Keep good company - that is, go to the Louvre.
- Paul Cezanne
A/N- Thank you lozzawonderland for the idea of John and Sherlock going to the Louvre!
John
“Sherlock, is that my sweater?”
I’d just returned from the store down the road, dashing through the rain after insisting on going out to buy some needed toiletries. Droplets of water slipped from my wet hair and onto the carpet as I entered the suite to find my husband lying on the sofa, wearing a familiar oatmeal sweater that was slightly too short for him.
“J-John!” He stumbled, shocked to see me back so soon. “I didn’t see you there…”
“Sherlock…”
“It smelt like you and I was lonely,” he blabbed, and I hung my coat up with a sigh, hanging up my coat as he pulled my now slightly stretched jumper off. Plonking the slightly damp bag of shopping on the coffee table, I sat down on the sofa and he handed me my jumper.
“It smells like you now,” I smirked.
“Sorry…”
“That’s a good thing, Sherlock,” I paused for a moment. “… Does this happen whenever I go out?” I had noticed that my sweaters seemed slightly stretched at the arms and in width lately, but hadn’t been able to put my finger on why until now.
“Maybe…” He reddened, and then spat out; “I know you wear my coat when I don’t take it out with me!”
I felt my cheeks burn up.
“Oh, come on, John, the amount of times I’ve found you asleep on the sofa under it.”
“Oh, shit..."
"Not to mention the fact that it always smells so much better afterwards," his smile widened, and he leant forwards, pulling me closer to his face to plant a gentle kiss on my lips. "Let's get you dried off."
Sherlock then dashed off to our room and I folded up my sweater whilst waiting for his return- before I could protest, he was ruffling my hair up furiously with a warm, freshly washed towel.
"Sherlock!"
"Much better," he pulled it off, and my hair felt very fluffed up. "Hedgehog," he added quietly with a small chuckle, before draping the towel over my slightly damp shoulders. I sighed with a small smile.
"Otter," I kissed him again.
"Coffee?"
"Cheers," I relaxed back into the cushions as he went to get some.
I switched on the forecast- The weather had been pretty bad for the last few days, so we had only left the suite on a couple of rare occasions, but thankfully, though it had been fun to spend some quality time with Sherlock, it was scheduled to clear up tomorrow.
"So if the weather is good," Sherlock began as he sat back down next to me presenting me with a steaming cup of coffee, "I thought we'd visit the Louvre- if you'd like."
"I'd love to," I grinned, and thanked him for the coffee, taking a small sip and then putting it down with a little yelp because it was still too hot.
"Are you alright?" He put his cup down instantly, and placed a tender hand on my cheek, scanning me for any sign of serious damage.
"I'm fine, Sherlock," I laughed. "Just burnt my tongue a bit, that's all. Don't worry about it."
"It's difficult not to," he sighed, relieved, and kissed me again briefly.
"That's better," I smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "Have you been to the Louvre before?"
"Yes, but I didn't get to see much of it- too preoccupied with a certain murderer."
"Ah," I grimaced. "Well, we can take our time with it now, take it all in."
He grinned and nodded. "And afterwards...?"
"We'll go where the wind takes us."
"Wind?"
"By that I mean 'Metro' via planned route."
"Ah," he chuckled. "I'm glad you're not talking about some kind of freak weather prediction."
“So am I,” I laughed with him, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer.
The next day, Sherlock woke me up with a soft but passionate kiss, opening my eyes to the new morning.
“Hello, love,” he mumbled.
“Hey, Sherlock,” I hugged him, then started to sit up. After rubbing my eyes, I noticed that he was smiling excitedly.
“What’re you so happy about?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, the usual, waking up next to you, and…” he crawled out of bed, sheet around his waist, and opened the curtain slightly to reveal a non-rainy sky. “… This!”
I grinned at the lack of atrocious weather. “Finally.”
He glanced at the clock on the table next to our bed, before crawling back in. “It’s near rush hour, though…” he lay back onto my arm, and started to draw invisible circles on my chest with his slender fingers. “… So we’ve got a little while before we should leave…”
“Leave?”
“The Louvre, John,” he reminded me.
“Ah… And you were thinking…?” he raised his eyebrows and smirked at me coquettishly.
“Oh,” I mouthed, and he cuddled up to me, tangling our legs together- a few blissful minutes later… The bloody phone started to ring.
