Chapter Text
The Great Move didn’t prove to be anywhere near as traumatic as John had initially feared. In fact it was easier than their earlier removal from Surrey back to the flat (which involved far more possessions for Rosie than she’d arrived with). Once the operative date was established, things moved like clockwork—a host of Mycroft’s minions showed up one morning and efficiently packed everything John wanted to keep, and hauled off everything he didn’t (all of the furniture, and virtually everything belonging to Mary, barring a few keepsakes and photos for Rosie) to Oxfam. The car went for a reasonable price to a happy Mike Stamford, who’d been looking for something that (1) was trustworthy; and (2) didn’t cost the Earth, for six months.
That first night back, after settling Rosie in her beautiful new room and sharing a leisurely dinner with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, John realized his cheeks ached from the near-constant smile on his face. He settled into his bed that night at peace with the world.
John was lucky—he managed to find an A&E spot at Kings’, Sherlock’s temporary home after the shooting, the week he and Rosie moved back to Baker Street. He strongly suspected Mycroft’s fine Italian hand in that one, but had no intention of looking that particular gift horse in the mouth. He was qualified; they needed help. No reason it shouldn’t be him.
He settled quickly into the mechanics of the A&E, to the point where Sherlock was just a tiny bit jealous of John’s obvious enjoyment of his new position. John made a real effort to be reassuring. “I’m not planning on working full-time, Sherlock,” he said soothingly. “Just keeping my hand in, keeping up my license. It’s—I need it, you know?”
Sherlock still looked unconvinced, but gradually relaxed into their new normal. He only grumbled if John was called in more than the agreed-upon “three shifts a week”. But when the emergency call came, midway through John’s second week, Sherlock was borderline resentful as John headed towards the door. He nonetheless huffed in response to John’s suggestion that he take Rosie down to Mrs. H.
“Watson and I will be quite content,” he sniffed. “We can comfort each other in our abandonment.”
John couldn’t tamp down his laughter. “Alright, Drama Queen. I’ll see you two later,” he chuckled. And with a kiss to Rosie’s forehead he was out the door.
John stumbled out of the taxi in front of 221B at just past three in the morning, so exhausted he struggled to get his keys into the door—the good sort of exhaustion, the kind that follows a successful battle to save a life under adverse circumstances.
Given that he hadn’t been scheduled to work, he’d been unsure where he’d be needed. The emergency call had gone out due to overwhelming demand—an accident in the Underground, where brakes on an incoming train failed, allowing it to slam into the back of a departing train in front of it. More than 30 people injured enough to require transport to hospital, roughly 10 in a critical state. John had worked on 4 patients, even assisting in surgery on the final one—there simply hadn’t been another pair of skilled hands available.
He hadn’t been in an OR in more than 8 years. It had been overwhelming at first, that wave of déjà vu, but he found himself quickly falling back into the remembered rhythm. By the time they finished and John headed home, he was both grateful and exhilarated.
By now, though, the exhilaration had faded to a background hum, and John was tired enough to consider sleeping on the sofa, so he didn’t have to struggle up another flight of stairs. He tossed his coat in the general direction of the hook behind the door, stopping long enough to toe off his shoes. He had just started to pad quietly towards the sofa when a deep voice spoke from the darkness at the far end, startling John enough that he almost fell backwards.
“I never expected to have this,” Sherlock said. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, John could see the detective slumped at the far end of the couch, Rosie draped bonelessly across his chest, his huge hand resting carefully across her back.
John stomped on his initial reaction to being startled, and managed to respond quietly enough to not wake the dozing baby. “What’s that?” he asked, as he subsided on the sofa with a relieved sigh.
“This,” Sherlock said, waving his free hand at the baby, the cozy flat, John. “A child. Friends. Family.” He paused in the near-darkness; John could just see his throat work convulsively before he continued, voice now a bit hoarse. “A home,” he croaked.
John, unsurprisingly, suddenly found himself in a similar case. He finally managed to speak past the constriction in his throat. “You deserve it, Sherlock. Never doubt that.” Because he knew, he knew, that his friend often did just that.
