Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 15)

The beam of Mr Morghan's porch light glares persistently through the slashing rain, somehow managing to illuminate Y/N's fingers as she pushes the barn door closed and slides the lock into place. The cold metal meets with a satisfying clank, startling a few alarmed 'baas' from the jittery sheep safely enclosed inside, and, linking hands, she and Sherlock make their way back across the paddock.

After so long spent in near-darkness, they squint against the glow of the farmhouse as they approach, their shadows casting stretched, drenched shapes on the gravel.

Mr Morghan has been waiting for them in the kitchen. 

He's sat at the table, facing the window, staring into the black square of glass his eyes tracking the swaying glow of Y/N's torch. His hands are dwarfing a steaming cup of Horlicks, his shoulders being sympathetically rubbed by his wife; a strong, stout woman in a ginham dressing gown.

When he catches sight of Y/N and Sherlock forcing their way up the driveway, he leaps to his feet with the energy of a much younger man and prizes the door open.

A gust of wind whips through the kitchen, sending pans clanging and paper flying, and Mrs Morghan just manages to press an umbrella into her husband's distracted hand as he rams his socked toes into some wellies.

Fighting to open the brolly against the storm, he hobbles up to meet Sherlock and Y/N half way, one foot not entirely squeezed into its boot.

His sun-browned face creases into a grin as he manages to make out the smeared, two-pronged hoof prints stamped onto their clothes, and he seizes Sherlock's hand. Shaking it up and down vigorously:

"Yer found 'em? Oh, I knew yer would! I told my missus, I told her if anyone in England could find 'em it would be our Sherlock." He flushes, dipping his head hastily in Y/N's direction. "And his special lady, of course. What do I owe yers? I can't pay much but I'll give what I can."

He's shielding them from the rain with his umbrella but it's too late for that now, a steady stream of water trickling from the top of Sherlock's head like a leaky tap. He's still heartily handshaking Sherlock's hand so his voice wobbles up and down as he says:

"You don't owe us anything, Teddy, honestly."

"But I want ter thank you fur yer trouble, goin' out in the wet and so late at night an' all." He shouts through the rain which comes down faster for a brief moment as a gust of wind blows.

It's pelting the umbrella's canvas with a sharp smacking sound.

Sherlock gives him a smile. "It was no bother, I enjoyed it."

Being a proud man with simple, traditional values, Teddy looks disheartened that he can't repay the debt he sees himself in. He thinks for a moment then turns back to the house, leading his guests to follow with hand gestures. "Come with me, I know what I can gives yer."

Treading bootprints onto the stone floor, he bustles into the kitchen and returns with an armful of glass jars.

The porch light sets them aglow like amber.

Teddy presses them into Sherlock's hands and grins, puffing his chest out so his jacket buttons strain more than they already are. "Collected this jus' this morning. I know how yer love my hives; yer can stop by an have a visit anytime, yer know that." With a huge paw, he pats Sherlock's shoulders heartily, nearly knocking him onto the driveway. "Now, let me take yer both home."

...

It is only in the back of Mr Morghan's Landover, her hand absently stroking Wicket's wiry coat, that it occurs to Y/N he had called Musgrave Cottage 'home', and neither she nor Sherlock had corrected him, even in the sanctuaries of their own minds.