Chapter Text
It takes an hour for John to appear. Sherlock is both relieved to see him and a little scared of the ensuing encounter; time to find out whether he's done the right things.
"I'm sorry about the phone," he offers before John gets a word in. He's on his feet, now, next to a potted plant, and John nearly runs past him.
John flinches at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Fucking hell," he says. "Where've you been? Who'd you leave her with?"
"I didn't leave her with anyone. I forgot my phone when the ambulance came."
"Ambulance? I thought you'd have taken a taxi." John is out of breath, and he drops his plastic shopping bag, not entirely concealing something wrapped in a brightly coloured paper, on one of the chairs lining the corridor.
"What did they tell you on the phone?"
"They said that Rosie's been brought in and that I should come to the A&E department. They were bloody clueless up front, just told me to wait out here." John's frustration is obvious.
"She had a seizure," Sherlock says.
"What?! How? Did she eat something she shouldn't have? Weren't you watching her?"
"She never left my sight. She had a fever. That's all I know."
"What kind of seizure? How long did it last? How was she when they brought her in? When was this?"
Sherlock glances at the wall clock. "We came in an hour and twenty minutes ago. I told all I know to the charge nurse, after which I've not spoken to anyone."
Instead, he'd been fidgeting in here, feeling useless and anticipating John's wrath. For what, he doesn't even know. John has a lot of anger these days.
He describes the events as best as he can, then starts apologising once again for not being able to text or call John with updates.
"Shut up," John tells him. "Just, just, Sherlock…" Suddenly, he bursts into tears. And they are not the polite, quiet, contained tears he'd shed at Mary's funeral. Admittedly Sherlock had slipped a benzodiazepine supplied by the ever-helpful Mrs Hudson into john's tea that morning, but still. It wasn't like this. It was never like this — until the day he'd been babysitting Sherlock instead of his daughter. Sherlock has seen him this disconsolate only that one time before, when he admitted to having been very tempted to take things with the woman he'd been texting with further. When he admitted to wanting to cheat on Mary.
Sherlock couldn't understand it at the time: why would John want to cheat on Mary? It just made things all the more confusing. John had what he wanted, so what was wrong? Did he not know how to commit to things? Sherlock found it absurd that he was finding it easier to stick to the vows he'd made than John.
Three Continents Watson. He thought John had changed. Why date all those women, why stay with Mary, if that life wasn't what he wanted?
What does John want? Does John even know the answer?
John, who has buried his eyes in his palms. "Can't even fucking look at you," he sobs.
Sherlock's heart climbs into his throat and stays there, squeezing the life slowly out of him. Why him? What has he done wrong, this time?
"Why?" He breathes out. He can't even begin to pick apart this riddle. It's like being presented a message in a language he can't even recognise and being told to decipher it.
"Can't have you doing all this for us. I forgive you, Sherlock. For all of it. You can go now."
Go where?
"I don't understand."
John snorts wetly, swipes at his eyes with his sleeves. "That's a first."
"Truly, I don't." He sits down next to John, fingers hovering above his own knee. He aches to touch John, to somehow transmit a calm he doesn't feel, never has when it comes to John Watson. You keep me right and you always leave me guessing.
"You don't have to keep repaying shit. Look what happened to us. We've both done some… things. We're even, we have to be. You don't have to put up with–– with this," John says, vaguely indicating both himself and the hospital. "We'll just… Once I know she's alright, we'll just go."
Go where?
"Yes, John," Sherlock offers. "We'll go home and put her to bed and have a bit of the mulled wine Mrs Hudson left instructions and ingredients for."
Sherlock's eyes go wide as John dissolves into racking, ugly sobs again.
"Just–– just stop, Sherlock," he begs. "Just–– you never know what enough means."
Enough of what? John? Not humanly possible.
He tries to twist the pieces in his mind, to rearrange them in a pattern that could make sense. Repayment? Forgiveness? Being even?
No. Oh no. That's not why––
"I'm not doing this for you. Or for Rosie. Or, not primarily. Well, of course those things, these things, are for you and her, but it's selfish," Sherlock hastily explains. He's rambling, and he has no idea where his train of thought is going but it feels important and urgent that he tries to explain. "I'm selfish, John. I do these things, because I can't bear seeing you like this, struggling, and I can't tell if I'm expected to help or not but I can't not do it, because it's you. And I don't know if things can get better, I know they won't go back to how they were, but they can be something. For Rosie, they can be something. She doesn't know the difference, because she never lived it," he pleads. "She never lived the way with us that we used to live."
