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Sherlock crouches in the rhododendron shrubs near the cottage, green and orange leaves fragrant around him. He tilts his ears forward: it sounds like no one is home. He inhales crisp November air: it smells like no one is home. He peeks through the branches: it looks like no one is home.
His feet are quiet on the ground as he makes his way to the front porch. Two mugs of tea sit abandoned on the rail, one of them lipstick-stained—Mary’s—and one of them sticky with juice from the apple John had for breakfast—John’s. The two humans must have left for work by now. Sherlock sniffs at John’s tea, wary. Hazards a small sip and wrinkles his nose: the tea’s far too bitter for his liking.
"You don’t have to sneak around, you know," Mary says from the doorway. She’s still in her pyjamas, in her blue dressing gown. "We really don’t mind you coming by."
Sherlock nearly drops the mug. He sets it on the rail and backs down the porch steps, feeling too vulnerable to stay. “I thought my presence might be… bothersome.”
"Not to us." Sherlock’s still trying to puzzle out how Mary was able to stay quiet enough that he couldn’t hear her—few hunters are skilled enough to elude him—when Mary holds out a small bowl. "Care for sugar? John doesn’t sweeten a blessed thing. Holdover from his military days, I suspect."
It’s a full ten minutes before Sherlock decides to accept. Mary waits, patient, doesn’t move when he finally takes the bowl from her (small, soft, dexterous—nurse? callouses consistent with rifle fire—danger?) hands.
"I’m off to dress for work, but come by later," Mary says as Sherlock retreats to the far corner of the porch. "We’ve watched you watch us for months now, and we’ve got quite fond of you—well, as much as we can from afar, anyway. John’ll be thrilled to finally meet you. D’you have a name?"
Sherlock’s tail twitches. “Sherlock,” he says, his tongue burning from the so-sweet sugar. “Sherlock Holmes.”
*
The fire’s the brightest thing for miles.
John and Mary look so… cosy in its glow, their bodies curled close beneath their quilts. They lie on the sofa, Mary’s head on John’s shoulder. His hand’s in her hair. His wedding band flashes in the firelight.
Sherlock shivers.
You come in, John told him in autumn, his arms crossed, his face grave. This winter. Promise me. You come in from the cold.
He waits. Breathes condensation on the glass. Rubs his legs together for warmth. He can’t bring himself to go in; he can’t bring himself to leave.
Mary tilts her face up and whispers something in John’s ear. John meets Sherlock’s eyes through the window—Sherlock’s stomach drops—and frowns and stands and oh goes to the door and Sherlock scrambles to meet him.
“What the hell are you playing at?” John says, stamping his feet against the chill and hauling Sherlock across the threshold. “We were worried sick about you.”
“I’ve survived every other winter on my own,” says Sherlock. He tries not to let on that the cabin’s heat is bliss, is comfort seeping through his hide as he shakes himself free of snow. The cabin smells of cinnamon buns: Mary’s been baking. His mouth waters. “Why should this one be any different?”
John’s about to answer as he feeds another log to the fire, and oh, he looks so cross, it’s delightful, but Mary says, “It already is different. You’re ours, and we’re yours, and we’d so much rather you were here with us. Now come here and get under this blanket before I claim the entire sofa for myself.”
The quilt and the cushions are warm, and Mary and John are warmer still. They hold him; they murmur words against his shoulders (“You’re freezing,” says Mary; “Idiot,” says John; they both mean I love you, even Sherlock with his distrust of sentiment knows that, but he can’t bring himself to say it back); they comb their fingers through his ruff. The fire dries his damp fur.
“If you’re not here when I wake up,” John says, his words slurred with sleep, “I’m tracking you down and dragging you back for breakfast. Got it?”
Sherlock watches the flames dance behind the grate. Feels their heat on his face as he smiles. “Yes.”