23.03.15 • 2814

via	org

reblog

# oh my asdfghjklasdfghj

thegingerbatch:

“Keep them closed.”

“John, this is silly.”

“I mean it! I’ll not have you spoiling the surprise.”

Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes beneath closed lids. “Tedious.”

John doesn’t reply. Sherlock hears the door open, then click shut again. Silence engulfs the flat.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn’t lying when he told John he hated surprises. Too many unknowns, and he’s never good at reacting the way he ought. Of course, he tells himself he doesn’t care, but a surprise from John—yes, his reaction to that might matter. 

What if he hates it? What if…God, what if he doesn’t? 

Thanks. No, too simple. Extraordinary, John. Too flowery; he’ll think he’s being mocked. You really shouldn’t have. Well of course he shouldn’t have, that’s the whole point, only he has done anyway, and now…

The door opens again, and Sherlock gives a frustrated grunt. 

“Still closed, yeah?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

His complaint is cut off as John dumps something into his lap. Something warm and wiggly. A wet tongue laps at his lips, and Sherlock unconsciously juts out his chin to accept the kisses.

“You can open them, now.” A smile in John’s voice, and Christ, yes, he actually has forgotten to open his eyes. 

He knows, though. He knows before he sees. The fur between his fingers is burnished silk. The cold nose against his cheek, the paws digging awkwardly into his thighs and stomach.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking down at the puppy. Red fur. The same golden brown eyes. The dog’s tongue lolls from its mouth in a happy grin, cocking its head to one side to stare up at him.

Beside him, John is shifting his weight, excited. Nervous.

“Is it—it’s the right kind, yeah?” he asks.

One of Sherlock’s hands is on the puppy’s head, rubbing a soft ear between his fingers. “Irish setter,” he says. His voice sounds far away.

“Yeah, same as…” John trails off, and Sherlock can feel him studying his face, his smile slipping into concern. “You okay?”

Sherlock looks up at him. John’s face is strangely blurry. 

“Christ, Sherlock. Sorry, I didn’t—”

Ah, tears. That’s…unexpected. He blinks several times to dispel them. “No,” he says roughly. The puppy squirms in his arms, and Sherlock realises he has clasped it to his chest. “No,” he repeats, sturdier now, and forces his hands to unclench from the dog’s fur. “He’s beautiful.”

John beams. “She, actually.”

“She?” Sherlock looks down again at the bright eyes, so familiar. A dog. John has gotten him a dog.

“Hope that’s alright,” John says.

Sherlock hooks his hands under the dogs front legs and pulls her up to look her full in the face. “It’s…perfect.”

John smiles again and reaches down to ruffle to the dog’s fur. She twists in Sherlock’s grip, trying to nip at John’s fingers.

“What will you call her? Not a lot of lady pirates, I suppose.”

“Bonny,” Sherlock says without thinking. He has a history poised on his tongue, but John is laughing, and Bonny’s sharp puppy teeth are worrying at the skin of his hands, and it isn’t important anyway.

“Bonny,” John affirms. One hand is on the back of Sherlock’s chair, dangerously close to resting on his shoulder. “Welcome to the family, then."