to be inaccurate for nefarious purposes, did you know that? Anyway.” He gestures. “Get in.”

You slide into the back, reaching for your seatbelt. Sherlock indicates, rejoining the flow of traffic.

“Do I want to know what the hell you’re doing with a taxi cab?”

Sherlock glances up at you through the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You’re smiling back before you can stop yourself.

“No, probably not.”

“If this is a stolen vehicle, then we’re telling Greg you kidnapped me.”

“No one’s going to believe that, unfortunately.” Sherlock swings smoothly down a one-way street. The correct way, thankfully. “It’s far more likely that you have a weapon and are making me drive at gunpoint.”

You snort. “Like anyone would believe that.”

“Hmm.” He turns again. “Anyway. I’m perfectly authorised to drive this. Though I haven’t driven in a while.”

“This isn’t reassuring.”

“And the last time I drove it was in a high-speed chase down a German road. They drive on the other side in Germany.”

“This is really not reassuring.”

The car jerks slightly as he taps the brakes smoothly, coming to a halt in a line of traffic. “Only two people died. The car was a write-off, but Mycroft pulled some governmental strings.”

“I am…lost for words.”

“In the end I drove the car off a ravine, in the hopes of shaking off my pursuers, leading them to believe I had perished.”

“Can…can you stop talking, now, maybe?”

The traffic moves off through the junction, Sherlock going along with it, gloved hands gripping the wheel. “Before that, I drove in Devon, during the Baskerville case. I believe John was quite impressed with me. It was a Landrover. A nice car.”

“This is marginally more reassuring. I’m waiting until you say you drove off a cliff in it or killed a ferocious ghost dog or something. But yeah, it’s a bit better.”

“I’m glad.” You hear the smirk. “Notice that the meter isn’t running.”

“I’d be absolutely outraged if you asked me to pay. I’d complain to your supervisor. The small talk was horrific and the guy sought out a ride instead of being sought out.”

“Completely unacceptable.” Sherlock’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “But which responsible cabbie would let a pretty girl walk home when it’s icy and getting dark?”

“Oh, shut up. And for god’s sake, put the heater on.”

“Right you are, ma’am,” he drawls in a heavy accent, and flicks a dial. Warm air gushes out of a hidden vent near you and you sigh with happy relief.

“Thank you, by the way. It was so cold. And I didn’t want to get the train when it’s rush-hour.”

“I know,” he says. You glance up and see him watching you in the rearview again. His eyes flick, to the road, then back up.

He smiles. “Hi.”

****

THREE

It’s cold. It’s raining. You can hear it, pounding, lashing down on the roof of the flimsy little bus shelter. You’re shivering. Actually shivering, teeth chattering together, arms wrapped over the front of your coat, your legs trembling, seated on the narrow little red bench that is probably going to numb your freezing arse until it falls right off.

And oh God you’re miserable. No one should ever be this cold. Or miserable. You want a hot chocolate, a hot lasanga, hot garlic bread, hot soup, a steaming Christmas pudding - or a sticky toffee pudding - and a hot water bottle. In exactly that order. Actually, you don’t care what you have so long as it’s hot and arrives before you inevitably perish in the cold. You’re the only one at this godforsaken bus stop, waiting for the bus that probably rattled off seconds before you arrived. You forgot an umbrella. It’s getting dark. It’s minus-two degrees. You’re cold.

You’re so cold. And your legs are soaked from the rain, frozen sleet seeping through the fabric of your jeans. The golden Christmas lights twinkling in a closed shop’s window opposite mock you with their conviviality.

This is it. This is how you die.

“I’m going to cut my hair,” Sherlock Holmes announces, swishing into the bus shelter with a flare of his coat. His curls are just damp enough to make him look utterly gorgeous, and you hate yourself for this forlorn observation.

“You’re what?”

He sits down beside you with another graceful flounce that makes his coat settle perfectly, his shoes glossy from the wet pavements, and flips his collar down. “Cut it. All off. First thing I’ll do tomorrow. Oh, hi, by the way.”

You turn and stare at him, temporarily distracted from your impending death. “I’m sorry but why?” you ask incredulously in one breath. “Why?” His hair is black, curly, elegant when styled and endearingly lovable and attractive when unbrushed. (It turns out that all you needed, to become a lovelorn miser without a sense of shame, was to be stuck in a bus shelter when you’re starving and freezing and at least forty-five minutes’ walk away from any hope of salvation).

Sherlock shrugs. “Time for a change. Grew it out long during those two years, too busy wearing wigs to do much with it.”

“But like…cut it…how?”

“All off. Entirely.” He makes a razor-swipe motion with his hand. “Buzz-cut, as they call it.”

A car roars by far too fast; a woman with an enormous umbrella clicks by in high heels. You barely register it, staring at him in openly aghast horror.

“Buzz-cut?” You’re trying to imagine it, and you just…can’t. “That’s…”

He raises an eyebrow challengingly.

“The worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, actually.”

He raises both eyebrows. “Got strong feelings about it?”

“You’ll look hideous!”

