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John woke up on what was considered a ‘typical’ morning in 221B. Typical in the sense that the wails of his infant daughter echoed from the ground below, accompanied by a deep velvety voice cursing and then attempting to calm the baby down. John sighed wearily before pulling himself up and out of bed, shoving his feet into his loafer slippers and fumbling for his dressing gown. He blearily turned to look in the mirror above his dresser. His hair was a disheveled mess and his skin was lacking its usual sunny glow. John breathe in deeply and started massaging his temples to soothe the oncoming headache that was brewing. The alarm clock reflection in the mirror read 6:42am. His daughter was an early riser, much to his fond irritation, and demanded attention the moment she began to cry.
Despite John trying to get up in time to appease his little girl, Sherlock always seemed to beat him to it. Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. If somebody had told John several years ago, that Sherlock Holmes would be looking after his infant child, doting on her and caring for her as if she were his own, John would have laughed hysterically in their face.
Yet, Sherlock was brilliant with Rosie. Always hurrying towards her when she cried, checking up on her tirelessly during the night, and playing her jaunty tunes on the violin to make her smile. It never failed to amaze John how willingly Sherlock had taken up the challenge of helping him raise Rosie. There was no hesitation. Sherlock had simply said – demanded was a better word really – that John should move back to Baker Street straight away. So, he had. He’d packed up his old life at his old, dark flat, that now held too many bad memories and had moved him and Rosie into 221B immediately.
They still hadn’t spoken about what had happened. John couldn’t bear to speak the words aloud yet. Sherlock hadn’t pressed the issue either, and John was nothing but grateful. He would deal with it – eventually. For now, he needed to focus on Rosie. She was the one who was going to suffer the most from what had happened after all…
John ambled down the stairs of the flat, smiling to himself as he heard Sherlock’s soft voice drift from the living room. It was funny to hear the man who was usually so unintentionally rude, speak so gently to another person. There was only a few other times that John had heard Sherlock use that tone of voice, and they had all involved John in some way. Not that he looked too closely into that. Certainly not.
“Now, Watson,” John pressed his lips together tightly together to keep from grinning as he entered the room. Sherlock was leaning over Rosie’s crib holding her bumblebee plushie in his big hands. “We do not throw the bumblebee plushie. We cuddle the bumblebee plushie, do you understand?”
John watched as his little girl clasped the bee for a moment, stared at in awe with her wide grey blue eyes, and then scrunched up her little face in a pout and chucked the bumble bee plushie back at Sherlock’s head.
“Rosie!” Sherlock sighed in exasperation, a tired yet fond smile stretching across his face.
“It’s useless,” John said as he walked towards the crib. “She’s a ruthless little thing,”
Sherlock turned to look up at John, his smile softening even more. The detective moved to pick up Rosie with his long arms, clad in a dark blue dressing gown, and cradled her in his arms as he carried her over to John. John opened his arms, a wide grin on his lips as Sherlock handed Rosie to him. He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her into his chest and dropping a quick kiss to the top of her head, which had just started to develop a few stray hairs of golden blonde. Rosie giggled sweetly at her father, turning her glowing little eyes to look up at him with glee. It was evident to anyone who noticed that Rosamund Mary Watson adored her father.
“How’s our girl doing today?” John asked as he tore his gaze away from Rosie, and focused on Sherlock.
“Fine, demanding and grumpy as usual,” Sherlock remarked as he turned on his heel and sauntered towards the kitchen.
“Hmm… Who else does that remind me of?” John mused thoughtfully, as he followed behind Sherlock’s retreating form.
Sherlock turned around quickly, his dressing gown twisting fiercely with him, and gave John a look of comical mock horror, clasping his hands over his heart and gaping at him.
“Oh, John, you wound me so!”
Rosie began to struggle in John’s arms. Clearly disturbed from the lack of attention she was receiving. John shifted her in his arms for a moment then padded over to the kitchen table and popped her down in her high chair. Sherlock began opening cupboards and pulling down mugs and a baby bottle. There morning routine was always the same: Get up to Rosie, stumble around the kitchen fixing together something that vaguely resembled breakfast, and then lazing around the living room, sometimes John would read to her, and sometimes Sherlock would attempt to teach Rosie the skills necessary to deducing people, and was usually dismayed when John informed him that Rosie was still far too young to comprehend a word the man was saying.
John had just managed to salvage Sherlock’s attempt at bacon, which he had completely forgotten in favour of playing aeroplanes with Rosie’s breakfast, which had begun to burn in the frying pan. You’d think that for a man who does so many experiments, John thought, he would at least be able to cook a few slices of bacon. Yet, John could never bring himself to be annoyed at the detective. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he was so enamoured with Rosie. It was an affect that his daughter had on everyone she had met. She’d even managed to melt some of the frostiness of Mycroft Holmes, much to the surprise of John, and to the amusement of Sherlock, who seemed smugger than ever when the elder Holmes came to visit.
