Rebel Scum

He was surprised he didn’t lose any more of his curls, going by how he gripped them in frustration, trying to focus. But no! The whole city had already gone insane enough, waking from its wintery slumber, eager to meet February with the red of love. A red that certainly did not include Sherlock’s preferred and beloved splash of crimson.

The crimson of crime. 

That was until you came along, popping into his life one autumn day in October, bumping into him at a coffee shop, apologizing profusely for getting in his way, a scowl crossing his lips before he noticed the book in your hands, one of rhetoric, and struck up a conversation that left his mind at ease.

He had not been at ease for such a long time. He made sure to run into you again at the same shop, noting your favorite pastry - a cinnamon roll and your coffee order - a frivolous beast of sugar, with no whipped cream (he almost sighed in relief when you mentioned your disdain of it), enhanced with a few shots of espresso. 

How fascinating it was to hear you speak of your passions, the poetry, the beauty you saw in the world. It was the opposite of his, the death to the life you carried with you so freely, shrouded in pain, as most humanity carries.

But he came to see the beauty of the light, the way of living. It shone brighter when you were around. The sun to his moon in orbit, in awe of the autumn leaves, wishing for you to sink your soul, your essence, however fleeting, into his moonlight tides. 

The conversations soon turned to periodic texts, meet ups at the park, where he learned your favorite quesabirria tacos were from a family food truck, how you abhorred the pretentiousness of academic writing. Why couldn’t people just speak plainly?

Academia was a cesspool riddled with pretentiousness, and you bemoaned it, reveling when an author was clear with their words. You liked when they utilized their expertise in such a fashion to paint a precise picture that was not overly complex or explained in a way that made the general audience not feel inadequate. You said as much to Sherlock who also could not understand the expected social cues of the world. 

He could breathe easier with you around, but that was on account for how less he smoked in the time of meeting you. His mind was sharper, focused, clearer, for he was enraptured, fascinated, quite possibly without a doubt, delighted with you and by you.

John mentioned it once, then not again. He was happy Sherlock had someone, no matter he hadn’t met them yet. There was an air of change about his friend. One that was healthy for once as he mentioned to Mrs. Hudson in passing while she merely chuckled and tapped him fondly on the shoulder. 

“We all deserve a bit of happiness, love,” she told John. 

What he least expected a few weeks later, was Sherlock on the floor, odds and ends of Valentine’s day supplies conglomerating around him in a flurry of glitter, stickers, and a concerning amount of candy hearts. The same candy hearts, John remembered Sherlock recounting, that you adored and enjoyed the sentiment and silliness of rather than the taste. 

“They taste as if you were curious enough to know the texture of chalk. And it coated your mouth in a powder of instant regret.” That was how you’d phrased it to Sherlock. John nodded in agreement. The consistency left much to be desired. 

“I suppose you are not going to explain this mess, then?” John huffed, feigning annoyance, though secretly delighted in the effort his dear friend was extending to another human being that had obviously become important to him.

The mess did bother him a little, but it was all for a good cause. He was looking forward to meeting you whenever Sherlock decided. He could be impulsive, but he was taking his time, enjoying the dance of courting. 

John smiled, settling himself down in his chair and opened the daily paper Mrs. Hudson left on his sidetable. “Looks like you have your work cut out, Sherlock. Quite literally.” 

He felt Sherlock’s scowl, but smirked all the same. Yeah. Sherlock Holmes was irrevocably infatuated. A small pang in his heart struck an unruly cord which he ignored for the moment, smiling instead at the trail of paper hearts that followed in Sherlock’s wake to his bedroom, his baffled “Why!?” the last noise he heard as the door closed, trapping a paper streamer in its clutches. 

******

With the first week of February fading into oblivion Valentine’s Day reared its obnoxious head. There was a juxtaposition to it. You enjoyed the concept of love, but thought it silly to have only a day to celebrate it, when it should be admired in little ways, too. The consistency. The showing up. The care and devotion. 

Devotion which your friend Sherlock was displaying more of subtly, in increments. It had not been that long you mused, since you’d bumped into him in your favorite coffee shop run by a good friend you’d met in college.

What you had between the two of you was irrevocably real, tangible even with the bouts of conversation followed by comfortable silence; or reading at your flat in comfortable silence. 

Neither of you ventured into a conversation of whether it could be more. A hopeful part of you that long burned down delighted in the prospect - the hope of a future you could let yourself drift away in - a possibility if for a fleeting moment.

You were too scared of your heart to let it break for the first time. With your ex it did not tear you limb from limb to let them go. They merely drifted away, slowly, steadily and just like that date nights watching movies were less frequent, late night runs to your favorite taco truck were few and far between.

The love was not there fading fast with effort, overtaking other matters. Two ships parting in the night with no trace. It left you with a bad taste in your mouth, the lack of effort. Disappointment and breadcrumb trails were no feast to brag about - a path with no definitive ending. 

