Do the Puzzle, Sherlock.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Sigh.
Warnings: Slash, of course. Kisses, some fluffiness, talk of sexy times, nothing overt. Sorta slow beginning party scene, humblest apologies.
Summary: It's New Years Eve, and John's made a resolution to tell Sherlock how he feels about him. And if there's one thing the detective loves, it's a puzzle.
A/N: My best friend showed me Sherlock the day before the new season, (New Years Eve, incidentally) and I absolutely fell in love with it, of course. So this had to be written. We also did a jigsaw puzzle that night, so. Anyway, a big genuine thank you for reading, and I hope you like it!
~December 31, 2012~
John sighed. Today was the day, tonight was the night. He was going to tell Sherlock how he felt about him. Well, technically, tomorrow was the day. It was New Years Eve, and his resolution was to confess to Sherlock Holmes that he had feelings for him. And to stop biting his fingernails, but that was beside the point. The moment the clock struck 12:01 he was going to blurt it out and damn the consequences, whatever they may be. Weather Sherlock laughed at him or did nothing but raise an eyebrow, weather he grasped him by the shoulders and devoured his mouth or spat "wrong!" in John's face and walked away, at least he will have said it.
Now that the time had come, he was feeling much more nervous than it was right for a soldier to feel. He had no idea what what was going to happen, and if he went through with this, he thought that when someone next called him brave he might just believe them.
The flat was not furnished in any particularly special way, but the lights that they always left up from Christmas were on in the living room, and John had went out this morning to get some poppers and cake and champagne. He'd picked up a jigsaw puzzle, too, on a whim. It was on a rack at the front of the shop, and now it figured in to his New Years plan.
Sherlock shuffled around in the kitchen, chugging a glass of ice water as he sat down behind his microscope. John looked over and sighed, seeing him still in his pajamas and red robe. "Are you going to put on some real clothes, here? It's eight already."
"Are we expecting company?"
"A few people said they might pop by. I bought a cake."
John heard a "tch" from Sherlock, knowing that when the detective did eat, it was never desert. He let out a long breath, going over to the window to look out on Baker Street. The sun had already set, but the street was glowing with light from the flats around them, and young people strolled past on their way to pubs or parties. John smiled, feeling that he was in perfectly good company.
An hour later found the flat humming with happy conversation between John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and some of his friends, who'd agreed to come by on their way to a party. Molly had been unable to stop in, but Sherlock hadn't been particularly put off. John only declared that it meant more cake for them.
Soon the cake had been devoured and the poppers popped, Lestrade and company had departed cheerily, and Sherlock and John were in the kitchen with a glass of red wine each as Mrs. Hudson wrapped up the leftover snacks, whistling sporadically.
John finished his glass, setting it on the counter and pulling an envelope from his pocket. Now was as good a moment as any. He handed it to Sherlock, clearing his throat. "Here you go, New Years gift. Just for fun."
Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow, setting down his glass and tearing open the envelope. "You didn't have to get me anything."
"Well, no but-"
"I expected you to, though. Yours is in my room, I'll get it for you later."
"Oh. Oh, thank you," John replied, surprised, but pleasantly so.
Sherlock was pulling the papers out of the envelope, and John laughed a little to himself. "That is-well, I got you a subscription, actually, to the "Monthly Element Club." What it is is, every month, they send you a certain amount of a different pure element. It's some chemists thing, I saw it in a magazine, somewhere...random...can't remember."
"Most likely the volume of "Chemistry World" on the table when we went to talk to the endocrinologist and you sat in the waiting room two and a half weeks ago, judging on how recently you ordered." Sherlock said casually, still thumbing through the papers.
"Right, yeah, that's it. Anyway, my mum would buy the "Fruit of the Month" subscriptions for me all the time when I was in university or medical school, pretty neat, and I thought, you know, this'd be fun. For you. Er, it says your first, ah...niobium...will get here within the week..."
"Ah, niobium, excellent. Good for superconductivity, which can be interesting, although I can't say it's something I look at particularly often," he said bluntly, stuffing the papers back in the envelope.
John felt his face flush, it really was a stupid gift. Well, he'd known it was kind of a stupid gift, but it was a particularly stupid idea to give a stupid gift when he was trying to make the best impression possible. Which was stupid too. He'd had a year to make a good impression. He just didn't want to do anything to embarrass himself on this one night, and he thought that wasn't too much to ask for.
