#fluffbruary 2025

February 3 : uncertainty | myth | pause February 4 : green | grey | chess

February 5 : anticipation | nonsense | mail February 6 : declaration | gregarious | duet

February 7 : hand | curls | pattern February 8 : train | zenith | road

February 9 : accept | icy | ornament February 10 : coat | grimace | paper

February 11 : bench | cottage | tough February 12 : backwards | feign | recognize

February 13 : jealous | rose | narrow February 14 : voice | swim | quaint

February 15 : kettle | wonder | twist February 16 : aquamarine | impress | interlude

February 17 : yearn | salty | reality February 18 : tree | magnetic | trick

February 19 : dramatic | small | orange February 20 : cafe | linger | year

February 21 : anxious | help | zephyr February 22 : bullet | loyalty | unique

February 23 : attraction | mutter | opera February 24 : wine | note | lapels

February 25 : thirsty | swell | question February 26 : book | ivory | shelter

February 27 : kitchen | bell | sun February 28 : clean | galaxy | keep

alternate prompts : requiem | culture | chorus | knit | wait

"I am not accustomed to sleeping in a 'bed'," Dream had offered, when Hob showed him to the cozy little guest room he kept in his cottage.

That…did make a certain amount of sense, Hob had realized. "Well, it's there if you feel like trying something new." He'd shrugged. "If you're more comfortable, I don't know, sleeping in your seal form on the floor, go for it. Just…let me know what you need."

"My sibling has explained toilets," Dream had shared, as Hob had shown him the guest bathroom, and thank fuck for that because there was an awkward conversation Hob hadn't even considered. The sibling had unfortunately not been as helpful about bathing but Dream seemed to grasp the concepts well enough—"Like splashing in a tide pool," he'd said of filling the bath, and "Like coming ashore in the rain," when Hob had demonstrated the shower. The way those blue eyes had fixed on the falling water with wonder and delight had made Hob smile, and hope his new friend would enjoy the new experience, but he'd made sure to emphasize the importance of keeping the water in the tub and explained the concept of soap as well.

"I will require clothing," Dream had said yesterday morning, while Hob was cooking breakfast.

"Yeah, guess you will need more than just that one set won't you," Hob had mused, glancing over to where Dream had padded into the kitchen, at which point he'd abruptly squeaked and averted his eyes.

Because Dream had been naked, pitch-black sealskin tied around his waist in a way that barely hid the essentials.

"Humans are very peculiar about nudity," Dream had remarked in a tone that said he was sadly unimpressed with Hob for being among that number. And then Hob had gotten a spotty education on selkie magic, how it was easier when coming ashore to change appearance to blend in, how glamouring one's coat and body required magic that Dream did not care to sustain long-term and if he was to live on land now, he should follow human customs. Hob didn't necessarily disagree, but he also wondered if Dream's unwillingness to sustain the illusion of clothing was entirely a choice and whether or not eating more frequently than he seemed interested in would give him the sustenance to use his magic more often, should he want.

Regardless, Hob had lent Dream a t-shirt and a pair of joggers that barely cinched tight enough to stay up on Dream's narrow hips, and then they had gone clothes shopping, and picked up some toiletries and essentials while they were at it.

Hob is still grappling with the idea that Dream had basically been naked when they met the other day, is trying to put the sight of that bony chest with its wispy black hair out of mind, is doing his best to forget about long pale legs and bare feet and black toenails gleaming in the watery February sunlight of his kitchen.

Yes. He's pretty. But magically married or not, Hob isn't going to be weird or creepy about this whole arrangement.

He's got other things to worry about this morning, anyway. Jo called to wake him half an hour ago, sounding mostly-dead and actually apologetic about it and long story short he's heading to the cafe to cover her shift.

With Dream in tow, because of course he's tagging along, and truthfully Hob doesn't want to leave him home alone anyway. Just…doesn't sit right.

"We don't open for another couple hours," Hob explains as he unlocks and ushers Dream inside. "But I've got to get the bread going so it's ready when we do."

"If I can be of any help, you will tell me?" Dream follows him amiably into the kitchen.

"Of course." Hob is opening the fridge, checking the prep work that Rachel left last night; he's got eight boules of sourdough ready to bake, two of which he pulls out. "We're small, we don't actually do a ton of baking in-house—and I'm not usually the one to do it, heh. But sourdough's the one thing we do bake, along with a couple types of pie." He shuts the fridge, makes sure it latches. "C'mon, I'll show you how we do it."

