Chapter Text
The drive back to Baker Street was a blur. John stood outside of the stolen sportscar while Sherlock secured Nero inside, and listened to the four gunshots in succession inside of the building, followed by one more, just a moment later. Irene Adler, cleaning up a mess she'd long ago thought would simply vanish on its own.
She emerged a moment later, her hair fixed, and Playback secured on the end of a leash. The dog didn't struggle, just walked playfully towards the car, hopping in and laying her head on Nero's lap once she was instructed to.
It was 5 in the morning and the sun was starting to rise over London. Irene drove, Sherlock took the passenger's seat, and John sat in the back with Nero, watching the boy doze with his dog. With the adrenaline of what had happened dissipating from his system, John began to feel the exhaustion from the last two days creep in, and his eyelids were starting to droop. All the same, he caught glimpses of Sherlock and Irene in the front.
Irene Adler, staring steadfast out the front, driving in complete silence. Sherlock, staring nowhere but at her. His eyes were intense, intent. It was as though Irene Adler was the sun and Sherlock was determined to burn out his retinas before the drive was up.
"I'm fine," she muttered once, only once.
"I know," Sherlock replied, voice low. He still didn't break his gaze.
Whether that look was worry, interest, or pure lust, John didn't know. He wasn't entirely certain he ever would know. She didn't ask if he was all right. The fact that he was breathing and bleeding in the seat next to her seemed to be enough.
"Go ahead and take the couch, John," Sherlock said. He held onto Nero, who had fallen asleep in the car. Playback trailed behind as Sherlock didn't wait for a response as he skipped over the creaky stair, he just started up towards John's room. Nero's room, John supposed. John's room was back at home, with Mary.
God, Mary. John pulled out his mobile and sent her a quick text. We're all right. Got everyone out safe. Home tomorrow. x
He paused before he sent it. He could try to go home. He glanced at Irene Adler, putting a kettle on for no discernible reason in the kitchen, and he listened for Sherlock upstairs.
This must've been what it was like, for Sherlock. The odd man out of the relationship.
"You've been up for two days, Dr. Watson," Irene said, appearing at his shoulder with his Union Flag pillow. "Trying to drive would just be dangerous at this point."
Her voice wasn’t exactly motherly, not the way that Mary's could be. But it did hold genuine notes of caring. Maybe, if she didn't care about John, she cared about the fact that Sherlock did.
There was a loud creak as Sherlock stepped back down the stairs alone, holding a blanket.
"It's not exactly fair, though, is it?" he inquired, handing the blanket to John.
John took it, blinking. "What isn't?"
"Wilma Ormstein's ultimate demise," Sherlock explained, with the annoyed tone that stated that John should already be on this part of the conversation. "She put more of the people I care about in danger, I deserved to kill her."
Irene smirked and turned back to the kitchen. John made a face. Somehow, this was going to be the conversation. And, somehow, this was more comfortable and more familiar than any of the conversations about children or Irene Adler or anything else over the last two days. John couldn't help but welcome this.
"Yes, but that would have made you a murderer, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorted. "We both already know that's in my repertoire."
A slight smile appeared on John's face. Yeah, it was, wasn't it? When John and Mary were in danger, Sherlock killed Charles Augustus Magnussen. John had killed for Sherlock. And now, Irene had killed for all of them. Though, for all John knew, that wasn’t something new for her, either.
Sherlock's face was bruised, bloodied, and still he managed a little smile, one that made him look like he was about twelve years old. Even now, now that John knew he had a child and a sort of awkward family with the most dangerous woman that John had ever met, Sherlock was still just himself. And that was comforting.
"Get some rest, John."
John nodded. "You, too."
Sherlock turned towards the kitchen, where Irene was pouring the boiling water into a bowl with a towel. Not the most sterile or efficient way to clean up a wound, and John would have told her that, except she promptly reached down, picked up her high heels and put them on the table. With the towel, she began to wipe off the blood from the tops of her heels.
"Your dog's going to chew those up before the week's out," Sherlock murmured to her. His voice was low, but just loud enough for John to hear as he began to make himself comfortable on the couch. John could just about see Irene, from where she stood in the kitchen, but Sherlock was out of sight.
"She's not my dog," Irene purred, clearly both irritated by the conversation and amused by it at the same time.
"Nero's dog."
"He said she went through police obedience classes," Irene replied, drawing the towel across one of the long heels.
"He didn't say she passed."
Irene's lips twitched into a small smirk. "Everything can be trained with time," she said.
"I couldn't."
