"So, what shall we do today?" Y/N asks, wringing out the sopping tea towel over the sink. When it's moist rather than dripping, Mrs Holmes takes it from her and tosses it into a heaped laundry basket.
"If you two are bored you could help me catch up with some laundry?"
"We're not bored, Mum," Sherlock corrects, hurrying over to help her heft the burdened basket off the ground.
She manages without him, and supports it with one strong arm, flapping him away with the other. "Are you sure? I'm getting out the tub."
Y/N could have sworn Sherlock's ears pricked, and she hurries after him as he follows his mother out onto the patio. "What's the tub?" She asks, blinking in the bright sunlight.
A washing line is tied tight to a pole protruding from the daisy-flecked lawn, the line itself running from the guttering of the cottage to the weather vein atop the greenhouse, and back to the guttering as though a giant spider had strung it up in a disorganised, messy web.
Mrs Holmes has begun fastening several socks to it with wooden pegs like colourful bunting. "The washing tub, dear," she explains, gesturing to a wide, shallow barrel sat squatly among the grass.
A hosepipe has slithered like a rubber serpent across the garden and droops over the lip of the tub, gushing cool water into its depths with a satisfying roaring sound.
Sherlock is already barefoot, hopping on one leg to roll up his trousers.
Y/N picks her way over to him, having to be careful not to tread on several bees. Peering into the tub, she finds it full of water and cloth; bedsheets, blankets, duvets and---judging by the metal eyelets---several curtains. "You want to do laundry?" She asks, unable to flatten the slight note of disbelief.
He shrugs, stepping into the tub. The water almost comes up to his knees. "It's fun." Holding out a hand:
"Come on, you'll enjoy it."
Copying him, Y/N rolls her trousers up over her knees and takes his outstretched palm.
The cool water envelops her ankles, the wet cotton soft between her toes.
Mrs Holmes smiles at them gratefully, bustling over with a basket of brightly coloured bottles. "Thank you, you two. It's so nice to have some help around here." Leaving them with the box of detergents, she squeezes a healthy dollop of Fairy gel into the tub. "Here's a little something to get you started."
Y/N and Sherlock watch in childlike delight as a mound of bubbles begins growing under the strong jet of the hose.
Sherlock begins slowly stamping the cloth below his feet, generating more bubbles to form as the detergent mingles and mixes with the fabric.
Unsteadily, Y/N holds his arm as she tentatively does the same. The bedsheets in particular keep capturing bubbles of air and floating to the surface, and Y/N squishes them back down with her feet, unable to help a smile twitch her lip.
Sherlock notices, because of course he does. "See. Fun."
"It is quite satisfying," she concedes. "I didn't know anyone still washed things by hand."
"The house doesn't have a washing machine," Sherlock explains, leaning over the tub to reach the caddy of detergents.
Mrs Holmes seems to have purposely placed it out of his reach, but he manages to hook the handle with one finger, Y/N grabbing the back of his t-shirt for fear he'll fall out altogether.
Righting himself, he finds a tall purple bottle and tips some of that in amongst his feet, then something blue---like a wizard concocting a potion. "I keep offering to buy them one but they refused. They won't get a dishwasher either."
"Just because you live in a world of hi-fi and cars that drive themselves doesn't mean we all have to," Mrs Holmes interjects from behind the pair of men's trousers she's attaching to the (now somewhat sagging) clothesline. "And anyway, it's food for the soul, having a good stamp."
Y/N feels the bubbles creep up her legs, the fragrant smell of soap mixing with the lavender and herbs in the flower beds.
Mrs Holmes works her way along the zig-zagging washing line and Y/N and Sherlock stamp for a little while in contented silence, occasionally holding each other for balance or stopping everything to rescue an insect that had had the misfortune of accidentally landing in the frothy water. Eventually, when her basket is empty, Mrs Holmes disappears back inside and Y/N remembers something from breakfast:
"What did your mum mean earlier? About you inheriting the cottage?" she asks, watching her feet squash a sheet rising to the surface of the water. There's a tea stain that she just can't seem to get rid of, no matter how many times she kneads it with her toes.