“John?” Sherlock called, bringing John back from his reverie.
“Yeah?”
“We have a case,”
Sherlock had said it lightly. Gently. As if he were talking to a child. John’s hand clenched around the spatula for a moment. He blinked into the fumes coming from the pan, trying to stop the wave of nausea that had begun to build inside of him. He hadn’t been near a crime scene since… Since it happened.
“John?”
“Sorry, I… yeah, that’s fine. Good. Brilliant. What kind of case do we have?” John said quietly as he scooped the bacon up from the pan, dropping it onto two plates next to the stove already filled with scrambled egg, mushrooms, and sausages. He turned the gas off, set the spatula down, and then carried the plates over to the table where Sherlock was sat with Rosie.
He could feel Sherlock’s gaze fixed on him, and knew he was analysing every detail of his face, every twitch and quiver. He tried to ignore it.
“A robbery.”
John looked up in surprise. “A robbery?”
“Must I repeat myself?” Sherlock scorned, rolling his eyes skyward.
“I’m just surprised, normally you would never take such a mundane case, is it above a seven?”
“Well, no, not particularly.”
“Then how come you’ve taken it? Before, you made me skype you at a crime scene simply because you deemed it below a seven.”
Sherlock’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment for a moment, and John blinked in awe. Sherlock Holmes embarrassed? Now this was a rare sight. Even Rosie turned her attention away from her breakfast to stare at the detective.
“That’s true… but that was then and this is now…” Sherlock paused for a moment. His face looked nervous, as his eyes swept quizzically over John’s face. “But if you’d rather we didn’t go?”
John speared a fork of bacon into mouth, the salty tang of grease and oil swirling on his tongue. He knew it was time to get back to cases, a few weeks had passed and he could that though Sherlock appeared content on the outside, he was secretly itching for a case again. John understood the feeling. The excitement of a case burned in his veins, running around London once more chasing down an unsuspecting criminal, grabbing a late night take away afterwards, the two of them against the world once more. It wasn’t as simple as that anymore though, he thought mournfully, as he turned to stare at Rosie. Anxiety bloomed in his chest.
“I’m not sure if I want to leave Rosie alone just yet,” He admitted, shame rocking him as he watched Sherlock’s hopeful face fall.
“No, of course not,” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes moving back to roam over Rosie’s face. “Of course not, I should have thought,”
John didn’t reply.
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As soon as he opened his eyes, John knew he had fallen asleep for longer than he had intended. He’d told Sherlock to wake him if he kipped longer than an hour, and from the afternoon light streaming through the living room windows he knew he’d been asleep for a least three or four.
They’d finished breakfast in an awkward silence. Cutlery scrapping plates and Rosie twisting her head between the two men in confusion. After breakfast, John had showered, changed Rosie into a little yellow frock and bee leggings – Sherlock had brought her an endless supply of bee clothing, the man was obsessed with bees and sort every opportunity to buy Rosie bee themed clothing, much to John’s chagrin. Though he had to admit that his daughter didn’t half look cute in her bee onesie.
John had then set Rosie up in the living room and settled down to read the paper. Sherlock had accompanied Rosie on the floor of the flat, playing with her stuffed animals, trying to teach her how to line them in up size order without any result whatsoever. John could feel his eyelids drooping the moment he sat down in his chair, but before he had drifted away he had asked Sherlock to wake him. Clearly, the younger man hadn’t.
“Sherlock?” He called, voice hoarse from sleep.
“Ah, John, it’s nice to see you’re finally awake,” Sherlock announced from behind him, as he came from the kitchen carrying two mugs of what John presumed was tea. “Tea?”
“Please,” John sighed. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You barely slept last night,”
“Neither did you,”
Sherlock shrugged as he placed his mug of tea down on the table, before passing John’s cup towards him. Their fingers brushed as the mug was passed over, and John’s heart quickened at that brief moment of contact. Ignore it, he thought. He took a sip of the warm liquid, letting it soothe him as it ran down his throat. His eyes flickered over to Rosie’s crib for a brief moment and felt his chest constrict when he found that the crib was bereft of her.
“Sherlock, where’s Rosie?” A hint of panic laced John’s tone.
“She’s downstairs with Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock answered in a calm, reassuring voice that he knew would soothe John’s worry. “I thought it would be good for her to spend some time out of the flat and I… John, I… I think we need to talk,”
John froze. No. No. He thought to himself as sweat began to break out on his forehead, no I’m not ready to discuss this.
“There’s nothing to say,” He said sourly, beginning to rise as the panic seized him.
