Upon the first morning of summer, the air mild with falling rain, Dr. John Watson found himself in a cab, traveling home from a disappointing meeting with his sibling. Her promises of sobriety were, once again, hollow; John knew that the woman was hopeless, but alas, he tried to help her. Because that's just what you do for family.
A familiar buzzing sent him rummaging in his pockets, pulling his phone from it as he listened to the text alert.
Baker Street. New leads on case.
An old one. Please. Come quickly.
The doctor knew that it was unlike the Consulting Detective to beg. With haste, he promised the cabbie a great tip if they arrived at Baker Street with speed. With rain beating down on the windows, John watched with growing anxiety. What case?
Baker Street was desolate, rainwater soaking his coat and collecting on the pavement as he approached 221B. Fumbling with his keys, his fingertips numb to the cold, he entered. John shook the water droplets from his hands and face, peeling of his coat as he embraced the building's warmth. Upstairs, the sound of Sherlock's violin could be heard, playing a sweet melody that John briefly recognised. He had heard the tune before, after the supposed death of The Woman, when his mind was stricken with grief and his days were spent within deep thought.
"Sherlock?" calling up the stairs, apprehension within him, he approached the melody's origin. Creaking open the door, the sound of wooden floorboards revealing the position of his steps, Sherlock cast a sideward glance to the medical man.
Plainly, he stated, "John. You're back."
"Well- yes." furrowing his eyebrows, John seated himself in his usual armchair. He watched his friend at the window, who's eyes were on him, yet unfocused and distant. Clearing his throat, John voiced, "You said you have a new lead on an old case?"
Setting down the violin, Sherlock clasped his hands in front of him. "Yes. A case. A case that...started a long time ago and never has been solved." hesitant, his eyes averted, he breathed with anguish, "I wanted your opinion - your advice - on a particularly difficult case."
"Which is?" he probed in response, leaning forward in his seat. The anxiety in his friend's eyes concerned him deeply, "If something's wrong, you know, you can talk to me. About anything."
"Anything?" his words didn't escape Sherlock's attention, as he became drawn to them like a moth to a flame. "You're sure?"
"Yes. Of course." John insistently nodded, "Anything. Well, maybe not anything, but for the most part-"
"John," taking the seat opposite, Sherlock pressed his hands in front of his face, "There is no way for me to say this. I cannot fathom the words that would even begin to describe what I wish to describe to you. So, I will settle for a single action." leaning forward, the Consulting Detective placed a hand on his partner's knee. Recalling the touches that had occurred over the years, this one did not compare. These touches had previously not bothered either of them.
Now, something was beginning to stir within them. Something that had sat below the surface for many years, building and bubbling, awaiting the day that it would overflow and desire would become uncontrollable. Throughout their time together, John had struggled to deny to the people surrounding them that they were not in fact a couple, and that he was not gay, though the years of confusion and frustration had ended; John Watson, Captain and Army Doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, knew that his thoughts had aligned. And what a beautiful constellation they made.
Clearing his throat, John muttered, "I don't mind."