"It's a silly gift, I know, but if you don't like it, you can always cancel, I know-"
But Sherlock cut him off, "No, John, no. I like it. I really do. Thank you, it'll be...entertaining," he assured the doctor, tucking the envelope in his jacket.
"That sounds very nice, what a creative gift, John," Mrs. Hudson interjected from where she had been pouring a cup of tea, obviously hearing the exchange.
John nodded over his shoulder in thanks before turning to see Sherlock already walking off, toward his room.
He returned momentarily, however, with a small, plainly wrapped package in his hand. He gave it to John, who grinned, feeling from it's pliability that it was obviously something cloth. He was about to tear off the corner when there was a knock on the door, and Sherlock disappeared again to see who it was.
"Mycroft," they heard him say in surprise. "Didn't expect you to pop over for New Years Eve, of all Holidays."
"I'm not here spreading festivity, I'm afraid, I'm here to talk to you concerning your last case. Not particularly important, but it should be dealt with sooner rather than later."
John raised an eyebrow, exchanged a shrug with Mrs. Hudson, and then turned his attention to Sherlock's gift. He might as well open it now, he thought, and ripped off the blue paper, finding inside a pair of very nice fawn colored leather gloves. An excellent present, especially for Sherlock, who usually didn't quite hit the mark when thinking of gifts for others. He tried one on - it fit perfectly, but of course, Sherlock would know his glove size from one sideways glance.
"What a lovely thought," Mrs. Hudson remarked, patting John's arm as she went into the living room, sitting on their couch with a cup of tea. John sighed, taking off the glove and stretching them in his hand, getting a head start on working them in.
"Surely you could have called Lestrade?"
The door slammed as the two brothers strolled back into the flat, still talking.
"I don't know all the details, Sherlock," Mycroft retorted, sighing. "Just tell him to keep it out of the press."
"Right, I'll text him...probably smashed already."
Sherlock wandered off, pulling out his phone, and the elder Holmes joined John in front of the kitchen counter, pouring himself a glass of wine.
"Hello, Doctor Watson. How's the night been treating you?"
"Oh, fine, yes. Had a tiny little get together, not much. Me and Sherlock are staying in the rest of the night."
Mycroft nodded, clearly not riveted by their domestic New Years plans. He looked around the kitchen for a moment before noticing the gloves in John's hand. "Those are nice. A gift?"
"From Sherlock, yes."
John nodded, "Only because he knew I'd get him something."
"And what was that?"
He chuckled, working the gloves in his hands. "A "Monthly Element Club" subscription, just for the heck of it, but I couldn't really tell if he actually liked it or not, he sort of-"
"He loves chemistry. Truly. Sounds like a perfect gift. Every month, a new kind of explosion." Mycroft smiled, bouncing his eyebrows, "Have fun." He turned, looking around. "Not sure where Sherlock went...better get going. I'll see myself out. A Happy New Year, Doctor."
"Oh. And to you."
The elder Holmes called over his shoulder to his brother as he headed for the door, "Goodbye Sherlock, Happy New Year."
"Mm," came Sherlock's unenthusiastic reply from what sounded like his bedroom, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, striding out the door and slamming it behind him.
Sherlock reappeared a second later, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "Utterly unintelligible response from Lestrade. Hopefully he'll see the message again in the morning."
"Yep. Thanks for the gloves, by the way. Very nice."
"Yes, good..." Sherlock replied absentmindedly, preoccupied by something in his head. Either that or the refrigerator, by the way he was staring at it, but John suspected the first.
Mrs. Hudson announced soon after that she would be retiring to her own flat, leaving them on their own for the night. She gave each of them a kiss on the cheek and a Happy New Year and was out the door before either could get a word in edgewise. Sherlock stared at the cabinets for a long moment before shuffling into the living room and throwing himself on the couch, leaving John alone in the quiet kitchen.
He went up to his bedroom, putting the gloves in his top drawer and grabbing the puzzle from the nightstand.
Sherlock was playing rapid scales on his violin when he returned.
John cleared his throat, steadying himself. There was surely less than an hour left. "Er-I bought this on a whim, just as something to do for the night, if you want."