There was a brief silence from the other end of the sofa, broken only by Rosie’s contented snuffles. Finally Sherlock spoke again, uncertainty clear in his voice. “Are you sure?” he said. He often asked this kind of question, the kind he could never ask openly, in the safety of the deep night. Darkness made it less threatening, somehow.
“Sherlock,” John said. “You’re sitting with my daughter drooling on your chest—my daughter, who adores you, and who I’d trust you with at any time. You gave up two years of your life, in horrific circumstances, to keep me and others safe. You opened your home to the two of us, let us rebuild it to suit our needs without a single objection. I’m not sure how you couldn’t ‘deserve’ it, mate.” He pushed every bit of warmth, or reassurance, into his voice as he could.
More silence. Then—“I see,” Sherlock said, before coming to a stop again. He gathered himself to continue, though. “I may need—I may ask you again, periodically,” he said, very quietly indeed.
“That’s absolutely fine,” John said. “Answer’s not going to change.”
Getting ready for the party wasn’t too bad. Catering was responsible for everything other than Mrs. Hudson’s punch, which would stay in her flat until the last minute. For good and sufficient reason, one universally accepted but never spoken aloud.
In the middle of those few days of preparation, Rosie suddenly stood up in the lounge and walked across the room to her blocks. John stared, stunned; Sherlock spilled his tea, and his resultant gasp and lunge for a towel startled Rosie into dropping back to her bum with a wail. John swept her up joyously and swung her in a gleeful circle. The picture Sherlock snapped was printed, enlarged, and placed on the mantel when John came downstairs the next morning. Also in place was a new set of child gates at every doorway—Sherlock had been busy on the internet, clearly. Or perhaps, just maybe, he’d actually asked Mycroft for a delivery. Stranger things had happened.
The day of the party, the Holmeses came early, to help with the setting-up (“Micromanage”, Sherlock muttered darkly, and his mother briskly tweaked his ear). That worked out nicely—they had a comfortable late lunch before anyone else arrived, and Rosie got to show off her new walking skills to her “grandparents”. She basked in their approval, and clutched her new glittery trainers (a gift from a beaming Siger) to her chest. “They weren’t expensive,” Mellie said, which John suspected was a blatant lie.
After the meal they settled in the lounge to digest a bit, and gird up their loins for the party. Siger, though, sat up straight on the couch and turned to raise his eyebrows at Sherlock, who frowned in return. “The entryway?” the detective asked, while John looked on, mystified.
“Big brown package,” Siger said. “On the bench.”
Sherlock sighed, rose, and trotted down the stairs, coming back with said “big brown package”, which he dropped into John’s lap before flopping back into his chair with a thump. “Open it,” he said. “It’s for you, apparently.” There was a slight air of injured feelings in his tone.
“Well, you didn’t need anything,” Mellie said repressively. “We bought you a house, dear.”
“My trust bought me a house,” Sherlock muttered. Siger gave him a stern glare, and he wilted slightly and subsided.
John carefully put the package across his lap. It was relatively heavy—a rectangle perhaps two feet by one, roughly 5 inches deep. He carefully ran a finger under the end slit of the wrapped brown paper, which opened to reveal a beautiful wood box—mahogany, John thought. It was a deep, dark red, with worn but polished brass fittings and latch.
John heard Sherlock give a gasp of recognition beside him, and looked up to see, thankfully, a smile on his friend’s face, rather than dismay. John then slid the latch open and lifted the lid, to see two antique pistols cradled in ancient red velvet. They were old, finely crafted, and absolutely gorgeous.
“They’re dueling pistols,” Sherlock said. “Circa 1800. A matched set, made for a distant Holmes relative who apparently fancied himself a dandy.” He paused, looked at his father, then continued. “We think they were used once, but we’re not sure.”
John found himself gently petting one of the beautiful things. “But…they’re a family heirloom,” he said hesitantly. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“Oh, heavens no, not really,” Mellie said. “Distant relative, remember? We’re not even completely sure how we ended up with them. Mycroft found them in a chest in the attic when he was a child. They had a note with the owner’s name and date, but nothing more. I took them away from the boys when I caught Sherlock trying to load one—they’ve been in the top of our bedroom closet ever since. I just happened to think of them when we were looking for an appropriate housewarming gift.”
