Baker Street

It’s rarely quiet on Baker Street.

Lord’s Cricket Ground is not far up the road from 221B, so taxis are forever heading toward or coming from. There’s a tube station nearby, and one of the prettiest parks in London across the street. There’s Madame Tussaud’s and the music college and pubs and so it’s hardly ever quiet on Baker, from morning until midnight crowds cluster along its wide boulevard, raucous and busy, frenetic and loud.

But sometimes it’s silent, and John and Sherlock are among the few who know just when.

Because crime doesn’t keep a clock, the boys are as likely to return from the Yard at three a.m. as at noon. And it’s on those dawn-pale mornings, when wrens are greeting the soft light, that they’ll sometimes fall into bed, pull the duvet high, and stay awake to bathe themselves in the rare silence…and then in sweet, small noises.

Sherlock will lose himself for long minutes in the staticky hiss of his fingertips running over the fine blond hair on John’s arms. John’ll drag nails soft along Sherlock’s bare belly, certain he can hear the infinitesimal sound of goosebumps rising. Or they may just lay side-by-side, nearly nose-to-nose, and simply breathe together.

Some half-past-four mornings they’ll whisper about the case just done; listen to the splash of rain; or peer out the bedroom window, deducing the dawn creatures they find there.

Then there are the hushed hours before sunrise when the only sounds they listen for are their own sighs, soft moans, and the rustle of the duvet as they wrap tight around each other, their own little island, their own quiet noise.

  Previous: Legends | Next: Deduce Your Sins

Every time I see this lovely drawing by *Lyd-T it makes me want to stop…go slow…and just breathe.