Dream watches with what might be interest as Hob turns on the oven, preps his dutch ovens, removes the plasic wrap from both banetones and turns the sourdough from the first onto the parchment paper he'd just laid out. "So Jo prepped these yesterday," Hob says as he works, because talking to fill the silence comes easy. "There's a lot of rising time involved so we tend to start it in the morning while the previous day's loaves are baking. Just makes sense. Rachel or I put 'em in the fridge when we close up; letting it rest overnight gives the sourdough flavor plenty of time to ripen. Here we are." The boule he's patting into shape still has a light dusting of rice flour from the banetone; he dusts it with a little more and goes in search of the scoring knife. "So in the morning here all we have to do is make sure they're dusted and shaped, score 'em and bake 'em. Then we'll start tomorrow's."

Dream's curiosity grows more evident the more Hob talks, which of course only encourages him as he retrieves the knife. "Scoring's always fun, the artsy bit of the process," he says as he sets to work. "And we'll do seasonal designs, when it suits. January we did each loaf like a snowflake. February, we're doing hearts."

"Hearts?" Dream sounds perplexed.

"Yeah, for Valentine's Day. How much do you know about human holidays?"

"Very little." Dream blinks, a quick blink with a head tilt that puts Hob helplessly in mind of Dream's other form, briefly as he'd glimpsed it. "My sibling has mentioned one or two. Christmas. The New Year."

"Well, Valentine's is just past. Day for lovers, mostly. And celebrating love, more generally. Hence the heart." He's carefully scoring the curves of a heart into the boule as he speaks, the dough splitting prettily around the point of the knife, revealing the richer color of the dough beneath unmuted by the rice flour.

Dream peers at his design, perplexed. "Is that what a human heart looks like? I have never seen one."

The way he says it implies he's seen plenty of other creatures' hearts, which…Hob supposes that makes a certain amount of sense, after all. "No, not really," he laughs, pushing aside that train of thought. "It's just a symbolic shape, a…a visual shorthand for 'love', I guess. Now." He holds up the knife like a pointer. "Do you know anything about bread?"

Dream shakes his head once, watching Hob with vivid blue eyes.

"Okay, well, the heat of the oven and the moisture in the dough are gonna make steam, which also builds pressure. So the trick is to also score the side of it, like so—" He demonstrates, slicing neatly nearer the bottom of the loaf, deeper than the decorative scoring. "That way, the steam that builds up while it bakes can escape out this way instead of potentially bursting the heart design."

Dream looks as though he's taking copious mental notes, like he'd be scribbling furiously if he had paper and pencil.

Can selkies write? Read? Do they have waterproof selkie books under the sea?

There's so much he doesn't know, so many questions piling up in his brain.

"Human food is so peculiar," Dream says then, a little crease appearing in his brow that Hob finds disproportionately adorable. "In the sea, we hunt. We eat what we catch. There is no fixing or preparing or making foods from other foods."

"Huh. Never thought about that, but, uh, suppose there really wouldn't be!" Hob laughs a little, puts the scored loaf into one of the dutch ovens and turns the other out of its banetone onto more parchment paper.

"My sibling is very fond of human food. Were it up to them, they would have me try everything, when I come ashore."

"Oh?" Hob is dusting the boule, touching up the shape of it. "So what kind of stuff do you like?"

"I am not so adventurous as they are." Dream shifts, arms folding around himself. "Sushi was. Familiar, but strange. I do not know that I enjoyed it, the fish with all the. Extra." He pauses, thinking. "Coffee was a terrible experience, the first time."

Hob smiles. "Better with sugar, then? I remember you were drinking a salted caramel macchiato with extra syrup the other day?"

Dream blinks at him. "Yes. You recall my order?"

Hob feels his face heating as he scores the heart into the second loaf. "Er. Yes. You were easily the most beautiful person I'd seen in ages. Hard to forget." There's little point in waffling about it; they're meant to be evaluating their compatibility with this whole imperfect affair, after all.

Dream makes an odd little sound; Hob glances up to find him staring, lips parted slightly with surprise that softens his face almost imperceptibly. When he catches Hob looking, he tilts his head a little, defensive, chin sticking out the faintest bit. "I am pleased my husband finds me beautiful. Should I not be?"