Sherlock looked up, setting his violin down. "A jigsaw puzzle? John, you've got to be joking."
"Oh come on, Sherlock. I know it's surely no match for your massive intellect, but it's got a thousand and five hundred pieces, it might occupy us for a bit. Puzzles are fun."
"I agree, nothing wrong with a rousing, life and death game of wits, extracting an impossible to find answer from scraps of invisible evidence. I'm a detective," he chided, "if you haven't noticed."
"Jigsaw puzzles. Are fun."
"If you say boring, I swear to the Virgin Mary I will punch you. Do the puzzle, Sherlock."
"Oh alright," he conceded, rolling his eyes as he stood up to clear a stack of books off of the coffee table. John could tell when Sherlock's exasperation was good natured instead of purely annoyed, primarily in situations with him, it seemed.
"Besides, it's New Years Eve, let's talk," John suggested, trying to obtain a mixture of casualty and sincerity.
"Sure," Sherlock said absentmindedly as they pulled up chairs. He took the box, studying it the picture on the front. "Cafe Terrace at Night. Good. Love Van Gogh."
"Do you?" John asked, taking the box from Sherlock and ripping off the plastic.
"No one other than the most schooled and bitter art critics have any reason not to like Van Gogh," He explained, watching John grapple with the plastic bag that held the pieces before ripping it open with a grunt, a few falling on the floor.
John bent down to scoop them up, "I suppose you're right." He set the little cardboard squares on the table, standing. "I'm gonna go make some tea. Want any?"
"No," Sherlock replied tersely, head already bent over the pile of pieces, scooting a few of them around with his index finger. He'd thrown the lid on the floor, it's image already memorized.
When John came back and sat down with a mug of steaming Earl Grey, the entire border was already put together and Sherlock was working steadily inward from the top left hand corner. He seemed to be able to connect pieces as fast as his hands would allow, already having seen where they would fit. He had to have a fifth done, if not a larger fraction.
John resigned immediately to letting Sherlock do the puzzle, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get so much as a piece in, and wanting as well to start steeling himself up for telling his friend and partner that he'd rather be a bit more than that, actually.
He checked his watch. 2 minutes till midnight. The steeling would have to go faster than he thought.
Maybe he should wait until next year. Probably. He probably should. Did he really like Sherlock that much? To risk their friendship and business? Yes. Yes he did. But what a risk it was. What if Sherlock resented him, didn't want to work together? Thought he was weird? If not, how was he going to tell his friends, his family, that he was in a relationship with a man (that would be a conversation in itself) who keeps severed heads in the icebox and talks to John when John isn't there? That he was deeply in love with the world's only consulting special-needs toddler? He didn't know. No clue. So maybe he should wait - think it through, like Sherlock already would have done, he would know exactly wh-
"Happy New Year, John," Sherlock said cheerily as an alarm went off on his phone. John gasped, jerking back to reality. There was celebratory screaming from the street outside and flats next to them, and fireworks somewhere in the distance.
John managed a smile, "Happy New Year."
"Here's to an...intriguing 2013." Sherlock declared, going immediately back to the puzzle, "Be finished with this in a minute."
John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly "Right. Uh, Sherlock, I've got something to tell-to, er, talk to you about."
Sherlock made a small noise telling him to go ahead, not looking up.
"Okay. There's no denying it, I've found, and I just-I want to tell you, no matter the consequence."
Silence as John paused.
"I've got feelings for you, Sherlock," he blurted out, spreading his hands as if to say there was not stopping it. "I do and I have."
"Obviously." He made no move to stop doing the puzzle, his voice as calm as always.
"Ob-obviously? I'm sorry?"
"John, most humans have feelings for almost everything. I would assume your feelings for me include frustration, captivation, exasperation-"
"No. No, Sherlock. I like you. I'm attracted to you. That's how I feel about you. Those other things, sure, but most importantly...I like you."
"Oh, well yes, obviously."
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Obviously? You knew?"
"Sure. Not hard to see."
"How long. How long have you known that I liked you?"
Sherlock's head snapped up, piercing John with those crystal blue eyes. "I suspected almost immediately. It took me a month and a half to know for sure."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"It made no difference. I was just glad to have a reliable partner," he said, sincere.
