Chapter Text
IA: You’re being dramatic x
SH: I’m not.
IA: You really are. He asked you out, I thought that’s what you wanted? X
SH: It was.
IA: So stop complaining and get on with it x
SH: You’re very unhelpful.
IA: You’re just stubborn x
SH: I’m not that stubborn.
IA: Fine. If your 30 second relationship with John hasn’t worked out: do you fancy going for dinner? X
SH: No.
—
Mrs Hudson would have considered herself a fool if she hadn’t realised what was going on between Sherlock and John. She had known it the moment John had walked into Baker Street that day; Sherlock could offer some intricate deduction filled with needlessly scientific facts about John’s right shoe’s aglet, but she didn’t need any of that. She knew the expression of a man who was both determined and in love.
She had seen it in the faces of the drug addicts who had turned up at her Florida flat out of desperation for the substance to which they clung.
She had seen it in the faces of the protesters in the marches she had attended in her youth – that powerful desperation for change that came with the passion of the protest.
She had seen it in Sherlock’s face. Plenty of times. Far too many times considering how little his determination reaped the rewards it had sewn in vain.
She sighed quietly to herself as she heard the front door slam. It was almost sickening how often she had to get the hinges and locks fixed whenever John was around.
The man couldn’t close the door without slamming it, particularly when he was in a mood. And despite not hearing the conversation that had warranted the slamming of her front door, she resigned herself to an inevitably foul-tempered Sherlock filled evening.
“Why can’t you two just get along?” She mumbled, closing her copy of Death on the Nile on the first page, bookmark nestled securely in place.
Slowly, she stood up and picked the tin of biscuits off the kitchen counter - desperate times call for desperate measures – and began her journey upstairs.
The flat was silent. A breeze floated by, buoyant on the stillness Sherlock and John’s argument had left in the cramped lounge, like space dust ricocheting off the atmosphere.
Mrs Hudson set the biscuit tin down next to Sherlock’s laptop, looking around.
Annoyance at John was the first thing to hit her. She had always liked the doctor and been very tolerant of him, even after he abandoned her when Sherlock ‘died’, and after he had stomped over Sherlock’s naïve and damaged heart. Again. And again. And where was he now? Always jealous of any attention Sherlock received, Mrs Hudson watched as the man always pointed the finger at Sherlock and rarely took the blame for his own actions.
He would piss Sherlock off and then cry victim when Sherlock lashed out. He’d done it numerous times. When Sherlock tried to help and it backfired, John would claim that everything was always Sherlock’s fault.
He’d even blamed Sherlock for Mary’s death, and Sherlock hadn’t had chance to explain himself before John steamrollered over their friendship with his mourning.
Mrs Hudson could sympathise with the mourning of his dead wife, but there was absolutely no need for him to be that cruel to Sherlock.
Mrs Hudson decided that John was a very petty man who definitely didn’t deserve Sherlock, and next time she saw him she would tell him exactly what she thought.
She couldn’t bear to see Sherlock’s heart get broken again.
“Ah, just the person I wanted to see.”
Mrs Hudson turned around and found, to her surprise, Sherlock standing in the doorway of the lounge, with Rosie fast asleep in his arms.
“Would you mind finding some suitable blankets for Rosie? John’s gone back home to fetch some more clothes for her. I don’t want to put her down in case she falls off something.”
Mrs Hudson instantly relaxed.
“Of course, dear,” she said warmly, smiling up at Sherlock and Rosie.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock turned around and walked back to his bedroom, the now assembled cot easily visible through the open door.
“Sherlock?”
Mrs Hudson followed him through, still slightly hesitant.
“Hm?”
“Is everything alright?” She asked carefully. “Between you and John?”
Sherlock lay Rosie in the cot and turned around.
“I’m not sure,” Sherlock replied honestly. “We had a few words. John and his self-diagnosed victimisation is going to be his downfall.”
Mrs Hudson sighed, quietly relieved that Sherlock had at registered one of John’s tendencies.
“But we’ve decided to make one of our rules of our clear communication. If one of us is unhappy with something, we have to make it known and not bottle it up.”
Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, beaming from ear to ear.
“A rule?” She asked excitedly. “Oh, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grinned embarrassedly, his cheeks burning crimson.
“Yes, a rule. He’s still a bit tender, but we decided that we would test the waters.”
“But what happened?” Mrs Hudson enquired, watching as Sherlock closed his bedroom curtains. “John slammed the door and I assumed you’d had another one of your rows. One day the whole building will fall down if you two aren’t careful.”