And oh, there goes Hob's composure again. "I—well, yes, of course. Um. I'm glad? And you really are."

Smooth, Hob, incredibly smooth.

Dream blinks, slower, a pleased-but-mildly-confused sort of blink, like he maybe doesn't quite believe Hob's flattery but would be open to convincing.

Funny how well Hob can read him after just a couple days.

"Anyway." Hob clears his throat, scores the side of the second loaf and sets it into its dutch oven. "So human food is still pretty unfamiliar to you, then?" He opens the oven, which has by now come up to temp, covers both loaves and puts them in to bake.

"Yes. And without my sibling's expertise, I am. Uncertain, how I should proceed."

"Well then, as your 'husband', I am at your service." Hob sweeps a grand courtly bow, feeling a little ridiculous but also a little flirtatious. "I'm happy to introduce you to things one by one if you like? Or I mean, you could always go hunting, since that's familiar, if it feels better to you? No reason to rush into the human immersion experience, is there?"

"I would be. Allowed, to go hunting in the ocean?"

The note of actual hope in his voice throws Hob for a loop. Allowed? He struggles, for just a moment, to find the words. "Of course. You don't need my permission, Dream, you're not a prisoner."

"I do, in fact, need your permission."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The magic that binds me to you will not allow any return to the waters, even temporarily, without your explicit permission." Dream is entirely serious and Hob can't keep back his disbelief.

"Absolute shite, what the hell."

"A selkie wed to a human is meant to stay with that human."

"But that—the human world, today—oh there is so much that is wrong with this. I don't want you trapped by me or having to ask my permission for every little thing—" Hob's eyes widen, horror dawning. "Oh my god is that why you haven't been eating?! Because I didn't give you permission?!"

Dream graces him with a look that speaks volumes about his estimation of Hob's intelligence. "You offered me food the first evening; I declined. I do not need permission to eat, regardless. The restriction pertains to actions which might be construed as me leaving you."

Which. Okay, that's better than it could be but. Still.

Hob takes a deep breath, and another. "Okay, okay. I hereby give blanket permission for anything you need. Explicitly. You can absolutely go to the ocean, you can leave whenever you like, you can come and go as you please you can tell me to piss off if you need your space, I'm not some authority over you or your autonomy, christ." He heaves another breath, glances up at Dream. "Are there any other dramatic reveals you're planning to spring on me?"

"I am withholding nothing from you deliberately," Dream sniffs, as if Hob is silly to be reacting so strongly to this revelation. "But. I will inform you immediately, should anything relevant come to mind."

Hob realizes that's the best he can ask for, at this point. "Thank you." He dusts the excess rice flour off his hands and plants them on his hips. "Okay. Question for you, then. You told me you don't need to eat every day. Was that just your uncertainty about human food talking?"

"…Perhaps." The stiffness in Dream's shoulders says that probably means 'yes'.

"How often would you be eating, then, under normal circumstances?"

"…multiple times a day, in most seasons. As you do."

Guilt rises up in Hob's chest, sharp and sour. He should have pressed, he should have asked, he should not have—should not have—

What? Tried to give his new housemate breathing room? Trusted Dream to communicate his needs and speak up for himself?

In hindsight, with what he's learning of Dream in the meantime, maybe not.

He pushes the feelings down, tempers his voice to careful kindness. "Were you planning to ask me about hunting, or to tell me at some point that I'd have to give you permission?"

Dream's guilty silence is answer enough.

"Okay, okay." Hob blows out a breath. "Let's set some expectations going forward, alright? Marriage magic aside, I recognize you're here—on land, with me—largely as a means of escaping an unpleasant situation back home—is that a fair assessment?"

"Yes."

"And since that's the case, I want this to be better than whatever you're leaving behind. Otherwise you just trade one set of bad circumstances for another. You deserve better than that. I get the sense maybe you aren't accustomed to being heard, or listened to?"

"You are. Incredibly perceptive, Hob Gadling."

Maybe it's sarcasm, maybe it's not. Hob's choosing to take it at face value. "So let's change that. I am not going to treat you like you don't exist, or like you're an inconvenience." He's making guesses, based on Dream's minimal confirmations and a lot of gut instinct. "I want to hear what you want, or need, or like or don't like or anything else. You're welcome to talk to me. I want you to talk to me." He reaches carefully for Dream's hand, slim and pale and black-nailed, holds it gently when Dream allows the touch. "If you're stuck with me, I at least want you to be happy. Be yourself. And I get that habits can be hard to break but I promise. Whenever you need something , or if you just have something to say, I'll listen. Important or frivolous or anything in between."