"Okay, okay," John said exasperatedly, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "How?"
John recognized the look that came over Sherlock's face the moment he asked for an explanation, the way he straightened up, focused, as if reciting a great speech, knowing how he would impress.
"You know that I'm not good with emotions, so forgive me for any inaccuracies. While this was not my normal forte, it still took nothing but some simple observations to easily reach a conclusion. The physical signs are obvious enough, dilated pupils, irregular breathing, heightened pulse. Staring. Agreeing to things no normal person would agree to. Occasionally inarticulate. A tendency to be enraptured. Had you felt nothing more than friendship, I doubt you would've taken such risks and put up with so much after only just meeting me. Something compelled you to stay with me, when no one had...ever stayed before."
Sherlock paused for a moment, looking at John, as if his train of thought had pulled away from him. John found himself staring, entranced, at his lips, how they had fallen slightly open, and at the slight crease that had appeared between his eyebrows.
Sherlock stood, slowly, walking over to the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
"You...laugh differently, when it's because of me. You saved my life on our very first case. And you always close your laptop when I start to play my violin."
"The great Sherlock Holmes," John said, coming to stand next to the detective's shoulder. "Always solves the mystery."
Sherlock turned, gazing down at him, breathing very slowly. John couldn't read the face of the silent raven that watched him, curiously but warmly. They were standing very close. He didn't know what to do. What on earth had he done?
Seconds hung between them in the air, tangible...he squared his shoulders, felt his eyes close...
"Are you expecting a kiss?"
It was like a punch to the nose. John's eyes flew open, and he stumbled back a step, realizing what he must have looked like for a second there. "Er-no! No, no, of course...not...hah." He cleared his throat violently, looking down and rocking up on the balls of his feet. "Nooo..."
Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Really?"
"Course not," he stuttered, embarrassed. And disappointed, yes. "Just because I-I mean, I shouldn't-I shouldn't assume that you-no, okay, I wasn't expecting a kiss."
Sherlock stared. His eyes flickered.
"I wasn't!" John cried desperately.
"Well, that's unfortunate. Because I was going to give you one."
John started, blinking, "Wha-" but Sherlock already had him, a hand around his waist, bringing them against each other. He ran his finger tips, confident and inquisitive, over John's jaw line, turning his chin up. Their eyes locked for a moment and then John, very slowly, let his close. Sherlock bent his neck, catching John's mouth in his own, putting a hand behind his head. John gave a small gasp, melting into Sherlock, his hands resting on his shoulders as Sherlock gripped him tighter. Sherlock had his bottom lip trapped, running his tongue over it very gently until John let his mouth open with a moan, tasting passion that he had never expected from Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock took his hand from John's back, moving both to hold John's face against his as he kissed him deeper, enclosing his mouth in his, running his tongue slowly along John's front teeth. He tasted warm, like tea and a hint of scotch, smelled sensible, like laundry and the worn leather of his jacket.
John moved his hands to Sherlock's waist, honestly trying to keep himself standing as he let his mouth work against Sherlock's, brain having disappeared entirely, heart feeling as though it might soar out of his chest. God was Sherlock gorgeous.
They didn't break that embrace for a very long time, framed by the white lights around the window, holding, breathing, tasting, needing each other as the New Year came and the world disappeared.
It would seem the residents of 221b Baker Street were in for a good year.
~December 31, 2015~
"Surprised we still have that."
John looked at the box he was holding in his hand.
"Yeah, me too. Found it in the back of my closet. It's got some memories, though...come on," he said, sitting down, "now that everyone's gone, let's have a go while we think of what to do tonight."
"I've got an idea, actually," Sherlock said from where he was laying, draped upside down over the arm of the couch.
"Of course you do. Not hard to guess what it might be," John said, standing over Sherlock to meet his eyes. "Come on, jigsaw puzzle first, anniversary sex after."
It was three years later now, three years that John and Sherlock had been together, not only business partners but romantic ones as well, living at 221b Baker Street and solving mysteries. There had been rough spots, sure, but when summed together, they had been the happiest years of John's life.