“Pfft. Thanks. It’s not as bad as John’s moustache.”

“No, it’s worse.”

Sherlock looks genuinely offended. “It can’t be worse. I have been told I have good bone structure, especially facially. Shouldn’t that make up for the loss of - What. Why are you laughing.”

You are laughing, but not really because you’re amused, more because you can’t believe you’re having this conversation. You’re trying to imagine Sherlock: Belstaffed, gloved, glacial-eyed, and…buzz-cutted. And you can’t. Your brain keeps buffering and hitting LOADING PLEASE WAIT blue-screens and then presenting you with the most hideous images that will give you nightmares forever.

“Incredible facial bone structure?” you ask at last, weakly. Your arse is fully numb. You’re not ever going to be able to stand up again.

Sherlock huffs. “You don’t think so?”

“You have…cheekbones.”

“Ye-es? So does everyone?”

“They’re nice.” You look at his face appraisingly. “You have…eyes.”

“Thank you. I thought I did. Always good to know that the eyes I saw with my own two eyes are eyes that can, actually, be seen by everyone else’s eyes.”

“And…you have a face.” You shake your head. “But don’t cut your hair, Sherlock. Seriously.”

“Why not.”

“Because it’s…” You take your hand out of your pocket to gesture, and then regret it. It’s even colder than your fingers had remembered.

Sherlock smirks a bit. “Do you like it?”

“It’s hair,” you say helplessly. “It’s nice hair. Don’t lose it. You’ll look silly with a toupee.”

He pulls a face. “You haven’t convinced me. There’s a barber further down Baker Street. Probably a front for a drugs’ dealing enterprise. I’ll visit tomorrow morning and take a look. Get a haircut while I’m at it.”

You groan. He actually sounds serious. And, looking at his unruly hair, slowly drying and springing out loose, defying gravity and curling cheekily over his eye, you can’t quite bear it.

“What can I do to stop you?”

His lips quirk up, pressing into his cheek. “Interesting question. How about going-”

You leap up and stagger out of the bus shelter. A bus rumbles by with a spray of wheels, the rest of Sherlock’s words lost; it’s a double-decker, red, happily advertising a film you’ve never heard of. It doesn’t stop. And it isn’t your bus.

Rain pours down on your hair, your hood around your shoulders, freezing water running down your forehead, dripping off your nose. You suddenly want to cry.

“-To Baker Street with me.” Sherlock gets up and stands beside you. “Yes?”

You nod dejectedly. You’re too exhausted to even be surprised by what he does next.

He puts his arm around you, pulls you close against his side, takes a step towards the edge of the road.

“Taxi!”

Like normal, like magic, like whatever life with Sherlock is, one appears and pulls up smartly at the curbside, wipers rushing madly over the front window. Just as Sherlock leans forward to open the door for you, he catches your eye in the tinted reflection of the window and, distorted by raindrops and dusk, smiles.

****

FOUR

“It’s the hardest case of your career,” you say.

Sherlock doesn’t seem too emotionally invested. He’s lying on his sofa, hands steepled over his mouth, eyes closed. It’s almost midday, but he looks like he only woke up five minutes ago.

He’s looked like that for about the last two hours.

“Hmm, no, doubt it,” he murmurs, his voice so deep you wonder if the cushions are vibrating.

“Is that your way of saying it’s actually too hard for you?”

His eyes flicker open. He glares at your mischievous smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He sits up, swinging his bare feet to the floor. “What is it. And where’s Mrs Hudson, shouldn’t she be bringing tea up at some point? With gingernuts?”

“You’re incredibly spoilt.” You sit on the edge of the coffee table, your socked feet inches away from his. “Okay. The case. My cousin’s getting married.”

“Oh God, not another one,” Sherlock groans, slumping back feebly.

“Do I need to fetch smelling salts?”

“Don’t make jokes.”

“Says you. Your idea of a joke involves trying to explain the scientific breakdown of toenails in a freezer.”

“The outcome is-”

“Don’t make jokes.”

“Touché,” he grumbles. The corner of his mouth twitches in acknowledgement when you laugh.

“Anyway, so, cousin’s getting married, I’ve been invited, etc etc. I’m pretty much the only person from my side of the family who’s been invited. My parents don’t talk to her parents anymore.”

“Family drama. The worst,” Sherlock mutters.

“Yeah, well, anyway I’ve got a plus one and I wondered if maybe it’s probably a stupid idea but please please could you come with me because I don’t want to go alone and look stupid and I could ask someone else but you’re the person I’d most rather go with because you’ll make it fun and also you’re single and that shouldn’t matter but it kind of does,” you say, all in one breath.

Sherlock sits up and stares at you. “Do you have abnormally increased lung capacity?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a very necessary exhale. “Can we please focus on what I just said before I freak out and run out of here? And what are you even talking about, you speak that quickly all the time.”

“Yes, but I’m me.”

“You smoke.”

“So?” Sherlock decides, at that point, it’s in his best interests to change the subject. “Why can’t you go alone?”