Dream is staring at his hand in Hob's; when he looks up, it's with a solemn and serious expression with just a hint of hope around the eyes. "Then. I will. Endeavour, to communicate important things better. In the future."

Hob smiles encouragingly and drops his hand. "Alright. I've got to get the bread started for tomorrow before we open up here, and then let's talk about whether you want to stick with the familiar or try something human. Assuming of course that you're hungry."

"I. Would like to eat today, yes."

"Okay. Lemme knock this out and we'll get you fed. Unless you'd rather take off and go hunting."

A little of Dream's stiffness returns, almost imperceptibly. "I. Would prefer to stay with you. For now."

"You're welcome to," Hob says easily with a nod, moving to measure out the starter, but he does put a mental pin in that statement. There's something there to unpack later, probably.

He narrates the whole process of prepping the next day's bread for Dream, talking through all the steps and some of the science as he mixes the measured-out starter with flour and water and salt, kneading it into a shaggy dough; by the time it's ready for its first rest, the bread in the oven is filling the kitchen with its warm fragrance. Hob checks it, leaves the lids off the Dutch ovens so the loaves can brown and is unsurprised when Dream follows at his elbow, watching.

For all his reserve, he's terribly curious.

"Does the color of the bread matter so much?" Dream asks, when Hob explains.

"Mmh, not really for the flavor," he decides, after a second's deliberation. "It crisps up the crust a bit, and it's more visually appealing when it's browned. Pasty-looking sourdough loaves make a much less appetizing sandwich."

"'Visually appealing'?" Dream's nose wrinkles slightly, adorably, and Hob can't help a little chuckle.

"Yeah, for humans, how the food looks is very much a factor in whether or not we want to eat it. If it doesn't look like it'll taste good, we're less likely to eat it. If the crust isn't browned, it doesn't look done, fully cooked, and our brains tend to say 'don't eat that'."

Dream's face smooths into something like understanding. "If I can see that a fish is sickly, I will hunt for a healthier specimen."

"Yeah, I imagine a sick fish won't taste as good, will it."

"I might also contract its sickness by eating it."

"Right. Smart. If something looks rotten or sickly I'm not gonna want to eat it either, but also. Sometimes humans take the whole 'visually appealing' thing in an artistic light, too. We like our food to look…pretty, is the best word I guess."

Dream cocks his head, blinking curiously again, and Hob is a little smitten despite himself.

By the time he's explained about plating and presentation and high-end dining, the bread is ready to come out of the oven.

"It all eats the same, of course—ahh!" Hob startles at the buzz of the timer and Dream bolts up from his seat as well, uncertain and alarmed. "Sorry, sorry," Hob laughs, crossing quickly to the oven and grabbing the potholders. "Bread's done, is all. Got so caught up blathering on, didn't realize it was time!"

Dream, clearly reassured by Hob's sheepish explanation, settles back on the stool he'd just vacated. "Humans put great effort into enjoying your food," he says, picking up the interrupted thread of conversation. "It is as if you delight in the act of eating, completely separate of your need for sustenance."

"Oh my god, eating for pleasure is huge in so many cultures," Hob agrees, setting the second Dutch oven on the worktop and closing the oven with a deft elbow. "You're not wrong there. I take it selkie culture is different?"

"Yes. And I am beginning to understand my sibling's fascination with human culture, their insistence that we try as many foods as possible. The concept of variety is. Intriguing."

"But a little daunting all the same? I can understand that. Well!" Hob has transferred both loaves to cooling racks, and gives Dream a brilliant smile. "Let's see what you think of sourdough bread, and we'll go from there."

Dream's gaze falls to the crusty loaves, to the steam wafting from their perfectly scored hearts. His hands twitch toward the nearer of the two and his eyes dart to Hob. "May I?"

Hob chuckles, charmed. "Really, it cuts better if you leave it a couple hours, but it tastes so good when it's hot and fresh." It's the eagerness in Dream's posture, the bright interest in those blue eyes that decides him. "So let me just—" He folds a clean towel over his hands, takes the hot loaf and tears a chunk off, waves it about a bit to help it cool and then hands it to Dream. "Here—have a care though, it's still very hot."