That is why you cut them off. Surely you deserved more than minimum effort, to be wooed and cared for because it was a joy to love and be loved - not tossed aside as if you were a project, a task to be checked off of a never-ending to-do list. 

With Sherlock, you felt like falling into the impossibility of the depths of infinity reflected in the sapphire of his eyes. An ache, a void all too tempting to fill. 

His text lights up your phone, the only answer crossing your mind as you skim it is a resounding yes. You replied with the utmost calm, despite your anxiety rearing its head.

This is fine. It is only a meet up at my place. No big deal. We have done this before. On second glance you take the time to digest the words, the address he has texted you that is decidedly not yours, but his.

He was inviting you to his place. For the first time.

You swallowed, bracing yourself as you lay on your couch, staring at the ceiling and contemplating. What does this mean? What has my life possibly come too. Oh gosh, he is not asking me to marry him, is he? I do not want to give the wrong impression. 

“Stop it!” You shouted to your empty flat, the lamp flickering in acknowledgement. You sighed deeply making way to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and fishing out your trusty glass bowl. There was nothing a little stress baking couldn’t solve. 

******

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, fumbling with a paperweight, foregoing it for a pen which he clicked rapidly to John’s dismay. He thought himself mad. Was he too forward? Was he not doing things properly? Perhaps you thought he was coming on you too fast and wanted something more because it was Valentine’s Day? What the hell was he thinking? 

He put the pen on the mantle and picked up his phone from his desk, considering another text.

John cut in, wanting the foolery to end. “Don’t think that’ll do much good, Sherlock. It has been almost two hours since you sent the text. Why not show up at their door?” 

“Wouldn’t they think I'm mad? Not responding to a text is a clear sign to stay away. Textbook, even. Stupid. Stupid!” 

“Or their phone could have a low battery and it is charging. Could be anything. Trust me Sherlock, I think you know as much as I do, they are worth the risk,” he smiled, handing Sherlock a box of unopened candy hearts that survived the madness earlier that day. 

******

A rhythm of deliberate raps on your door pulled you from the cookie dough you’d drowned yourself in, sugar and flour coating your favorite Christmas apron. You blinked a few times to take in the image that greeted you: Sherlock, towering over you on your porch, his arms stuffed with flowers, chocolates, and a box of candy hearts. The very ones you mentioned liking despite the taste, or rather, the concept of them.

“Sherlock ...what on earth?” You blinked rapidly, pinching your arm even to ensure this was real. You were not dreaming. Sherlock was here at your place as he had been a few times before for movie and board game nights. 

He swallowed, shifting on his feet, the only visible sign of his nerves surfacing. “You didn’t respond to the texts so I thought…well I wanted to give these to you. You mentioned that you never had an actual Valentine's Day experience and, well, I thought I would give it to you. If you are alright with it. That is, if you will have me.” Gosh, he felt so stupid for rambling. He wished a sniper would take him out now. He was a complete idiot. 

Your brow quirks. “That was what the message was for? All this production for you to ask me to be your Valentine.” 

“Yes…” he confirmed, sure you are about to reject his advances. He wanted to do something nice for you and show his appreciation. He was a fool wasn’t he? Or was he so stupid he misread the situation? Gosh you looked lovely with sugar and flour dusted along your face, a perfectly imperfect mess. Wistfully he wondered what your hair smelled like. Possibly cinnamon. 

“Sherlock. I have been an idiot! I got caught up baking and lost track of time until you showed up! I apologize. Gosh, I am a terrible friend. A ginormous mess.” You facepalm, groaning in frustration. “Please forgive me.” 

“I think I already have,” he grinned, shifting the materials in his arms.

“Shit! Silly me! Come in and I will give you your answer,” you ushered him into your humble abode, a small townhouse you still referred to as a flat. He carefully sat everything down on the kitchen table, careful to not let some of the confetti fall from the bag.

A few pesky strands flew to the floor immediately, and you chuckled watching Sherlock rush in all his lankiness to crouch on the ground and pick it up. Yeah, you could get used to this, to him. To circumnavigate him and learn the facets of him.

“I’d be honored to be your Valentine, Sherlock.” 

He perked up, taking a step closer to you, daring to reach for your hands which you offer to him freely. “You mean that? Truly?” 

“Yes. I am assuming you want to be more than Valentines. As in more than friends. Am I correct?” 

“Perhaps,” his lip pulled up in a half smile. 

“I need a definitive answer.” 

“Yes. I want you to be my Valentine. I want to be yours. If you will have me for now.” 

“Yes, Sherlock. You have me.” 

He pecks you on the cheek, carefully pressing your intertwined hands to his lips, his heart thrumming like a hummingbird in a cage. Your hands are warm, definitely sweating from the excitement and exertion.

Much of the future is uncertain, but you are excited for the future to see where this adventure takes you. Dashing through the streets of London with your dearest friend, now Valentine, now partner.

******