“For God’s sake…” Sherlock snapped, and picked himself up off me, shifting into a sitting position and groaning in complaint before picking up the phone, leaving me rather annoyed with whoever was calling.
“What?” he said irritably into it. “Kind of in the middle of something, actually,” he continued after a few seconds. “No- I really don’t care right now- good for you- surely you can… That’s not even a seven, that’s a minus three- Because I’m on my honeymoon- of course that’s more important- ugh, even you should be able to see it was the builder- what? Yes, of course it was. Good. Glad to hear it,” he rolled his eyes at me, then hung up the phone without saying goodbye to the caller.
“Donovan,” he growled, and I understood why he’d been so rude.
“Why does she even have your number?”
“Lestrade gave it to her for emergency purposes. That was more of a prank call, if you ask me,” he sighed. “Shower?”
“Okay,” I smiled, and we started to make our way to the bathroom.
“What was she on about, anyway?” I asked Sherlock as we stepped out of the shower later, watching him run his hands over my chest in the bathroom mirror as I shaved.
“Somebody broke into a retirement home,” he exhaled in frustration.
“Nicked a few false teeth?”
He chuckled, “And the diamond contents of a safe.”
I sighed. “And how could you tell it was a builder?”
“Construction work being done on the building, dust on the carpet, boot print and an open window. Child’s play,” he drawled, trying to emphasize how dull it was.
“Yep. Prank call,” I nodded as I put the razor down, and started to brush my teeth.
Sherlock and I went to our room to get changed.
“Greg’s still away with Molly then?”
“Yep,” Sherlock nodded as he pulled a pair of trousers on. “The whole system’s collapsing.”
I giggled. “That’s what people should really be worrying about.”
A couple of hours later, we’d just got out of the long queue and entered the Louvre- I gasped, taking in the sight of the large entrance hall, and Sherlock’s eyes scanned over the map.
“Where to first?” I tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up out of the map to a café in the corner.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I nodded, and we went to get something to drink before we began to navigate the maze of famous artwork.
When we were ready to go, we started to make our way through a flood of tourists with flashing cameras on our way to see the most famous piece of artwork in the world- the Mona Lisa.
“D’you think we’ll be able to get as close up to it as Irene and Harry did?” I asked excitedly, clutching Sherlock’s arm in desperation not to be pushed to the side by one of the barging sightseers.
“I’ll make sure of it,” I felt his lips push briefly against the top of my head and drown the rest of the world out for a second into a feeling of warmth- until we were pushed to the side and the sound of ‘excuse me’ in a variety of languages filled my ears. Sherlock groaned in irritation. “It seems the rest of the world is determined to break our little moments today, doesn’t it?”
I laughed, “Don’t see it that way.”
“Then how should I see it?”
“They just want in,” I smirked.
“Really, John? Would Donovan really want ‘in’ on that?”
“Okay then, please don’t see it that way,” I snickered into the warm shoulder of his crisp suit. “God, it’s hot in here.” (A/N- It is. I’ve been there and it was bloody boiling.)
“Agreed,” he pulled the folded-up map out of his pocket and began to fan me with it.
“Ta,” I thanked him, relieved by the small amount of cool air drifting across my face.
When we finally reached the room containing the masterpiece I’d waited my whole life to see, the glass case that contained it and the ropes that shielded it was surrounded by one of the biggest crowds in one room I’d ever seen in my whole life.
“Holy crap…” I muttered under my breath.
“Brace yourself, John,” Sherlock took a deep breath, and looked at me seriously. “We’re going in.”
I couldn’t hold back a short burst of laughter, before we began to weave through the shuffling crowd towards the piece of famous artwork- God knows how long it took to finally get to the front, but despite my offers Sherlock knew how much I wanted to see this and persisted until we were finally standing in front of it.
“Wow,” I gasped, hardly believing that I was looking directly at the Mona Lisa.
“To think, it’s over five hundred years old…” Sherlock muttered.
“Okay,” I smiled, then imitated Irene’s new text alert; “Talk nerdy to me.”
“It was painted between 1503 and 1517,” he began to inform me of the painting’s history. “The identity of the subject was only actually discovered in 2005- Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of a Florentine merchant, Francesco di Bartolomeo del Giocondo-” the foreign names rolled off his tongue as if he’d recited them hundreds of times before- “who requested this portrait of his wife to celebrate their home completion and the birth of their second son.”
“Amazing,” I exhaled. “I didn’t know you were so interested in art.”