And maybe the fact that as far as he knows the last time Dream ate anything was that caramel macchiato two days ago, before this whole magically-married thing happened, has some bearing on his impatience to get the man fed, as well.

Dream accepts the bread gingerly, eager but cautious, sniffs at it, and takes a careful bite from the edge. He's very intent about his chewing, like he's concentrating on texture and flavors and cataloging each one to study later and Hob cannot tell if he likes it or not, but 'hates it' at least doesn't appear to be in the running.

"Good?" he asks, as soon as Dream has swallowed that first bite.

Dream takes another bite, this one decidedly bigger than the first. "It's so warm," he says through his mouthful, and that is somehow more charming than it has any right to be. Hob can't help a little smile.

"And warm is good?"

"Fish aren't warm." His mouth is still a little full, but he's not spraying crumbs and his words are easy enough to catch. "It's different." He swallows, pauses to consider. "Yes. It's good." He takes another bite, tearing it free with relish.

"Oh, wait, lemme grab you the butter!" Hob pops over to the fridge, retrieves the butter and a spreader and presents both to Dream on a little saucer. "Here, try this. Nothing like a bit of butter melting into warm crusty bread!" He's scooping and spreading as he talks, straight onto the bread in Dream's hands; Dream sniffs it again once Hob has finished, takes another small bite, tasting carefully.

His eyes widen, just a little. "Oh." It comes out breathy and wondering, like a revelation, and then he's tearing off another bite and reaching for the spreader, buttering what's left of the hunk of bread in his hands while he chews.

"Glad you approve," Hob laughs, pushing the saucer closer along the counter.

"It's wonderfully fatty and smooth, and mildly sweet," Dream offers, between bites. "Very pleasant." His eyes shift to the rest of the loaf still steaming on the cooling rack, then back Hob. "I. Would like. Could I have more?"

"Absolutely." It's still too hot to properly cut so he just tears off another hunk, mentally designating this 'Dream's loaf' and making a note to get a couple more loaves in the oven before opening.

Dream tears into the bread after adding butter, clearly still hungry and clearly enjoying this new food experience. Hob briefly considers fetching the olive oil for him to try but decides against it; Dream had talked of feeling overwhelmed by food choice so just. One thing at a time, variety to be added slowly. Buttered bread is a hit. Other combinations can come later.

"I will have words with my sibling should I see them again," Dream says through the last of one bite, pausing briefly before taking the next. "They ought to have given me this to start, instead of sushi."

"I'm sure they thought sushi would be a natural first step when fish is what you're used to eating," Hob offers. Dream gives him a withering look and Hob laughs, raises his hands. "Or not; they're your sibling and you'd know their intentions better than I. But I'm glad you like the bread." He still can't quite forget the fact he let Dream starve for two days. "Eat your fill, please—eat the the whole loaf if you like."

Dream hesitates at that. "Will you have enough for your shop?"

"Oh yes. I'll just get a couple more baking now, no worries." And he does, prepping another two loaves while Dream devours a bit more bread and butter.

"I'm glad you like the bread," Hob says as he finishes, shutting the oven. "It's definitely a staple of most human cuisines in one form or another, there's so many variations. Lots of things you can eat with it, too, savory and sweet—olive oil—there's different flavors even; avocado, cheese, all sorts of jams and jellies, honey, Nutella—so many possibilities."

"I will admit, I am curious." Dream dimples, a soft, small thing that sparks a pleasant warmth in Hob's chest. "I look forward to trying whatever you suggest next."

"I'll do my best not to steer you wrong," Hob says, and crooks a little smile as something occurs to him. "Heh. Gran always said, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach!"

Dream blinks, warm bread still clutched in both hands, speaks with his mouth half-full. "A selkie's heart is better accessed by cracking the ribcage which protects it. Is human anatomy so different?"

Hob laughs; he can't help it. "Sorry, sorry," he manages shortly, Dream's little pout very nearly setting him off again. "It's a—a saying, a figure of speech. Humans, we tend to view the heart—metaphorically—as the seat of our emotions. My actual heart's right here behind my ribs, same as yours I imagine." He splays his hand over the left side of his chest to indicate the general location. "So the way to the heart being through the stomach means…it means that feeding someone, cooking for them, is a good way to woo their affections."