“John…”
John got up quickly from his chair, putting the mug of tea down on the small coffee table, and then began to pace anxiously across the flat. He couldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t.
“John, please,”
“There’s nothing to say, Sherlock!” He hissed, turning to glare at the detective who was sat awkwardly in the monochrome chair across from his. “There’s nothing…”
Words failed him. He stared blankly at the man across the room. There was nothing to say, absolutely nothing at all. The situation was simple. He had done something so awful, so disgraceful and yet he didn’t feel guilty at all. He knew he should feel. That’s what made it worse, he knew that a part of him should feel a sense of remorse, regret perhaps? But he felt nothing of the sort… just an overwhelming sense of –
“Are you okay?” Sherlock’s deep voice which was usually so confident, had grown small and concerned. It made John want to weep, to break in tears of… of what he didn’t know, but the fact that Sherlock’s voice grew concerned for him of all people… It was incandescent.
“Uh, what, am I… no, no, I’m never gonna be okay.” John stumbled out, his mind suddenly overflowing with words like an unstoppable current. “I’ve done something irredeemable. Disgraceful. And one day, Rosie is going to find out and hate me for it, perhaps even kill me for it… and that’s the least of what I deserve. So, no, I’m not okay but… It is what it is,”
“John –”
“No, it’s okay. It’s honestly okay, this is what I deserve, this is what I…” John croaked his body beginning to shake. Tears filled his eyes and damn it, he swore that he wouldn’t let this happen. He hadn’t wanted Sherlock to see him this way. This broken. His body convulsed as he began to sob. He heard Sherlock stand, quivered as soft thumps hit the floor, and then Sherlock was there, so close to him and yet so unbelievably beyond reach. Further away from him than he had ever been, because of what he had done, he had ruined everything, why did he always –
Skinny, but firm, arms wrapped around his shoulders. They pulled him inwards and John was too weak to fight against them. Warmth enveloped him. His head settled against Sherlock’s chest and he decided in that moment that there was nowhere else in the world that he felt safer. He breathed in Sherlock’s scent. Chemicals, musky aftershave, home. Sherlock. His Sherlock. John felt soft calloused fingers touch his neck and he shivered from the contact.
“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispered faintly in his ear.
“It’s not okay,”
Sherlock’s arms tightened around him.
“No,” Sherlock breathed. “But, it is what it is… And what you did was the right thing, John”
“I murdered her, Sherlock,” John choked out, tears streaming down his face, no doubt staining Sherlock’s cashmere shirt. He didn’t have the energy in him to care. “I murdered the mother of my child,”
“With good reason,”
“Rosie is going to grow up without a mother… And I’m the one to blame for that,”
“Rosie will understand,”
“But what if she doesn’t!” John whimpered. “How could anyone possibly understand, or justify, what I did?”
“John Hamish Watson, you listen to me right now,” John blanched at the commanding tone in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock put two fingers under John’s chin and tilted his John’s face up.
Sherlock’s face was a minefield of emotions. The furrow of his eyebrows told John that he was worried, concerned, perhaps even afraid? But the look in his eyes was pure steel, the breath-taking determination and grit that had drawn John to him so many years ago. Sherlock Holmes looked like a man who was determined to get his way, determined to solve a case, determined to make everything alright once more. It was slightly bewildering for that look to be solely focused on John.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, John. Mary, she… She threatened to take Rosie from you. She was manipulative, decisive, she was using both of us from the beginning. Following orders like the loyal dog she was. You couldn’t have known she was working with Moriarty, John. Even I didn’t notice, not until it mattered at least. She threatened to take Rosie, to harm her, you had every right to protect her, you were doing anything a good father would do,”
“But it’s…” John hesitated for a moment. “It’s not that she just threatened Rosie, your missing out something important,”
“Am I? Enlighten me,”
“You forgot the part where she pointed a gun at you, Sherlock,”
Silence. Sherlock’s arms tightened even more around John, squeezing the air from his lungs, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care.
“I, er, I confess I didn’t realise that mattered so much,” Sherlock mumbled, avoiding John’s eyes.
“How could it not have mattered?” John gasped. “How could you think for one second that you didn’t matter! Sherlock, you… When I got to the aquarium and I saw her standing in front of you with that gun… That was it for me. She threatened you. She… Christ! She already murdered you before, put a bullet in your chest and left you for dead. There was no way, absolutely no way, that I was losing you again. Never in this life would I risk losing you again,”
Sherlock stared down at John in utter shock. This time, Sherlock, the one who usually always had a reply, who would outlive God to have the final word, couldn’t utter a word. John, however, felt as if he couldn’t stop talking, the words bubbling over and pouring from his lips.
