fidesquaerens (marta_bee) wrote,

A bit of Johnlock fluff

Because it's Sunday afternoon, and rainy/chilly, and because I can.


Sherlock couldn’t quite hide the smile twitching across his face. Hamish sat bouncing on his knee, the pale-yellow of his christening gown cascading around the black wool-tweed of Sherlock’s trouser-leg. Pale-yellow was an odd choice, he knew, but there was purity, the customary white, and then there was light. A pale fire; or honey, properly cured. The black sash  pointed quite clearly to the latter, even without the wings they’d planned (ethereal as fairies’, but to his mind more apian in their design). If the host of Watsons and smattering of assorted others all around could not see, well, the great swath of humanity was more the fool than Sherlock had previously thought.

Mycroft had of course guessed the outfit’s meaning at first glance, but in the spirit of the day had wisely kept his thoughts to himself. So too had his mother, or else Mycroft wasn’t quite so discreet as he liked to think.

John was turned, deep in conversation with one of the many Watsons whose name Sherlock probably should not have forgotten so quickly, his hand still a comforting anchor on Sherlock’s thigh. “Well, yes,” Sherlock heard him admitting, “yellow is a bit unusual. But Sherlock is hardly one for convention.” He opened his mouth to object, but John’s hand patted his thigh just then, and Sherlock let the words pass unspoken. He could play his part, today. “We should count ourselves lucky he didn’t just dunk her into the nearest pond,” John said with a laugh.

That was a lie, of course. Sherlock would have gladly paraded her around Westminster, preening all the while, if he’d thought they could have managed it. But he’d not fought too hard when John had suggested the colors. Not cadmium, not ochre (John’s vocabulary in colors was still pointedly, purposefully limited), but simply light yellow. Pale as the new-morning’s sun, and sweet as spring’s first honey, properly cured. Their little bee. 

Sherlock thought then (or dreamed) of summer wine, sickeningly sweet but just this once; and a lazy sun shining down through a curtain of willow-fronds, he and John feeding each other honey-cakes as their little bee flitted about. And he found he didn’t mind the lie so much, the plain truth hidden in plain sight. 

It was a christening, after all.

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