“I didn’t used to be,” he told me. “But since ‘The Great Game’-” I smiled at how he remembered my title for the series of mysteries we had solved all that time ago- “I suppose I began to become more transfixed by the messages these works can hold…”
I squeezed his hand and pulled out my phone to snap a few pictures.
“Also,” he admitted, “I looked it up on my phone last night to impress you.”
“You don’t need to impress me,” I giggled. “I’m already impressed. Don’t believe me, then look at the ring on my finger.”
“All the same,” he turned his gaze from the painting to me with a grin; “It’s awfully fun.”
“It really, really is,” I laughed along with him.
After a couple more minutes of staring at the masterpiece, it was time for us to leave and allow more anticipating visitors the chance to take our place up front. We took the easy way out, waiting for a large family to start making their way through the crowds and walked behind them as they cleared the path for us.
Sherlock dusted off his clothes when we’d got out of the boiling group, and breathed out a puff of air. “Fancy going to have a look at some of the statues next?”
“Sounds good to me,” I chuckled, and he placed his arm around me as we started to travel out of the room and made our way back to the entrance hall, and down a new corridor into a different section of the Louvre- but before we did, Sherlock insisted on buying a pencil from one of the gift shops.
Sooner or later, we reached a large room with lots of marble stairs, and light cascading from the ceiling onto many statues around us. Groups of sketchers sprinkled around the room, focusing on a statue to draw each. Some looked like they were transfixed on nothing but the art and the page, and anybody speaking did so in a low whisper.
Sherlock and I sat down on some empty steps, looking at the intricate statues that stood around us, shimmering and reflecting light, looking untouched by the ages they had been standing there. I was distracted from the beauty of it all by the beauty of my own pulling something out of his bag.
“Sherlock, what are you-” I raised an eyebrow as he opened a familiar looking notebook, the one I had bought him for his birthday, and started flicking through jam packed pages until he reached a fresh one about a three quarter’s way through the book.
“- I want to draw something,” he smiled at me, and retrieved the pencil he’d bought earlier.
“Okay- I’m going to have a little look around while you do that,” I smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek, leaving him to his work.
I spent the time he was drawing reading about some of the statues and what they portrayed, sometimes wishing he was here to translate some things for me, and gazing at the detail- Sherlock sat on the steps, light bouncing from his luscious curls- what amazed me is how he managed to draw one of these statues without looking up even once, like it was already carved permanently into his memory.
I turned my head from the end of the hall to see Sherlock looking up from his book to smile and wave at me, signalling that he was finished, so I made my way over to him with a grin.
“Okay,” I settled down beside him. “Let’s see it.”
He opened his notebook onto the page he’d been working on, then blew some eraser pieces off the page before handing the notebook to me.
My eyes widened at his drawing- what I’d expected was a detailed sketch of one of the statues, but instead, Sherlock had decided to draw me.
“Jesus,” I exhaled in disbelief at his skilled work.
“You like it?” he asked, sounding slightly nervous.
“I love it…” I mumbled. It was down-to-the-point accurate. “But… It’s me. Not one of these statues… It’s me.”
“So?” Sherlock laughed. “I did start to draw one of these, but it got dull- you’re my masterpiece.”
“Instead of one of these perfect statues-”
“- I pick perfect you,” he dipped his head down to kiss me, and I felt a small tears burn the corners of my eyes as I closed them and let myself drift into him.
“I love you, Sherlock,” I whispered afterwards when our foreheads rested together.
“And I love you,” he replied, then started to pack his things away into his bag. A few minutes later, as we were leaving the large hall, I felt a small tug on my sleeve.
Looking down, I saw a small girl with wide blue eyes and short, ginger hair gazing up at me. I smiled down at her. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she said in a small, nervous voice with a small grin. “Are you John and Sherlock?”
“Um, yes,” I said, and she offered me her tiny hand to shake. “I’m Louise.”
“Hello,” I said again, slightly confused at the little girl’s interest in us.
Soon enough, this was to be explained- a woman ran up behind her carrying a colouring book and a pencil case.
“Hi,” she panted. “Sorry about this…”
“Not at all,” Sherlock grinned at her. The woman removed something from her bag- a little deerstalker hat. She showed it to us briefly. “She’s a bit of a fan of yours- we both are, really,” I saw the woman starting to go a bit red, and Sherlock offered her his hand.
