thedogbard

I'm an incurable writer. Original stuff, fanfics, all kinds of sh*t. I also love reading, dogs, animals in general, baking, walking, and laughing at the random stuff my brain comes up with. I also have controversial ships. Live and let live, please.

Fandoms I'm in or love: Skulduggery Pleasant, Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts, Lockwood & Co, Dr Strange (movies), Sherlock BBC (also ACD Sherlock, Mary Russell series, and Elementary), Day of the Jackal, The Aeronauts, Little Women...and possibly more? I've read all the Riordan books...

Individual books I love (and their fandoms): Jane Eyre, Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Villette, Shirley, (or anything by the Brontes), Emily's Ghost, The Blue Castle, Knights of the Borrowed Dark trilogy, The Lost World and The Poison Belt, I Capture The Castle, Little Women, and many more I can't think of right now. Little-kid-me demands that I also add A Little Princess and Coral Island to this list...

Music I love: Roxette, Taylor Swift, Adele, Emeli Sande, Enya, Dua Lipa, and some other select songs, like Money Run Low by The Score.

Songs I can't stop listening to that might well be a part of my DNA by now: Haunted, Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince, Listen To Your Heart, Anywhere Is, Getaway Car (my no.1 spotify wrapped this year, and i'm not ashamed), I Knew You Were Trouble, The Look, This Love, Wonderland, There's Nothing Holding Me Back, Blow Your Mind, The Wind and a bunch more. If you're a Swiftie, DM me your favourites. Let's agree and argue and have fun!

I am so emotionally mature for my age that I've been told I have the soul of a pensioner. It was a compliment and I'm taking it as such.

In one country I am tall, decent-looking, and socially funny. In another I'm average-heighted, average-looking, and averagely-funny. Which is weird for my esteem and opinion of myself. Whatever.

I'm not a very ambitious person. My great dream in life is to be an author. I'm also funny, weirdly knowledgeable about niche things, and addicted to chocolate. (It's becoming a problem).

Send me asks or interact! I'll send asks or interact in return - or random asks whenever I'm bored. I love meeting new people. Whoever, whatever you are, just so long as you're not a...Think of all the worst kinds of people. If you're not one of 'em, then hang out with me.

@the-archivist-system is my beloved adopted sibling and one of my best friends 🐾 They're the only one who gets to call me Logios, because of this post!!✨️

Thank you to @dramatic1nlyf for this amazing moodboard!!!!

(right at the bottom, in uncertain small print...): if you want you can request a fic. Here's my "guideline" post.

Oh and I'm adding these posts here so I can never lose them because OHMYGOSH

AFJAFSGHHDAF THANK YOU @skeletal-spire-man-aka-overfit this literally made my YEAR

okay wait - @catastrophiccblues I'm also saving this here because it's too good to ever lose ✨️

And lastly, here are song lyrics from songs that have stuck to me like glue, arranged to tell a vaguely coherent story.

Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile

You’ve got the words to change a nation but you’re biting your tongue

Something keeps me holding on to nothing

Who can say where the road goes, where the day flows?

And you know it’s never simple, never easy

Wasn’t it beautiful, running wild till you fell asleep?

I’m only one, but not alone, my finest day is yet unknown

You go there, you're gone forever, I go there, I'll lose my way

God rest my soul, I miss who I used to be

I attend Christmas parties from outside

It’s all fun and games til somebody loses their mind

There’s no comfort in the truth, pain is all that you’ll find

I held that grudge till it tore me apart

It’s the first time, the last time, we ever met

It's no surprise I turned you in, 'cause us traitors never win

You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes

And now they’ve broken you like they’ve broken me, but a shattered glass is a lot more sharp

And if I’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes too

I pass it and lose track of what I’m saying, cause that’s where I was when I lost it all

Always learning everything the hard way

Some say illusions are her game

Don’t you worry folks, we took out all her teeth

And nobody comes to save you now, but you got something they don't

When the violence causes silence, we must be mistaken

I remember all of the things that I thought I wanted to be

When you’re young, you just run, but you come back to what you need

So, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche?

You don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?

Cause for a moment a band of thieves in ripped up jeans got to rule the world

"Don't you see the starlight, starlight? Don't you dream impossible things?"

Here we are the end! Finally! So - first we have a few written scenes (by request) that follow on from the last chapter; then we have Phoebz’s amazing sketches, and then we have the longest song-lyrics-as-a-story that I’ve ever done. Which is one of my extreme self-indulgences, but if you read it, do tell me what you think!! And let me know if you want to know what song a lyric is from.

I think he knows

His hands around a cold glass

Make me wanna know that

Body like it's mine

Got that, ah, I mean

Wanna see what's under that attitude, like

I think he knows

When we get all alone

I'll make myself at home

And he'll want me to stay

I think he knows

He'd better lock it down

Lyrical smile, indigo eyes, hand on my thigh

We could follow the sparks, I'll drive

I whisper in the dark

"Where we gonna go?"

I think he knows.

- I Think He Knows by Taylor Swift

Scenes from the Life of an Engaged Consulting Detective

Sherlock tries to act nonchalant with you, tries to densensitise you to the possibility, by taking you at least three times a week, for several months, to behind the clockface of Big Ben. It’s a beige-and-white walkway behind the enormous clockface, a serene, strangely solemn place that holds the same immense quietude of a church or cathedral.

It works, to some extent, because for the first few times you’re on tenterhooks, expecting him to get down on knee at any moment. It’s always been one of his boltholes, for years before he met you. The first time he took you there, you were honoured and intrigued and finally, amazed. Behind the clockface, hidden, invisible, omniscient, alone, helpless. Everyone was looking at you, and they had no idea.

