Chapter Text
Summer, glorious summer. The lazy drone of the hive; the sticky-sweet stream of its honey. Blossoms blaze through the garden. John yanks thorns from his palms with his teeth.
Sherlock should be thinking about his case and its redheads, but his attention wings its way to John, to calluses, to spots that feel or don’t, and stays in stubborn orbit.
He abandons his study for the roses. Interrupts John’s greeting: What you did for me. That was--that was good. But I’m, ah--
A bit not good? John teases.
John, please. John sets down his shears, stands. Tilts his head and folds his arms. I would do the same for you, you know that, but I don’t--I can’t--share your facility with sentiment. I will never feel for you as you feel for me.
But I do feel for you, Sherlock thinks, desperate; pictures presenting John his poor emotions, a tumble of hard and hollow things (bones-feathers-his waxing waning unobservable heart).
Where on earth, John starts, then: Oh, Sherlock. He steps into the space between them, enfolds Sherlock safe. Sherlock drops his head to John’s shoulder, feels fingers soothing the dark wings of his curls. Shh. I know you, love. I know.
For Sherlock, here, now, there is only John, and the scent of the roses, and the knowing flights of the bees.