Serenade 4

We can go where we want to, a place where they will never find / And we can act like we come from out of this world, leave the real one far behind...We can act if we want to, if we don't nobody will / And you can act real rude and totally removed, and I can act like an imbecile. - Men Without Hats, "Safety Dance"

1.

I glanced at my watch once again and then back up at the ceiling. It had been fifteen minutes since Sherlock had climbed the ladder with a heavily laden knapsack slung over both shoulders, leaving me standing guard beside a similarly laden haversack down below. Several seconds after he had unlocked and pulled himself through a wooden hatch at the ladder's terminus I had heard the striking of a match, and Sherlock's face had appeared briefly in the gloomy aperture lit by the glow of a single candle which he held overhead.

"Hand it up," he had whispered tersely, curiously tense and distrait. I heaved the haversack overhead and raised it from its base until I felt Sherlock grab one of its straps and haul it upwards out of my hands. When it had disappeared from my view so had Sherlock, and all that had remained were his footsteps moving across the ceiling and the dim orange glow of the candlelight in the hatchway.

I began to slowly pace the barren corridor, careful not to stray too far from the ladder against Sherlock's express instructions and thereby risk incurring his wrath while he was in this strangely unreadable mood. According to him, we were on our way to the scene of a murder in Southwark, but first had to drop some things off at one of his several hideouts. I dared not ask him about the contents of the bags he'd asked me to help him carry into the four-wheeler, but they were quite heavy and made all manner of clanking, clacking, and sloshing noises. During the journey Sherlock had alternated between an abstracted silence and an abstracted effort at making conversation, the latter of which consisted of making random observations and then ignoring my replies. I had been on countless investigations with Sherlock in the course of our association and I had seen him in countless moods, but I was mystified by his behavior that night and it was making me increasingly uneasy.

The last landmark our cab had passed which I'd recognized in the drizzly, moonless night had been in god-forsaken Billingsgate, but that had been ten minutes before we'd come to a stop. By the dim glow of a filthy street light I had peered up at a ramshackle three-story building constructed atop a storefront which looked like it had been shuttered since King George's coronation. As I followed Sherlock and his dark lantern up through its narrow, wobbling passageways the only sounds were the creaking of floorboards and stair treads beneath our feet; the building seemed to be entirely unoccupied.

On the uppermost floor we turned into a long corridor whose chipped plaster walls and warped floorboards were strewn with dust and cobwebs, and it was there that Sherlock had pulled the ladder down and disappeared into the ceiling. I had been waiting below for fifteen minutes by the time I had started pacing, growing increasingly cold and jumpy in the eerily empty building whose silence was only made worse by Sherlock's furtive footsteps moving back and forth over my head. The chill and damp was beginning to make my bad leg ache and, although pacing would provide temporary relief, unless I got into a warmer environment the pain would set in for the rest of the night. I was more than ready to leave, and I hoped that Sherlock's mood would improve in a less dreary atmosphere. (I suppose it says quite a bit about both the building and my husband that I considered the scene of a murder to be a more cheerful locale.)

I had just limped past the ladder yet again when I heard a loud and sudden thump on the ceiling, followed by an indistinct utterance and Sherlock's footsteps moving rapidly towards the hatchway. I dashed back and arrived at the bottom of the ladder to find Sherlock already peering down at me.

"I'm afraid I need you to come up and assist me," he said with a beckoning wave before ducking back out of sight. As I climbed the ladder I noticed that the room above had grown considerably lighter and said a silent prayer that Sherlock hadn't set the building on fire. That would really be too much, I began grousing to myself, already imagining what a wait outside for the fire brigade would do for my leg and thinking wistfully about the novel I had abandoned at home so that my husband could commit arson.

All of my internal complaining and irritation were forgotten as soon as my head passed through the hatchway. I looked up at Sherlock in speechless amazement, and with a smile he wordlessly extended his hand down and helped me up the ladder's final few rungs.