“I want to be a detective when I’m big,” Louise told us excitedly, taking the deerstalker from her mother’s hand and placing it on her tiny head.
“Brilliant,” I crouched down to her height.
“Just like you and Sherlock,” she added, and I grinned at her. “I want to learn how to solve mysteries and catch bad guys,” she sounded very bold when she said this.
“Sure about that?” Sherlock asked with a smile, also crouching down. “It gets a bit scary, sometimes.”
“I’m not afraid,” she held her head up courageously, trying to look daunting. “I can deduce people, too.”
“Can you?” I asked, interested.
“Oh, yes,” she nodded, then squinted at us, scanning us up and down. “I deduce,” she began, and her mother tapped her on the shoulder.
“Louise…” She muttered.
“Be quiet, Mummy, I’m being clever,” she reminded me an awful lot of somebody else when she said this, and her mum looked at us apologetically. I waved my hand at her to tell her that it was okay.
“I deduce…” the little girl continued, then her eyes moved to my hand, then to my husband’s. “… That you love Sherlock.”
“Louise,” her mother sighed again, but she was laughing a little bit this time.
“You’re right,” I said, making myself sound surprised, and grinning at her broadly. “I do. Very much. How did you know?”
“You both have rings and your pupils have gone all big,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Brilliant,” Sherlock gasped. “You’ll make a brilliant detective, Lou.”
“Thank you,” she hopped up and down happily. “Can we be friends?” Her eyes widened pleadingly.
“Of course,” Sherlock told the little girl, and she flung her arms around his neck. A bit startled for a second, he returned the action by glancing up at her mother to check that this was okay- she nodded with another apologetic smile, so Sherlock patted the little girl’s back and hugged her small form. She finished off by planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, and then moving on to me- I returned the hug, hearing Sherlock chuckle in the background, and I also got a kiss.
“They’re hard work…” I heard Louise’s mother tell Sherlock from beside us.
“But worth it, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“She’s very clever. You must be proud.”
“I am, very much so- she comes out with quite a lot of silly things, though. Her latest phase has been trying to mirror your deductions.”
“She’s very good, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Yep- it gets pretty worrying sometimes, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s so much bad stuff going on in this world today, and I don’t want her to be affected by it all. Not yet. There are some things you just don’t want to get into your kid’s system at this age.”
“I understand,” I saw Sherlock nod at the corner of my eye as the girl pointed out her favourite statues to me, and I showed her mine. “I can’t say I had the same upbringing myself, but God, I would have loved it.”
“I didn’t, either…” The woman said. “… But being able to give it to somebody makes up for that. You ever thinking of having any?”
Before Sherlock could answer, Louise ran back to her mother and pulled at her sleeve. “Mummy, I’m hungry.”
“Okay, darling, I’ll get you something now,” she smiled at her daughter. “We’d better be off then- it was lovely to meet you,” she shook both of our hands, then took her daughter’s.
“You too,” Sherlock and I both said at once.
“Bye, John and Sherlock!” The little girl said as they left, and we waved at her.
“So I suppose that’s one of the sleuths of the new age, then,” I laughed.
“I suppose it is,” Sherlock agreed with me, and slipped his fingers between mine.
A few hours after we’d browsed some more art, and picked up a couple of souvenirs from the gift shop, our trip took us to the hill on which the beautiful Basilica Sacre-Coeur sat in Monmarte- the people wandering around at this time were growing sparse in their numbers, and those who remained kept distance from eachother. Sherlock and I were leant against the fence at the edge, overlooking the skyline, and from here you could see almost the whole city now drowning in the rosy sunset.
“The weather’s going to be alright tomorrow,” Sherlock said all of a sudden.
I smirked. “And you’re saying that because of the sky…?”
“I saw it on the news, actually,” he replied, letting out a little laugh. “What do you think we should do?”
“Fancy visiting Notre Dame?” We’d seen the outside, but I’d always wanted to visit the inside of it.
“Okay,” he replied, then, still looking forwards he started to slide his hand towards mine casually along the fence. Noticing this, I quickly placed my hand on top of his.
“Sneaky,” he growled.
“You love me really.”
“Yes… I do,” we turned to face eachother, and the beautiful sunset became a mere backdrop. The last sunlight reflected in Sherlock’s eyes, illuminating the many colours they held, and he moved his free hand to run his fingers through my hair. “Gorgeous.”
“Stop talking about yourself, Sherlock,” I replied, and smiled back at him.