John looked at Mellie; looked at Siger; looked at Sherlock. He found nothing but kindness, and certainly no evidence of dissembling. He expected the pistols were valuable, but not terribly so—unless such things belonged to some well-known historical figure or were made by an exalted craftsman, they usually went for perhaps a thousand pounds.
He looked down at the lovely box; smoothed a hand over the silky surface. Cleared his throat. Cleared it again. Managed, finally, to croak out “If you’re sure then,” and gave them all a glowing smile, which seemed to fit the bill for all present.
When the time for the party rolled around, the box held pride of place on the coffee table. John couldn’t wait to show it off.
The party itself was madness, pure and simple. They hadn’t invited that many people—Greg, Mycroft and the elder Holmeses, Anthea and Gabe, Glenny, Molly, Harry, Mrs. H, Mike Stamford and the design magazine staff, including a rather intrusive photographer who had Sherlock on edge from the moment the woman stepped through the door. But the invitation had been a little, well, vague about bringing a “plus one”, so Molly brought a date (“That one won’t last,” Sherlock sneered. “Entirely too ‘alpha male’, and not as bright as he’d like her to believe.” The fact that he said all of this while standing 8 feet away probably wouldn’t help), and Mike brought his charming but talkative wife. And then of course the catering crew were flitting about, and—maybe they had invited “that many people” after all.
The noise level, once everyone had done the Grand Tour and re-converged in the lounge, went from “bustling” to “far too loud” in short order, everyone talking, laughing, arguing simultaneously. John let Rosie attend the first half-hour (during which she showed off her new walking skills, ate three tiny mince pies and a sip of milky tea, and had a meltdown when the photographer took her picture), then handed her off to the hired minder (one of Mycroft’s, most likely—John had few illusions left), who hustled her downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s blessedly empty flat and her waiting traveling cot.
In general, things went well for the first hour or so. After that, though, John noticed little things—first, the photographer spent a little too long making shots in Sherlock’s room, while the detective gritted his teeth in the doorway; second, the elder Holmeses left, which deprived Sherlock of his primary barrier against the remaining herd of people in the flat. Finally, after two hours, John looked around and noticed that his friend had vanished. He looked around, not concerned, exactly, but curious—and caught Anthea’s eye. The agent raised her eyebrows, raised one hand, and gestured upward before returning to her conversation with Glenny.
John excused himself from Karen Stamford and headed up the stairs, which seemed to have multiplied during the course of the day. He passed the photographer, busily working in Rosie’s room and the new bath, then headed upward again. Nothing in the storeroom but a bit of dust and a few boxes. He started up the last flight of steps, smelled cigarette smoke, and sighed as he reached the top.
“It’s just the one,” Sherlock said from the picnic bench. “It was this or cocaine. I assumed you’d prefer this option, but do let me know if you disagree.” The tone was lightly joking, but cut a little too close to the bone for John’s comfort.
Sherlock picked up on that and sighed. “Do relax,” he said. “If I were struggling, I would tell you. I did before, didn’t I?”
“After you’d already drugged yourself into a stupor,” John said, and regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. “Sorry,” he managed, feeling a wash of shame flood across his face.
Sherlock didn’t look particularly fazed. He waved an airy hand. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s true, after all. But I have given my word to Dr. A that I will call him if I feel tempted to use. I will make the same promise to you.” He paused, breaking eye contact. “I have no desire to make a spectacle of myself again.”
“Um…that was as much my fault as yours, Sherlock,” John said slowly. “I just wasn’t paying attention, and I should have been. I know what to look for, and I ignored the signs.”
