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conversationswithbenedict:

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conversationswithbenedict:

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@conversationswithbenedict, I’m not thinking about the look on Mummy Holmes’ face when John sends her a Mother’s Day card for the first time. 

I’m not thinking about how she immediately tears up and calls for Daddy because it’s signed “Love, John” in his sloppy doctor’s scrawl. 

Another card arrives with it, signed by Sherlock (at John’s urging, no doubt). And she places them both on the mantle, front and center, so every visitor will know just how much her sons love her. 

Jesus God no don’t think about that.

It will only lead to other unthinkable thoughts, like the day Mummy gets a phone call from John, saying that he and Sherlock would like to come visit on Sunday if that’s okay with her and Da, Sherlock yelling in the background, “WE DON’T HAVE TO COME IF IT DOESN’T WORK FOR YOU, WE CAN STAY RIGHT HERE WHERE WE ARE,” while John covers the phone with his hand and hisses, “Shut it, you!”

Because then you’d end up thinking about her ending the call (bye now, bye, okay, bye-bye, bye!) and turning to Mr Holmes, grinning through her tears, announcing, “They’re coming up on Sunday! I think this is it, love, the big announcement!” and Mr Holmes’ eyebrows shooting up, as he asks, “Do you think he’s going to ask for our permission? Do young folk still do that kind of thing?”

And Mummy swatting him with a tea towel and answering, “They’re hardly that young, silly, and it’s the proper way to do it.”

DO NOT.

No, because then you’ll think of John’s white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as they turn into the drive, pretending not to see Mummy already clapping through the kitchen window where she spies. 

Don’t think of John placing a kiss on her cheek and nudging Sherlock to do the same. Daddy shakes his hand, before tugging him into a hug and leading them into the house. It smells like pine and cinnamon, and there’s a fire in the grate to chase off the chill. John is instantly at ease (or as at ease as he can be, given the circumstances), and Sherlock immediately tackles Mummy’s bookshelf, looking for a specific tome that could be useful in cracking a cold case. John takes advantage of the distraction to hover outside Daddy’s office. 

Don’t think about the fact that his left hand shakes. 

Daddy pretends not to notice John’s shuffling, glasses sliding down his nose as he smiles. Finally, Daddy announces, ”It’s not locked, my boy” and John can’t help but chuckle because no one has called him “my boy” since his grandfather passed. He inches into the office, not noticing Mummy immediately following him until the door clicks shut behind them all. 

“What can we help you with, John?” Mummy asks when it becomes clear that John isn’t sure how to broach the topic, but there’s a twinkle in her eye and, in that moment, he knows they know. This is just a formality and that makes the knot in his chest slowly unwind. 

“I, um, I…” he digs his toe into the carpet before giving a brief nod, snapping his shoulders back, and standing to attention. “I’m in love with Sherlock and I’d like your permission to ask him to marry me.” He spreads his hands out. They’re no longer shaking. “That’s the whole of it.” 

And whatever you do, don’t think about the look Mummy and Daddy share that’s entirely too knowing and ridiculously too smug. Don’t think about Mummy stepping forward and cupping the cheek of the man she’s long since considered one of her own. 

“Is that a ‘yes?” John breathes. 

And don’t think of Mummy’s reply because how could it be anything but. 

Why would you do that? What on earth possessed you? Because now I have to work extra hard to not think about the ridiculous grin on John’s face as he struts out of Daddy’s office, proud as all get out, that he has both Sherlock’s love and the Holmes’ approval.

I am steadfastly refusing to think about John walking into the library, shoulders back, chest out, clearing his throat, or Sherlock glancing up from his book, eyebrow cocked, then shutting his book and setting it aside.

“And just where did you, Mummy, and Daddy get off to?”

John pretends Sherlock hasn’t deduced all of this already, probably a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, maybe even that first day at the lab.

“Just a little business I had to take care of.”

“Is that so?”

At this point I am begging you not to think about the sly smile on Sherlock’s face, the way he slouches a bit more in his chair, lets his legs fall open, or the way John moves forward, full of confidence, and kneels on one knee between those mile long legs.

Jesus Christ, do not think about John digging around in his pocket, Sherlock’s expression one of besotted amusement, then John finding what he’s looking for, re-centering himself, looking up at Sherlock and saying, “Sherlock…”

“Yes.”

John smiles. “But I didn’t ask yet.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Deduced it.”

“Yes?”

“Obviously.”

“Git.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock leans forward and crashes heir lips together, fingers tangling in John’s shirt. “Now where’s my ring?” he asks as John chuckles against his lips.

“Patience, husband.”

And don’t, not ever, think about Sherlock’s smile the minute he registers that beautiful, incandescent two-syllable word.

“Never, husband.”