Dream blinks again, swallows his mouthful, tilts his head slightly. "Is that what you are doing, then? Wooing my affections when we are already wed?"

Hob can feel the heat rising in his face. "Well. I mean. Mostly I want to make sure you're not going hungry for no reason. But, uh." He glances away and back again, fidgeting with his earlobe. "Even if we're doing things a bit backward, well, maybe. Maybe I am, at that."

It's weird. Dream is weird, and somehow already very dear, and Hob knows this whole thing is a little bit bonkers.

It's only the third day.

But he really does like him.

He tries to ignore how terribly pleased Dream looks with his answer.

= Started: 2/17/25 Drafted: 2/12/26 Posted: 2/14/26

Another muffled sound preceded a great groaning and creaking of leather. John returned to the sitting room with cups of tea as Sherlock was opening the envelope. He sat on the cushion that was now free of long legs and peered at the envelope in Sherlock's hand.

"Case?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "The conclusion of one," he said to the rim of his cup.

"Can't believe you took on a case without me."

"On the contrary, John. You were instrumental in this case."

John took a mouthful of tea and wracked his brain for his supposed instrumental contribution to a recent case and came up blank. "Which was this, then?"

"Ah, not one for the blog, alas."

"Privacy?"

"Mm. Sadly my brother would have it removed immediately."

"I don't recall doing a case for your brother."

"Not for him, though he was a beneficiary."

"Spell it out. I don't want to play twenty questions."

"I sent Gary to him"

"Gary who?"

"Lestrade, of course."

"Greg Lestrade. You sent Greg Lestrade to your brother. To what end? I thought they knew each other."

"They do. I sent Greg – as you call him –"

"That's his name."

"– To my brother when Greg was in a time of need."

"But when –"

Sherlock vaulted over the coffee table and began to pace. "You will recall, John, the evening that Lestrade escorted us home and… witnessed the new nature of our companionship. I believe your words were 'Guess George knows then' before you proceeded to ravish me."

John bit back the smirk and fought the blush that threatened to overwhelm both his face and his good sense. "Greg. You know his name, you berk. Wait, if I was ravishing you, at what point did you send him to your brother?"

"It was admittedly a calculated risk. I planted that bottle we received from our client - you know, the one with the poodle."

"The MacGregor's Garden Mystery. I liked that scotch."

"Southern distillery. It was whiskey, John. Honestly." Sherlock shook his head. "And a small price to pay to get Mycroft's giant proboscis out of our affairs. With all the time I no longer have to spend accounting for my comings and goings with Big Brother, I'll take you to the distillery myself."

John narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue. He could tell Sherlock wanted to wrap up their discussion and move on to other business. Or pleasure. John was very much on board with either tack, but held his thoughts. If he wanted the last word in this he would have to be patient.

"If I read this note and my brother's elevated distraction correctly, he and the DI are currently ensconced at Lestrade's flat. It should be some time before Mycroft troubles us again."

"Right." John was somewhat lost for words at the Mycroft, really? of it all, but there truly was no accounting for taste and many would be similarly gobsmacked by his own penchant for lanky, dickhead detectives. "So what you're saying," he said with as much mild placidity as he could muster, "is that you manufactured a situation in which we revealed ourselves as a couple to a friend to inspire him to go off and shag your brother. Is this what you're saying, Sherlock?"

Sherlock paused in his pacing and scrutinised John with a look of utter disgust. John stood up and moved to slide his thumbs into Sherlock's lapels.

"Because if you're suggesting that I should be prepared to sacrifice my lovely things in service of getting your brother laid, you'll find your bed a great deal emptier than you've come to prefer."

Sherlock's eyes widened and his tongue slipped out to lick his lips.

"Just this once," John continued, "I'll grant that the sacrifice was worth it. But we're not about to make this a habit. Understood?"

"The flourish on my brother's signature indicates the unlikelihood of our having to repeat the experiment."

"You mean he's happy. Greg and Mycroft making each other happy was not on my list of predictions for the year, I'll admit. It's a bit sweet isn't it?"

"I'd prefer not to contemplate," said Sherlock with an eyeroll.

"I've got just the thing to take your mind off it," John murmured, leaning in to close the space between their lips.

"Do go on."

"Now, about those comings and goings of yours–" John kissed Sherlock with a flourish of his own.

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