An Anniversary gift commissioned by foreverinspiring for flaweddesignxx
“D’you know what today is?” John asks with a tilt of his head.
The man on the sofa doesn’t stir; doesn’t lift his steepled hands nestled beneath his chin; almost doesn’t breathe, and John is about to rush over and perform emergency CPR before he finally sees his chest rise and fall. A low, drawn-out hum of thought fills the air. Then -
“Tuesday,” Sherlock replies with finality.
John doesn’t push it. He doesn’t frown or protest. He doesn’t do anything, really, except watch as his partner’s foot twitches and his stomach growls. Clearly, he isn’t going to say anything else. Not that John is surprised; it IS Sherlock, after all. He has a mind palace without a calendar; dates are unimportant.
He gives in with a sigh and walks over to the sofa. “Good enough,” he says. “Now, scoot.” His hand smacks Sherlock’s foot, which garners an ill-favoured grunt from the detective, but he does as he’s told and curls deeper into the back of the couch. John’s knee comes to rest on the space Sherlock has left him, and he hoists himself up atop his flatmate’s chest, lounging lazily on him and hunkers down comfortably. Sherlock’s arm lifts and rests on his waist, holding him in place, intending for them to stay there for some time. There is no case that day, nothing to do but lay about and enjoy a moment or two of simplicity and silence. John accepts it gladly; Sherlock is harder to sway, but his complaints have been minimal that day. John wonders why.
He doesn’t wonder too much to keep him from drifting off into sleep a few minutes later, contently curled against his partner. Sherlock’s once-closed eyes open and he tilts his head to eye his slumbering partner. He even headbutts him gently, making sure he truly is asleep, before laying his pale digits on John’s and leaning to kiss his brow softly.
Of course he knows what day it is. He doesn’t want to let it on that he does, though, because John’s questions may stop, and they may no longer have silly little arguments about things worth remembering, like shopping lists or phone numbers or middle names. (Sherlock deleted his own a while ago and refuses to dig it up; something which annoys John to no end.) It’s moments like that that are catalogued deep in the recesses of Sherlock’s mind; domestic moments between him and John which he cherishes far more than he appears to. And he cherishes everything between him and John, and catagorises every second and files them away; which is why he knows that Tuesday is special and why he doesn’t complain that day and why he cradles his doctor close and savours the silence he normally abhors.
Anniversaries are not special things when commemorating something individual. When celebrating something shared, they’re still not quite worthy of remembrance. But when they’re shared with someone - with John, his John, they are prized and priceless.
“Happy Anniversary,” Sherlock mumbles, words muffled between his lips on his partner’s skin.
In his slumber, John smiles.