There was a brief flare of temper from the picnic table. “I don’t need a, a keeper,” Sherlock snarled. “I am a fully-functioning adult. I should be able to—”
“You don’t need a keeper, and that’s not what I meant,” John said. He walked over and sat down beside his friend, nipping the cigarette out of his fingers before he could react and throwing it briskly over the roof edge while ignoring Sherlock’s squawk of outrage. “What I meant was, you and I both struggle sometimes, for different reasons. In your case, it’s part of the price you pay for that great big brain. If you saw me heading for something, well, dangerous for me, wouldn’t you say something? Wouldn’t you want to intervene before I cruised over the edge, so to speak?”
Sulky silence from Sherlock was its own answer.
John nodded. “So, don’t you think it reasonable that I would want to do the same? And intend to, by the way?”
“I suppose,” Sherlock said moodily, and picked at a small splinter in the wood with a fingernail.
John sighed. He knew exactly what this was about. “You want all these people to go home, don’t you?”
Silence. But no disagreement.
“I’ll make you a deal. If I tell the photographer and reporter that they’re done, will you come downstairs? One more hour, no more,” John offered. More silence. Then inspiration struck.
“One more hour, and you play your violin the whole time, so you don’t have to interact or pay attention. Final offer,” he added, though he had no idea what to do next if it was refused. Send Mycroft up, maybe.
Luckily he didn’t have to invoke that option. Sherlock sighed, rose, and headed for the stairs. John stopped off on the second floor to round up the magazine people; by the time he reached the lounge Sherlock was already in place in front of the front window, eyes closed, violin tucked firmly under his chin. And there he stayed for the next 58 minutes, until his eyes opened, he turned smartly, and informed everyone it was time to leave.
As parties went, it was one of their best.
Maybe because of the recent housewarming blowout, John and Sherlock let Rosie’s first birthday pass without a true “party”—she was one, after all, and had no idea what any of it meant. Mrs. Hudson hosted a family dinner at her “tarted up” flat, with just John, Sherlock, the elder Holmeses, Mycroft and Harry in attendance. Mycroft did bring a really lovely cake, including an additional miniature one that met a dire fate at Rosie’s hands, but that was it. She got some lovely, not-terribly-expensive gifts, blew kisses to everyone (her newest trick) and then waved bye-bye as they left. It was perfect.
As they settled more comfortably into their new life, John began to nudge Sherlock towards some of the changes he’d suggested to Mycroft, back when John was making his rounds of “interviews”. The week after Sherlock’s late-night conversation about family, John made a call to Mycroft (well, Anthea, initially—the Great Man was en route to Dubai, apparently, and couldn’t call John back for two days) to set up what he hoped would be just the first in a regular sequence of “dinner dates”. John laid the groundwork carefully: he did a little digging first, calling Mellie to see what kinds of music both brothers enjoyed, then browsing the internet to see what upcoming performances might fit the bill.
Once he’d found a good possibility, he casually mentioned the performance to Sherlock, to gauge his interest. That reaction was positive, so John waited until the detective had left the flat to buy two tickets (using Sherlock’s card—Sherlock could afford it), which he mentioned just as casually when Sherlock returned. What he didn’t tell his friend was that John would not be attending.
Come the big day, John set the stage carefully. He wasn’t responsible for dinner, thankfully (well, he hoped not, anyway—Anthea had confirmed the plans, so…) but he did his best to keep both Sherlock and Rosie occupied and out of the flat long enough that Sherlock wouldn’t realize that John had neither mentioned anything about cooking, nor made any move towards dressing for the concert.
By the time Sherlock clattered up the steps, Rosie on his hip, John had his “story” prepared.
“Why don’t you go ahead and feed Rosie?” John asked, before Sherlock could launch into a round of questions. “I need to speak to Mrs. H a moment.” The detective gave him a suspicious look, but nodded. Rosie was already grizzling a bit with hunger.
John had already filled their landlady in on his plans, and got her grudging agreement that it was a good idea. “I don’t hate him, John,” she’d said. “And I know they need each other. I just wish he wasn’t so, so…prissy!” She sighed, then continued. “If he’ll meet me halfway, I’ll do my best. Bring up a little dessert, maybe.”
Now, John nipped down to pick up said dessert, which he would shortly feign surprise at receiving when he carried it back upstairs. Mrs. H beamed. “I hope it goes well,” she said.
