Chapter Text
Saturday morning, as was his new habit, Sherlock stripped off and inspected himself in the bathroom mirror. John had tried to persuade him that the overdose and the medication he’d gotten in the hospital shouldn’t count, and Sherlock saw his point—it wasn’t as though he’d enjoyed any of it—but Sherlock was a stickler and so counted from the last dose. Unfortunately John wasn’t sure of the last dose, so he actually counted from the day he’d first woken properly. So: three weeks and one day clean. Still skinny. His arms were marked up and down with fading bruises and needlemarks and there were even some on the upper part of his chest, but he hadn’t made them, so that was all right. No sores. Even his fingertips had healed. Not bad, Sherlock thought; if the occasion should arise when stripping down would be appropriate—the thought made his stomach flutter--he needn’t be ashamed of his appearance.
“Sherlock!” John banged irritably at the door. “Did you fall into your mind palace or something? I need the loo.”
Later that afternoon John announced he was “popping out for a few things”. He had a strange half-secretive, half-excited look on his face, which Sherlock didn’t bother to deduce—not because his mind shied away from what it might mean but because he was too eager to finally get back to his book. He was so close to the end! Of course, as soon as the front door closed his mother rang from the station.
“What a delightful child!” Mummy said. “Frightfully clever. We had a lovely conversation. There shouldn’t be any trouble at all arranging a scholarship; she can start next term.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock said, relieved everything had been sorted so efficiently and in a hurry to get back to his book.
“Her aunt’s worried about costs but I’ve settled all that as well. I’ve convinced her she’ll be doing me the most enormous favor to let me get all the uniforms and books and so on. Well, it’s no more than the truth really; I can’t imagine you or Mycroft are going to give me a granddaughter I can kit out for Swanburne.”
“Unlikely,” Sherlock agreed.
“And of course she’ll come to us for a few weeks on her summer holidays.”
“What? Why?”
“I told you, she’s charming—“
“Hobbes isn’t charming.”
“She’s a sight more charming than you were at that age,” Mummy informed him.
“She hums!”
“Well, so does your father. We’ll just have to make sure they settle on the same tune,” Mummy said briskly. “Oh, there’s my train. We’ll expect you for a weekend whilst she’s there!”
“Only if Mycroft has to come too,” Sherlock shouted, but Mummy had already rung off. Hmpf, Sherlock thought sulkily, though he had the vague sense that he was being a little ridiculous. It wasn’t as though he were going to miss Hobbes, and surely it was better that she transfer her affections to his far-more-appropriate parents, who could provide her with uniforms and a garden to read in instead of overdosing in front of her. Still…Sherlock thumped the phone down rather hard, suddenly remembered his book, and turned back to it with relief.
Sherlock was so engrossed he didn’t register John had returned until a hand waved between Sherlock’s face and his book. “Sherlock!”
Sherlock batted the hand away in irritation. “Hang on, I’m nearly finished!” He had only a handful of pages to go—why couldn’t the rest of the world just shut up?
Ten minutes later Sherlock shut the book with great satisfaction and looked up to find John grinning at him from his chair. Oh hell, he’d been caught red-handed. “Don’t say a word,” Sherlock warned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” John was still grinning. “Now come on and get dressed, we’re going out.”
“Out? Where?”
“On a date.”
“A date.”
“Yeah. You know, where two people who like each other go out and—“
“I know what a date is, I just thought we were rather beyond that.”
“Nope, we’re starting over, remember? Now chop chop, I know how long you take.”
Sherlock chop chopped. Just to be contrary he rushed his usual routine a bit to prove he could be quick, but…he showered rapidly but thoroughly, whilst simultaneously not thinking about what might be implied by date.
When he strolled out of his room, buttoning his jacket nonchalantly, he found John waiting with his coat on and Sherlock’s held out as though he were proffering a grand lady’s fur. Sherlock rolled his eyes a little but turned, letting John slip the coat on his shoulders and then loop his scarf around his neck. It made him feel simultaneously silly and cherished.
On the walk to Angelo’s Sherlock told John about his mother’s phone call.
John was enthusiastic. “Fantastic,” he said. “That school sounds perfect for her; I think she’ll really land on her feet there. And it’s lovely your mother’s taking such an interest.”