“Because my cousin’ll be all pitying then, in a really nice way, but-”

Slowly, Sherlock raises a hand, like a conductor of an orchestra. You cut yourself off.

“So…I take it, we’re not going as mere friends.”

You chew your lip. “Ye-es and no-o?”

Sherlock gives you a sudden grin. “I love paradoxes. Fine, why not, I’ll take your case. Good practise for John and Mary’s wedding, after all. And Molly’s wedding to - T- … T- … Whatever the hell his name is. If I get invited to that one. I’ll have to make sure I don’t get mistaken for the groom. We bear some physical resemblances.”

You nod, slightly taken aback. Actually, who are you fooling? You’re bewildered. “So…You’re coming?”

Sherlock scoffs, standing up. His robe whips lightly against your knees as he brushes past and goes into the kitchen. “Yeah, of course. Fancy some custard creams?”

*

The bouquet is purple, red, and white, with some golden-yellow flowers. You study it in confusion, because it’s in your hand now. You hadn’t exactly meant to catch it, but now here you are. You only have your naturally amazing reflexes to blame, you guess.

Sheila whoops - in a very undignified fashion, and you wonder if her frilly, lacy, extremely fragile-looking dress is already ruined in any hidden places or not, because she’s the kind of person that walks into doorframes on a good day - and points meaningfully at Sherlock, who is standing across the room. He’s taller than most of the guests, and his dark hair - oiled into some semblance of neatness - and pale face make him stand out.

You smile back bashfully, turning the bouquet over, as the guests cheer and gather around to congratulate Sheila and Arthur. Yeah, you’re not going to be getting married anytime soon. But you swore Sheila had deliberately thrown the bouquet in your direction.

You glance back, over to your left. Your tuxedo-clad arm-candy is wending his way through the ballroom to you, looking unimpressed.

“What happens now?” he says when he’s within earshot.

“Drinks, dancing, partying, buffet food, general good times.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Are all weddings this tedious?”

You take his arm and propel him firmly along towards the tables. “Shh. Smile and act charming.”

He groans.

*

You go to use the bathroom, and when you get back, there’s a woman at your table. Which had had four chairs until an old man had asked to take one to a neighbouring table. Now there’s three chairs, and the third one is occupied by a complete stranger.

Well, to be correct, the second chair - your chair, once upon a time - is occupied by a complete stranger.

Sherlock looks like an unimpressed otter.

“...Hi?” you ask uncertainly, pulling out the third chair and sitting down. This means you’re now opposite Sherlock, which feels weird. He looks at you and rolls his eyes. “Hello.”

“Hi!” says the woman, giving you a warm smile. “You’re the lucky girl who caught the bouquet! I was hoping so much that I’d get to catch it, but no luck. Not that I need it, right,” she laughs, and you blink at her in confusion. “They’re just a silly superstition, anyway, because I remember my aunt was the bridesmaid at a wedding of her sister - step-sister, the bride wasn’t my aunt - not by blood, not that that matters if you’re part of someone’s family these days - and anyway she caught it, only for her best friend to steal her boyfriend - a serious boyfriend, she really loved him - the very next day, so-” and the woman gives a tittering laugh that both gives the impression her teeth are false and going to be accidentally spat out, and also that her teeth are false and will somehow be swallowed, “probably it’s best that I didn’t catch it, right?”

You stare, slightly dumbfounded, at the woman. Her hair is bushy and brown, exploding out of a bun balancing loosely on her head. Her skin is tanned, but it doesn’t look quite real. A normal face, so blandly normal that you’re forgetting it even as you’re looking at it. Apart from the lipstick. The lipstick is an orange shade that will haunt your nightmares for the rest of your time on this planet.

She seems to be wearing a…jumpsuit? Beige, absolutely covered in sequins, a flimsy sort of lace draped over her arms like a spider’s webbing. Is she trying to be the glamorous wedding version of Spiderman?

Is she a Spiderman?

Surely a Spiderman wouldn’t wear gold hoop earrings that big, though. Wouldn’t they just get caught in the chandeliers when they needed to do their spidermanning stuff?

“Sorry,” you say uncertainly, “I didn’t get your name…”

“Ohmygod, right, sorry! I should definitely have introduced myself. Silly me, I was just assuming Sheila had mentioned me at some point! Shaana. Shaana Barb Dwyer.” She smiles, extending a hand over the table. Her sleeves cut off halfway down her forearms, stray coils of lace fluttering over beaded glass bracelets. Which are mostly orange or a sparkling sequiny colour.

You don’t want to shake her hand. You do. “Hi,” you say again. “I’m, er, Y/N.”

“Oh, now, Sheila has mentioned you!” Shaana smiles brightly. “Or maybe it was Arthur? Oh…yeah, it was Arthur! Yeah, it was. You’re exactly what I thought!”