Sherlock’s habitual thing was to sit down in a corner, pull his knees up to his chest, and simply…not. That was the use of this place when it was a bolthole. Occasionally, he had told you, he would come here and pace up and down the walkway like a madman, trying to solve cases. And, usually, when you were there, you would both sit on the floor directly behind the centre of the clock, legs stretched out, and…exist.

Which is what you do, every time you come here. You wait. You small-talk. You give him tiny lingering glances. He reaches into his pocket, and your heart stops, and every time it’s KitKats or crisps or something similar. Neither of you mention it, because it’s a little game. It’s obvious, so obvious. You’ll meander up and down the walkway with him, arms linked like you’re strolling the promenade in Bath in a Jane Austen novel; you’ll steal kisses and crisps and talk about anything under the sun, but neither of you mention why you’re coming here so often, or the fact that you’re expecting him to propose and he knows it.

Maybe it’s a ruse. He isn’t going to propose here at all. He just wants you to be looking this way while he sneaks around in the other direction.

You don’t mind. You wait, for him, because that’s what you do.

It’s raining, tonight. Sherlock takes your hand as you walk up the stairs, through the heavy door lit with the green glow of a Fire Escape sign. You hear the quarterly chime, a familiar sound.

There’s three hundred and thirty-four steps; the clock tower itself is three hundred and sixteen feet tall, and each side is forty feet. Facts that Sherlock’s told you, over time, about the ancient building that you’re somehow always allowed access in. He holds the door for you, and then you’re behind the clockface that he favours the most often, listening to the rain.

Like always, it’s quiet. You’ve hardly ever seen people in here. Occasionally, on the ground floor, security guards or important seeming people. None of them ever look askance at either of you.

Sherlock walks to the centre of the walkway and stands behind the clockface, gazing out. You stand beside him and when he automatically puts his arm around you, you lean your head against his shoulder, wet hair against his coat, closing your eyes and inhaling for a moment.

You’re reminded, suddenly, of something you once asked him jokingly, in a dark train carriage, travelling out to the middle of nowhere for a whirlwind case, back when this had been something new and raw, cradled reverently in bare palms.

“Where are we gonna go?” And before he could answer, you realised he already knew, and so did you. Even back then.

Peace is sometimes described as a fragile thing. Not this peace. It feels robust. Understood. Your relationship with Sherlock has been anything but unorthodox. A love declaration in a bathroom over toothbrushes; amnesia and discovering the ring in a clothes’ drawer; all sorts of madness. Somehow, you’re both still here. Sherlock shows you colours you can’t see with anyone else; taught you a language that is gobbledegook to eavesdroppers. And, you think, you taught him some things too.

You feel him inhale slowly, head turning to you so that he speaks almost into your hair.

“I had a speech planned.”

Every nerve in your body becomes white-hot and your cardiac system kicks into overload mode.

“But,” Sherlock continues softly, his voice a low rumble, “I’ve found that speeches get me into trouble. And the most enduring words are the very small ones. Very simple.” He pulls away from you, turns you to face him gently, hands on your shoulders, and through the blue-ish glow of the clock-face you watch each other for a long second.

You knew the moment was coming, so why does it still take you by surprise, a surprise you couldn’t quench even if you lived this moment in a million lifetimes, when he drops to one knee? Plainly - so plainly - he reaches into his coat pocket and presents the ring on his palm. It is a beautiful creation, and so is he, and so is Big Ben, and - by dint and approval of your surroundings - so are you.

“Will you marry me?” Sherlock Holmes asks simply. And it turns out that the most immense question of your life is the easiest you’ve ever answered, because you already gave the answer, again and again, in eternities.

“Yes,” you say, and Big Ben chimes midnight.

****

“We’ll have to announce a fake wedding date, of course,” Sherlock says briskly.

You’re crashed on the sofa, at opposite ends from John, both wearing similar expressions; at this, you lift your head and peer across the room warily. “What do you mean?”

“Fake wedding date?” John echoes incredulously, peering over his phone.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock puts aside a sheet of paper and turns his focused scrutiny on the pair of you. “People are going to find out, and we don’t need any people with a grudge-”

“And let’s face it, there’s a lot of those,” Mary pipes up, kneeling on the floor by John’s armchair, turning Rosie around and adjusting a ruffled, frilly dress.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Watson. We don’t need any of those, or any aimless, curious donkeys from the public gatecrashing the wedding,” Sherlock says impatiently. “So-” He flourishes his hands. “Fake date, tada, nobody’s any the wiser…”

John sighs and rubs his forehead. “Somehow, this is actually worse than planning my wedding.”

“You’re going to be the best flowergirl ever,” Mary coos, kissing Rosie’s forehead. “Try to trip your Uncle Sherlick, won’t you?”

“You,” Sherlock adds sternly, getting up and walking over, navigating around a bunch of origami tissues in the shapes of rosettes and bouquets and who knows what else, until he stands over you, “are lapsing.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Oh, am I, Mr Fussy Corset Guy?”

“This is your wedding too. Show some interest, can’t you?”

“Sherlock. It’s in eight months. It’s going to be the quietest ceremony ever. You were the one who wanted to elope, originally. We’ve got time. Just chillax a bit.”

He scoffs. “Chillax?”

Just at the same moment that Mary, scandalised, says, “Elope?”

You sit up straight, grasping at cushions to help regain your balance. “Oh, yeah! Didn’t I tell you? We had this whole meaningful pillow-talk thing-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says.

“-where he confessed he actually wanted to elope and how would I feel about it? I agreed-”

“What?” John says. “You two aren’t - You’re not-”

“No,” Sherlock says irritably.

“-But then we were stupid enough to talk about it when Mrs Hudson was coming up the stairs. She got the gist and sat Sherlock down-”

Sherlock crosses his arms and glares at the smiley-face on the wall behind you.

“And told him, in no uncertain terms, that he basically isn’t allowed to elope. So.” You spread your hands. “Wedding ceremony.”

