Chapter Text
My first morning back in England, I wake in Mycroft's slightly dusty second best guestroom (very subtle, Mycroft) sure that I am not alone. I open my eyes and sit up. John is sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace (small fire in deference to John's cosy sensibilities, no doubt. I'm already sweating) holding a steaming mug.
"Good morning, Sherlock" he says. I don't know what to say. He beams and takes a sip from his mug. Coffee by the smell of it. "Sleep well?"
"John," I say. My voice is rough. "John, good morning." John is so delighted, he can barely contain himself. His eyes are bright, and the tips of his ears are pink. He loves to surprise me. He hasn't stopped smiling since I opened my eyes.
"Why don't you have a wash and collect your thoughts a bit? I'll go and get you something to eat."
"Thank you." I don't want him to leave. "No need to get up. Just use the intercom by the door to call down to the kitchen. Mycroft’s got a housekeeper."
"It'll be nice to stretch my legs," he says. "I've been sitting in this chair all night. I got here just after you got in, but you were already asleep."
"Then you need a rest, not an errand." I flip back one corner of the bedclothes and slide over on the bed to make room for him.
"Slow down,” he says grinning. “You’re always setting people talking.”
"If we're paying deference to that particular set of sensibilities, you will want to leave the room before I get up. I'm not dressed."
He goes the wardrobe and gets a dressing gown. It's my best one with the blue stripes, and it's been cleaned and steamed. I feel more myself as soon as I put it on.
"That's better," John says fondly. "I hardly knew you with that garish hair."
"It's a disguise, John," with dignity.
"I'd never thought to picture you as a blonde. The more I look, the more it suits you, though."
"God, think what the papers would say," with a shudder. "I'll cut it off soon. It's come in dark underneath."
"You look lovely both ways. I'm so happy to see you."
I try to remember one of the sentimental things I used to say to myself about John's looks while I was dead. My mind's such a muddle, though; I can't think of anything. "Thank you."
"I'll just see about breakfast. Don't try to argue; you need your strength."
"Indeed. I'll just have a shower."
"Right, then. See you in a bit." John edges out the door. I get up and attend to my ablutions. When I come back into the bedroom, John is arranging a tray on a little table next to the fireplace (soldiers! and a pot of coffee). I notice my violin case sitting on a side table across the room and feel a little thrill. It can wait, though. John first, then breakfast. I cross the room in two steps and hug John very tightly. I'm flooded with new data about him and I'm so elated I can hardly stand it.
He's lost eleven pounds since I last saw him (very bad). He hasn't showered in about 30 hours (good) I prefer his smell to the smell of his shampoo. Tea, wool, and something evergreen I can't place. Pine smoke? Fir cones? How can I find out? I sniff his scalp silently, I hope. He always seems to find the sniffing unsettling. He's changed his brand of deodorant (wonder why?). He stayed up all night and had three cups of coffee and a large whiskey. He still has the ghost of the limp, but I shall chase it away by this evening; I'm sure. When I let go of him, I see he has tears in his eyes, and my own eyes start to prick.
"Don't cry John, it's catching." He laughs and I laugh, and we sit down to breakfast, still giggling. I don't recall ever being so eager to eat.