“But what did you think-”

“And just before you came along I was telling Mr Consulting Tux here that of course, he doesn’t need an introduction!” Shaana turns and beams at Sherlock, who leans back slightly in his chair. “The brilliant, the one and only consulting detective! How did you end up at this little ‘do of a wedding, eh? Ohmygod.” She leans in, and Sherlock leans still more back, his jaw tense. You watch from across the table, mesmerized and horrified. “Are you on a case? Is someone going to be murdered? Has someone been murdered? John Watson isn’t here, right? Do you need help? I can help if you need me to.”

“I don’t need help,” Sherlock says bluntly.

Shaana’s eyes widen with horror. “Who’s going to be murdered? Who’s…who’s the murderer? It isn’t…Arthur’s brother…is it?”

You know Arthur’s brother. Henry is a nice guy, the kind of guy who moves ladybirds off the pavement so they don’t get stepped on. “Why would it be him?” you ask, offended.

Shaana laughs, sparing you a glance. “Doesn’t he just seem like the kind, right?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Sherlock meets your eyes through the frizz of Shaana’s failing hairdo. “Fancy a drink?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” You stand up.

So does Shaana. “Ohmygod I need a drink. Not alcohol though, can’t be getting tipsy this early into Sheila’s special day!” Much to your horror, she walks along beside the two of you towards the bar. “Someone should maybe tell Sheila that, though.” She gives you a humorous glance. Or maybe it’s meant for Sherlock, who’s on your other side. “With the amount of frills on her dress…Well, personally I don’t like frills, but it’s easy to use frills to enhance your figure, that’s why Sheila did it…if I was getting married I don’t think I’d have them.” She runs her hand down her jumpsuited side. “I’ve just got to keep this figure until the special man - and day - comes along, right?”

“Most basic-looking person alive,” Sherlock mutters, so quietly you think you’ve imagined it. You try to keep a straight face.

“And heels!” Shaana laughs obliviously. “I was keeping my fingers crossed that Sheila would make it up to the altar. Ohmygod, aren’t heels the worst? And hers are like stilts!” You look down and see that her own shoes are flat, golden slippers that are actually nice. Or would be, if they weren’t sequined. “I don’t think I could wear heels for a wedding, I’d just overshadow the poor groom.” She throws a wink at Sherlock. “Not that he should mind, right?”

“Photos!” A photographer pops up out of nowhere, making clicking noises with his tongue.

“Ooh photos!” Shaana grabs at her glasses, taking them off, and then leans into a pose, hip cocked and lips pouting. You edge Sherlock along so that she can have her moment. Also, so that you can put some distance between yourselves, because her perfume is giving you a headache.

“Fake-tan line, applies it usually with her glasses still on, there’s corners that she’s missed by her ears and the bridge of her nose,” Sherlock murmurs.

You look up at him. “I’m so sorry.” For making you come, and unknowingly inflicting this woman on you.

Sherlock gives you a wry half-smile. “I’m making observations for John and Mary’s wedding, don’t worry. Learning from other people’s mistakes. Particularly, having a lax guest list.”

Shaana pops back up, now on Sherlock’s other side. “Hey, can you have your photo taken or are you…” She jazzes her fingers in the least subtle way ever. “…undercover?”

“I’m not undercover. Rather not have my photo taken, either.” Sherlock goes to wave off the photographer, then glances at you. “Unless-?”

Since Shaana is still there, any photo taken will also have her in it. You shrug. “I’m grand with being an elusive anon guest.”

You get your drinks and stand by the bar to drink them. Shaana flirts for a few seconds with a tall man who has a moustache, and then looks back at the two of you and decides to introduce Mr Tall Moustache.

“Look, this is Sherlock Holmes and…Y/N, yeah, that’s it, right?”

“Yeah,” you glower.

“Wow!” Mr Tall Moustache says. “I love your blog.”

“Not my blog. John’s blog.”

“Same thing!” Mr Tall Moustache swirls his moustache and takes a sip. “How d’you know Sheila and Richard, then?”

“However you know them,” Sherlock says with blank disinterest. You’re somewhere between cringing, throwing your drink on Shaana, and just watching the disaster unfold.

Shaana pushes her way slightly between the two men, gives Tall Moustache a flirtatious look, and then turns it on Sherlock and does the equivalent of putting it on Full Beam, like a car’s headlights.

“So!” She smiles. “I love crime and all that stuff!”

“Interesting,” Sherlock deadpans.

Her eyes widen before she throws her head back and laughs, hoop earrings swaying wildly. You’re convinced her bun will collapse, but it somehow doesn’t. “Crime-solving! My bad! I don’t have heads in my freezer, but hey…” She grins. “I wouldn’t mind….”

“So what do you do?” Tall Moustache asks jovially.

“Me? Oh, I’m-” She bites her bright orange lip, glancing between the two men slyly. “It’s not that interesting. I’m doing forensic training.”

“Really? Wow!”

Sherlock’s fingers brush over your wrist. “She’s an accountant,” he says under his breath.

The music starts then, with a swell, and Sherlock’s fingers dip lower and entwine with yours. “Dance?” he says immediately.

“Is it even dancing ti-”

“Yes it is.” He takes your drink, dumps it on the bar with his, and tows you off before Shaana can try to join in.