“My mother is practically adopting her,” Sherlock said a bit sourly.
John glanced over at him and walked on in silence for a moment before he said, “Sherlock, that kid adores you. No one’s ever going to take your place with her; you saved her, and she’ll never forget that.”
“Mmmm…rather the other way round, wasn’t it?”
“No.” John shook his head. “She was alone, and you were her friend. Sometimes that means more than you know. Sometimes it means everything.”
Sherlock considered this. He found himself thinking of Donovan, staying late to send him a case; of Greg Lestrade, of Mrs. Hudson, of his meddling brother.
“Besides, it might be fun to go for a weekend.” John said.
“Well….not the whole weekend. But perhaps an afternoon.” Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He imagined himself sitting in the garden, watching Hobbes follow his father around with the garden tools, patiently retrieving his glasses every time he absently set them down. Mummy quizzing John about something in the kitchen. “Two hours. You’ll be dying to leave by then, trust me.”
They arrived at Angelo’s and Sherlock’s nerves threatened to return, especially when John said a little too loudly, “And bring a candle for the table.” Then he caught Sherlock’s eye with a suddenly nervous expression, as though worried he’d overstepped. That made Sherlock feel much better.
“And a bottle of wine,” Sherlock added. “Something special. The best you’ve got.”
“Surprise us,” John said, and he smiled.
When they’d got seated and ordered and tried the wine—John said it was excellent, which Sherlock hoped was true—John said, “All right, tell me about this case that had to do with those books.”
Sherlock was only too delighted. He told John all about Tyler Austin, the bottle with no fingerprints, Aimee Lister and all the rest, explaining as an afterthought about DI MacDougall sending him the book as a thank-you present. John was just as appreciative as he had ever been and Sherlock found himself relaxing, enjoying the wine and tucking into his food when it arrived.
“And then there were some more, weren’t there? Greg said you’d managed to solve all sorts of stuff whilst you were on house arrest.”
And Sherlock was off again. He wasn’t a natural storyteller, the way John was, but the phone with the stalker pictures, Regal Florist, the insurance frauds, the attractive young lady—these were interesting enough that even Sherlock’s pedantic rendition couldn’t make them dull. He even made John laugh when he described Hobbes demonstrating her covert photo technique.
“And you sat on those whilst you were setting up Anthea—do the police have them now?”
“Yes, I turned them all over after Anthea was taken into custody. Well, all but one. There was a woman who arranged her own disappearance, clearly a victim of domestic violence; I let that particular sleeping dog lie.”
The merriment dimmed in John’s face and he looked down at his plate briefly, fiddling with his fork. “Er. Sherlock. There was something I forgot to say, back when you were in hospital…”
Oh God, Sherlock realized: Lestrade. “It’s fine,” he said quickly.
John looked up. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is. It’s in the past. A fresh start, isn’t that what you said? “
John smiled, though his eyes were still sad. “So that was in another country, you mean? Wait, is that how it goes?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a quote, or I think it’s a quote—‘that was in another country, and besides the wench is dead’—that’s Mary, I suppose. Still…I should never have done that to you, Sherlock, not for any reason. I am sorry. And it will never happen again, I promise you that.”
Sherlock wanted to brush it off again, but he didn’t. He held John’s gaze. “No. You shouldn’t have. But I understand why you did. And I will endeavor never to give you cause.”
John shook his head, the sadness still in his eyes, but he smiled again. “Anyway, you’re right, we’re looking forward. The undiscovered country! That’s the future, right?”
Sherlock frowned at him. “No it isn’t.”
John frowned back. “That’s what they said in Star Trek.”
“John, the undiscovered country is death.”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t delete Shakespeare!”
“Well.” John said, laughing now, “I suppose I did. All right then, to looking forward.” He lifted his glass to Sherlock and Sherlock, feeling a little silly, touched it with his. John drank and then set his glass down and said, “So what was the story with the snow? When you were in hospital you kept talking about a case that involved snow, of all things.”
“Oh, the man who drowned on dry land.” Sherlock seized on this diversion with relief. “There was a body found in Kent…”
John listened, growing progressively more incredulous, until he finally said, “He murdered a man by dumping a lorryful of snow on him just to get your attention?”