"Before Mary," John completes miserably. "I don't miss her. She's her Mum, and I don't miss her. Not the way people think. I don't miss the conflict and the guilt and the what-ifs."
"I do these things because all I want is for you and Rosie to stay," Sherlock says and it's such a simple truth he should have voiced it before. John should have known this. Maybe it would have spared them of a lot of heartache.
"I'm not… much, Sherlock. The last years have been… they've done things to me."
"In that, we are equally matched. As much as I'd love to go back to the beginning, we have to remember it wasn't exactly uncomplicated, either. You were recently invalided home from the war, I had spent a lifetime convincing myself I should abandon hope of ever living a life that wasn't constructed on an ethos of solitude."
"Yeah, not helping," John dismisses and leans back in the chair. His shoulders are slumped and he's pale and tired. "We don't have much to offer to Rosie, do we? Two people, pretty much wrung dry by their lives."
"I would have rather grown up with us than my parents. Would have been more interesting," Sherlock muses.
John's lip twitches up, then loses whatever joy had been attempting to break through. "I don't know how to do any of this. When I think I'm finding some footing, she keeps growing and being different and acting out in new ways. I'm barely hanging on by my fingernails, and all the people at the day care, the other parents… I don't enjoy being the poor fucking single dad widower, Sherlock, I really don't. They expect me to fail and pity me for it. I hate going there."
"Then don't. Mycroft will find her a better spot. Or hire help at home."
"I don't want that. I want to manage."
"John. No one would begrudge you for struggling. Never mind what someone thinks or someone inconsequential pities you; I don't. You can do better. We can do better. But I don't think we can do it by worrying too much about the future. Rosie doesn't. All she knows is right now. I find that quite reassuring and relatable about children."
"It's because you're rubbish at planning and consequences, too."
"Can't really argue that."
"Sometimes… sometimes I feel like you're better with her than I am. You don't have that sort of patience for anyone else. You seem really interested in her."
"I find the process of her learning quite fascinating, yes. A creature of pure logic. At least some of the time."
"Shame she can't genetically take after his godfather," John jokes.
John joking has to be a good sign. "Taking after a John Watson is quite an agreeable lot in life."
"But what about Mary?" John pronounces the last word like a curse. "I don't really know anything about her. I knew what she wanted to show me, what I chose to believe because I didn't want to look back."
"Every child carries novel combinations of chromosome pieces, new gene mutations. Nature and nurture, John."
"And a fine job I'm doing with the latter," John scoffs.
"She won't remember this year. Perhaps she'll remember vague things, impressions, the atmosphere. But she won't remember Mary in any way that won't be filtered through us. You can redefine her future, John, if you so choose. But you must stop acting as though you've already failed."
"I'm so tired. Of all of it."
"Then you have to accept the help — accept it without taking it as further proof of your alleged failure. By accepting it, you're putting her first."
John smooths a crease on his jeans. "Maybe." He doesn't sound very convinced.
"Once she's been seen to, we'll go home, decorate the tree, put her to bed and have a nice night. Things aren't great, but can't they be better than they are right now?"
John seems lost in thought, now. "I told you… I told her… I'm not who she thought I was, either. I told you there's someone I want to be, but I don't know who that is. I thought I did, I hoped I did. What you think, who you think I am, I don't know anymore. But I still feel like you have a clearer idea of it than I do. And that's, that's a lot of expectation."
"You have nothing to prove to me," Sherlock says softly, slips a hand to cover John's fretting fingers on his lap. "We just get the hell on with it. That's all there is to it."
If kicking his drug habit a total of seven times has taught him something, it's that there is value in taking one day at a time when things are the toughest.
"I'll have to take your word for it," John says, gives his hands a squeeze, then stands up to shaky legs.
"Please do," Sherlock prompts. "I'm always right."
Now, John does smile. "Egotistical berk."
Once, this would have been an accusation. After Mary died, it was an accusation of homicide. Now, it's not weightless, but not laden with pain, either.
It is what it is.