“Huh,” Mary says, and goes back to adjusting the sleeves of Rosie’s frilly flower-girl dress.

“Apparently, according to my landlady-” Sherlock flares his nostrils. “Since I have met my future wife at a wedding, I have to have one of my own. It seems to be a pointless statement, but there is symbolism. Or something.”

You smile up at him. “Just because we met at a wedding doesn’t mean we actually got married there.”

“Thank God,” he snarks, and sits down next to you, wedging your legs and shoulders together. “Now, about the cake-”

“Oh, for the love of God. I’m going to tickle you if you don’t shut up for a bit.”

“No, you won’t. Otherwise I’ll tickle you, and we all know how that ends. For the cake-”

John goes back to his Zen-state again.

****

Scenes from the Life of a Married Consulting Detective

The ceremony had been extremely small, held in a country venue. Sherlock had picked it out; you weren’t complaining. You wouldn’t have minded being married in the same place you’d met, but Sherlock had wanted a bit of ‘originality’, so that John couldn’t hold it forever over his head that he selected the same wedding venue. “As though,” Sherlock had added, sniffing, “I didn’t choose that place, along with Mary, originally.”

Only a limited amount of guests had intended. Sherlock hadn’t even wanted half of them there, until you pointed out that having only the people you both saw on a weekly basis might be just a bit boring.

“What are you doing?” your husband asks, walking into the kitchen. Speak of the devil. Or look at photos of the devil, you guess.

“Reminiscing over our wedding photos?” you offer. You pull out the chair next to yours. “Come on, join me.”

Sherlock stands behind the chair. “Why on earth would I?”

You blink. “Um, well…because it’s…It was our wedding day? And like, nice memories?”

He sighs. “The entire day is permanently stored in my mind, including the moment that Lestrade spurted champagne through his nose at John’s speech. Why would I feel the need to look at photographs?”

“Because we’ve got a photo of that, as well,” you say, cheerfully unearthing the shot of Greg, mid-incident. Sherlock exhales a reluctant chuckle.

“Come on, sit, keep me company.”

He sits. “Is this one of those tedious things we have to do on a semi-regular basis?”

You look sideways at him. “What’ll you do if I say yes?”

“Look at them with you,” he says immediately, “while sulking. And hope that I acquire merit as a good husband, or such tripe.”

You nod, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a charmer. We’re doing this.” You lean closer, and he mirrors you, your heads brushing. “Look, remember this?”

At the end of your ‘tripe’ - or, fond wander down Memory Lane - when all the photos are neatly back in their album, Sherlock occasionally rearranging them in the exact order even though he supposedly hadn’t seen them since the album’s very first unveiling - he suddenly puts his arm around you, an awkward movement, given the kitchen chairs.

“Would you say that naming your child after you is narcissistic?”

Your eyes open very very wide. You stare at the kitchen sink opposite, while your internal organs feel white-blue, like they’re being electrified. “Um-”

“You know. Sherlock II, Sherlock the Second. Possibly…” He hums thoughtfully. “Hamish Scott Holmes…”

You turn and stare at him. “You…you want a child?”

Sherlock stares back at you, nose wrinkling. “You like Rosie. What’s the matter?”

“I do, it’s just…” You’re rapidly rewinding through every conversation you’ve ever had with this man. “I didn’t expect you to want children. Uh - Sherlock, ohmygod, we need to talk about this - This is - just - wow-”

“Don’t start crying,” Sherlock says in a tone of pure panic. “Why are you almost crying? Is it not good?”

“No, it’s…” You shake your head, giving him a twisted smile through your sudden tears. “I’m just overwhelmed. And, I guess, touched? It’s fine, I promise.”

He looks relieved. Though still a bit panicked around the edges. Then he smiles, his arm tightening around your shoulders. “Good, now that that’s cleared up-”

“We wouldn’t be naming a poor baby Sherlock, Sherlock. Or Hamish or - Anyway, what if it was a girl?”

“It’s a girl’s-”

“No it isn’t, shut up.”

“Well then, we’ll name them after you. Obviously.”

You groan.

****

“If that’s all, Gary, I need to go home to my wife.”

Lestrade sighs. Rude of him. Sherlock did just solve a quadruple-beheading for him, after all. All in fourteen hours. It’s just getting dark now, standing on the banks of Thames just down from London, surrounded by gore, a lot of police officers, and a wailing murderer with a ginger Mohawk.

“For the. Last. Time, Sherlock, my name is Greg.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and tries to keep a straight, innocent, mildly bewildered face. Lestrade, apparently used to this, moves on surprisingly quickly.

“And she’s not at home. She’s with Molly. Out. They’re shopping.”

Sherlock blinks. “My wife is with…your girlfriend?” Using these commonplace terms still feels strange. However, one gets used to them. No one else seems to bat an eyelid, so perhaps it’s just something he needs to work on.

“Yes,” Lestrade says. “Late night shopping.” He frowns. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Must’ve deleted it.” Sherlock delves into his pocket for his phone, feeling slightly guilty. Now, if he thinks about it, he does recall something said over a rushed breakfast. Shopping, and good luck with the beheadings. Hmm. Not good. Isn’t he supposed to remember this sort of thing? He finally gets his phone out; presses it on. “I’d better call her.”

He pauses, his thumb over her name. “What. Why are you smirking.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just…Blimey. You’re acting like a husband.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow slowly. “I’m sorry, what am I supposed to act like?”

Lestrade shakes his head again. He’s smiling now. “Like a husband. It’s a good look on you, Sherlock.” He claps him on the shoulder. “Go on, call her. I’ll be over there if you need a lift back to Scotland Yard.”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters as Lestrade walks away. “Why are people so tedious.”