She turned her head to wherever Sherlock was in the kitchen, and a look of pure defiance crossed her face. It was almost comical to John. As in, how dare he tell her that he wasn't cowing to her every whim, when that was clearly not what she wanted at all. She liked it when Sherlock fought back; she liked it when he argued with her. Even now, all defiant and irritated, she didn't pull back when Sherlock's hand appeared to cup the side of her face, and her eyes closed as he leaned in to press his mouth to hers.
John didn't understand them. He didn't understand a relationship that was built like this. He could understand the love of adventure, even the thrill of danger, but this---this thing they had, it was beyond him.
John looked down at his mobile, and thought about Mary. For Sherlock, with his twisted, backwards, antagonistic ways with Irene Adler, Mary must've looked downright confusing. But she was perfect for John. Even her flaws, even the past that John didn't know.
He sent the text, letting Mary know he'd be home in the morning. Because he knew she'd understand.
The reply from Mary was immediate. Love you x
There was a quiet click as Sherlock's bedroom door shut. John glanced up to see that Irene and Sherlock had taken their leave of the kitchen, leaving the steaming bowl of water, the half-cleaned shoes, and everything else behind.
It didn't matter that what Sherlock and Irene had was beyond him. It was right for the two of them. And they were, as far as John could see, happy.
+~
"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson! Wake up!"
All right, apparently Nero had that gene, that one that made him an absolute morning person. The boy was all but bouncing in front of him, holding out a box of Maltsers and another book on orchids.
"I found this hidden under my pillow, it's from Father, right? I'm right, aren't I? There was a note that said I should eat this whole box before mother picked me up this afternoon."
John blinked. God, how many of those sweets had the boy eaten? Oh, god, Sherlock was getting him hyper before Irene took him home. What a bastard.
"Where's your mother?" John asked, sitting up.
"Out, a few hours ago. Took Playback to get a few things," Nero said. "Father's still asleep."
"I know you didn't inherit being an early riser from him," John said.
"That's what Mother says."
John eyed the boy as he popped another chocolate in his mouth. "Back to 'Mother' and 'Father', eh? You were calling them Mummy and Daddy for a while there."
Nero shrugged. "I was tired. They get all awkward when I get too informal." He turned, looking up at John. "I want them to like me, and if they get too awkward all the time, they won't."
John shook his head and reached out, putting a hand on Nero's shoulder. "I don't think that's how it works. Being a parent, Nero. They---they love you. Because…they're your parents."
"You have met them, Dr. Watson?" Nero said, and his voice was just the right edge of sarcastic, letting him know that if there was any doubt that this was Sherlock's child, it was absolutely gone, now.
The door to Sherlock's room opened, and Sherlock stepped out in his dressing gown. His hair was askew, he yawned, and at the base of his collarbone was a rather impressive love bite. He paused upon realizing that other people were in the living room, and readjusted his gown to cover the mark.
Well, good on them for not waking John up, at the very least.
"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, looking around. The bowl and shoes from the night before were gone, and she'd done some mild form of cleaning up of Nero's things---leaving all of Sherlock's mess alone, mind.
"She went out, a few hours ago," Nero said, popping another candy into his mouth. "Where did you find the book? I was looking for it for ages!"
"I have a friend who specializes in antique literature," Sherlock replied. "Well, I say 'a friend'…"
John blinked. "You gave antique literature to a four-year-old."
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "He'll be fine."
Nero, for his part, looked offended. "I know how to take care of books, Dr. Watson."
"I hope so, your mother gave me a list of books you want for your birthday," Sherlock said. He let out a snort as he looked at his phone. "She could find a few of these things herself."
Despite how annoyed he sounded, John had the distinct impression that Sherlock enjoyed it. Enjoyed looking for strange books on orchids or whatever Nero wanted. Showing off that he knew someone who specialized in antique literature—who John didn't know, actually, and that made him just a touch nervous.
"Hello, Mrs. Wolfe!" came the happy chime from Mrs. Hudson downstairs. If John didn't know better, he'd almost say that cheerful, loud greeting was plotted by Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson so he'd know that Irene was on her way back.
Sherlock reached over and snatched the sweets from Nero's hands, indicating him to shhhh when the boy started to protest. John shook his head. God, the two of them. Well, the three of them. In the light of the morning, it was all very comical, and a whole lot less terrifying. It was a lot of Sherlock, being himself. Flirting, as best he knew how.
