Work Text:
The sky’s scarlet and they’re awakened by birdsong. Three whistles, a whit. John blinks out of a dream, uneasy: Not a warning, not a signal, not a safehouse but a safe house, London suburbs, home, roses in the garden and danger at bay.
Mary’s eyes open, go smile-blue. “She’s coming. It’ll be today.”
It’s not like waiting on danger, but there’s the taste of it. Hands steady, no trigger.
“Today,” John says, tastes the word, touches her hand.
Washes his own, wonders at what they’ve done, at how they’ll hold, if they’ll be safe enough.
*
Sherlock arrives at nine, points out their visitor in the garden. “Cardinal, North American, remarkable really, rare straggler here, escapee, maybe came on a ship, broke out of a cage.”
The bird blinks scarlet in the hawthorn, masked as a thief.
“Best keep it to yourself,” he says, twinkles, “if you don’t want birders gate-crashing her birthday.”
“Our secret,” Mary says, hands him a cup, hands well-met.
Sherlock’s feet shift (sun on the steeples of Marylebone, shade on the river Thames).
“So, today,” he says, sits.
John takes his coat, holds by the shoulders its bouquet of Baker. There’s bread on the counter, fresh-cut. Butter. A song in the garden, whistled, unsung.
Mary’s hands rest on her belly, down low, where their daughter’s heart might be.