John hoped so, too. He was surprised to find himself pretty invested in this whole thing.
Just as John trotted back upstairs with dessert, he heard the ground-floor door open, and heard Mrs. H greet someone—well. Their guest. Showtime.
John saw Sherlock, still engrossed in trying to get spoonfuls of pureed carrots actually inside Rosie, rather than smeared on her face, look up sharply as footsteps started up the steps. The detective recognized the cadence, of course, and his face congealed.
“What’s he doing here?” he sniffed, just as Mycroft came to a halt in the doorway. And John was, well, stunned to see a brief flash of hurt run across the bureaucrat’s features. That, right there, stiffened John’s resolve, as well as his spine.
“That’s enough,” John said firmly, and nearly laughed to see both Holmes brothers turn to him with mild shock. He turned first to Sherlock. “I invited your brother to dinner and the performance, though he insisted on bringing dinner. I checked with your mum to make sure the show was something you’d both enjoy. I know Mycroft would like to be part of your life, in a less-creepy way than before. So you need to not be a tit about it.”
Mycroft sighed but stayed silent. John wasn’t done, though. “And Mycroft—thank you for dinner. Smells good. Thai?” Without waiting for an answer, John started doling out plates and silverware. Both Holmeses stared momentarily, giving each other wary looks, as if they were two stray cats meeting in an alley. Finally, though, Mycroft’s excellent manners won the day, and he moved to take the chair next to Rosie, who crowed with delight at his presence.
The meal was…bearable. No shouting, no outrageous insults (though John did have to give Sherlock the stinkeye once or twice). By the end of it, the brothers were having an honest-to-God conversation (well, argument. But still), which continued even after John got up to wash Rosie’s hands and face and pop her out of her chair.
The brothers left shortly thereafter, largely silent, but in a mostly companionable kind of fashion. John got Rosie bathed and put to bed, then settled down to his book. He found it difficult to relax, but felt better as more time passed. If this “experiment” had been a failure, Sherlock would have been home in record time, in Full Strop mode with perhaps an added fillip of Dark Brooding (John and Mrs. H had long since developed a scale for such things. Someday, when he was feeling particularly evil, John planned to post it on the fridge and await results).
John was emboldened by his success. He waited until the next day, then picked up the phone and actually had an honest-to-God conversation with Mycroft. And, true to his word, the bureaucrat penciled in “dinner with Sherlock” on his weekly calendar. After two more weeks, it was part of their normal schedule without any further words spoken on anyone’s part, and was gradually expanded to alternating dinners at Mycroft’s townhouse.
It made John smile every time he thought about it.
Roughly a month after John and Rosie moved back to Baker Street, there was yet another minor upheaval (well, “upheaval” in the sense that plans changed, which Sherlock always found unsettling). Siger had told John some time ago about the Christmastime plans for Crumpet Hardy’s christening. He was rather looking forward to it, honestly—a couple of days at Christmas in Siger and Mellie’s warmly decorated house, a lovely celebration in a parish church, maybe caroling and a candlelight service for Christmas Eve. But part of that, as it turned out, wasn’t going to happen.
John came in from work one afternoon to find the detective sitting on the sofa with a scowl on his face, while fending off Rosie’s determined grabs for his phone.
“What’s up?” John said. “Not doing that case for Mycroft after all?” Sherlock had been rather looking forward to it—tracking down the originals of some paintings at the Tate that had recently been exposed as forgeries.
Sherlock shook his head, putting the mobile in his pocket with a sigh, before moving over to deposit Rosie in Baby Jail. “No, it’s the christening. It’s been moved forward to next weekend. Apparently Alistair’s grandmother has taken a turn for the worse—a shame, she’s a remarkable old thing—and it’s been decided not to roll the dice and hope she’s still here and well enough to attend, come Christmas.”
“Oh, that is a shame,” John agreed. “But not a major problem, surely? I mean, assuming the church is OK with the change…”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, the issue is me—well, and Mycroft. We were to provide the music introit. But we haven’t yet selected a piece, let alone put in any practice. We’ll have to go with a backup, I suppose—something shortish, something we both already know well.” He gave a disappointed moue; Sherlock’s musical standards were very high, and John had a sneaking suspicion he’d been looking forward to this particular performance.
