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John leaned on the counter, his chin propped up on a palm as his free fingers tapped the seconds off on the polished wood. He glanced at the clock, sighing to find it only 2:30am, and then turned away from the door, moving to clean the espresso machine. Again.
It had been a good idea in theory, he supposed, opening the coffee shop 24 hours as finals closed in on them, but, now that those were over, everyone had gone home for the holidays, leaving John with a schedule full of lonely night shifts. To be fair, the move had been a huge success while there were still students around, dozens of people huddling up in chairs and sofas to revise and drink coffee until their hands shook taking the cups, and they had barely been able to keep up with it, three staff members needed on hand at all times. Now, however, it had tapered off, the manager deciding only one person would be needed for the 11pm-6am shift, and John had volunteered, eager for the extra cash as much as he was the peace and quiet.
Still, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so boring, unaware just how dead the area surrounding the university would become once everyone else took off for the holidays, and, when the door chimed, he nearly leapt out of his skin, startling upright from where he’d been bent over reading one of his medical textbooks for next term.
A man entered the shop, hovering just inside the doorway, his upturned collar and scarf obscuring his face at first as he rattled loose snowflakes from his dark curls, and then he tugged the blue fabric free from his mouth and nose, revealing a much younger face than John had expected. He was pale—a contrast made all the more glaring by the wind-whipped flush of pink over his prominent cheekbones—and appeared to be about John’s age, maybe a little younger. He looked up, dark lashes framing glacier eyes, and John blinked, suddenly recognizing him as one of the regulars in the library, always sitting at the study area in the corner directly across from John’s usual nook. Well, it wasn’t quite directly across, he supposed, a few desks and a large potted plant resting between them, but John was sure it was him all the same, those eyes not something easily forgotten.
“Hello,” John greeted, clearing his throat, his voice a bit gravelly from disuse over the course of the long shift. “What can I get started for you?”
The man stepped forward, pulling his black leather gloves away to reveal long thin fingers John had a hard time looking away from, but he managed, smiling politely up at the customer’s face. “Just coffee,” he replied, and John blinked, surprised at the depth of the sound. “Black, two sugars.”
“Okay,” John said, typing the order into the register, “and what kind of coffee would you like?”
The man quirked a brow, his head tilting slightly. “Um…caffeinated?” he muttered, and John smiled, turning his head to point up at the board hanging behind his head.
“We have several different blends,” he explained, pointing at the list. “The chocolate cherry is our featured option, and then we also have hazelnut toffee, gingerbread, peppermint bark-”
“Which one is just…coffee?” the man interjected, and John laughed, waving a hand down at the bottom of the list.
“Light, medium, or dark roast?” he asked, and the man smiled, turning his face down to fish coins out of a slot in his wallet.
“Light,” he replied, passing the appropriate amount to John, and John nodded, sliding open the drawer to drop the coins inside. “Where is everyone?” he asked, eyes scanning out over the shop with a frown. “I walked past here last week and the line nearly went out the door.”
“Went home for the holidays, I suspect,” John replied, shrugging a shoulder as he wriggled free a paper cup. “That, and it’s 3 in the morning.”
“Fair enough,” the boy muttered, and then fell silent, moving across in front of the counter as John turned to the coffee.
It was a quick order, just pressing a button and stirring in some sugar, but the man had already pulled out a magazine by the time John was snapping on the lid, the cover bent back around the binding as he frowned down at a page, tapping the tip of a ballpoint pen to his lip.
“There ya go,” John said, smiling as he sat the cup in front of the man’s hand, and the brunette smiled up through his lashes, shifting the pen to his other hand as he took the coffee.
“Cheers,” he said, bobbing the cup as he made to turn away, and then stopped, twisting back. “Hey,” he muttered, turning the magazine so John could see the page, “you wouldn’t happen to know a seven-letter word for ‘teeth grinding’, would you?”
John tilted his head, blinking at the crossword, momentarily taken aback. He then laughed, the brunette smiling back at him, and leaned in, looking thoughtfully over the page. “Bruxism?” he suggested, and the man’s smile faltered, eyes scanning across the weaving boxes as he twirled the page back to face him.
“Yeah, actually,” he murmured, flicking open the cap of the pen and scratching the letters into the squares. “That-That works.”
John smiled, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned back to his side of the counter. “Med student,” he muttered in explanation, and the man chuckled, nodding his head.