“Well…yes. More or less.”
“That bloody Wiggins. He’s worse than Moriarty! I should have broken his arm when I had the chance.”
“Might have helped,” Sherlock agreed.
John laid his hand over Sherlock’s. His eyes were warm, freighted with some meaning Sherlock could not fully identify but which made his heart squeeze in his chest. “Want to skip dessert?”
When they were almost back to Baker Street, John pulled Sherlock’s arm through his and tucked it against his side as though to keep it warm, or safe. Sherlock felt the blush rising in his face and looked down at the street to hide his smile. When they reached the house John gallantly unlocked the door and held it open, and Sherlock gave him a regal little tip of his head as he swept through. Date, he thought. A date implied…something, surely, more than a kiss, they’d already done kissing? He recognized his cue when they reached the landing and said, “Care to come in for a drink?”
John’s eyes crinkled. “I’d love to.”
In the flat, John took Sherlock’s coat and then went to the kitchen whilst Sherlock got the fire going. He came out carrying a glass of whisky and crossed to where Sherlock was standing in front of the fire, turning to warm his back. “Just one?”
“I thought we’d share. We had rather a lot of wine.” John handed the glass to Sherlock, who took a sip and handed it back; John drank, set it down, and then took Sherlock into his arms and kissed him.
Sherlock felt the sensation of John’s mouth on his as heat, joining with the fire and the glow of the whisky to spread warmth through his body. John’s arms encircled him. He was melting: every cold and rigid part of him was loosening and liquefying like molten chocolate. He wanted to take off his jacket. He wanted to kiss John forever. He wanted not to let go.
John dropped his head to kiss along Sherlock’s neck and the angle of his jaw, which made a whole new heat flare, and then rubbed his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “I’m staying.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, trying to turn his head to catch John’s mouth again before he caught his meaning. Oh. Oh. Yes. Yes? Yes. He put his own lips to John’s ear. “Is that my cue to slip into something more comfortable?”
He felt John’s mouth curve against his check and then John pulled back, still smiling, and lifted the glass of whisky again to take a long drink. “How about I give you a hand with that?” He handed the glass to Sherlock and Sherlock took a drink and then turned for his bedroom, still holding the whisky.
When they’d got inside and shut the door—Mrs. Hudson’s hearing was uncannily good, and Sherlock found himself hoping she wasn’t right underneath them at this moment—Sherlock took another drink and passed the whisky back to John so he could unbutton his jacket. “Let me,” John said, a bit of a question in it, and Sherlock sensed again that hesitancy, the feeling that John too was proceeding without a map. He lifted his hands and John slid the jacket from his shoulders, kissed him again, and sent to work on his buttons. John moved slowly, as though worried Sherlock was going to stop him again. Sherlock was not going to stop him. He had made this choice when he led John to his room.
John tugged his sleeves free and dropped the shirt to the floor and then exhaled, looking at Sherlock’s bare torso as though it were something miraculous. “Beautiful,” he said softly. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed his palms flat to his chest. It felt good.
John reached for Sherlock’s trousers but Sherlock stopped his hands. “I want you to touch me everywhere,” he said. “All over my skin. If I were a crime scene, I would want every inch of me to be covered with your fingerprints.”
“I probably shouldn’t find that as romantic as I do,” John said. He rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders again and ran them down his arms, all the way to Sherlock’s fingertips. Sherlock closed his eyes as John stroked the underside of his forearms, his collarbones, his chest, his sides. He shivered in surprise when John’s fingertips brushed a ticklish spot at his waist and tangled his fingers in John’s hair and breathed hard as John’s lips closed over his nipples, one after the other. John slid his hands over Sherlock’s back and shoulder blades as he kissed over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock gripped at John’s shoulders to keep from falling and John hummed encouragingly, so Sherlock pushed off his jacket and reached to unbutton John’s shirt as well.
Once they’d got their trousers off it became obvious that they needed to move to the bed for John to continue mapping Sherlock’s legs, but that proved distracting: they ended in a tangle of arms and legs and kisses. Sherlock pressed against John’s naked body as though trying to meld them together. John felt fantastic: strong and warm and slightly scratchy with hair, his thick sturdy cock pressing up against Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock could not get enough of him.