There was a flurry of phone calls over the following day—travel logistics, clothing (John and Rosie—John had long since realized that no item of clothing he owned would ever pass Sherlock’s scrutiny, and Mellie loved to have an excuse to buy Rosie yet another frilly little dress. And now she could add shoes!), and music. That evening Sherlock bustled off with his violin to Mycroft’s place, and came back disappointed but resigned.
“Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,” he sighed as he picked at his leftover Chinese food—John had eaten earlier since he had no idea if, or when, Sherlock would return. “It’s trite, but Alicia heard it at Prince George’s christening and thought it would be appropriate.”
“And you and Mycroft already know it?” John asked, nibbling on a warmed-over egg roll.
“I would say so,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “We played it at my older cousin’s wedding. I was 14.”
“And you still know it well enough to just bang through it now?” John asked. “I mean, without lots of practice?”
Sherlock waved one hand. “Oh, I still play it now and again. One does try to keep up the repertoire, after all, and it’s not exceptionally difficult. And the piano part is fairly simple, so Mycroft should be able to perfect it after a couple of hours’ practice. It went fine this evening, so I presume he’ll be ready.” It went without saying that Sherlock would be.
It was decided that they’d travel down to Surrey Friday afternoon, planning on returning Monday morning. John made sure the A&E marked him as “unavailable” and trudged off dutifully to buy a new jacket of Sherlock’s choosing—he had a pair of dress trousers, selected by Sherlock previously for a case, that were deigned acceptable. Mellie had a pale mint green dress and matching lacy bonnet delivered for Rosie, with a little pair of white patent strapped shoes with rhinestone hearts on the toes. Mrs. H was in transports, making sure that John knew that photos of the day were going to be essential to her long-term happiness.
The trip was quite comfortable—they shared the car with Mycroft, which led to some predictable bickering among the brothers that had a somewhat “pro forma” air about it. Rosie burbled happily from her car seat, and John basked in the soft leather seat and let the crisp Holmesian badinage roll in one ear and out the other. He was almost disappointed when they pulled up to the circular drive in front of the Surrey house.
The next two days passed in a flurry of preparations and celebrations. They all dined at the Hardys’ home Friday evening, with Crumpet holding court in her high chair next to Rosie’s, the two of them smiling delightedly at each other. Saturday morning they attended the church fete on the village green, where the infants were entranced by everything they saw, and the adults were delighted at the view (well, the rest of them were; Sherlock lasted roughly ten minutes before scuttling back to the house to avoid the crowds). It was a style of life John had never really seen before; while it probably wasn’t for him full-time, John could see why Mellie and Siger loved it, and why Rosie would love spending time with them once she got a little older.
He found himself with a bit of spare time Saturday evening. Mycroft and Sherlock were in the music room, practicing their piece for the christening; Mellie and Siger were closeted with the Hardys, going over the final details for the post-ceremony reception to be held here, at the Holmeses slightly-larger home; Rosie was tucked peacefully in her box room-turned-nursery upstairs.
It was calm, quiet—and shatteringly sweet, in such a way that it briefly grabbed John by the throat. One of the things he and Dr. A had been talking about lately had been “mindfulness”—being truly aware of the world around you as a whole, being invested. Taking time to appreciate those things in your life that made you happy, that gave you purpose. He’d always been marginal at the second, and absolute pants at the first.
Now, though, he made an effort—took a deep breath, then contemplated. Here he was: John Hamish Watson, son of Hamish and Jean of nowhere in particular, sitting in a large historic home, surrounded by people who cared about him, who loved his daughter (his daughter, yet another unexpected blessing), preparing for a “family” celebration in which not one of the participants shared blood with him. Not related, but the truest family he’d ever had.
Make a note of this, Watson, he said in his head. You are happy. And, because John’s subconscious was a snarky bastard, Let’s not screw this up, yeah? was tacked on at the end.