“That would explain it,” he said, lifting his face to John’s, and they lingered there a moment, smiling softly at one another in the silence. “I’m Sherlock, by the way,” the brunette offered, twisting his hands to demonstrate they were too occupied for a handshake. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“John Watson,” John replied, bobbing a nod, which Sherlock returned, an added brightness to the accompanying smile, if John’s eyes did not deceive.
“John,” he echoed, voice dipping even lower, and the air around John thinned. “Well, it, um… It was nice meeting you,” he muttered, a swallowing moving down his throat as he began to back toward the door. “And thank you for the, er…the help,” he added, flicking the magazine in the air, and John smiled, shrugging his shoulders as he looked down to the ground.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, rallying a bit of courage as he grinned. “Any time.”
Sherlock blinked, frowning a moment as his steps slowed, eyes moving over John’s face in careful consideration, and then he smiled back, a quick twitch of a corner of his mouth. He nodded in farewell, the door chiming with his exit, and John watched him walk away up the street, coat flapping in the winter wind until he turned a corner and disappeared.
Smiling to himself, John turned away from the window, returning to his book, but he suddenly didn’t feel much like reading, a nervous energy fluttering about in his chest.
Perhaps the night shift wouldn’t be so boring after all.
*****
“Certain birthstone.”
“What?”
“That’s all it says,” Sherlock replied, tapping down at a spot on the page when John craned his neck around the counter to look at him where he sat in one of the armchairs. “Certain birthstone. Four letters.”
John thought, frowning as he restocked the large cups. “Ruby?” he suggested, and Sherlock hummed in the negative. “Opal?” he tried again, and there was a muffled scratching sound from around the corner, John smiling down at the tile beneath his feet.
“What are you even doing over there?” Sherlock snapped, his usual demeanor when John guessed one of the answers. “It’s 3 in the morning, no one’s going to come in.”
“You come in,” he countered, and Sherlock scoffed.
“I’m different,” he snipped, and John chuckled, shaking his head.
“That you are,” he sighed, turning around with a grin as he felt Sherlock’s glare on the back of his neck.
The brunette had been in every night since the first, staying longer and longer every time, and, though they had yet to do much but make idle chitchat and bicker over the seemingly endless supply of crosswords Sherlock had at his disposal, John quite appreciated the company. Especially very attractive company that smelled like cedar and sea spray and had a laugh that sent shivers up his spine.
“Saintly archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Seriously?” John laughed, temporarily pausing in his work to make one of his rare trips around the counter, moving to Sherlock’s side. “You don’t know who Saint Augustine is?”
“I can’t remember everything,” the boy snapped, and John smiled down at the top of his head, heart aching fondly.
“Well, thank god for that,” he remarked, leaning over the back of Sherlock’s chair to peer at what clues he still had left. “Otherwise you wouldn’t need me anymore.”
“Are you suggesting I’m just using you for your crossword prowess?” Sherlock quipped, twisting his head up to John with a quirk of a brow.
John chuckled, shrugging a shoulder. “No,” he replied, shaking his head, “at least, not entirely. I’m sure the coffee has something to do with it too.”
“Yes, but I’m paying for that,” Sherlock rebutted, and John laughed.
“True,” he allowed, straightening up as he moved back toward the counter. “The price of my company is high. Oh!” His leg brushed the table, catching the corner of Sherlock’s notebook that had been hanging off the edge, and the book fell to the ground, the loose papers tucked inside scattering out over the tile. “Shit, sorry, I-”
“No, it’s-it’s fine,” Sherlock blustered, diving down atop the mess, and John started, pulling his hands away as Sherlock batted anxiously at him. “I-I can get it. You just…go away.”
“Go away?” John parroted, tilting his head with a frown, and then his eyes caught on what appeared to be a picture peeking out from beneath some sort of spreadsheet. He blinked, alarmed at suddenly finding himself face-to-face with a young woman who was very clearly deceased, her face grey and flecked with shallow cuts, the picture a simple headshot exactly like in the movies, and, for a second, this moment felt just as unreal. He looked up, finding Sherlock’s face even paler than normal, eyes wide and frantic as they flicked between John and the photograph.
“I’m not a serial killer,” he blurted, rattling his head, and John just watched him, brow creasing.
“Okay,” he murmured when Sherlock did not continue, not exactly skeptical, but definitely curious.
Sherlock opened his mouth, jaw shifting soundlessly, and then closed his lips with a sigh, dropping his face as he rustled around through the paper. “I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll just- I’ll just go.”
