hooper house

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thewinterspy  asked:

Maybe it's because my tummy's rumbling, but a prompt nonetheless. Breakfast at the Holmes-Hooper house? Or Hooper-Holmes. Still up for debate.

Eight years ago, Sherlock Holmes refused her offer of coffee and she decided that it was ‘just one of those things’. Nothing to write home or cry about. Maybe she had got a bit snuffly when she’d got back to her flat, but she hadn’t curled up with a bucket of ice cream. 

So now, when he’s the one serving her coffee, his curls tousled and eyes bright, she allows herself a giggle. There’s no need to explain the joke, he gets it, and his smile widens as he sits opposite her. 

His mother had insisted on their honeymoon taking place in a really gorgeous hotel in the Cotswolds, and Mary had practically ordered the two of them to whisk themselves off to some remote tropical island (John had nodded in agreement, and Lestrade, when consulted, had shrugged and said “Corfu’s nice at this time of year”). In the end, nowhere had seemed more appropriate than Baker Street. They’d shared the space for two years, so it wasn’t exactly special, but it was familiar, it was homely and it was theirs.

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