beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 23

A/N: SO sorry about the late update! It's been a crazy couple of days, but I'm back now (hopefully) . Thank you for 1.1K reads!

It had been one month since that fateful day at the church; one absolutely crazy month, John thought, pausing to bolt the door carefully behind him. He didn't do monthly anniversaries, but this felt worth remembering. He'd survived one month with a mad genius, and said genius had put up with him, too. He shifted his gift uneasily from hand to hand - a fresh set of glass slides and some test tubes. It seemed a pathetically small gesture, but he didn't want to overwhelm Sherlock.

As he mounted the stairs, he sniffed the air uneasily. Something's wrong, he decided, running up and throwing the door open. Sure enough, there was a cooking pot on the stove, spewing smoke. He quickly put the lid on and turned off the stove, waiting for the flames to die down. Sherlock came out of the bedroom then, looking rather disoriented, holding a marker.

"Was something on fire?" he asked absentmindedly.

"Yes! Didn't you put the sauce on?"

"What sauce?" Sherlock strode over to the stove. "Oh, that one. I completely forgot about it - I was working. Sorry."

He looked so genuinely mortified and guilty that John couldn't even bring himself to be angry. "It's fine. Where's Rosie?"

"Coloring in our bedroom. I'm sorry about the fire."

"It's no big deal. I put it out before it could get worse, just - be careful in the future. "

"No, you don't understand." Sherlock said, pouting in frustration. "You always cook, so I thought I'd be nice and cook for you today, since it's...you know..."

"Wow. I can't believe you remember."

"I know the knitting pattern of each of your jumpers by heart. I think I can remember a single date." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as he reached out to wrap his arms around John's waist.

"Yes, of course. Just didn't think you'd give up space in your precious mind palace for that."

"Oh, there's an entire attic dedicated to you."

John pecked him on the cheek and held out his gift. "Did you know that you're actually a hopeless romantic?"

"So I've heard. And I wouldn't say hopeless." Sherlock said, letting go of him to eagerly unwrap the equipment. "Ah, yes! I needed these. Somebody swept the last ones off the table in a moment of passion."

"You didn't mind it so much back then. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it. If I recall correctly, your exact words were - "

"Say we move on." Sherlock said hastily.

"We should do something. Something special."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, eyes gleaming.

"For starters, we could go on an actual date."

"Fair idea. I've just received some intelligence about that theft we were investigating yesterday. We'll have to head out and visit this pub - "

"I'm taking you out somewhere after that." John said firmly. "Just us, no cases, no suspects."

"What about Rosie?"

"I'm not going to take my infant daughter to a pub! What kind of a father do you think I am?"

"The best kind."

***

Although it was barely eight o'clock, the pub was fairly crowded. The music was loud, the kind of stuff John might have enjoyed in his uni days; but by now, he was too used to Sherlock's dulcet violin. It seemed like a fairly innocuous place (or as innocuous as bars can get), and he couldn't imagine what they'd possibly find here.