John moved his hands lower and cupped Sherlock’s arse, which made Sherlock whimper right out loud. “Need to get down here now,” John whispered, moving lower. Every place John touched with his hands or mouth or tongue seemed to light up in Sherlock’s mind, marked forever until the glow faded as John moved to the next spot. John’s touch was light on his thighs and groin, firm on his ticklish knees and feet, perfect everywhere, and as he touched Sherlock’s skin he closed his mouth gently over his longer, slimmer cock and sucked. Sherlock had to clench his hands in the sheets to keep from bucking right up off the bed. His brain sparkled on the verge of overload: so many glorious sensations warring for his attention.
John slid back up the bed to take him in his arms again, pressing his strong grounding body against Sherlock’s quivering one, and rolled them so Sherlock was on top. He ran his fingers down Sherlock’s spine and cupped his buttocks again, spreading them as he ground Sherlock down against him. “I really want to make love to you,” he whispered. “But only if you want that too.”
Sherlock, who had assumed they were on that path already, understood he was being given a last chance to turn back. He did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“You sure? We could--”
“Sure.”
John kissed him fiercely, grinding up into him and rolled them onto their sides so he could reach down to his jacket. Of course: the mysterious afternoon’s shopping. Sherlock knew that John would have wanted to buy all new supplies, even if he’d had sufficient stores at his old house or upstairs or even tucked into his wallet for all Sherlock knew. He pictured John at the shop: looking over the lubricant, considering Sherlock’s sensitive skin and dislike of strong fragrances, inspecting the condoms. He heard John blowing into his curled palm, why? Oh, warming the lubricant. This small consideration made Sherlock’s eyes prickle.
Then John was back, pulling him into his strong embrace as his other hand moved between Sherlock’s legs. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, smoothing Sherlock’s hair tenderly. Sherlock tensed automatically, breathing slowly into John’s hair as John coaxed Sherlock’s body to accept him, one finger at a time. When Sherlock had finally relaxed around him John kissed him and moved lower again, shifting Sherlock onto his back. Sherlock had gone soft whilst John opened him, but John took him into his mouth again whilst stroking with his fingers and Sherlock felt himself thickening almost immediately. It felt good. He focused on that, on the pure blissful sensation, and felt his mind’s iron grip slacken as his body loosened and dissolved cloud-light into pleasure.
“Okay?” John said, and Sherlock jolted abruptly back to himself. He nodded and John pushed his legs up to position himself between them. “Bear down,” he said.
Sherlock exhaled, pushed down, exhaled again, again, again and felt the tip of John’s cock slip inside. His legs were shaking and he was growing light-headed. He tried to breathe deeply, but there was a pressure growing in his chest and the trembling in his legs was getting worse. “Jesus,” John gasped, pushing deeper, all the way in.
It was fine. Sherlock was fine. This was not some sort of invasion, violation, conquest: Sherlock had invited this, it was his own free choice. A tiny part of John’s body—what, two percent?—was in close contact with two percent of Sherlock’s body for the purpose of sexual pleasure. A tight ring of muscle, a smooth sheath of mucosa: an ideal location for John’s glans penis to rub against, repetitive friction that would result in orgasm. His body was only transport, transport that would take John where he wanted to go. It was fine. The shaking receded and Sherlock felt himself drifting, floating away as John moved inside him.
John paused, adjusting their position and shifting Sherlock’s hips before he moved again. Sherlock felt a ripple of pleasure move up his spine and remembered, with a small jolt of shock, that this was supposed to feel good to him as well. John heard him gasp and thrust again, careful to keep their alignment steady. OH. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide in involuntary surprise and John gave a small breathless laugh—“Is that good? Is it?”—and rolled his hips, making Sherlock arch his back and moan. John braced himself with one hand and reached for Sherlock with his lube-slicked hand, bringing him back to full hardness with a few expert strokes.
“Okay, you now, I can’t,” John panted, letting go to take his weight back on both arms again. Sherlock obeyed without thinking, eyes falling closed as he closed his hand around himself. He hesitated, self-consciousness threatening, but when John pushed inside him again, sending sparks skittering along his nerves and igniting the growing heat in his cock, his hand moved almost of its own volition. “God, yeah. Do it. God. So beautiful. Go on, go on, I love you, God,” John was chanting, a background counterpoint to his own frantic panting as Sherlock’s hand flew faster, the tingling in his groin spreading outward like a supernova until it engulfed him in a shuddering, explosive climax.