Instead of the barren rafters and blanket of sooty dust I had been expecting, I found myself standing in what was essentially a small but cozy apartment, only distinguishable as an attic by its sloping ceiling. Sherlock must have lit 25 or 30 candles so that the whole length of the room was suffused with a buttery yellow glow that lent it an enchanted atmosphere, not to mention warmth. Near the top of the ladder was a tiny kitchen area replete with a single sink and a small stove, on top of which sat a tea kettle, while a coffee percolator sat on a short length of countertop running between the sink and wall. A little round dining table had been set for two with simple china and what was unmistakably a dish of Mrs. Hudson's roasted chicken and potatoes. A bottle of wine was decanting beside a cut glass vase containing a single rose. At the opposite end of the room, where the ceiling sloped down to its lowest point, was a double bed upon which I noted that Sherlock had heaped his usual pile of blankets, a bedside table, and a small sitting area with a wicker chair. There was even a little fireplace set into the wall opposite the bed, where flames were flickering and crackling merrily.

"What is this place?" I asked in an awed kind of whisper. "I mean, it's an attic certainly, but...?" I spun halfway round to look at Sherlock. He was standing with his hands in his pockets and his head dipped slightly down, but his eyes were fixed upon me and a nervously pleased little smile played at the corners of his mouth so that he looked for all the world like a bashfully proud schoolboy. For an idiotic moment I wondered if I were dreaming.

"It could be merely an attic," Sherlock agreed with an easy shrug, casting his eyes about. "And it's one of my hideouts, of course," he added, and as his eyes returned to me a quiet intensity sharpened his gaze. "But tonight...it is also a honeymoon cottage."

With that Sherlock pulled something from his pocket that flashed briefly in his fingers and extended his hand into the space between us. In its palm sat a small black jeweler's box, nested inside of which were two plain rings, one made of gold and the other of silver.

"Sherlock..." I breathed.

"Observe."

I plucked up one of the rings in each hand and bought them close to the nearest candle for inspection. I noted that the inner surface of the silver band was lined with gold, and that the insides of both were etched with a beautifully delicate filigree script that I was unable to discern. The exterior of each ring was different, but the surfaces which would be in contact with our skin were identical.

"We couldn't both suddenly appear wearing the same rings on the third finger of our left hand, of course, but I was bothered by the idea of their dissimilarity. This was my solution," Sherlock explained with quiet pride. It was a pride much deserved, for it was the most thoughtful, beautiful, and clever gesture that he has yet made me.

"What do they say inside?" I asked, feeling my heart hammering within my ribcage.

"It's a quote from Petrarch in the Italian," Sherlock explained. "It reads..." He paused to clear his throat and continued. "It reads: 'To be able to say how much love, is love but little.'"

"They're beautiful," I blurted, hastily wiping my eyes with a thumb and forefinger. It was the first time Sherlock had said the word love in a way that was associated with me, and I didn't want to hinder further progress by making a fuss about it. "Which one is mine?" I asked instead.

"The platinum."

"Platinum - Sherlock!" I gasped, goggling at him yet again.

"I didn't want it to tarnish."

"Platinum!" The pleased little smile returned to Sherlock's face and he shrugged once again. "One can polish silver, you know," I protested.

"What is money when compared to my John?" he asked with simple sincerity. I wiped my eyes again and Sherlock cleared his throat. Dear God, don't cry, John, you'll send him bounding off into the forest like a frightened deer...

"They're absolutely perfect, Sherlock," I managed to say.

"Not until we know that they fit." He lifted my left hand in his, splaying my fingers. "How do you suppose a priest would pronounce our betrothal? Man and husband, I suppose." Flashing me a mischievous glance, Sherlock rather unceremoniously slipped the gleaming platinum band around my third finger. It fit perfectly, as I had been certain it would.

"Man and husband," I repeated as I gently pushed the golden ring down around Sherlock's finger. "You may now kiss the groom."

I had prepared myself to counter one of Sherlock's usual chaste little pecks with something a bit more substantial, but I was taken aback when instead he reached up and took my face almost firmly in his hands, tilting my head back while he lowered his. "You'll never leave me..." he whispered fervently, his eyes boring down into mine.