“No, hey!” John urged, stretching out to stay Sherlock with a hand over his arm, and the brunette looked down at the contact, apparently just as startled as John. “I-I don’t think you’re a serial killer,” he assured, hardly believing this conversation was real. “I just- Well, why do you have that?” he asked, removing his hand to wave it at the notebook now collected in Sherlock’s hands, and the man smiled bitterly, shaking his head.
“You won’t believe me,” he said, and John hesitated only a moment before shuffling closer across the cold tile floor.
“Try me,” he answered, smiling as Sherlock snapped his eyes up, blinking in shock, but, slowly, the brunette relaxed, a soft smile curling at his mouth, and, by the time they stood up again, John was pretty sure he’d have permanent tile creases pressed into his legs.
*****
John clenched his jaw, fingers tapping in sharp staccato as he listened to the espresso machine hissing and clicking behind him, the perfect soundtrack for his boiling rage. He should have seen it coming, really, Sherlock far too good of a thing to actually be real, but, still, did he have to flaunt it, waltzing in here with a guy who looked like he’d just stepped off a billboard?
The gay version of Barbie and Ken—Ken and Ken? Adam and Steve?—currently sat in the window, the blond Tommy Hilfiger model laughing loudly at something Sherlock had just said, shifting his foot toward the brunette’s where it rested under the table, but Sherlock slid away, maintaining a small distance between them like there ought to be.
John turned away, unable to take any more, and began mindlessly shifting at the creamers in the fridge, burying his head inside to avoid hearing the flirting. What kind of person was out at 2am anyway, and where had they been, certainly not having just decided to meet at a coffee shop at that hour. Although, John did like that explanation better than the romantic dinner, movie, and walk along the river that he’d vividly imagined when the pair had first walked in, Sherlock flashing John a quick smile before giving him both orders and moving to the table, but at least it wasn’t their table. Apparently, some things were still sacred.
The espresso machine stopped, bringing an end to his excuses, and he steadied himself with a breath as he poured out the drink, Captain Calvin Klein apparently preferring his latte half skim, half 2%, the asshole.
“Here,” John bit, customer service face just barely hitching into place as the pair looked up to him.
Blondie smiled, even his teeth looking greasy, and John hoped he was smiling back and not grimacing. “Thank you, Jim,” he muttered, taking the cup from him, and John’s eyes narrowed.
“John,” he corrected sharply, and the man flicked a hand at him as he sipped his drink.
“Right, of course,” he dismissed, and John turned to Sherlock, lifting his brows.
Sherlock twisted an apologetic smile up at him, shrugging weakly, and John snapped his lips shut at the betrayal, spinning on his heels and stomping back behind the counter.
“So, Sherlock,” the blond man said, and John peered up through his lashes, watching while very slowly emptying a new roll of 10p pieces into the register, “how’ve you been? Seems like ages since I last saw you.”
“Fine,” Sherlock replied, tipping his head as he sipped at his coffee, and John’s ears perked up, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest.
So, there hadn’t been a dinner date after all…
“Yourself?” Sherlock asked, and the man shrugged.
“Oh, the usual, you know me,” he replied, leaning in a bit over the table, and Sherlock smiled thinly.
“Yes, I daresay I do,” he answered, and John frowned down at the cash drawer, sure something was being implied there he couldn’t quite parse out without the context.
The blond man chuckled, but it was stilted slightly, John feeling the thread of tension all the way at the counter. “Now, Sherlock, there’s no need for that,” he drawled, and John clenched hard around the roll of coins. “I only wanted to catch up. Could hardly believe it when I saw you walking down the pavement. You should have heard me, I think I nearly gave Arnaud a heart attack! Demanded he stop the car right there in the street!”
“I know, Victor,” Sherlock snipped, leaning back in his chair. “I was standing right there for the pileup you nearly caused.”
Victor—because of course that was his name—only laughed, even his amusement somehow reeking of aristocracy. “Oh, you haven’t changed a bit,” he mused, shaking his head fondly, and John’s eyes narrowed almost as sharply as Sherlock’s did. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he sighed, and Sherlock quirked a brow. “Just like old times.”
“Not really,” Sherlock murmured, looking side-to-side over the shop. “But, if you’re feeling nostalgic, I’m sure we can find a polo player for me to walk in on you with.”
John’s jaw dropped, his mind torn between sinking to the floor and hiding or screaming for joy before asking Victor if he needed some ice.