“I mean you. You’re gorgeous, and I don’t tell you enough,” he moved his other hand from underneath mine and started to stroke my back.
“You do,” I informed him. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love to hear your opinion.”
“It’s not an opinion, John, it’s a fact.”
“Oh really?”
“Obviously,” his face neared mine and I closed the remaining distance between us by pressing my lips against his, extracting a small sigh from him. I felt the sun’s last warm play across my face as our lips moved against eachother, enveloping him in my arms and inhaling his scent that was just so wonderfully… Sherlock.
When we parted, the last rays were almost completely faded and the first few stars were appearing in the sky.
“Here come the reasons,” Sherlock whispered into my ear, then turned his head to face upwards. “Not that they leave during the day, because unlike the stars, I can still see them.”
“Feeling poetic?”
“I am, actually,” he chuckled. “There’s another thing for the book.”
“Book?”
“My notebook,” he confessed. “The one you gave me.”
“What else do you write about?”
“That doesn’t matter,” even through the shadows, I saw him redden. “Well, it does. I write about you, amongst other things. But mainly you,” I pressed my cheek to his chest in a warm hug.
“I tried to write up a couple of cases, actually- but I can’t write them nearly as well as you,” he continued.
“I bet you’d write them better.”
“Believe me, I don’t- they always sound like lectures.”
“You used to say they should be lectures.”
“How dull,” he muttered. “I don’t know how you put up with me sometimes.”
I laughed; “It’s because you’re bloody wonderful.”
“Didn’t you used to get fed up?”
“Though it might have seemed like it, no, actually.”
“Not even with the early morning violin playing and the wall shooting?”
I shook my head.
“The bags of fingers in the fridge and the eyes in the microwave?”
“Nope.”
“The comebacks and insults? When I claimed to be superior?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“What about the time I punched you in the face?”
I glanced up to find him smirking triumphantly.
“Okay, you got me there. I’m fairly sure I punched you harder back…”
“Yes.”
“Sorry about that,” I reached up to stroke the place I remembered as the location of the punch.
“Punch of love, I suppose?”
I nodded. “Of course- I did avoid the nose and teeth.”
“So Irene’s deductions were right,” Sherlock laughed.
“Somebody loves you,” I repeated her words from all that time ago, and stole another brief kiss from him. “Let’s have dinner.”
“Allon-sy,” he chuckled, and with one last glance at the bleeding sky we departed down the hill to the nearest Metro station.
“What’re you reading?” I asked Sherlock later in the evening, putting down our drinks on the coffee table to find him sprawled on the sofa with his head in a book. He showed me the cover. “Hunchback of Notre Dame. No spoilers, please, I know you’ve read it.”
“Okay- I’m just going to finish this one off, then I think I’ll make a start on Les Mis,” I pointed at the cover of the book I was currently reading, ‘An Abundance of Katherines’ by John Green.
“Any good?”
“Very. You should read some of his books,” Sherlock moved his legs so I could sit down, then placed them back over my lap.
“I intend to read that blue one after this.”
“Blue one?”
“‘The Fault in Our Stars’”, he smiled at me.
“Not all the editions of it are blue, Sherlock.”
“Yes, but it made you sad, and blue is a colour commonly associated with sadness,” he explained.
“Righty-ho then,” I smiled, and opened the book I was reading, beginning to get lost in the pages.
“Research shows that reading relaxes the brain within six minutes,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly a little while later. “Is that true?”
“Find out yourself,” I laughed.
“My brain doesn’t ever relax- there’s only one thing that can actually do the trick, so I wouldn’t know,” he said. “So I’m wondering- does reading work for you?”
“Yes, most of the time,” I said- and then guessing by his facial expression, I asked the question he wanted me to ask with a smile and a sigh- “What’s the one thing that can relax your brain, Sherlock?”
“You,” he grinned. “You stimulate it, too, though, and fill it.”
“Glad to hear it,” I rubbed one of his legs affectionately, and then turned my attention back to the book I was reading.
I finished it, then rested my head back on the sofa, thinking about it and analysing the story carefully.
“Book hangover?” Sherlock asked, glancing up from the volume.
I nodded my head- then noticed he’d made significant progress through the book he was reading in the time it had taken me to finish it. There were new dents in the spine, additions to the ones I had made before when I read it, and he was around five sixths of the way through, when earlier he had only been about half way.
“My God, Sherlock, that was quick,” I stuttered, and he gave me a small smile. “How do you read so fast?”