I feel so unsure, as I take your hand and lead you to the dance-floor…

It is actually dancing time, although you and Sherlock are the first people out on the floor, even beating Sheila and Arthur. You recognise the song. How could you not? Everyone knows it.

“Yes, even I know the song,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes as you look at him.

“How the hell did you know-”

“Your face is very expressive.” Strobe lights play across the ballroom.

I’m never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm

Though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool…

“This does not seem like a very…romantic wedding song.”

“About a romance doomed to fail?” You raise an eyebrow. He twirls you, like it’s the signal. “It’s a really good song, though.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. In Sherlock-speak, that usually means agreement.

So I’m never gonna dance again, the way I danced with you…

Some people start singing. Encouraged, you sing the words along, quieter, grinning. Sherlock sighs and allows you to do your small version of karaoke, making sure the pair of you don’t crash into anyone else.

To the heart and mind, ignorance is kind

There’s no comfort in the truth, pain is all that you’ll find

“We’re practising for John’s wedding,” you say. More people flood the dance-floor. Whoever decided Careless Whisper should be the opening song was a genius. It ensured that everyone wanted to dance, sing, or smash their heads against a wall.

“Hmm. Yes.” Sherlock turns his head to the side. There’s ornate mirrors on the inside wall, opposite a row of windows that - pun fully intended - mirror the mirrors, with a flow and arch and a pointed, gilt peak at the top.

“Are you checking for-”

“Yes.”

“How did she even-?”

“Recognised me, from much earlier during the ceremony. Decided to purposefully disregard our romantic and relationship status, or at least the status that everyone else has assumed. Don’t be fooled, she hasn’t seen through our façade and knows that we’re not together. She’s just planning to steal me, as it were, from you.” He looks down. “Don’t crease my tuxedo jacket. I need to wear it again.”

You unclench your fingers sheepishly. “Sorry.” You don’t belong to me, but you belong to me more than her, and I don’t want to lose you. Sorry. I’m being silly again. He reads it all in your face, probably, and the corner of his lips twitch up.

“I have no intention of being stolen.”

Tonight the music seems so loud

I wish we could lose this crowd

“You’ll bail me out if I commit a murder tonight, though, right?”

“For God’s sake, don’t use that word.”

You’re both laughing, and he spins you again. You tilt your head back just enough to feel giddy, your dress and hair flaring out.

We could have been so good together

We could have danced this dance forever

But now who’s gonna dance with me?

Please, stay

The peace lasts for exactly twenty minutes; twenty minutes of dancing. Shaana is nowhere to be seen, so the two of you risk going back to the bar and ordering more drinks.

“I hate to do this to you,” you begin, uncurling your legs from around the barstool.

Sherlock gives you a pitiful look. “You need the bathroom again.”

“Good luck,” you say, and give him a smile.

You were mostly joking, and so when you return, you’re genuinely amazed - and horrified - to see Shaana, on your barstool, with a drink, sequins flashing under the strobe lights, leaning in towards your poor, poor plus-one.

Sherlock sees you coming and stands, throwing you an ireful half-roll of his eyes. You smile sympathetically and just hear the end of whatever sentence Shaana had been building up to.

“-because I’m actually a psychopath too, you know?” She laughs, leans in, orange lipstick inches away from Sherlock’s pale cheek.

Sherlock looks at her. Genuine offence is clearly written across his features, in his glacial eyes and his motionless face, and you feel it too.

Shaana doesn’t stop.

“A little bit crazy but!” A toss of her head; gold earrings swinging. “That’s what makes us interesting, right?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“Miss-”

“Oh, call me Shaana!” Her voice is far, far too loud. Surrounding people turn, frowning slightly.  “And I can call you Sherlock, right?”

Now people are looking. Sherlock? Is that the Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes who died and came back to life? Not that one, surely. Well, how many people are called Sherlock? Up and down the bar, people are craning their heads; even some of the dancing couples are pausing to see why everyone’s staring in this particular direction, like horseflies swarming to a pile of dung.

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “Are you familiar with Locard’s principle of exchange?”

You blink. That’s…not quite what you expected.

“Oh, I’ve heard of it! I do love crime. Or, crime-solving.” She leans in closer. “I’d better not make that mistake again. I wouldn’t want you to feel you have to arrest me. Though I wouldn’t mind…”

“Locard’s principle is used to describe how some traces weasel their way into places they don’t belong in and absorb important materials, hence making some cases difficult to solve. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Shaana glows at him. There’s no one paying attention - no one except you, who she hasn’t noticed; yet she broadcasts her voice, like she’s desperate to scream, Look! Look at me! I’m talking about crime to the great Sherlock Holmes! I’m on a level with him, able to keep up with him because, who knows, maybe I’m a genius, right?

“Yes! I’m so glad someone else sees the value of these theories.” She leans in more. She’s going to topple off her stool if she’s not careful. “But obviously you would. We’re already like two peas in a pod.”

Sherlock stands his ground. You notice the way his hands are too loose, hanging by his sides. “Except,” he says, voice perfectly even, “that is not at all what Locard’s principle is about. Strange…given that any idiot in forensics would have heard of it hundreds of times.”

