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.