“We almost argued,” Sherlock replied. “But then I just… I couldn’t be bothered for the hurt. Angst is incredibly boring and I’m getting too old. So I told him.”
Mrs Hudson nodded excitedly.
“And?”
“And what?” Sherlock asked, walking around his room and picking up bits and pieces that he’d abandoned throughout the week. “There was no big romantic gesture, Mrs Hudson. I made a comment about marriage…”
Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow.
“John didn’t think I would be into that sort of thing. So, I told him what I wanted out of a relationship and he told me what he wanted, and we discovered that what we wanted was largely the same thing.”
Mrs Hudson couldn’t stop smiling, which prompted Sherlock to continue.
“John wants to come on cases again, and is considering leaving his GP practice. Mary left him a lot of money, but he’s been spending most on it on getting his hair cut to that quiff, and I want John to come on cases again, and I would also like John and Rosie to move in here.”
Mrs Hudson could hardly contain her excitement.
“But, there are a few obstacles to overcome first. I’ve told John that we can’t do anything concrete until those obstacles present themselves.”
Mrs Hudson nodded slowly.
“You two can’t do anything simply, can you?” She sighed.
“But this calls for celebration.”
Sherlock smiled. In the cot, Rosie stretched out and yawned.
“John won’t spend nights here,” Sherlock told Mrs Hudson quickly, watching Rosie while she slept. “And John’s going to continue seeing this new therapist of his. Oh, and I’m going back to see Ella.”
“Who’s Ella?”
“John’s old therapist,” Sherlock supplied. “We’ve decided it’s best if we see different ones.”
“Well,” Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway. “If you need a babysitter, just let me know.”
Sherlock nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
Mrs Hudson turned to leave, full of hope for her favourite tenant, but she paused on the way out.
“Sherlock, you make sure you tell me if John upsets you. If you don’t tell me, I’ll know anyway. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Sherlock nodded.
“I think this’ll be the one, Mrs Hudson.”
—
John couldn’t stop smiling. He had just dropped Rosie off at the best nursery, the sun was shining, and after his appointment with his therapist he was going to head straight to Baker Street to solve crimes and receive one of the best blow jobs he’d ever received.
Honestly, if he’d known how good Sherlock was he’d have initiated a relationship years ago. Sod the politics, sod Moriarty, and sod every single thing that had ever stood between them. John was the happiest he’d been in years.
Their first kiss had taken place on a perfectly ordinary Sunday morning. Sherlock had brought John an anniversary card.
“It’s not our anniversary,” John told him, flipping the card over in his hand. “And you left the price on the back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, taking the card off him and peeling the sticker off. He handed the card back to John. “Of course it’s our anniversary. 29th of January. It’s the day we met.”
John looked up at him, surprised.
“How on earth do you remember that?” He asked, bewildered.
Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs Hudson, and John continued making two mugs of tea.
“It’s on your blog,” Sherlock replied. “I told you, I often read your blog. I remember the dates.”
“You only read them to fall asleep.”
Sherlock blushed slightly.
“I read them to relax.”
He didn’t offer anymore on the topic, but John didn’t need him to. He already knew.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he said, setting Sherlock’s tea down in front of him. “Sorry.”
Sherlock shrugged.
“It’s okay,” he said, turning his mug around so that the handle was in the right position to be grabbed easily. “You can make it up to me another way.”
He looked up at John with slight smirk and a definite twinkle in his eye.
John grinned.
“Oh?”
“Hm.” Sherlock nodded. His blush deepened when John stood in front of him. They had been close before. Closer, in fact. But John could feel the electricity like static tense between them as he began to close the gap.
He gently tucked his hand beneath Sherlock’s chin and tilted his head upwards, slightly.
Sherlock moved easily, and from the position of his hand John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat race a mile a minute.
They kissed slowly, softly, with all the gentleness of a flower petal fluttering down towards a bed of fluffy grass.
And John hadn’t stopped smiling since.
Since their first kiss, he and Sherlock spent what time together they could. They didn’t really go for lunch or dinner together, because they weren’t that sort of couple and because of their vow of secrecy, but John’s heart was full. Full, because the previous night he’d told Sherlock he loved him and Sherlock had said it back instantly.
Without a second thought.
John genuinely thought he might burst. The few weeks since he and Sherlock had gone to the zoo were some of the happiest of his life.
And then he entered this therapist’s house.
And the brief spell of happiness came crumbling down.