****

“Sherlock. We know you’re married.” Lestrade sounds slightly breathless. Too many of Molly’s cakes. Can’t even handle a hallway in an 1850s mansion; he’d better take out that gym membership again. Sherlock might recommend it later. If he remembers.

“You do? Oh, she told you.”

“Sherlock.” That’s John, now. Both other men have come to a stop. Sherlock does too, reluctantly. John’s frowning at him. “Greg was there.”

Sherlock blinks. “No-o-o, he wasn’t.”

They all stare at each other. Lestrade and John exchange a glance. Sherlock arches an eyebrow and tries to look baffled.

At last, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be slow. Of course I know who attended my wedding.” He whirls on his heel, strides onwards. “Come on! There’s been  a garrotting! That’s far more interesting than the topics of marriage or weddings.”

“Says the man who’s been harping on about it all the time, mate,” Lestrade mutters. “You’re the one who brought up the fact that, guess what, you’re actually married…”

Sherlock pretends he doesn’t hear Lestrade’s grumbling, or John’s laughter.

****

He reaches for your hand, kisses it as he slides into the cab. Well, specifically, your ring finger; the two rings on that finger.

Then he sees your face and frowns. “Why are you smiling?”

You turn your smile away, out the tinted windows, watching dark raindrops slide down the glass. “Nothing. Hi.”

“Hello. Now that we’ve got our pleasantries out of the way, tell me. Why were you smiling like that?”

You look back at him. Despite spending the day running around London and playing with dead bodies the way kids play with action-figures in sandpits, he looks immaculate. Perfect, even. You wonder how much of a coincidence it was, that his day winded up at the perfect spot to share a cab home with you.

“You’re still smiling. What.”

“Nothing. It’s just, you’re so…”

“So what.”

“You just…” You shrug. “You really like being married.”

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t gape. Not ever. He certainly comes close to it right now.

“Of course,” he drawls, in that you’re being ridiculous voice.

You shrug and smile again. “So, that’s it. That’s all. It’s sweet.” I love you, you don’t say, because the cabbie isn’t paid enough to hear that kind of shit.

Sherlock sighs. “I never expected to be married.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain it to me-”

“-But I am. And yes, as you say, I do ‘like’ it.” He arches an eyebrow across the middle seat at you. “I never expected to be married. And certainly not to the woman I forgot.”

You try to stifle your grin. “Not the woman you forgot, Sherlock.” You reach out, taking his hand. His fingers are warm, coat-cuff wet from the rain, his wedding ring a warmer, solider part of him. “The woman you remembered.”

He looks stumped, completely and utterly speechless, for all of the five seconds that it takes before he closes the distance between you and, cabbie be damned, kisses you.

****

“John.”

It’s a precarious situation. Extremely precarious. The fate of the universe hangs in the balance between the sleeping toddler and the fragile specimens under his microscope. The specimens are being puzzling. The toddler is drooling on his lapels.

“What is it, mate?” He smells John’s terrible aftershave as he walks closer, and estimates that he is approximately a metre away. He can’t look up just yet.

“Pass me my phone.”

John snort-tuts. It’s quite a unique sound, and unique is not a word that can easily be applied to John Watson. “Nope. Fat chance.”

“I need to phone my wife.”

“Well, get it yourself. I’m not doing that again.”

Sherlock lifts his head from the microscope and fixes John with his best you are being outrageous expression. “I am currently acting as a portable mattress for your offspring. The least you could do is pass me my phone.”

John wavers. Sherlock can hear the slow click-clock of cogs turning. “Where is it?”

“Mantelpiece.”

He relents, and fetches it. “Thank you,” Sherlock mutters, pressing it on. Rosie stirs, but does not wake, thankfully.

“What d’you need to phone her about, anyway?”

“Lunchtime.”

“So?”

Sherlock sighs, and elaborates. “It is lunchtime.”

Apparently, this isn’t enough to illuminate the way forward. “So?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and presses RING. “It is lunchtime, and I am phoning my wife to talk to her, since we are not physically in the same place.”

He can see, from John’s expression, that this is not something married couples usually do. He arches an eyebrow. “Really, maybe you and Mary ought to go back to couples’ therapy. Clearly your marriage is not as communicative as mine.”

“...Did you just say what I thought you just said, Sherlock?” his wife asks, loud and crackly, from the phone. Damn. He hadn’t realised she had picked up. A fool’s error.

John laughs so hard that Rosie finally wakes up.

****

“Why are you showing me this?” you ask, slightly confused, peering at John’s phone. It’s Sherlock, mid-gesticulation, exasperated raised eyebrow and coat collar and cheekbones and all of it. You’ve got the live specimen in the lounge room, talking to Mycroft.

“This,” John says, pointing. “This is the face.”

“The…face?”

“That,” he jabs his finger at Sherlock’s left hand. “This is the face he does, with the hand movement he does. The ‘Don’t flirt with me, can’t you see I’m married, I’m already taken’ thing.”

You blink.

“This,” John says, vindicated, “is proof. All. The. Bloody. Time, Y/N. He does it all the time. To everyone who he deduces is about to be even a teensy bit flirtatious with him.”

“I…oh.” You suppress a laugh. “I guess I owe you all an apology.”

“You didn’t believe us.” John has the triumphant air of a beleaguered man who has finally won a war.

“Not really.”

“We put up with it every day.”

You glance over your shoulder just as Mycroft, complete with umbrella, and Sherlock, holding a harpoon casually, walk into the kitchen.

“What are you doing,” Sherlock says immediately.

“Your wife is finally understanding the lengths to which you plague everyone else, as regards your marital status,” Mycroft says. He throws you a smile and you throw it back. “Good day, Dr Watson. It is a good picture, I hope?”

“Yup,” John says, showing it. Sherlock harrumphs and flicks the kettle on, balancing the harpoon against the fridge.