"Never," I replied, unsure whether Sherlock had been wanting my answer or my affirmation. And then he kissed me, and I was so thrown off by his action that I forgot my plans for a vigorous response.

"Now, let us have a bite to eat," Sherlock said with a satisfied and somewhat relieved smile and letting me go before stepping over to the little table. "Mrs. Hudson may not be here in body, but she is here in spirit in the form of this supper, which she prepared for us upon being informed that we were going on a wearisome overnight journey..."

2.

After our repast we lingered long over an excellent bottle of port, chatting comfortably with one another as we hadn't done in several weeks. As Sherlock was filling his pipe I let my eyes wander absently around the little apartment and remarked on what appeared to be recent repairs done to the masonry over the bedroom fireplace.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed around the pipestem as he lit up, sending ever greater puffs of smoke drifting up over the table. "Half of the chimney was fairly crumbling away and, whilst the lavatory was being installed, one of the workmen knocked a chunk of it off which was apparently large enough to necessitate almost rebuilding the chimney entirely. British government efficiency," he finished with a shrug.

"British government?"

"Did I not tell you that our honeymoon cottage comes to us courtesy of brother Mycroft?" he asked, and I shook my head. "After that business with the naval treaty and being unaware of my other hideouts, Mycroft thought it would be efficacious if I were to have an alternate and otherwise unknown address established should I need to be consulted by the government once again. It went unused until I stayed here for a few weeks while hunting Moran, during which time I realized that such a luxury of privacy could serve an additional purpose...with a few improvements," he finished with a lazy spin of his hand.

"And what reason did you give Mycroft for these improvements?"

"The bathtub, lavatory sink, and stove weren't difficult to justify after the first miserable week," Sherlock explained. "Neither was a proper bed. I merely mentioned the possibility that you would be assisting me during future investigations and suggested that it would be wise to have available sleeping accommodations for two. I suppose the room is rather small for two single beds, although I rather wish he had crammed them in anyway. Now you'll be rolling over on top of me all night."

I had been fidgeting with my glass while Sherlock spoke and ignored the last comment, variations of which I had been hearing since long before we became romantic, but now I pushed the glass away and leaned forward with my hands folded upon the table.

"Sherlock," I began hesitantly; "Mycroft knows."

"Knows about us?" Sherlock asked, and I nodded slowly. "What - merely because of the bed, after we've been living together for how many years? Surely not." He made a dismissive sound before quaffing the last of his port.

"No; he knows, Sherlock," I repeated. "He told me so."

"He what?" Sherlock said, his back straightening and his face assuming its professionally stern, alert expression. "When?" I raised my hands off the table in a silently placating gesture and began to explain myself.

"You remember that a few months ago you had asked me to drop an envelope off for Mycroft at the Diogenes?" When Sherlock nodded I continued. "He was delayed several minutes in making it to the stranger's room, and I was given a whiskey and soda while I waited. Mycroft joined me for a drink when he arrived, and we made the normal sort of conversation, during which he enquired after you. I can't remember what I told him - something bland about you doing well, I'm sure."

I paused to clear my throat and continued. "Mycroft replied that you've seemed much more content since we began living together at Baker Street, and...and he thanked me for being a good, er, influence on you," I said, hurrying past a dismissive sound from across the table. "And then he told me that he never thought you would - would ever develop, ehm, a romantic attachment to anyone, but that he was happy it had been with me, that he had never quite liked the idea of his little brother being alone."

There followed several seconds of silence during which Sherlock and I stared at one another in the warm glow of the nearby candelabra.

"Did he now..." Sherlock murmured before looking away, and there was thoughtfulness rather than disparagement in his voice.

With very little left to tell, I decided to press on. "I was too shocked to speak for a moment and then stuttered through some kind of thank-you. Mycroft explained that he had no problems with a...a relationship of our sort, but that your father had rather strong feelings otherwise. For that reason Mycroft believed you would have never revealed the truth about us of your own accord, and so he came to me. And that was more or less the extent of the conversation. I've just been waiting for the best moment to tell you," I finished somewhat lamely.