Shaana straightens. “Well, actually-”

“Well, it’s not strange at all, is it? You’ve never worked in forensics or even heard a thing about it. You get nauseous at the sight of blood; it’s obvious by the twitch in your eye when Henry played that balloon popping game. Hence, a fear of needles stemming from a childhood fear of blood. You’re not training in forensics at all, you’re an accountant at a shop. An average one. Only got the job out of pity - I’m guessing a member of your family manages the place. Heads-up, you won’t have it for long if you continue to do such a shoddy job.”

Shaana’s hand is clenched around her drink. It goes quiet for a moment as the song changes to the next one, loud through bass speakers. Sherlock blinks once and continues, low, rapid; you’re just far enough away that you’re mostly lip-reading, but Shaana must be able to hear all of it.

“You’re also bored with your life, desperate for change, scared you’ll die ‘alone’, or ‘single’,” he flicks sarcastic quote-marks at her, “which equates to the same thing for you. Or, perhaps even worse, you’ll end up with a husband with an unsteady job and terrible eating habits. Sound familiar?”

You don’t want to stop him. You’re not going to stop him.

“It’s your second wedding this month. Why else would you get your hair done twice recently when you’ve obviously never cared for it before? Both brides were acquaintances but not close friends, as you’ve worn the same jumpsuit to each one. Didn’t even bother getting it cleaned…” Sherlock pulls a face. “Struggling with money…wanting to quit your job and make a dramatic change with your life but you can’t. New romantic entanglements are your last hope at making that loud change you so desperately want, but…”

“You’re-”

“Speaking of loud,” Sherlock barrels over her, “you have a compulsive need to jump into the middle of every conversation to make yourself heard and a need to confirm that other people notice you because despite everything, even you are aware how dreadfully boring you are. When Sheila mentioned I would be attending as the plus-one of her cousin, you figured that I would have trouble fitting in with this very tight-knit group of guests and decided to lean on those terrible, sickening internet novels you read every night.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, taking a step closer. “Horrible for your eye sight, and even worse for any pragmatism that head might have left. Though I imagine any pragmatism you ever possessed leaked out of your pierced ears, along with common-sense, though it seems unlikely that you ever had any.”

Shaana stares at him, speechless. Other people sitting along the bar are looking now. You grip onto the waist of your dress and watch.

“Sheila attempted to be discreet and only provided surface level details as to what I do, but then you got the bright, bright idea of googling my name.” Sherlock tilts his head. “Don’t bother with the journalism gig, by the way. You’ll never get any coverage, since you’ll just express your loud opinion over the entirety of the interview. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Locard’s principle is that every contact leaves a trace, child’s play. What I described earlier was how I felt about your attempt to soak up some purpose in life by being in the same vicinity as those you cling to like a desperate leech.”

He pauses. Shaana’s inhaling and exhaling with jerky little quivers. In contrast, Sherlock isn’t even out of breath. He glances at you briefly, then back at Shaana; takes a step back, straightening his jacket, and then brushes by her, standing next to you. Her head turns numbly, and she finally notices you; opens her mouth, it looks like she’s going to hurl epithets at you, but Sherlock’s sharp voice cuts through the high-pitched insults before they can be voiced.

“What was it you said? Oh yes. A psychopath too. I’m not a psychopath. You should really have done your research. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” He leans past you, bodies brushing together, and puts his empty glass down neatly on the bar.

“And now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to dance, and spend the rest of this evening, with the woman I actually came with.” He holds out his elbow and you link your arm through his.

As he leads you away, he catches your eye in the nearest mirror, just a heartbeat’s glimpse amongst the crazy reflections of light and fabric and dancing, and he smiles at you.

****

FIVE

It’s early in the year, but late at night. Late enough that you’re not even sure what time it is. The curtains are shut, but you can imagine the snowflakes spiralling, falling. They’re saying it’ll become a blizzard tomorrow. That trains will be delayed or cancelled; wrecking havoc with people’s schedules. The weather, in your opinion, is just aiding people’s New Year resolutions to lose the weight they gained of too many mince pies.

Though at the moment, you’re not thinking about too much at all. A fire burns merrily, occasionally cracking or spitting over the kindling, like a person chewing gum. The TV is on, flickering white light, something about GPs Behind Closed Doors - something Sherlock’s watching out of morbid curiosity while he waits for the next terrible quiz show to finish its advert breaks. He likes quiz shows. Likes showing off - the clue is in the name.

“-fungal nail infection-” says a sombre man with a brown beard, addressing the camera.

You tune out again, blissfully curling your warm feet. There’s nothing nicer than warm feet when the world outside is cold. Your socks are big and woolly, a Christmas gift from Mrs Hudson. There’s a white woollen blanket draped over the two of you as well; you, and your enormous Sherlock-shaped cushion that you’re curled up with. The blanket smells of ginger for some reason. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson’s washing machine is on its spin cycle.