Victor’s mouth splayed open too, his brown eyes blinking dumbly as his face flushed, and Sherlock smiled benignly at him, lowering his cup to the table with a soft click.
“I’ll even act surprised,” he quipped, tilting his head as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms smugly. “Make it really authentic.”
John was running over the contents of the kitchen in the back, trying to recall if there was any liquor he could use to toast this moment, but he was drawn out of his blissful musings by Victor’s shrill scoff.
“I don’t know why you would be surprised,” he spat, and Sherlock’s face turned to stone, John already halfway around the counter before his legs informed his brain they were moving. “Not like you didn’t force me into it. Maybe if you weren’t such a prude, I wouldn’t’ve needed to-”
“I think it’s time for you to go,” John interjected, moving up to the side of the table, turned toward Victor, and he felt more than saw Sherlock shift in his chair, shielding himself as much as he could behind John’s body.
Victor gaped up at him, stunned for a moment, and then turned furious, rising from his chair to glare sharply down his nose. “Excuse me?” he hissed, but John only folded his arms.
“You heard me,” he clipped, bobbing his head toward the door. “Get out.”
Victor just blinked at him, red creeping up from his neck as incensed breaths huffed through his nose. “You’d better watch who you’re talking to, boy,” he spat, and John’s jaw clicked. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
John rolled his eyes, letting his arms fall loose from his chest. “Look, mate,” he snarled, clicking a terminal ‘t’, “I don’t care how many middle names you have, I grew up in Newham, alright?” He smiled icily, quirking his brows smugly as Victor shuffled a step back. “Trust me,” he urged, leaning forward with a sage nod, “this is one fight not even Daddy’s money can win.”
The man hesitated, eyes darting between him and where Sherlock must have risen to standing, and then he straightened up, jutting his chin out even as his eyes sparkled with fear. With a final huff of comical indignation, he spun on his heels, stomping out the door, nothing left of him but the exit chime lingering on in a hum through the air.
Once Victor was out of sight, John turned, peering back over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was decidedly looking away from him. The slight stiffness in his jaw said everything, however, John catching hints of the emotion caught in his eyes as the brunette blinked down at the floor, and John turned back to the window, frowning as his mind worked furiously for something to say.
“Four letters,” he said, turning back over his shoulder as Sherlock’s brows furrowed up at him. John smiled, shifting around to face him. “Detective slang.”
Sherlock blinked, frowning at him, his mouth just beginning to open when he paused, face folding into a tremulous smile. “Dick,” he murmured, nodding with a quirk of his brows, and John grinned, Sherlock slowly drawn up along until they were both laughing loudly in the deserted shop.
Eventually, however, they wound down, John finding himself caught yet again in a tableau of fond smiling he didn’t quite know how to break.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat as he looked down to the ground, rocking back on his heels, “you doing anything for the holidays?” Christmas Eve was tomorrow, after all, John honestly surprised Sherlock was still here at this point, but, surprisingly, the boy shook his head.
“Not really,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his slim dark jeans. “My landlady usually has a party in the evening, but, other than that.” He dropped his face, biting over his lip a moment. “How-How about you?” he asked, looking at John through his lashes, and John chuckled.
“Me?” he said, tipping his head. “I’ll be here,” he sighed, waving a hand out over the shop, “taking in all the festive splendor.”
Sherlock smiled, huffing a small laugh as he dropped his eyes to the floor, his black shoes shifting across the tile, and John knew he was supposed to say something—knew exactly what it was he was supposed to say, too—but he couldn’t do it, the words not yet planned enough that he could count on them to come out properly. “Right,” Sherlock murmured, and the window was closed, a palpable wall falling between them as Sherlock shuffled a step back. “Well, maybe-maybe I’ll see ya, then,” he said, beginning to gather up his things, and John swallowed, forcing up a smile as he nodded.
“Yeah,” he answered, moving back to allow Sherlock more room. “Yeah, maybe.”
Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder, curling a fragile smile, and then moved away, notebook held protectively over his chest. “Goodnight,” he bade, twitching the coffee cup in his hand, and John smiled, flicking a nod.
“Night,” he replied, and then Sherlock was gone, disappearing up the street in record time.
John closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh as he tipped his neck back, blinking up at the ceiling as he allowed himself a moment of self-pity.