A man in a white coat and a tie is approaching down the corridor. "Mister Watson?" He calls out.
John blinks into a sharper existence, visibly wills on his doctor persona after springing to his feet. "Yes? Is Rosie alright? Can I–– we see her?"
The doctor — presumably a paediatrician — smiles. "Of course. Let's sit down first."
John hesitates, antsy and suddenly angry again; Sherlock now has evidence that this might be worry channelled into something more proactive. Eventually, he plants himself back down at the edge of a chair, pinning the doctor down with his gaze.
"Rosamund has had what we believe is a febrile seizure. Her fever's down, now, her neurological exam and imaging results are entirely normal and we have no reason to believe it was anything malignant. However, since it was the first time — at least I assume so, judging by what Mister… um… Holmes?"
Sherlock nods.
"––what Mister Holmes told us. Is there a history of fever fits in your family, Mister Watson?"
"Doctor Watson."
Sherlock smiles in secret, turning his head to look down the corridor. John likes pulling rank, and he doesn't like things being dumbed down by his colleagues when talking to him. After Sherlock had been shot John had made damned to sure every staff member knew who and what he was and wanted to know everything. Sherlock knows he'd felt responsible by extension, just as Sherlock had after Mary's death. He'd felt like that, because John had told him in no uncertain terms that he was responsible. Even though John had later retracted that sentiment, the truth remains that Mary is no longer with them because of Sherlock, never mind who did what and how deliberately. Yet tonight, John has told him he thinks… what, exactly? That their marriage was doomed, anyway?
Sherlock forces himself to refocus on the conversation going on between the two physicians. Rosie is fine, that's all he needs to know, but John may want to discuss these further details later.
"I think my mother had them as a child but can't say for sure about me or Harry. Harriet, my sister, that is," John says.
"They're pretty common in children her age, commonly occurring between six months and five years of age. They can be pretty scary, but now that we've ruled more worrying things out, they can be monitored and treated at home most of the time."
"Most of the time? What is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asks.
"If a seizure lasts over five minutes or the child's colour becomes pale or blueish, you need to contact emergency services."
"But is it…" Sherlock tries to rearrange his thoughts. Wasn't this supposed to be harmless? "Is it epilepsy?"
"Epilepsies are syndromes, and febrile seizures are not considered one of the entities, no. The risk to develop epilepsy proper is slightly higher in children with focal or extended febrile seizures, but with fits as short as the one Rosie had the risk is still very low."
"How low, exactly?" Sherlock demands.
"About two percent."
"But what about prolonged seizures? What if–– if–– will there be permanent damage?" Sherlock asks.
The paediatrician is looking at him with patience. "Studies have shown that even children with prolonged seizures perform normally at school and perform as well as their siblings on cognitive intellectual tests."
"Perform normally? What is that supposed to mean?"
Suddenly, John's hand perches on his arm, and his expression is apologetic. "He means Rosie's alright."
"I don't even know how long the fit lasted," Sherlock argues. "I didn't have the sense to time it."
"You told us that you called the emergency services after you called your brother, and by then the seizure was over, and Rosie had shifted into a post-ictal state."
John's brows hitch up. "You called Mycroft?"
Sherlock suddenly feels very defensive. "I––"
John gnaws at his lip and his expression is strange. "No, it's… it's fine, Sherlock. It's just funny how you diss him all the time, but when there's something bad going on that's who you always turn to."
"I do no such thing," Sherlock scoffs.
"Should we add Mister Holmes to Rosie's contact information, or was this a… temporary child-minding arrangement?" The doctor's tone is careful.
"Yeah, no, yeah, of course he should be added," John stammers. "He's… we're co-parenting."
John says it with more confidence than Sherlock would ever have expected.
"Yes," Sherlock offers in confirmation, hoping to sound composed and calm and grown-up, even though his heart is doing strange things and he can't quite look at john who's looking at him with such fondness that suddenly it's as though none of this, none of the last two years ever even happened.
"What imaging have you done?" John asks.
"Head CT without contrast dye and limited slides. We try to avoid CTs in children her age, but this was an emergency and Rosie had eaten, which would have necessitated intubation for an MRI only to rule things out we weren't suspecting, anyway, so the decision was made."
"You said she's had some biscuits at the clinic before you came home," Sherlock defends himself.