I had ended my narrative feeling wary about how Sherlock would react to these revelations, but I was heartened to see that his expression remained pensively mellow.

"Brother Mycroft has always looked our for me, after his own fashion," he finally said, his face relaxing into a wry half-smile. "Whether I wanted him to or not...I should have known better than to think I could fool him. Mycroft probably had it all figured out before I did." He sat back in his chair and for several minutes I left him alone with his thoughts.

"When did you decide how you felt about me?" I asked presently. It was something that I finally felt comfortable asking now that Sherlock seemed to be in such a receptive mood.

"Whilst I was away..."

This is how we had come to refer to the three years following Reichenbach Falls, as the episode tended to become a matter of contention when it arose in unfavorable circumstances. My residual resentment and Sherlock's residual guilt made us both vulnerable to accusations and hurt feelings; in fact, it is the only thing about which we've ever had a serious row, which is why I shan't discuss it further here, either.

"When did you know?" Sherlock returned. I watched the gold ring glint on his finger as he packed the bowl of his pipe yet again in his comfortingly familiar way, struck a match, and glanced up at me over its flame before lighting up. Not only had I never seen Sherlock wear a ring before, even though he had several that were quite valuable, the significance of this particular ring brought up the throb that had seemed to be perpetually hovering at the bottom of my throat during supper.

"When you took me to view Baker Street and make my introductions to Mrs. Hudson," I answered.

Sherlock released a cloud of smoke with a scoffing sound. "Come now, John; I know that you're a chronic romantic, but love at second sight is venturing into the Arthurian."

"Be that as it may, it is the truth." Deciding to humble him a bit by making him uncomfortable, I added casually: "I started lusting after you only five minutes or so after we first met, however; it was something about the way your trousers tightened across your backside when you bent over the -"

"Good Lord," Sherlock interjected, and I smiled in wicked delight at the scandalized look on his face.

"I must confess that catching glimpses of your bum has been something of a hobby for me ever since."

"Really, John..." Sherlock scolded.

"Tell me, eminent and renowned detective," I said breezily, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers together beneath my chin in teasing imitation of Sherlock's professional manner. "Have you ever observed that when the weather is warm and clement, I always stand off to the side so that you're the first to enter any vehicles we happen to hire?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed with slight suspicion as he gave two miniscule shakes of his head. "Why should I?"

"Oh, I don't know, for the same reason you bother to count the number of stairs leading up to our flat," I responded pointedly. "In any case, I do it because you have no need for an overcoat in such weather, and when you bend over to get in a cab the tails of your frock coat part and give me a quick peek at your backside."

For the first time in my memory of all the years of our association, I believe I had made Sherlock speechless. After several seconds of meditative reflection and pipe smoking, he finally said: "Well, John, it seems that I may have somewhat underestimated your capacity for observation, although I can think of countless more productive and worthy avenues by which you may further develop your rudimentary skills aside from my posterior."

"Perhaps the muscles in your back while you're shaving and brushing your teeth," I suggested as Sherlock gave me another affronted stare. "Or your waist and lower back when you walk about the flat without your dressing gown. And then there are the muscles in your forearms when you play the violin with your sleeves rolled, and the-"

"Has this been going on the entire time we've known one another?" Sherlock interrupted.

"I'm afraid so," I sighed with affected regret. "I thought my affliction would improve once I was able to actually get my hands on you, but if anything it's only made it worse to know what I'm missing." I gave him a saucy wink and smiled all the wider when I noticed that the edges of Sherlock's ears had turned pink.

After a few more silent pulls on his pipe, during which his eyes roved absently about the sloping ceiling, Sherlock mused: "And to think that I was relying on you for protection all of these years; an innocent chick in the care of a foxy Lothario, perpetually lurking about the coop, waiting for a propitious moment to assail my virtue..." He said this with his most languorous and seductive drawl, his eyes shining playfully as they gazed into mine.

"Oh, hardly that, my dear fellow," I replied broadly, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. "You wanted your virtue assailed and you told me as much. Your virtue was positively desperate to be assailed - probably on the verge of assailing itself if I hadn't come along..."