The intensity of Sherlock’s orgasm--magnified by the sense of being exploded from within by John—shattered him. His mind seemed to be all pinwheeling fragments, disconnected from his body. He was distantly aware of John’s groans, his thrusts growing deeper and more urgent, but it seemed unimportant; John’s weight collapsing onto him seemed as though it were happening to someone else. The only thing tethering him to himself was John’s fingers tightly laced in his.
After some unknown time Sherlock was vaguely aware of John moving, lifting himself up and away; a sharp spike of burning that sent the shards of his awareness tumbling loose again. Then John lay down beside him and gathered Sherlock to him. Sherlock was surrounded by John’s strength. He did not know that his face was wet until John pressed it into his shoulder.
Sherlock’s breathing slowed. He understood that he had been shaking, and that the shaking had eased, and finally stopped. He could feel John stroking his hair, hear his occasional soft nonsense murmur: shh, shh, shh. The pieces of himself began to knit themselves together. He was fine. Everything was fine. They had both achieved orgasm; a mutually satisfactory sexual encounter.
Sherlock gave it up. The logical thoughts no longer seemed to fit: it was like trying to pull on a shirt that had shrunk in the wash.
When Sherlock stirred John let go immediately, backing off as though Sherlock had announced a need for space. The cool air on his skin felt simultaneously like a loss and a relief. He made himself open his eyes. John was looking at him with an expression Sherlock couldn’t immediately identify, but then he smiled, and Sherlock realized that his look was one of infinite tenderness.
John seemed about to speak, hesitated, and then said, “Fancy a cup of tea?”
Sherlock nodded wordlessly.
“Okay. I’ll just have a quick wash, then, and you can have the bathroom.”
When Sherlock heard John go out the other door he got up and went to the shower. The temptation to flee—to scrub hard, to push the new memories down and away—was strong, but he ignored it. His arse ached. He wanted to revel in the sensation--to luxuriate in the knowledge that John had touched him there, had been inside him, wanted him—but the feeling was on the other side of the numb whiteness in his mind, out of reach.
Sherlock suddenly stood stock still, soap dripping forgotten in his hand. Turn and face it. Was it possible, now he’d stopped running, that he could come out the other side of the numbness? Of the darkness? The thought made him feel weightless and dizzy, hope and fear crowding the air from his chest. Could he? Could he?
Sherlock realized that the soap was turning to mush in his hand and the water was growing cold. He rinsed quickly and toweled off, pulling on his softest pyjamas and dressing gown. Turn and face it.
Out in the lounge, John was just settling into his chair, mugs set out for both of them. He smiled and Sherlock tried to smile back, but his face felt stiff. He took a drink of hot sweet tea and then set the mug down.
“You asked me a question once,” he said, looking directly at John. “Well, you started to ask me a question. About the past. I cut you off.”
John nodded, his face calm. “I remember.”
Sherlock looked down at his tea. His heartbeat was loud and fast in his ears, and he was not sure if he was breathing. He made himself look up into John’s eyes. “Yes.”
“But you don’t--”
“Yes.”
John lowered his own mug. His eyes had gone sad, so sad that Sherlock had to look away. “I know, Sherlock. I think I’ve always known.”
Sherlock stared at the fire. There was a thickness in his throat too large to swallow away.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Might help to know where the land mines are.”
Would it? Sherlock didn’t know. He took a deep breath. “I tried to put them away,” he said. “All those memories. I put them in a trunk and locked the trunk in the cellar of my mind palace. Rather a dungeon really. But I’d put desire in there as well, and when I tried to let it out, it was a bit like Pandora’s box, I suppose.”
John nodded as though he understood this. He took a drink of tea and looked at the fire for a long meditative moment before he spoke again. “You know, Sherlock, everyone has a trunk like that. I’m not saying it’s the same, but everyone who’s been with someone, or even fancied someone—we all have memories that are painful, or frightening, or shameful, or guilty, or even just embarrassing. You know some of mine—you might know all of them for all I know. And we have other boxes too. I was all snarled up with what had happened with Sholto, and Mary, but also my family as well.”