He should’ve just asked him, not usually the type to be shy about this sort of thing, but Sherlock was different, new and strange in the very best way, and John just couldn’t seem to talk properly in front of him, his tongue always twisting up around itself whenever he looked too long into those grey eyes. It looked horrible, he knew it did, him passing up such a perfect opportunity, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock thought he wasn’t interested at all now, ignoring an ideal setup like the one he’d just floundered over.
Rattling his head, he began to pace across the shop, racking his brain for a solution, any way to tell Sherlock how he felt without actually having to tell him. It was no easy task, however, the two of them never exchanging numbers or anything of the sort, and, in fact, if Sherlock didn’t come back to the coffee shop, John would have no idea where to find him, his black coat disappearing into the London fog never to be recovered.
John stopped, staring out the window, unexpectedly disturbed by the possibility. What did he even do before Sherlock, before the hours spent pouring over casefiles and crossword puzzles, laughing as Sherlock’s nose wrinkled when he periodically tried to slip him one of the holiday coffee blends just to see if he’d notice? John couldn’t honestly remember, and, while it probably should’ve scared him, he found it strangely comforting, like a piece he hadn’t known was missing had suddenly been slotted into place.
An idea dawned on him, so completely ridiculous, it absolutely had to be done, and he smiled to himself, racing around the counter to grab a napkin and a pen. Perhaps there was a way to ask without asking after all.
*****
Once again, John stood at the counter, tapping his fingers anxiously on the counter as he watched out the window, awaiting a familiar silhouette. He didn’t mind the shop being deserted when Sherlock was here, but he would kill for some customers now, a Christmas Eve rush to take his mind off things, but, alas, he had felt every passing minute between the start of his shift and the current 2:17am, and the corners of the cardboard sleeve in his hand were worn down from his constant twirling. Lifting the paper up to his face, he checked his work again, the nervous knot in his throat somehow still managing to thicken.
It had taken an embarrassingly long time to draw the miniature crossword puzzle on the drink sleeve—his hand shaking over the tiny words or his boxes too uneven—and coming up with clues had been an even worse ordeal, but, after a number he would never admit to being thrown in the bin, he had finally achieved perfection: 3 simple words and 3 simple clues.
1 Down: December holiday
2 Down: Adam and ___
3 Across: Petit déjeuner
There was a question mark at the end of the final clue, already filled in beside the last box, hopefully making it impossible to miss the message, because there was no way John was going to explain to Sherlock that he was asking him out to Christmas Eve breakfast after his shift, not a snowball’s chance in hell.
Suddenly, the door chimed, and he jumped, cursing himself for getting distracted as he lifted wide eyes to Sherlock, striding in with his usual tangle of winter wear.
“Hey,” the brunette panted, shaking snow free from his hair, and it was such a perfect circle of events, something John would have to remember to appreciate later, when he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up. “No holiday rush?” he inquired, striding up to the counter, and John managed a faint smile, shaking his head.
“No,” he muttered, forcing his hand steady as Sherlock handed him the appropriate change, John typing in the usual order.
Sherlock’s hands stalled halfway through unwrapping his scarf, grey eyes narrowing shrewdly as he frowned curiously at John’s face. “Are you alright?” he asked, and John swallowed, steadying himself into a more convincing pantomime of normal.
“Of course,” he chirped, and, okay, so he was a terrible liar and even worse actor. He turned away to the coffee machines, hoping not having to look at him would help. “Just a little tired,” he shrugged, voice at least not trembling, but his hands were, Sherlock’s cup rattling in his grip as he forced it under the nozzle.
“Well, then it seems like you’re in the right place,” the brunette joked, and John smiled over his shoulder, easing a little in the man’s presence.
“I’m not allowed to drink the merchandise,” he replied, smiling as he popped the lid down on the drink, and then stilled, the moment of truth suddenly upon him.
He could turn back, leave the doctored sleeve in his pocket and things just as they were, Sherlock never having to be the wiser, but, in the end, he didn’t want things to stay the same. He wanted them to get a whole lot better. With a deep breath, he plunged his hand into his pocket, flipping open the sleeve, thrusting the drink inside, and spinning around to pass it to Sherlock before he could chicken out.
“Here,” he blurted, and Sherlock blinked, tilting his head at him as he searched between John’s eyes.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, quirking a brow as he took the drink, cold fingers brushing John’s, and he just barely managed not to gasp, lightning forking down through his arm at the touch.