It had taken Sherlock a while to overcome his trepidation toward emotion, but he was gradually improving and even willfully acknowledging that there was much more than chemicals in the fluttering feeling in his chest when John would murmur his name, just after he'd woken up. Love slowly went from a disadvantage, to one he would grudgingly live with, to one he would happily live with, to something he couldn't imagine himself without.
They'd broken the news to friends and colleagues slowly. Many were already under the impression that they were a couple, and even if it had just been joking, it was certainly no stretch to convince them that it was the truth. Mrs. Hudson was particularly congradulatory.
Telling Mycroft had been interesting, and while Sherlock had insisted that he would just text him and be done with it, John had drug him stubbornly out the door. Sherlock had told him himself, and seemed to get a good deal of enjoyment after all out of the range of expressions that graced Mycroft's face. In the end, he'd seemed happy enough for his little brother, and they'd left before he could express any other sentiment.
John's very favorite, though, had to have been when they'd next seen Irene Adler, about five months after that first New Years.
"Hello, Sherlock." Irene was in front of him, a hand on his arm, the moment they walked in her door. "How've you been?"
"After all we've been through, we never did get that dinner," she purred, ever the prowling tigress, one thing on her mind when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "If you're available, I think we cou-"
"He's not," John burst out from the corner where he was standing out of the way. His conviction surprised him, and apparently Irene as well. "...available. He's not available."
Sherlock was gazing at John with a small smile. "I'm sorry, Irene," he said without looking at her, not sounding apologetic in the least. "I'm dating John now. Exclusively."
A flicker of surprise, even disappointment, crossed the woman's face, but it was gone in a moment as her lips parted in what looked like a genuine smile. "Well, my congratulations."
She stared up at Sherlock, eyes narrowed, mouth slightly opened, reading him like a book. "Ooh," she exclaimed mischievously, "Congratulations indeed. Looks like that's one endeavor I'll have to give up."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "I wouldn't have thought you'd completely stop trying."
"Oh, Sherlock, if I can't be your first, the fun's half gone."
John blinked, "How does she know we-"
"It's in his eyes," she answered, turning away from Sherlock, smiling at the doctor. "He cares for you a lot."
They turned to go soon after that; conversations with Irene seemed to go much faster with that door closed.
"Was it good?" She inquired suddenly, as they reached the doorway.
Sherlock turned around, smirking. "Goodbye, Irene."
"Until next time, Mister Holmes."
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around giving away our bedroom escapades with nothing but your eyes, you know" John chided as they stepped on to the street, turning up their collars against the wind
"Shut up, John."
They laughed the entire way back to 221b.
But it was good.
Sherlock had taken great pleasure in texting Moriarty to tell him he'd need to come up with a new nick-name.
When Sherlock has said a long time ago that "sex didn't alarm him," he was right. He really got quite good quite fast. A quick study, to John's pleasure, and a quick study of John himself. Usually incredibly un-empathetic and inconsiderate of others emotions, he seemed to make a genuine effort when he was with John. By nights they were romantics, by day, it suffices to say that Sherlock would never loose his taste for experimentation. Boredom was never an option. And there was nothing more sexy to John then getting the good detective to loose control for an hour or two.
When Sherlock cared about someone, he truly did care about them. But John was fairly sure that in all of those years, Sherlock had never gotten the milk.
Tonight was New Years Eve, and John Watson had a plan for that puzzle again.
Sherlock opened the lid of the box, tossing it over on the couch, and laid out the pieces on the coffee table. He bent slightly, observing, and immediately straightened up, a small crease forming on his brow.
"What?" John asked in mock confusion.
"There's something new on the pieces. It wasn't there when we did this puzzle before."
John smiled, sitting back in his chair. "When you did it, really. I just watched. And how on earth can you tell something's different, we haven't looked at this puzzle for three years." He didn't have to act those words, Sherlock's power of observation still baffled and enthralled him as if they had only just met.
Sherlock, of course, ignored him, not lifting his eyes from the table. "There are markings on the pieces. White...paint?" He picked up a piece, an edge, it so happened, studying it, then holding it to his nose to sniff briefly. "Sharpie fabric marker."
"Strange. Well, come on," he urged, clapping his hands on his knees. "Let's do it anyway."
"Did you write on this puzzle, John?"
John feigned affrontion, "Wha-of course not, Sherlock. Why would I do that? Alright, I told you, I haven't touched this in three years."
