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When the day came, I lured Sherlock and John away and stole into their flat.
They stomped upstairs as I set the package on their table. Hell. Sherlock must’ve suspected.
We met in the sitting room.
“Lost, Mycroft?” John growled.
“Dr Watson. Pardon me.” I moved toward the door.
Sherlock blocked my way. “Check the kitchen, John.”
“On it. Oi, what’s this?”
“I should go,” I murmured. Sherlock glared until I returned to the kitchen.
John undid the plain black wrapping. Sherlock was no longer preventing my escape, but sentiment had immobilised me.
“My God,” John said.
Sherlock took the shadowbox and examined the pair of dancing origami cranes. They were the best work I’d ever done.
He snorted gently. “We might, you know.”
I inclined my head. “Perhaps. Should this wait?”
“Huh?”
Dear John. Do keep up.
“Paper is the customary first anniversary gift,” Sherlock explained. “Today’s a year since we… since us. Cranes symbolise good fortune and long life. Mycroft’s made this saccharine gesture now because he can’t be certain we’ll ever marry.”
John became pinkly flummoxed. Sherlock voiced no gratitude, but that rare smile sufficed.
That night, I folded a sheet of silver hanji paper into a fox.
Exquisite creature. I let myself keep it – him – for an hour.
Then, as always, I put it in the bin.