"Perfect recall," John breathes out. "Yeah, sounds sensible," he nods at the paediatrician. "Can we take her home?"
"Yes, of course. We'll remove the IV; she's had some ketoprofen for the fever. Have you got something you can give her at home if it rises again?"
"Yes," Sherlock hastens to respond. "There's ibuprofen and paracetamol." He desperately wants to take Rosie home, to take John home now, to take his family home. He'd meant every word when he'd told Mycroft that's why John had to hear about Eurus, too, but never before has he had the idea confirmed by John like this.
_______________
"Put your feet up," Sherlock prompts, and arranges a pillow on the coffee table after passing John a mug of mulled wine.
"You've suddenly turned into some domestic god," John teases.
Sherlock spreads his arms to indicate all the signs of Christmas in the sitting room. "Hudders' doing, not mine." Except perhaps the tree he's just decorated and the fire he's started.
Rosie is sleeping upstairs in her and John's room. The small space is getting cramped the bigger she grows. Eventually, they'll have to dedicate a room to her, and that would mean… what? John kipping on the sofa? Sherlock giving his room to John?
No. Whatever is going on here, they can share a room. Whether that means sharing a bed is a conundrum so alien, so hopeful and strange and unlikely that Sherlock decides it's a question best left to another day.
"You did great today," John says quietly.
"You would have recognised what happened to Rosie and acted accordingly."
"I doubt it. I know about fever fits, but when it's your own kid… Besides, you did act accordingly."
"I called Mycroft," Sherlock says with disgust. "Only to be told the obvious, to call 999."
"Every time Mycroft opens his mouth, he makes stuff he says sound like it should be obvious to everyone else, who are all idiots."
Sherlock chuckles.
John reaches an arm across the back of the sofa, and his fingertips then shifts some of Sherlock's neck curls. "This is nice."
Sherlock nods. This is the nicest thing that has happened to him since he'd returned from the dead. When he'd come back, everything had been wrong. Slipping through his fingers. Now, tonight, he suddenly feels like he can stop expecting it all to be a mirage.
"I emailed Rosie's daycare while you were getting stuff out of the fridge," John says. "You can pick her up, now; they have your info."
"Oh."
John takes his hand off the backrest, and Sherlock is briefly disappointed.
"I didn't know you wanted any of this. It just all happened so fast. Mary, Rosie…" John muses, and there's a softness in the way he pronounces his consonants which tells Sherlock the mulled wine is kicking in.
John chuckles bitterly. "You didn't even seem to want to be a godfather. Why'd you want this, us, me?"
The words are out, soft but determined, before Sherlock even realises that he possesses them. "I'll always want you. Today was nothing, in terms of what I'd do for the two of you."
"I know." John is looking at the fire flickering and dancing in the fireplace. "You died for me, and I hated you for it."
Sherlock grimaces. "You didn't have the full picture, then. Sorry about that."
John pats his knee, lets his palm rest there afterwards. "I heard you. At the wedding. I heard you, Sherlock, but I thought that was it, that the choice had been made, and you accepted it. That saying those things were your way of saying you gracefully stepped aside."
"I did gracefully step aside."
"You shouldn't have," John says, lifts his hand to Sherlock cheek and kisses him.
It's not the cataclysm Sherlock had expected or imagined, lying alone in his bed below John, listening to the creaks of the floorboards and the old bed up there, listening to signs of life which had suddenly penetrated his lonely existence. It's not a cataclysm, it's a seal. A final confirmation that the anxiety churning in his stomach these past few months, the twisting agony of loss after returning from the dead, the warmth glowing in his entire being those first months they moved into Baker Street together all those years ago was this, entirely, completely, perfectly this.
I love you, Sherlock thinks. I loved you before I even dared to call it that. One of these days, he will say the words, but there's time and this is so frightening and exciting that he'll have to take it one step at a time.
Right now, he has other new words to analyse. Family. Co-parent. Things he never thought he'd want before John Watson determinedly shoved them into his life.
John is looking at him, studying his expression inches from his face, concern etching itself slowly but surely deeper into those lines which have grown older in the past year. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock grabs his shoulders and pulls him closer, tilting his face just so he can press their lips together again. John should never doubt him again. John should never doubt this again.
Rosie shall get her own room sooner than planned, Sherlock decides.
——— The End ———