5:14 PM: You are coming back some time today, right?
6:34 PM: A word would be nice, Sherlock
6:59 PM: Sod it, I'm getting a pizza, whenever you roll in you can get leftovers.
7:02 PM: But if I don't hear from you by check-in time tomorrow I'll come over there just so I can see you're okay.
To: John From: SH
8:31 PM: Heading back.
*
Those first few hours together are--well, not blissful. A little clumsy, a little chaotic. But they're good, which is more than Sherlock ever expected, and which just about cuts the disappointment he feels when Mike Stamford texts Molly to remind her that he needs her in early the next day.
They kiss goodnight on the threshold of her flat, lingering and heedless of anyone who might be passing by. Sherlock walks all the way back to John's place, his coat and scarf full of cat hair and his body and mind ringing with new pleasures. He can't even really care that it's Saturday night and the crowds around him are loud and swollen.
Halfway home he stops to text her a photo of a blue plaque on a house he passes. Dame Margot Fonteyn, Prima Ballerina Assoluta, 1919-1991.
(He's tellingly disheveled, and John absolutely notices. There is an extremely awkward conversation wherein John's suspicions about Sherlock's lack of a substantial sexual history are finally confirmed, and he's sworn to secrecy about it, and then he somehow ends up agreeing to run Sherlock's tests because he was probably going to end up knowing the results anyhow.)
Fortunately and unfortunately, Sunday morning there's a frantic call from a potential client in Cardiff (something about "bad wolves" following her) and Sherlock can't refuse the case. But he texts Molly from the train, and the hotel, and from the back of a pickup truck where he has to spend several uncomfortable hours hiding in the middle of the night. They're not sentimental messages, not the way a normal man's might be, but there's warmth and humor in them. Particularly in the way he complains about the Welsh pathologist he ends up working with.
Early Tuesday morning, however, there's an entirely unambiguous text on her phone.
To: Molly From: Sherlock
6:14 AM: En route back from Cardiff. Just reviewed test results via email; all clear. Ballet proceeding as scheduled.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
HEY ACTUALLY IT'S TUESDAY :D
Date: 2017-02-14 10:16 pm (UTC)From: John
5:14 PM: You are coming back some time today, right?
6:34 PM: A word would be nice, Sherlock
6:59 PM: Sod it, I'm getting a pizza, whenever you roll in you can get leftovers.
7:02 PM: But if I don't hear from you by check-in time tomorrow I'll come over there just so I can see you're okay.
To: John
From: SH
8:31 PM: Heading back.
*
Those first few hours together are--well, not blissful. A little clumsy, a little chaotic. But they're good, which is more than Sherlock ever expected, and which just about cuts the disappointment he feels when Mike Stamford texts Molly to remind her that he needs her in early the next day.
They kiss goodnight on the threshold of her flat, lingering and heedless of anyone who might be passing by. Sherlock walks all the way back to John's place, his coat and scarf full of cat hair and his body and mind ringing with new pleasures. He can't even really care that it's Saturday night and the crowds around him are loud and swollen.
Halfway home he stops to text her a photo of a blue plaque on a house he passes. Dame Margot Fonteyn, Prima Ballerina Assoluta, 1919-1991.
(He's tellingly disheveled, and John absolutely notices. There is an extremely awkward conversation wherein John's suspicions about Sherlock's lack of a substantial sexual history are finally confirmed, and he's sworn to secrecy about it, and then he somehow ends up agreeing to run Sherlock's tests because he was probably going to end up knowing the results anyhow.)
Fortunately and unfortunately, Sunday morning there's a frantic call from a potential client in Cardiff (something about "bad wolves" following her) and Sherlock can't refuse the case. But he texts Molly from the train, and the hotel, and from the back of a pickup truck where he has to spend several uncomfortable hours hiding in the middle of the night. They're not sentimental messages, not the way a normal man's might be, but there's warmth and humor in them. Particularly in the way he complains about the Welsh pathologist he ends up working with.
Early Tuesday morning, however, there's an entirely unambiguous text on her phone.
To: Molly
From: Sherlock
6:14 AM: En route back from Cardiff. Just reviewed test results via email; all clear. Ballet proceeding as scheduled.