You walk around the table and stand next to him. “I love you, you know,” you mutter under your breath.

“I know,” he says, reaching past for you a mug. “Fancy a tea?”

****

“Sherlock.” Lestrade is breathing heavily, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. “I need you to understand that this is not how relationships work. The girlfriend obviously isn’t a prime suspect.”

“She said she wanted a ring. She just confessed to it. Right now. Or didn’t you hear, Detective?”

Lestrade’s teeth are whiter than the (new, expensive, possibly explosive) fridge opposite, in the cramped kitchen that is to be expected of a suburban terrace house. “That means she loved him. Why would she kill him?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Easy. She got bored. Felt she was wasting her time. Didn’t want to stay, but didn’t want anyone else to have him, either.”

“Sherlock, normal people don’t shoot up walls when they’re bored, and normal people don’t shoot up people, either!”

“Like you’d know, Gaston. Between the two of us, I’m the one with a ring on their finger.” Sherlock lifts his left hand, making sure Lestrade gets a good eyeful of the plain gold band, and of his sassy face behind it. “Or, pardon me. The one with a ring still on their finger.”

He half-expects Lestrade to punch him for that one. It’d be worth it. Lestrade simply sighs.

“So she’s the-”

“Oh, no, she’s not the murderer, she’s clearly in love with him. Well, was.” Sherlock gestures to the fridge. “Check behind there, fairly sure you’ll find a ring in a waterproof lunchbox. He was just waiting for the right time and place. Unfortunately.” He pauses, remembers a ring falling to his bedroom floor and the echoing sound of sobs. Pushes the memory away, fiercely, with a mace. He doesn’t need to dwell on that.

“Poor buggers,” Lestrade mutters.

“Round up the CCTV footage from the house opposite, if the old lady will let you have it. You’ll have to put on your best charm, Gavin! And, now, if you’re finished for the moment…” He stops fiddling with his ring. Lestrade doesn’t seem to have noticed. He brushes past, catching a glimpse of the girlfriend, seated on the sofa beside Donovan, crying into her hands. “I have a brunch date with my wife.”

****

“People are absurd,” Sherlock announces, throwing himself along the length of the sofa. His head lands in her lap with a thud. She puts her phone away, balancing it on the armrest, and raises an eyebrow down at him.

“Oh?”

“Apparently I am an extremely annoying married man. Whatever the hell that means.” He tries to glare up at her, but judging by her face, it comes out more pathetic than he intended.

“Yeah, I’ve been fielding and filing all these lodged complaints.”

Sherlock scowls. “From who?”

“Uh…like, pretty much all of our social circle.”

He scowls more. Her hand smooths over his forehead. “Careful. I didn’t marry a handsome man just for him to turn out ugly.”

“Hmmph.” He brushes that aside. “It is ridiculous that I am supposed to be blasé about marriage. Why are our acquaintances annoyed by my usage of certain phrases or references to our marital state?”

“I think maybe you overdo it a bit.”

“Lestrade and Molly are choosing to remain unmarried. Mrs Hudson was married. Mary and John are married. Mycroft is busy having his little office affair with Lady Smallwood. What’s there to be annoyed by?”

“According to Mary, you say ‘my wife’ on average, in her hearing, about eight times a day.”

He glares up at the ceiling, unable to deny it. She laughs, gesturing her left hand meaningfully over his face before carding her fingers through his hair. His eyes shut instinctively at the soothing sensation.

“Don’t worry,” she says drily.  “I’ve done my best to reassure our social circle that it’s just a temporary thing. Honeymoon phase. It’ll wear off.”

His eyes shoot open. “Don’t be obtuse.”

A millisecond later, it occurs to him that this is, probably, not a thing that one says to a spouse. You dolt, mental-John adds. He begins to formulate an apology. Luckily, she’s already laughing, waving it off.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s good to know that marriage didn’t change you irreparably.”

“It isn’t a honeymoon phase,” Sherlock begins, trying not to be too affronted. He looks up at her, the coutures of familiarity and affection, and can’t understand how other people could ever feel blasé about it. “I will still use these terms in the future.”

She pats his forehead consolingly. “Always nice to know that you were serious about the whole getting married business, I guess.”

He folds his hands on his chest and attempts to focus on the case, debris of which is littered everywhere and pinned to the walls above them. A moment later, a thought occurs to him.

“You do not use the same terms, or its equivalents, do you?”

She shifts guiltily. “Well…No. Not to the same extent. I’m not - I do say ‘my husband’ sometimes, or - like - I’m married - but-”

Sherlock sighs. “You’re normal about it.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” She smiles, poking his chin. “It’s alright. If you were normal, I probably wouldn’t have married you.”

****

A Long Time Later

“No, that belongs to my wife.”

“Oh my god,” Mary whispers from behind. “He’s still at it.”

“He’s never going to stop now, is he,” says John.

Sherlock resolutely ignores them. The client - young, early twenties, a ginger, too many freckles and acne - is admiring a painting hung between the windows, over the desk. It is an interesting painting; Sherlock has a version in his Mind Palace. A black lighthouse, about to be engulfed in an enormous wave; there is a balcony around the midriff of the lighthouse, protected by a flimsy railing. The door stands open, a figure in the doorway, a hand casually braced on the doorframe, watching the approach of deep blue and white surf.

The client is on his way out, having come, unfortunately, during a dinner-party. Not that Sherlock minds too much. It hadn’t been too trite a social-gathering, as these things went; Molly and John and him had been debating new research recently released on cadavers, and Mycroft was wearing polka-dot socks, which was a good pressure point to make fun of him with later. Sherlock has already solved the case, and it’s not even dessert yet.