“I didn’t care about anything in that moment apart from making sure that you were safe. That you came out of there unharmed. The rest of the world could have burned for all I cared, as long as you were alright,” John smiled up at the man in front of him weakly, his hands squeezing the front of the detective’s shirt. “I didn’t hesitate Sherlock, I never do when it comes to you, I never have,”
“You killed a cabbie for me on the first day that we met,” Sherlock’s voice was deep and full of wonder.
“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat… I would do it all over again, for you,” John admitted bashfully. “Always for you,”
A tear slipped down Sherlock’s cheek.
“So, those texts you sent me? Saying you missed me? You meant them?” A tone of hope echoed in Sherlock’s voice as he spoke, warmth sparking in his eyes.
“Of course, I meant them, you git,” John teased as he felt his own eyes begin to feel with tears again.
“But you… You stayed with her, John, why did you stay with her?”
John contemplated for a moment, watching the worry build up once more in Sherlock’s features. He sighed in frustration, more at himself than anything, at the mess he had caused.
“I was going to leave her, Sherlock. I… it was over a long time ago, the moment you came back, our relationship was already over. I just… I was angry with you, I kept trying to deny what I felt, because I knew that nothing would ever come of it, and so I convinced myself that marrying her was the right thing to do. The honourable thing to do…” John murmured as he cupped Sherlock’s cheek, relishing in unadulterated joy as Sherlock leaned into his touch. “I told myself that being with her was the right thing to do, especially with Rosie on the way but… Sherlock, please understand it was over the moment you came back. There was nothing there. No love. No happiness. And when she shot you, I made plans immediately to leave, but I had to think about my child. I couldn’t leave a defenceless baby to the devices of a psychopath like her, and so I… I stayed, waiting for the right moment to escape with Rosie. Then, that night came, and I knew that killing her was the only thing left to do. She was a direct link to Moriarty. She’d tortured us for years and we hadn’t even known it. I didn’t feel an ounce of sadness, or pity, or anything when I put that bullet between her eyes,”
John breathed in deeply, attempting to collect himself. He started to pull his hand away from Sherlock’s cheek, when long, thin fingers grasped his wrist and he watched in bliss as Sherlock pressed his lips into the centre of John’s palm. Both of them were crying silent tears full of joy, relief. John didn’t dare look away. He didn’t dare to break his gaze from the man stood in front of him, the brilliant man who had come into his grey world and brought so much colour that at first it had burned. Sherlock had always seemed too bright for John’s world, a constellation of ever moving stars, crashing and imploding, dust on the wind that John never seemed able to capture. Yet, Sherlock had slowly become John’s home. His light in the darkness, his link back to the world when the nightmares dragged him head first into hell. His beacon. His Sherlock.
“You,” Sherlock whispered softly as he lifted a hand to cradle John’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “It’s always been you, John Watson. You keep me right.”
And then there was an explosion of noise, fireworks flaring behind his eyes as they closed shut at the touch of Sherlock’s lips to his. Colour exploded in his mind. Bright reds, and purples, and pinks that screamed a word he had not dared to think about since Sherlock had fallen from the roof at St. Bart’s. Sirens rang in his ears, he was kissing Sherlock, Oh God, he was kissing Sherlock! Every moment of fanaticising, of dreaming of this moment didn’t even pale in comparison to the real thing. Sherlock’s lips were soft, salty from the consistent tears, and the most wonderful thing John had ever felt. The world disappeared around them, and it didn’t matter that there was still so much left to deal with, or that there still so many things left unsaid between them. The kiss said it all. I love you, I love, I love you.
They began to break apart. John could tell that Sherlock wanted to say something, but he couldn’t bear to lose the contact between them.
“John, I,” Sherlock began in a breathless voice which hinted an edge of desperation. John took Sherlock’s head in his hands and began to scatter little butterfly kisses across his skin. “John, I love you,”
“Oh, you silly man, you great git,” John cried as he continued to pepper Sherlock’s face with kisses. “I love you too,”
Then they were embracing, and laughing. High on the love they felt for one and other. Rasping into giggles one moment and then wailing like children the next. Their limbs were tangled together, cradling one and other as if afraid the other may break. Refusing to let go for a moment, because they had been deprived of one and other for so very long. John Watson clutched on to Sherlock Holmes as if he was a safety raft at sea, and the only thing keeping him a float in the vast ocean which surrounded them. Sherlock Holmes breathed John Watson in as if he were a drug, an addictive substance that he couldn’t stay away from no matter how hard he tried.
The two of them held each other into the late hours of the afternoon, reflecting on all they had lost, all they had gained. The pair of them grinning like loons’ as Mrs. Hudson carried in their little girl, who was clutching her bumblebee plushie and grinning triumphantly back at the two of them, as if she knew that somehow all had finally been set right in the world.