“Are you asleep?” Sherlock mutters. You’re both stretched out sideways on the sofa, your head on his chest, tucked under his chin, your left arm curled over him, right arm pinned between your torso and his, legs tangled together hopelessly. His left arm lies along your back, right arm dangling off the sofa, tapping the floor lazily with the remote control.

He’s wearing a white shirt, and his blue robe and some form of trousers, hidden under the woollen blanket. You can feel where the worn-smooth texture of robe gives way to the starchier crispness of shirt against your cheek.

“Nah,” you yawn. “Still awake. Really awake, like. Super awake. Super alert.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Sherlock says drily. He changes channels, pausing for a moment on the weather forecast. “Hmm. It’s going to drop to minus five. Interesting.”

“I don’t know want to know why,” you mumble, burrowing closer, tucking your chin under the fold of blanket. One thing about Sherlock, which people wouldn’t automatically assume - given his personality - was that he was, physically, like a furnace. A perfect hot water bottle.

“You will know. At some point.”

“Know what?”

Sherlock changes channels again, back to his quiz show. You get a full glimpse of Bradley Walsh’s perfect grin and the bouncy red-and-blue theme tune of The Chase before you shut your eyes.

“You’re going to be staying over tonight, I assume.”

You open your eyes. “Wait, what time is it?”

“That’s hardly-”

You manoeuvre yourself a bit, delving under the blanket and patting blindly at various parts of your and Sherlock’s anatomy.

“For the love of God, woman, what are you-”

You finally find his wrist and drag it out, fiddling with his cuff until you’ve exposed his watch. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yes.”

“It’s nearly tomorrow.”

You can hear his raised eyebrow. “Yes.”

You think, for a moment, you should start fretting and panicking and trying to get back to your own flat. But all of that involves disrupting your cocoon of cosiness. So instead you pull his cuff back down and then pat his hand like it’s well-behaved Great Dane. His skin is warm. He waits for a moment, to make sure you’ve finished, and lifts his arm, returning it to its place under the blanket; drops the remote on the floor and brings his other hand up, playing with your hair lazily.

You watch the quiz show through slitted eyes, barely comprehending the questions or answers. You’re almost asleep when you decide you’d better text your downstairs neighbour - an old woman, not unlike Mrs Hudson - and let her know you’re fine, but you’re not coming home tomorrow. She’ll worry that you got killed in the blizzard or something, if you don’t.

You extract your phone and type lazily, one-handed.  You can sense Sherlock curiously watching you, your phone screen. You don’t mind. You can’t be bothered to put the phone away, so you just let it go black and hold it, at a slowly tilting angle, in your hand, letting your head drop back down to its original position. It isn’t the first time you’ve cuddled with Sherlock - though you wouldn’t dare to use that word in his presence. Or maybe you would, just for the fun of it. But it is the first time in a long time that you’ve felt this comfortable and safe and content, all at once, a quiet kind of happiness that feels more powerful and long-lasting than something euphoric.

You feel, more than hear, Sherlock’s voice, rumbling deep in his chest, against your cheek.

“I should ask you to marry me.”

There are a million responses to this. Fight, flight, freeze, freak out. Sitting up, staring, throwing incredulous questions, being completely bewildered and angry and demanding answers, trying to work out where the confusion had occurred. Maybe that’s what anyone else would do. Maybe, if you were a single iota less comfy, you’d do the same too.

But you’re too comfortable. And his tone is so inoffensive, quiet, like he’s just thinking aloud. So you don’t move. You don’t even tense. Because perhaps you’ve always known it, too.

“We probably need to, like, date or something first,” you mumble. Sherlock’s arms tighten around you, his fingers stilling in your hair, but he doesn’t say anything.

You tear your eyes away from the fire, amber and orange and golden flames dancing, too fast to keep track of, and glance at your phone. It’s sloping so slowly that when it eventually, inevitably, slides free and hits the floor, it probably won’t crack.

In the black screen, you see Sherlock’s face. He’s looking downward at you. Smiling. It’s a quiet smile, somehow, eyes crinkled, mouth barely curled.

But it’s real, and you’ve always known the real smiles.

They never change.

****

PLUS ONE

Now

Mary is trying so, so incredibly hard not to laugh. You really hope she doesn’t. If she starts, then there’s no hope for you.

“I’m sure,” John says, standing, “that most of you here were present at my wedding and witnessed the incredible landslide that was my best man’s speech-”

Sherlock looks up, affronted. “I saved a man’s life.”

“You insulted half the guests,” John says, half patient, half martyred, “and almost frightened the life out of the poor vicar.”

“That wasn’t intentional,” Sherlock says indignantly. He gives it a moment. “Well. The insults were. Sort of.”

All the guests are trying not to laugh. You look down the table and catch Mrs Holmes’s eye, seated between her husband and Mycroft, and just about manage to suppress a giggle.

“I am incredibly fortunate,” John continues, “to be the best man here today. Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware of what an honour it is, to be the man Sherlock Holmes deems important enough to be his best man at his wedding.” He pauses. Gives it a good few seconds. Grimaces.