“Yes, but you’ve unsnarled it now, that’s clear enough. I want to untangle mine as well.” Talking about this was making Sherlock feel as though his skin were too tight, but he had to muddle on, because he needed John to understand this. “I want you to shag me through the mattress every night. I do.”
“I’m still going to stay,” John said softly.
“Yes, that would be appreciated,” Sherlock snapped.
“What—oh. Yeah, Sherlock, of course, I didn’t want to be, er, but I quite like that bit, the, you know, after—I just meant I would stay no matter what, but of course, yeah, as long as you want, I’d be only delighted to stay with you the whole night, the next day, the whole week, until we have to go forage for food, whatever.”
Sherlock felt the tension in his spine relax a little. “Thank you.”
“And if—you probably know them all already anyway, but I could tell you some of the things I put away, if it would, you know, make it easier for you. To tell me. If you want to. Someday.”
Sherlock turned this over. Perhaps it would help…besides, now of course he was curious. “Perhaps someday,” he said. “And perhaps someday I will tell you. But it was long ago. It was in another country, and besides, the bastard’s dead. Mycroft saw to that.”
John blinked, stared a minute, blinked again as though clearing his head, and visibly decided to let it go. “The other thing—I learned, thanks to you, that when you take those things out of the box and hold them up to the light of day, they lose a lot of their power.”
Sherlock looked back at him for the first time, frowning. “How?”
John shrugged a little awkwardly. “That thing you deduced about Sholto. That—I’m still not proud of how I acted, back then, but I realized what I’d been afraid of was other people finding out that I’d been with a man, that I’d liked it, that I’d cared about him, even if not the way I should have. And then I thought, so what? I’m in love with a man now, and I don’t care who knows. The only person whose opinion matters to me is you. And just so we’re clear, there is nothing, nothing you could tell me that would make me love you any less. It’s in the past.”
“In another country,” Sherlock said. “We live here now.” He did not know if he would ever want to speak to anyone, even John, about the things that had happened back then, but it didn’t matter. For the first time, he had hope that he could go forward.
“Yes. Maybe we brought some baggage with us—both of us—but we live here now.”
Sherlock considered this. He was feeling considerably lighter, and he picked up his mug of tea and drank deeply. “John?”
“Mmm?”
“I would prefer that you stay down here. I would….” Sherlock took a breath and said in a rush, “I want to sleep with you.” I want to sleep in your arms. I want to wake up and have sex with you again in some form and then I would like to fall asleep with you again and know you will be there in the morning. I want you never to leave.
John’s face broke into a grin. “That sounds like an absolute genius idea.”
“Of course it is, it’s my idea.”
“You do have a nice bed. Bigger than mine, so plenty of room for us both. Now I sleep on my back, so I don’t favor a particular side of the bed, but sometimes I snore. And if it’s a bad night I can be a bit, er, restless.” Sherlock just looked at him and John laughed: “Right, you knew all that already. Probably know what I dreamed about. But, you know, potential bedmates should know the worse about each other.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said. “I think I sleep rather quietly, but it’s hard to be sure as I’ve no witnesses.”
“Yeah, you sleep like the dead once you’re finally down. I used to go in and check you were still breathing.”
“Really?” Sherlock was delighted.
John shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “Not all the time.”
“Mycroft always said I talked in my sleep though.”
“Well, I’ll definitely look forward to hearing that,” John said. He stood and held out his hand and Sherlock took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet.
“So that’s it? We’ve known each other five years and we’re going to go sleep in a bed?”
“Enough to be getting on with, don't you think?” John said. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock put a hand to his cheek and kissed him, putting everything he felt into it: all the love and joy and hope, all the pain and fear as well. “The name of the man I love is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street, and I’m never leaving either of them again.”
Sherlock squeezed his hand, feeling suddenly buoyant with happiness. “Let’s go to bed.”
John smiled at him, such a beautiful crinkle-eyed smile, and turned to lead the way to the bedroom. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Sherlock thought, because of course he hadn’t deleted Shakespeare; all their yesterdays were in the past, and all their tomorrows lay ahead. He followed John down the corridor to their room and closed the door.