“Well… When I deduce, I’ve calculated my speech rate to be faster than the average person’s mental reading speed,” he began to explain. “So when I read text, that obviously will be faster, because we generally read faster than we talk, do we not?”
I nodded in agreement, my mouth hanging open slightly in amazement.
“Sorry, I don’t intend to show off,” he said.
“You’re not showing off, you can tell me this stuff,” I informed him, and he smiled broadly. “I like to hear about it.”
“I’ve calculated your reading speed to be faster than the average person’s, too,” he stated.
“Really?”
He nodded his head. “Almost twice the speed.”
“Wow,” I felt rather proud of myself when I heard that.
“Yep,” he agreed with me, then turned the page of his novel- sometimes, whilst reading, he mouthed the words at a speed I used to think would be quite impossible.
A while later, I opened my eyes to find myself lying in a different location- our room, on top of the covers, and Sherlock was lying next to me with his head in what appeared to be a new book.
“Um… Hello,” I tapped his shoulder.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he smiled. “I moved you, sorry.”
“I can see that,” I laughed. “What are you reading now- oh, The Fault in Our Stars,” Sherlock was already over halfway through the book. “How are you finding it?”
“Very enjoyable, but I have a bad feeling about what’s coming next…”
“Yeah, you’re right to feel that…” I grimaced. “What page are you on?”
“Two hundred and two,” I did the maths, and realized he was getting very close to the devastating part.
I changed the subject. “How long have I been out?”
“Two hours,” he replied quickly, after a moment of calculation. “I brought you in here about half an hour ago.” I noticed he was already wearing his pyjamas.
“I’m just going to get changed,” I told him, kissing his forehead which gained me a smile, and rolled out of bed.
When I crawled back in, I noticed that Sherlock’s face was slightly red and his eyes contained tears. “No,” he mouthed over and over again- I realized he must have reached the bad part.
“Sherlock…”
“Can you…” he spluttered, and held the book with one hand before holding out an arm to me. I nodded my head, and wriggled up next to him, and he closed his arm around me as he continued to read, blinking back tears- I felt awful for him, remembering how badly the beautiful yet tragic novel had hit me.
I guess I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke up a bit later to a whimper coming from Sherlock, eyes flickering open to see him place the book on the side table with remorse.
“Oh, Sherlock,” I squeezed him, holding him as close as I could- he wasn’t quite crying, but his mouth hung open with sorrow and his face looked like he’d received a series of punches in the stomach. Another small, whimpering rasp came from his lips. “I’m sorry,” I told him, empathizing with his emotions of having read this book for the first time. He swivelled to face me, his cheek sinking into the pillow and a single tear drifting down onto it, leaving a wet trail on his face.
“It’s n-not f-fair,” he stuttered, and I brushed a curl away from his face that was dangling over his eye.
“I know, love,” I placed a gentle kiss on his lips, and he sunk down to bury his head in my chest, his tears wetting my sleeping-shirt. I stroked his head, and told him it was okay for as long as he needed it.
“Did you start Les Misérables?” He asked a few minutes later- I knew he was aware that I hadn’t, but wanted to change the subject anyway.
“No, I haven’t yet- have you seen the film?”
I felt him shake his head. “We’ve got it on DVD, though, I brought it with us.”
“Want to watch that?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I don’t mind,” I smiled down at him, and he nodded his head. “Okay.”
We settled down on the sofa to watch it, and I was surprised to find out that Sherlock knew the words to almost every song, and we both ended up singing along (though not too loudly as not to wake up the people sleeping in the rooms around us.)
Though parts of the film were obviously very sad, it lifted Sherlock’s spirits a little bit, and when we switched it off and retired to bed later he cried; “To the barricade!” and lifted me off from the sofa and back to our room.
“Sherlock!” I laughed.
“DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?!” He started to belt out.
“Glad to see you’re in a good mood again,” I yawned as he placed me under the covers, then snuggled up next to me, still humming one of the songs from the film. I couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” I placed my lips against his and hugged him closer to me.
“Night, love,” he embraced me as sleep did the same.
A/N- Thank you all so much for taking the time to read my works, and giving me so much positive feed back, and all of these reads and votes! You've made me feel so much better over the past couple of days (I've been ill). Again, sorry it's taken me so long to update lately, there have been lots of things in the way. Please vote/comment/share if you're enjoying! See ya!