The next morning dawned sunny and mild—cooler than the previous day, when both babies had to be dipped in sunblock before venturing out, and even John, a veteran of the desert, began to find the heat oppressive. Now, though, it was no more than pleasantly warm, with a nice breeze. It boded well for the ceremony, John thought—a good omen, in a way.
They all rushed through breakfast—Mellie had gotten caterers in, so an extensive buffet had been arrayed on folding tables, and everyone could grab what they wanted before dashing off to get ready. Mellie had taken charge of Rosie, since the nursery was upstairs and John had been relegated to his old room downstairs.
Sherlock was down the stairs first, violin case in one hand, every hair in place, designer suit pristine, even, wonder of wonders, wearing a tie. He rolled his eyes when he saw John’s glance at it. “I do own them, John,” he said. “I just choose when to wear them very selectively indeed. And Alicia asked, very nicely.” That last part brought a tiny bit of pink to the tips of his ears.
Mycroft, coming down the stairs just behind his brother, raised a sardonic eyebrow but stayed silent. He was on his best behaviour, apparently.
Mellie and Siger brought up the rear, an ebullient Rosie on Mellie’s hip. “She’s not sure about the bonnet,” Mellie said, carefully not looking at the item in question. “Let’s hope she forgets about it in all the excitement.” Because Rosie was, indeed, a picture in the little lacy thing—it would make for memorable photos, if they could keep it on her head long enough.
Sherlock swept over and snagged her in his free arm, swinging her around while she shrieked in delight. “Distraction is the order of the day,” he said, handing her off to John. “Do something interesting,” he commanded. “Mycroft and I must leave early to go set up, so it’s all on you.” And with that the brothers strode out the back door and were gone.
The rest of them rode the short distance to the church in Mellie and Siger’s car. “We could walk, of course,” Siger said. “But no one wants to get their fancy togs all sweaty, now do they? Sherlock would disown us.” John joined in the fond laughter that followed.
The church was small but elegant, and virtually full. It was a mass of warmth, pretty clothes and smiling faces—the kind of thing John distantly remembered from Easter mass as a child.
They went slowly up the center aisle, listening to Sherlock and Mycroft play a quick, spritely classical piece that gave a cheery air to the whole proceeding. The front pew had been reserved for their party (or perhaps it was a family pew—John didn’t really know how such things worked, when families had been members of parishes for two hundred years or more). He got settled on the bench, Rosie in his lap, just as the Holmes brothers finished up and left through a tiny side door near the altar. They both came back in quietly as the priest was greeting the congregation and sat in the last two spaces in the pew, next to John.
John settled deeper into the pew as the “normal” part of the service began, letting it wash over him, aware of little snippets in between the words that caught his attention.
Flash: Crumpet abruptly let out a loud squawk, and was quickly pacified when Mellie pulled an extra dummy out of Rosie’s bag and popped it in her mouth. Everyone in view smiled, including the priest.
Flash: Rosie was eye-flirting with Mycroft. And The British Government was flirting right back.
Flash: As the actual christening began, with Mycroft and a woman John didn’t know standing as godparents, Rosie stood in John’s lap and began waving frantically at Crumpet, to the amusement of the entire congregation.
Flash: As Crumpet was presented to the assemblage, now officially christened, John looked around and saw not one face, not one, that held anything but love and warmth. Including Sherlock.
The service continued; scripture was read, the collection plate was passed, the priest gave a sermon full of warm words and comforting thoughts, and a homily about joy—generating it in others, feeling it in your own life, acknowledging its importance in this world.
It was as if he was speaking directly to John—a sermon crafted specifically for John.
Finally the congregation rose, as the pipe organ fired up, the bass notes rumbling through the stone floors. The choir, small but exemplary, began a hymn John had sung many times in military services, and all around him people began to join in, including, John realized suddenly, Sherlock—blending that extraordinary voice in, very, very quietly, harmonizing perfectly with Mycroft’s light tenor.
John was struck by a wave of happiness—sweeping him out of himself, filling every long-empty space, burning away the dark corners that had lingered for so long. And he opened his heart, and his mouth, and he sang for joy.