"The family home has been raising Holmes's for generations. When my parents retire to a little bungalow or something, it'll get passed on to me."
"What about the other members of your family? And Mycroft? Doesn't the oldest usually get the house?"
He shrugs, holding Y/N's arm for a moment to steady himself. "I'm the only one that wants it. They've all got estates of their own; they don't want this old place." He flushes. "I'm sort of the only one who didn't get a classy career and a second home in Spain."
"They don't want it?" Y/N cries, her mouth wide. "How can they not want it?! I want it!"
"I guess you'll have to move in with me, then," he says, and Y/N stops stamping. She raises her head to find him looking at her.
He's smiling, wearing an expression she doesn't recognise.
She opens her mouth but hears footsteps on the patio and they turn to find Mr Holmes surveying the garden with a confused expression, his hands planted on his hips.
He's squinting as if he's lost something, but a look of clarity brightens his blue eyes as he catches sight of Y/N and Sherlock through the gaps in the lightly flapping washing. "Ah, finally!" he declares, striding over to them. It's got to be over twenty degrees Celsius but he's still dressed in a tweed waistcoat, hunting jacket, and Wellington boots. "I've got nearly twenty people staying in my house and I can't find a single one of them."
Sherlock stops stomping and asks, a little clipped:
"What do you want?"
Mr Holmes looks slightly surprised but soon shakes it off like a bird ruffling its feathers. "I wondered if you could run some errands for your mother and me, seeing as you're here."
Sherlock gestures to the water, now up to his knees and steadily overflowing the lip of the tub. "We're already doing an errand."
"Well, do this one after."
"Can't one of the others do it? I wanted to show Y/N the estate."
Mr Holmes waves off his declinations as though he's a grumpy teenager. "There's plenty of time for that, and anyway, you can show her the village. Plus, you don't have a choice; as I said, I can't find the others."
"They'll be at the lake or the pub or something."
"Come on, love, do it for your mum."
"We'll do it," Y/N interrupts with a helpful smile, and Sherlock frowns at her.
"Y/N! I had things planned."
"We've still got a few days left," she says apologetically. "Come on, let's be helpful. We're getting a free holiday and I want to see the village."
"Fantastic!" Mr Holmes ruffles her hair. He holds up a slip of paper covered in looping, elegant, penmanship. "Here's the list, and I'll leave you two to it, then."
Sherlock glares moodily at his father's back as he crosses back across the lawn, and Y/N nudges him in the ribs with her elbow.
"It won't take long. And you can take me to that cafe you're so obsessed with."
He sighs, rolling his eyes but he's frowning a little bit less. It's barely perceptible, just a slight loosening of the furrow between his brows, but Y/N spots it and smiles.
"Quit moping, I know you want to go. I can see it in your eyes."
He turns away from her, crossing his arms. "No, you can't."
"I can." Manoeuvring herself around in the tub, she tries to catch his line of sight, his lip twitching with a smile as he turns away, stubbornly avoiding it.
Ducking to the left, she catches a slither of his greeny-blue irises, lit up by the sun and declares:
"Ha! See you're thinking about shortbread, I just know it."
"No, I wasn't."
"You were." She chased him and he turns in a circle, Y/N's feet wading through the foamy bog of duvets and bedsheets.
His lips pressed tight to suppress a grin, Sherlock dodges away from her as she grows more determined, giggling as she lifts her legs higher, the balls of her feet sliding on the slick bottom of the tub.
Her ankle catches on a thick fold of curtain fabric and she squeaks, stumbling, her hands stretching out to meet the wet grass---
---but something catches her.
She looks up, blinking.
Sherlock's face is above hers, his arms supporting her weight as though dipping her in a dance. His eyes, which she'd been trying so hard to catch, trained steadily on hers.
They're as bright as the cloudless sky surrounding his head.
Blushing, she squints as though staring into the sun.
His wide lips curve into a teasing smirk. "I was thinking you're going to fall over if you keep mucking around like that."
Righting herself, Y/N straightens her clothes, pulling her shirt down where his arm had rucked it up. "Yeah, yeah, Mystic Meg."
He's still smiling at her, splashes of water darkening his shirt like fireworks. "Come on then, let's get those errands out of the way."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. If we can go to that cafe I like."