“Mhmm,” he hummed, not trusting his throat to relay words at the moment, and Sherlock lingered a moment, eyeing him skeptically.
“Well…alright,” he murmured, brow still furrowed as he walked around the corner to his usual spot, and John wilted down onto the counter the second he was out of sight, bracing himself on his palms.
As quietly as possible, he panted down at the surface, eyes closed as he tried to still the anxious rolling of his stomach. Suddenly, panic seized him, sharp and potent, and he had a manic urge to race around the counter, rip the cup from Sherlock’s hand, and bolt away, leaving London and his humiliation far behind him, because what if he said no? What if he thought it was stupid? What if he thought John was stupid? And John was stupid, because, honestly, what had he been thinking giving Sherlock some soppy romantic gesture on fucking cardboard!? The man solved murders for a living, for chrissake; he worked with Scotland Yard! There was no way he would be remotely interested in someone like John, a boring barista with nothing better to do than spend two hours making corny crossword puzzles, and, as he heard footsteps approaching, John steeled himself for the worst.
“Seven letters,” Sherlock said, slapping the edge of yet another magazine on the counter in front of John, apparently oblivious to the look of terror on John’s face. “In conclusion.” He remained focused down on the page, his eyes unmoving, and John swallowed, screaming at himself to pull it together.
“Um…finally?” he muttered, clearing his throat as his voice nearly cracked, and Sherlock tilted his chin up, slowly meeting John’s eyes.
Just a corner of his lip twitched at first, the initial crack of composure, and John blinked, a suspicious wrinkle forming between his brows.
“Wait,” he said, looking between Sherlock’s face and the magazine crossword he hadn’t written anything in, “was that- Are you-”
Sherlock’s face cracked into a broad smile, and then he started to laugh, stepping back and lifting his hands as John’s mouth dropped open.
“You ass!” John spouted, grabbing a rag and tossing it at him, and Sherlock batted it away, eyes dancing with mirth. “Are you trying to give me an ulcer?” he snapped, and Sherlock shook his head, tentatively drawing closer again.
“Well, it did take you a long time,” he chuckled, grinning when John glared, and then lifted his hand, revealing the cardboard sleeve between his fingers. “I will say, though,” he murmured, turning John’s handiwork over in his palm, “you certainly made it worth the wait.”
John blinked, startled by the sudden sentimentality, and Sherlock looked a little thrown as well, eyes widening down at the sleeve in his hand. “I- Really?” John stammered, Sherlock peering up at him through his lashes. “You-You don’t think it’s stupid?”
Sherlock smiled, breathtakingly fond as he shook his head. “No,” he said softly, closing the cardboard in his hand as he pulled out his wallet, slipping the token inside before stowing it back in his pocket. “No, I don’t think it’s stupid.”
They were staring at one another again, and, if something had to be stupid, it was most definitely the smiles on their faces, wide and giddy and ridiculous, but John couldn’t help it, grinning just about the only outlet for the warm pressure building to burst behind his ribs.
“I, um-” Sherlock muttered, clearing his throat as he cast a look down, and then shuffled back to the counter’s edge, turning the magazine around for John to see. “I do need your help, though. Four letters, high point.” He tapped to a spot with the tip of his pen, drawing John’s attention. “I thought ‘peak’,” he continued, tipping his head, “but then that doesn’t work with ‘utmost’.”
John hummed, biting at the inside of his cheek as he thought. “Acme!” he pronounced, triumphantly flicking a finger at the spot, and Sherlock blinked down at it a moment before letting out a sharp huff.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, rattling his head as he wrote in the word, and John laughed, the movement bringing his fingers just close enough to brush against the back of Sherlock’s hand.
They stilled, both looking down at the contact, and then, slowly, his heart thundering, John twitched his hand forward, wrapping around the back of Sherlock’s until his fingertips brushed the boy’s palm.
Sherlock’s breath hitched, eyes bright and wide with disbelief as they snapped up to John’s. A blink later, however, and he was smiling, a soft curl of his mouth before he dropped his eyes again, hand gripping back lightly against John’s skin. “Okay, what about this one?” he challenged, using his free hand to direct John’s eye to a different section of the puzzle. “Five letters, Dixie drink.”
“Julep,” John smiled, Sherlock cursing under his breath as he filled it in, and, though the snow fell thick outside the windows, wind whipping white gusts up and down the empty streets, Sherlock’s hand was warm within his, his thumb tracing idle patterns over John’s fingers as they bickered away the night.