“I was also unfortunate enough to be the plus one for the proposal.”

You’re the first one to burst out laughing.

*

Then

It’s a fairly big restaurant, but it’s completely empty. Completely. Well, there’s furniture. A lot of tables with white tablecloths; ornate chairs; empty sparkling wine glasses, gleaming cutlery, too many folded napkins for the naked eye to count. The lights are low and dim, emanating from a string of fairylights along the walls; there’s a little candle flickering on each of the tables and at the counter - probably about thirty candles, all in all.

And, scattered across the floor, from plush carpets to ancient dark wood panes, are bright red rose petals. Real roses. You wonder how many bushes of roses it took to make this spectacle.

Violin music plays through speakers, something soft and gentle. The whole…you can’t quite think of the word. Oh, wait, that’s it.

Ambiance. That’s the word you’re looking for. The whole ambiance is incredibly romantic. Or would be, if it weren’t for the smell, which floats through the empty building like a menacing phantom, strong and sharp and waxy and cloying, like embalming fluid. Or jasmine essential oil. But probably embalming fluid.

Which, given the fact that the restaurant is empty, isn’t too reassuring.

“Where is every-” You turn your head to the right and change tack. “-Sherlock gone?”

“I don’t know,” John says wearily.

“Is this, like, a zombie apocalypse type of thing?”

“I don’t know,” he says again, with another heartfelt sigh.

“Like seriously, where is everybody?”

“I’m going to check the kitchens,” John says decisively. “You wait for Sherlock.” He strides off towards the sterile white doorway behind the counter. You look around, poking a rose petal with your foot. It looks soft, and you’re tempted to touch it, but what if the touch of human skin turns it into a million baby alligators or something?

You glance up as Sherlock walks back towards you, running his hands through his hair. He’s shed his coat somewhere. And, you realise, he was wearing a tuxedo underneath.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at your jeans and jumper. “I’m starting to feel under-dressed,” you say wryly, before frowning. Sherlock keeps walking, right up to you, and stops, just a breath and a few inches away.

Your heart picks up. You want to kiss him, but the middle of a deserted restaurant that smells of embalming fluid probably isn’t the best place. And he has a strange expression on his face.

You study him narrowly. “This isn’t the moment you suddenly reveal you’re an evil mastermind, the next Dracula, and that you killed all the-”

Your words, the joke, the punchline, die in your throat because Sherlock is sinking to one knee and everything slams to a complete halt, systems switching off, nothing working, error error error because the man you know, the man you’ve learnt to love - even though maybe you always loved him, knew him from a smile through a window and met him through another smile in a different window and despite everything always came back to knowing him through those smiles and that love-

He’s on one knee, and your breath catches in your throat, disbelief flaring, igniting like sparks on wet ground.

Sherlock looks up at you, eyes wide and blue in the lighting, and you stare back down at him numbly.

“Y/N,” he says quietly, but you hear him perfectly over the violin’s melody, “you are the only woman I have ever loved. I know that before my… so-called death - my two years of absence  - we were not as close as this. That was remiss of me. I have always wanted to be in your company - which is a rarity, for someone like me.” His lips twitch, and it’s the first kiss, it’s dancing at John and Mary’s wedding, it’s holding him the night you thought you would never see him again; it’s leaping through the window as a child and sitting beside him on the edge of a flowing river, grasshoppers chirping in the scorched grass around you.

“Being exiled, believing I would never see you again, has taught me a lesson I should probably have learnt a long time ago. We don’t have unlimited time in our lives.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and glances down momentarily. “I need to stop wasting it. So…”

*

Now

“So,” John continues, happily narrating your proposal for all and sundry to hear, “then, with that touching cliffhanger, he got the box with the ring out. And he mumbled - I say mumbled, but if I could hear it, then his beloved bride definitely could. He said, and I quote, while down on one knee, ‘also I can’t wait to see Mycroft’s face’.”

You’re shaking with paroxysms of laughter. Mary’s laughing so hard she’s completely silent. Greg looks utterly shaken. Mycroft presses his lips together and gives his brother a sickly smile.

“And I couldn’t help but hiss through my teeth in horror,” John continues unrepentantly. “A split-second later I regretted it, but luckily, it didn’t ruin the mood.”

“Yes, thank you, John,” Sherlock bites out.

“And then…”

*

Then

He gets the box open, finally, and presents the ring, on a velvet cushion, glittering and exquisite. Looks up at you with eyes that are infinitely more exquisite. You’re crying now, unable to help it.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “Will you marry me?”

*

Now

John smiles, surveying the rapt faces around him. “And I think we all know the answer she gave him.”

Everyone’s crying, either openly, or surreptitiously padding at their eyes with tissues or napkins.

“Brave, brave woman,” Greg says, raising his glass to you.

Sherlock takes your hand under the table and squeezes. You turn your head. He’s already looking at you.

You smile.

*

Then

“Yes,” you say.

****

Holding my breath, slowly I said

You don’t need to save me

But would you run away with me?

Yes.

-Call It What You Want by Taylor Swift