Once upon a time, this young man would have looked askance at Sherlock. Your wife? Sherlock Holmes is married? The world could not believe Sherlock Holmes, a genius, the bachelor, the man who faked his own death, an arsehole but an amazing one, would possibly have married. Who could he marry? Another genius? A supermodel? Who could have married him? What were they after? Was it a ruse? Had he ‘settled down’ after a ‘mad spurt of young bachelorism’?

The questions had run wild. Even the clients who hadn’t read the tabloids were still taken aback when he mentioned his wife, or they spotted the ring on his hand. But the world moved on, as it does, to its new petty dramas and love triangles. Sherlock Holmes had a wife, and that was all there was to it.

Not for Sherlock. And not, it would seem, for his martyred friends, either.

The client leaves, and Sherlock remains by the desk, texting briskly. He hears her approach, standing by him.

“Told you.”

He can sense her smile, though he doesn’t look up. He hits SEND on the text and tucks his phone away.

“Still driving all our friends up the wall.” There’s a grin in her voice. “Okay, you proved your point. It wasn’t a honeymoonite-thing.”

“It wasn’t a what?” He turns to her. The others are still in the kitchen, not paying them attention; digging into dessert, the greedy guests that they are. “That’s not a real word, is it.”

“Nope.” She glances over her shoulder. “Mary asked me the other day if we could just get a divorce of convenience. You know, so you couldn’t actually use the phrases anymore.”

He scoffs. “What did you say?”

“I said that even though it seems like you’re trying to rub the fact that you’re married in everyone’s faces - including the faces of people who are, actually, married - you’re not.”

“Hmm.”

“And then she asked why.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, watching her closely. “And what did you say?”

She smiles. “I said I still don’t know.”

He blinks.

“And she said it’s because you’re madly in love with me. Still.”

“Ye-es,” Sherlock says slowly. “That is it, I suppose. But not purely it. I wouldn’t use the terms ‘girlfriend’ or ‘fiancé’ with such frequency. The reason is because it is not a crime to be proud of a marriage. Of us. Our marriage. I am proud of the fact that I am your husband; that you are my wife.” She’s blinking rapidly now. “This is a normal thing for most people, a thing often achieved by individuals throughout history. No one bats an eyelid if, on introduction, they learn that you are married.”

She reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it.

“But I am not normal. Never have been. The fact that I have achieved this - with somebody I am truly honoured to call a part of us - is…” Sherlock thinks about it, but it doesn’t require much thinking about. “Nothing short of a miracle to me. It is surprising. New. Wonderful, terrifying, complicated. Thus, I use the phrases, and allude to my marriage, because it is a source of happiness and constancy in my life. You are that source.”

She’s crying silently, giving him a wobbly smile. Reaches up and knuckles her eyes, then shakes her head.

“No.”

“No?”

She drops his hand, and then puts both her arms around his neck. Over her shoulder, Sherlock sees that - unwittingly - they have gained an attentive audience.

“It’s not complicated, Sherlock. It’s simple.”

There’s something about rituals, the importance of tiny movements and the order in which we do them. They become both new and ancient with every rendition.

“Come here,” he says, because he doesn’t care about the fact that his family is watching, and she kisses him.

THE END.

…You can’t work out whether you’re more shocked that he’s using a really expensive ring as a stress-ball, or that he’s even holding it at all without sneering…

-chapter four

The him in the photograph looks different. Happier, perhaps.

-chapter five

You breathe the moment in until you ache with it, Sherlock’s dark curls and pale pale skin contrasting with Rosie’s light blonde bunches and her flushed cheeks…

-chapter five

“Do you really not remember me? At all? You - think we’ve…n-never met?”

-chapter one

We were blind to unforeseen circumstances

Mistaken for strangers

The precious memories are all lost in the tide, yeah

And you were just gone and gone, gone and gone

Oh, how were you to know?

And what once was ours is no one's now

Where is this going? Thought I knew for a minute, but I don't anymore

What am I supposed to do, if there's no you?

All that I know is I don't know, how to be something you miss I am someone who, until recent events, you shared your secrets with

Does it feel alright to not know me?

I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all

Opened my eyes, yeah, it was only just a dream

Don’t you remember the reason you loved me before?

I know you by heart and you don’t even know where I start

It feels like we’re oceans apart, there is so much space between us

Don’t forget me, I beg

Just know I’m right here hoping

To see the world through different eyes

Will I ever know how it feels to hold you close? And have you tell me whichever road I choose, you’ll go

Baby please remember me once more, when will I see you again?

I never was ready, so I watch you go

There’s an escape in escaping

Lost your balance on a tightrope, lost your mind tryin' to get it back

Oh back up, baby, back up, did you forget everything?

32 and still growin' up now

I don't wanna miss you

It’s hard to admit that everything just takes me back to when you were there

I could go back to every laugh

But I don’t want to carry on like everything is fine

I’ve watched you so long, screamed your name

The longer we ignore it, all the more that we will fight

Still. At least he doesn’t know about your relationship yet.

- chapter two

It's poker, he can't see it in my face

The ties were black, the lies were white, in shades of gray in candlelight

If you ever loved somebody put your hands up, and now they’re gone

Hung my head as I lost the war, and the sky turned black like a perfect storm

How strange that I don't know you at all

'Cause I, I still love you but I can't

Think about the place where you first met me

"Come here," I whispered in your ear in your dream as you passed out

But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now

And if I’m not the one for you, why have we been through what we have been through?

Remember when we couldn't take the heat?

I walked out, I said, "I'm setting you free"

But do you remember?

From the moment we touched, til the time had run out

You'll find that you were never not mine

When the sun came up you were looking at me

“So. Rather more than sex, wasn’t it?”