She bends down and scoops some bubbles from the surface of the water and flicks them onto his chin. "Of course."
...
Mr Holme's chores list is more of a shopping list, so, after changing into dry clothes, Sherlock reverses the land rover out of the gravel driveway and they head into town.
The cobbled streets are busy with people, some nipping from shop to shop like birds between feeders, others milling about charity shop windows, chatting and taking in the sun like a group of lazy tom cats.
As is their tradition, Sherlock and Y/N veer straight for the cafe first and foremost, their chore list tucked and ignored in Sherlock's pocket.
Old Biddy's Tearoom---as it is humorously called on the sign---is the sort of building that looks small on the outside but big on the inside, and as though it were erected sometime within the late 1800s.
"Mrs Fitch can make tea and biscuits better than any Pret A Manger barista could ever dream of," Sherlock is insisting as he holds the door open, putting mocking emphasis on 'barista'.
Y/N has to duck between two full hanging baskets to enter the cooling shade of the stone building, sending a plume of butterflies scattering from the hanging lobelia flowers. A squashy old rug beneath her feet, the room smells pleasantly of cake batter and she notices several Holmes are already inside, occupying cushy armchairs around little ornate tables.
They grin and wave as they see another of their kind in the doorway as Sherlock closes it, setting the little bell jingling.
As if summoned by magic, an elderly woman in a daffodil-printed dress emerges from behind the counter and, bringing Sherlock into focus through her owl-like glasses, welcomes him with a sunny beam and a kiss.
"And you brought a friend!" She exclaims, embracing Y/N to her flour-dusted bosom and leading her excitedly to a table by the window. Elbowing Sherlock with her soft elbow, her eyes twinkling with childish mischief:
"And such a pretty friend!"
"Mrs Fitch!"
She laughs at his pink cheeks and ruffles his hair, sending the curls bouncing in all directions. "I'm only teasing." Addressing Y/N now:
"Sherlock's Pretty Friend, you absolutely must try my shortbread, I'm famous for it. Homemade caramel and three kinds of chocolate! Three! Your man here used to practically live off the stuff. I'm surprised he still has teeth!"
Despite her business being called 'old biddy's tearoom', Mrs Fitch doesn't seem to be an old biddy at all. Whipping about the brightly painted tables like a flower-printed tornado, she brings Y/N and Sherlock a laden tea tray as though having summoned it from thin air. Her chubby hands work the coffee machine and multitudinous ovens automatically, reaching for the levers and buttons like a racing driver changing gear.
Mesmerised, Y/N has been watching her for so long, Sherlock has already finished half of his shortbread.
He's managed to peel the thick slab of marbled chocolate off the top and is eating it like a bar of Cadburys. Wiping his sticky fingers on a napkin, he unfurls the shopping list.
"There isn't a supermarket for eleven miles so we'll have to make several stops," he apologises.
...
They visit the greengrocers first, then the bakery, then the general store, then the fish market and finally the butchers. Since the guests plough through enough to feed a small village, Y/N finds herself relieved they'd brought the Land Rover, the boot slowly filling with overstuffed Bags For Life.
Each shop owner greets Sherlock by name, aside from the Butcher who has taken over for his retired father. The young man gives Sherlock's hand a hearty shake and calls him Sir as he selects the best chop and wraps it up well. The baker had gifted him yesterday's doughnuts, and the grocer slipped Y/N a free punnet of strawberries.
She nibbles one as Sherlock waves goodbye to yet another person who had stopped him in the street, this time to be asked after the health of his grandmother. "You know everyone!" she exclaims in disbelief, and he shrugs.
"Small villages are like that."
Y/N gives him a look and he adds:
"And I used to tutor her daughter."
"In what? Chemistry? English?"
"Sheepdog hearing. I helped out on their farm for pocket money. Mr Marrow taught me how to do it, then when he died, I was the only one who knew."
Y/N narrows her eyes at him. "You somehow managed to rub the mayor of London up the wrong way, but you can get sheep to do what you want?"
"Well, yeah. The mayor of London was an idiot."
"And sheep aren't?"