Irene came upstairs, with Playback tapping merrily ahead of her. It was very apparent what Irene had been up to on her outing. Any question of Playback's gender was now gone, as Irene had the dog washed and groomed, a lot of the scraggly hairs snipped away to reveal the Airedale heritage within the mutt. Irene had also purchased Playback some sort of sparkling, pink collar that seemed to be gem-encrusted, and had her on a pink leather leash. Playback was still the ugliest dog that John had ever seen, mind. Just, a lot more feminine, and definitely more sophisticated. Apparently, Irene decided the dog deserved to be treated like one of the family.
Nero hopped off of the couch and jumped over to the dog, gleefully running to give her a big hug. Playback barked excitedly, and Irene let out a low, annoyed sigh. John couldn't help but smile. The dog was going to drive Irene insane, but she was going to manage it for Nero's sake. Sherlock was never going to let her live that down.
"Nero, darling, get your raincoat," Irene instructed him.
Nero let out a fantastic pout, one that John had to believe was entirely himself as he detached himself from his dog and went over to his bag and his raincoat sitting by the stairs.
"He's more hyper than he was when I left," Irene said, staring pointedly at Sherlock.
"He just woke up, I don't control John," Sherlock said, gesturing towards the couch.
John raised a finger. "No. No, don't bring me into this. We were having a perfectly lovely morning, we should keep it that way."
Sherlock looked from John back to Irene, and a small smile appeared on his face. "You see, he's going to be a great father."
"Oh, I suppose," Irene said, though her voice was theatrically doubtful. She glanced in John's direction and gave him a small smile as well, that mirrored Sherlock's. The two looked back at each other for a long moment. Small smiles, quiet looks. These were things that happened between John and Mary all of the time, but---how often did they happen for Sherlock and Irene? And were they even the same?
From the way Sherlock stepped away, and the look of triumph on Irene's face, John had a feeling that no, no, they really weren't.
"We'll still be meeting in Rome for Nero's birthday, then?" Irene said, pulling out a few papers from the inside of her coat. Tickets, it appeared, for herself and for Nero. They were leaving, and now.
"Absolutely," Sherlock responded, his own pout over their little staring contest now fully in force. Or, perhaps, because they were leaving, John couldn't tell.
"We'll split the books for Nero," she added.
"Of course."
"And you'll take the whole week?" Irene inquired, sounding mildly incredulous.
"I said I would," Sherlock responded, his own tone insulted. "Why are you asking again?"
There was a pause, and Irene's gaze turned to the stairs, to the little boy watching them.
"The trip was your idea," Irene said, pointedly.
Sherlock's jaw went up, and they both turned as one to look over by the stairs, where Nero was suddenly very, very interested in the buttons of his coat.
Oh, God. Nero had been up all morning, playing bloody matchmaker with his parents, and negotiating with them which would buy him what birthday gifts he wanted. He was definitely going to be a master criminal. Or a brilliant detective, whichever of his parents got their way.
Irene's face was irritated as she looked at Nero, but softened as she turned away. A pleased look crossed her face, something warm and almost motherly. It was…rather strange, actually, but it seemed to suit her.
"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she said.
He gave her a nod. "'Til the next time."
She turned away from Sherlock then. No goodbye kisses, no embraces, nothing. Just a farewell and a departure. She even tossed a nod in John's direction as she headed for the door, dog's leash in one hand, Nero's hand in the other. Heading outside for another really expensive stolen sportscar (this one bright violent purple) waiting outside. The strangest mother John had ever seen and yet---well, she worked. She suited her son, and his father.
Speaking of, Sherlock still stood by the fireplace, as though replaying everything that had just occurred over and over in his head, trying to recall every moment. John usually only saw these sorts of displays when Sherlock was furious at himself for doing something wrong and he was trying to piece together what he'd missed. Maybe that was happening in regards to the text exchange he'd had with his son about, well, his son's birthday.
"You all right?" John asked, standing and stretching.
Sherlock nodded. "She usually leaves without any sort of…formal goodbye."
"Yeah, she said you don't like those," John said.
Sherlock didn't respond, but his silence answered for him. No, John didn't think Sherlock liked saying goodbye to his Woman. He had a feeling that, too often, goodbyes with her were the last time he ever thought he'd see her again. But not this time. No, they had plans, and they had holidays, whether or not Sherlock would call the plans he had with Irene that.
But still, she lived a dangerous life. So did he.
Sherlock stepped over to his violin. He didn't play it as often when John was around. Not so often lost in thought when his only friend wasn't around all of the time. Sherlock tried to take advantage of the time they had together, not lose himself in it.
It was almost nice, seeing something so familiar return.
"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" John asked.
Sherlock raised the violin to his chin and began to draw the bow across it. The long, sad, heartbroken notes John remembered before returned, but now they had a different tone. Almost hopeful.
"She always comes back."