- chapter three

Something's made your eyes go cold

You and I, happy ending and a tragedy combined

Oh, he’s bookmarked everywhere, everywhere

If all you want are answers to your questions

Looking backward might be the only way forwards

'Cause it fit too right, puzzle pieces in the dead of night

And all the pages are just slipping through my hands

And someday maybe you'll miss me

It must have been love but it’s over now

Break my soul in two, looking for you, but you’re right here

And if you don't love me now

You and I have history, or don’t you remember?

Say you'll remember me

I love you, it's ruining my life

They say the road gets hard and you get lost

But I stay when you're lost, and I'm scared, and you're turning away

When I said "I'll never let you go"

The jury's out, but my choice is you

I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded that for me it isn’t over

And hoped that you’d find the missing piece to bring you back to me

“It looks like you were going to fucking p-propose, you dumbass genius!”

-chapter three

I keep finding his things in drawers

Crucial evidence I didn't imagine the whole thing

We gather stones, never knowing what they’ll mean

Some to throw, some to make a diamond ring

I look through the windows of this love

Even though we boarded them up

Forever is the sweetest con

Quiet my fears with the touch of your hand

Trying to find a part of me you didn't take up

Second, third, and hundredth chances

I don’t know what else I can say, cause I’m too tired at night for all of these games

Are you my greatest love, or disappointment in my life?

SHERLOCK’S POV

Carved and curved, arches fallen in, entire rooms simply…empty, as though the contents are invisible.

-chapter three; Sherlock’s POV (his POV throughout pretty much all the chapters)

I've been having a hard time adjusting

I’m never knowing where I’ve gone and seen or who I’ve been

One minute I held the key, next the walls were closed on me

Guess I’m feeling unmoored, can’t remember what I used to fight for

It seems to me that we are both the same, playing the same game

Memories feel like weapons, flashbacks waking me up

Now they're screamin' at the palace's front gates

And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you

In this room I hear voices linger, we never talked about the price

Just one single glimpse of relief, to make some sense of what you’ve seen

And all we know is touch and go

And she has kept me wondering for so long

In this room there are many memories

Oh, it's new, the shape of your body, it's blue, the feeling I've got

You could be the one that I love

You’re not gonna like me, I’m nothing like before

But I’m the same me, old same me, inside

You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got

But look, I’ve been here, I’ve done it; impossible, please; watch, I do it with ease

I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still tryin' to find it

If control is my religion, then I’m heading for collision

Lost my 20/20 vision

READER’S POV

Dead of night madness. You can’t quite believe this is happening.

- chapter four

The memories start

You held on tight to me

Makes you wanna run and hide

'Cause nothing's as it seems

Then it makes you turn right back around

The feeling you can know so much

I bet it never, ever occurred to you

You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else

When time stood still and I had you

…an experiment under observation, something in a Petri dish that he’s a bit too fond of…

-chapter four

Don’t pretend that you don’t want me

Cause you feel like home, you’re like a dream come true

You were the one that I loved, don't need another metaphor, it's simple enough

I'd kiss you as the lights went out, swaying as the room burned down

Is it too soon to do this yet?

Loving him is like trying to change your mind

Don't forget, don't forget about me

I just want it back the way it was before

Strike a match, then you blow it out, oh no, oh no

I just wanna feel okay again

"Do you know how much I miss you?"

I'm not saying, "Do it anyway"

But you're going to

Just to do experiments on

You'll see me in hindsight

The words that you whispered for just us to know

I hope you remember

You said, "I'll never leave you alone"

Sharp inhale. Hide the pain.

- chapter five

You push my love away like it was some kind of loaded gun

Don't treat me like some situation that needs to be handled

We're a crooked love in a straight line down

You make me so happy, it turns back to sad

Maybe I've been going back too much lately

Gave you too much but it wasn't enough

Missing him was dark gray, all alone

They say all's well that ends well, but I'm in a new hell

Every time you double-cross my mind

You assume I'm fine, but what would you do if I

Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out

And if I bleed, you'll be the last to know

'Cause I know that it's delicate

You're all I want but it's not enough this time

See, I would rather we just go a different way than play the game…

Such a tired game.

Stood on the cliffside screaming “Give me a reason”

Play fair - is that a compass in your nature?

There ain’t no gold in this river that I’ve been washing my hands in forever

But, God help you, you’re still holding onto him.

-chapter six

If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie, things wouldn't be so confused and I wouldn't feel so used

Each bar plays our song, nothin' has ever felt so wrong

This mad, mad love makes you come running

I'm begging for you to take my hand

I don't like that falling feels like flying 'til the bone crush

I forget if this was ever fun

Watch us go 'round and 'round each time

Minds change like the weather

I don’t want to hurt anymore

This ain’t easy, it’s not meant to be

Trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

There’s such a difference between us and a million miles

Sometimes I wonder, when you sleep, are you ever dreaming of me?

I guess I still care…Do you still care?

I'm yours to keep and I'm yours to lose

I've been waiting for you ever since you've been gone

And the saddest fear, comes creeping in, that you never loved me

It's no surprise I turned you in, 'cause us traitors never win

You say, "I don't understand," and I say, "I know you don't"

I don't know what to say, since a twist of fate, 'cause we're going down

In your head it could be so real that you almost feel the crash

There is so much space between us, maybe we’re already defeated

“More, what I haven’t done.”

- chapter seven

He was trying to skip rocks on the ocean, saying to me

"Don't you see the starlight, starlight?

Don't you dream impossible things?"

But I can see us lost in the memory

Stars by the pocketful, you wanting me

Tonight feels impossible

But you know what you know when you know, so I’m not going without you

And we were dancing, dancing

Like we're made of starlight, starlight

And a part of me keeps holding on just in case it hasn’t gone

Think of me in the depths of your dismay

These kind of wounds they last and they last

So don't think it's in the past

Or it's gonna go down in flames

So, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche? Without knowing anything at all

Paper cut stings from our paper thin plans

So many walls up, I can't break through

That I can't say hello to you and risk another goodbye

I broke my own heart 'cause you were too polite to do it

And I can’t remember what it’s like to put up a fight or to do what’s right for me

And I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want, just not home

Sometimes, screams come out as quiet words.