"Well then, I can't help but wonder how these marks got here if it's been sitting in your closet all this time."
"Maybe it's a code, who knows. Could lead to some brilliant adventure."
Sherlock scoffed, looking at John as if he genuinely didn't understand the motive behind what was, to him, clearly silliness.
"Just do the puzzle, Sherlock."
He sorted the border and snapped it together easily, glancing up at John every once in a while in question.
John felt a very warm feeling spreading through him, carried by his blood, blooming across his chest as he watched Sherlock work, as he thought of what the impossible man meant to him. He couldn't imagine his life without the contentment he felt whenever they sat together in their flat, Sherlock playing violin, John reading the news, the exhilaration he felt running through the streets behind the detective, or listening to him pull the solution to a truly impossible case from thin air. Laughing together about what John thought was a perfectly sensible blog entry.
Sherlock had begun to put together sections of the puzzle with the white writing, piecing together letters, one by one. The message was clearly in the middle of the puzzle, and he'd worked in from the edges. The words were all that were left. An "M," an "S," a "Y."
The letters fell in to place, their message obvious even before they were all connected, and a smile came over Sherlock's face as he realized what they said.
"Marry me, Sherlock" he murmured, reading the words that John had written on "The Cafe Terrace at Night" in bright, white, Sharpie paint pen.
He looked up. "There's one missing."
John smiled, producing it from his pocket, fitting it snuggly into it's waiting space.
"Sherlock I-alright, this is cheesy, but you know where it's going, so. You've always been my-" he laughed a little, and adored the small smile that came over Sherlock's face. "missing puzzle piece." He took a breath, gaining confidence. "You really did come along when I needed you the most, and, well, turned my life into something interesting. You and your-eccentricities...they've made me incredibly happy. I love you, Sherlock."
His eyebrows raised, but without a moment's hesitation he said, "I love you too, John," a mix of strong emotion in his usually calm and linear voice. He looked down at the puzzle, breathing, thinking. John watched his face with a mixture of love and suspense, waiting.
When Sherlock replied his voice was silent, John thought he looked quite surprised, even overcome, and yet...happy. Quite happy.
"Yes," he whispered, low and reverent. "Yes, John. Yes, I will marry you."
He looked up, meeting John's eyes, and for a moment they gazed at each other, enraptured, invigorated, amazed as they weighed what had just happened, what they had said. Promised. There was no flat around them, no tea going cold on the corner of the coffee table, no cars passing outside, no festively intoxicated voices carrying through the cracked window. There was the world's only consulting detective and his faithful and loved Doctor Watson, nothing else.
And then Sherlock broke into an absolutely gorgeous grin, unable to fight the childish giggle that rose from his throat. That set John off, and they sat for a moment, both laughing and grinning, exultant, across the puzzle at each other, at their joy.
John collected himself first, shaking his head in fond exasperation, and Sherlock gave a sigh, straightening up.
He looked down at the doctor's proposal for a moment, "You'll be expecting a kiss, now, will you?"
Sherlock untangled his arms from John's, letting the doctor sneak one more kiss on his neck before sitting up at the foot of the couch, watching fondly as his new fiance sat up and scooted beside him.
"Alright, tell me about it. You obviously want to."
John grinned, "I did it about a month ago. You were out with Lestrade for the day, so I popped out and bought a white marker, came back, and put the whole puzzle together myself that afternoon."
"All by yourself, John, really?"
"Alright, Mrs. Hudson helped a little, but I had to get it done before you came back, and I didn't know when you would. So I wrote on it, broke it apart, and boxed it up again to wait. And kept out a piece, to be a cheese ball. I guess I though it'd be clever, making you "solve a puzzle.""
"Clever indeed. I liked it."
John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"It was obvious very quickly, but yes. I did."
John put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him into a kiss which Sherlock willingly returned, adjusting to hold John against him.
"Okay, I've gotta ask-" John interjected suddenly, pulling away. "Did you suspect anything?"
"Right. Yeah, of course. A little's better than usual, though."
The detective grinned, "Indeed it is, John."
"Happy New Years, Sherlock."
"Happy New Years."
A/N: Again, thanks for reading! I'd love if you wanted to drop me a quick review, whatever you thought!