-chapter eight

Did you think we'd be fine?

Don't pretend it's such a mystery

If you love like that, blood runs cold

You and I walk a fragile line, I have known it all this time

And time can heal, but this won't So if you come in my way, just don't

If we stay here we're not together

There I was, giving you a second chance

Then why'd you have to go and lock me out when I let you in?

Why'd you have to twist the knife?

Now I'm slidin' down the wall with my head in my hands

Sayin', "How could I not see the signs?"

Gave up on me like I was a bad drug

So fuck you if I can't have us

And people like me wanna believe you when you say you've changed

Trick me once, trick me twice

Sometimes I wonder which one will be your last lie

This is how the world works, you gotta leave before you get left

Now, you're runnin' down the hallway

This is the last straw, there's nothing left to beg for

The snaps from the same little breaks in your soul

Sometimes giving up is the strong thing

He says, "Don't throw away a good thing"

You were all I wanted, but not like this

Oh, it's so sad to think about the good times, you and I

He's got my past frozen behind glass, but I've got me

I guess sometimes we all get, some kind of haunted, some kind of haunted

Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me

"Choose something, babe, I got nothing to believe, unless you're choosin' me"

Don’t try to change my mind

Sometimes to run is the brave thing

Said, "I'm fine," but it wasn't true I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you

You know when it's time to go

You said some things I can’t unabsorb

You forgive, you forget, but you never let it go

'Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned

I gave you something, but you gave me nothing

I won’t ask you to wait if you don’t ask me to stay

Walk away and leave me bleeding, bleeding

I can’t give you the heart you think you gave me

This is never ending, we have been here before

But I don’t want to carry on like everything is fine

Stop asking me to stay

Don’t start caring about me now

You think I’m gonna fall for an illusion

We're a wreck, you're the wrecking ball

You want a fight, you found it

It’s time to say goodbye to turning tables

SHERLOCK’S POV

“Because I did, when you asked me to.”

-chapter nine

One day, I'll watch as you're leaving 'cause you got tired of my scheming (for the last time)

Please, stay

Never wanted you to hate me

And it took some time, but I understand it now

You are the best thing that's ever been mine

If you walk away, I'd beg you on my knees to stay

I bent the truth too far tonight

All of your feelings, I played with them

Don't walk away, I need to say

I don’t know anything, but I know I miss you

“This is me begging.”

-chapter nine, Sherlock’s POV

No past, nowhere to hide, just you and me

You see me on the stairs and stop

You were standing hollow-eyed in the hallway

I was begging you, "Please don't go"

This is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore

Promise, I don’t forget all of my fault in this

This is falling in love in the cruellest way

I should probably tell you now before it’s way too late

That I never meant to hurt you or to lie straight to your face

And the only things I've learned is that I need you desperately

I see right through me, I see right through me

And you don't want to know me, I will just let you down

It is easy to ask someone you love to stay, when you realise the alternatives.

-chapter nine, Sherlock’s POV

And I love you because you have given me no choice but to

This is falling for you when you are worlds away

This is the last time I'm asking you this

My voice comes out begging

Please don't go

Too soon to tell you I love you

I’m scared to death if I let you in that you’ll see I’m just a fake

And I’m counting on you to put the pieces of me back together

'Cause I don't remember who I was before you

And no matter how I try, you're always on my mind

So this is me swallowing my pride standing in front of you

Help me hold onto you

READER’S POV

Heartbeats become eternities, Sherlock’s fingers twitching…

-chapter nine

Don’t underestimate the things that I will do

(Hide) and you know for me, it's always you

I chose this cyclone with you

This is the end, hold your breath and count to ten

Keep your feet ready, heartbeat steady

Now they’ve broken you like they’ve broken me

We’ve gotta let go of all of our ghosts

Picture a place where it all doesn’t hurt

I’m holding on with both hands and both feet

'Cause nobody's gonna (win), I think you should come home

Shaking, falling onto my knees

But I'm only looking at you

Come on, come on, don't leave me like this

Love's a fragile little flame, it could burn out

You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes

But just because it burns doesn’t mean you’re gonna die

Put your hand in my hand, and we’ll stand

SHERLOCK’S POV

Sherlock thinks of a different word. Please.

-chapter nine, Sherlock’s POV (the hospital flashback)

That was the night I nearly lost you

You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love

The slowest way is never loving them enough

Why'd I have to break what I love so much?

“I could spend an eternity falling in love with you.”

-chapter nine

And what we had was so much more, than we ever had before

Your love, it is my truth, and I will always love you

Broke your heart, I'll put it back together, I would wait, forever and ever

I want you for worse or for better

I never want to see you walk away

I know I keep my heart protected, far away from my sleeve

I need to say, hey, it's all me, just don't go So, even in a different life, you still would've been mine

Will you have me? Will you love me?

READER’S POV

He looks at you, and you smile. That seems to be enough answer.

-chapter nine

It's okay, life is a tough crowd

All the way back you held out your hand

Oh, 'cause it's gravity, oh, keeping you with me

All along there was some invisible string tying you to me

And he feels like home

If the shoe fits, walk in it everywhere you go

You still look like a movie, you still sound like a song

A beautiful, beautiful time-lapse

I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings

And I just think you should, think you should know

That nothing safe is worth the drive

You know that I’ll be there, time and again

And I don't wanna think of anything else now that I thought of you

Didn’t I tell you everything was possible in this deja vu?

That’s when I miss you, that's when I want you

These hands had to let it go free, and this love came back to me

Darling, you're the one I want

They say that if it's right, you know

And I knew you'd come back to me

You'd come back to me.