Chapter Text
John opened the front door to Baker Street and took a deep breath. The smell of coffee and biscuits welcomed him, like back in the days when Mrs. Hudson had still lived here. There were no more weird-patterned wallpapers, the new inhabitants preferred light colours. He almost made his way up the stairs before he remembered.
Rosie smiled, when she saw him standing in the kitchen door. She had her blond hair tamed in a braid that was almost long enough to touch her hips. She worked as a primary school teacher, had just gone back to working two years ago when Mary had turned two.
He hugged her tightly. “Hello, love bug. Good to see you.”
Rosie smiled at him, kissing his cheek. “Good to see you too, Dad. But I’m not four years old anymore.”
John found one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. His leg was nagging him again. “I pretend you still are or else I’d have to admit I’m an old man.”
Rosie started making tea and John could see a lot of himself in the way she moved around the kitchen, always busy.
“Where’s Papa?” John smiled at the thought of his husband, over seventy years old, still wearing his Belstaff, still sharp as ever.
“Oh, you know, every time we come to London he is off to the Yard like a moth to a flame. The new Detective Inspector is a big fan of my blog and Sherlock solves most cases over the phone now. The doctor is a little concerned, his heart, you know. So I keep him from running around too much.”
Rosie came over to him, a cup of tea in hand and kissed his cheek again. She knew he worried. “Noah sent a card. He’s still in India. He found the village, where his grandparents were born. He says he will be back for Christmas.”
Noah’s journey had begun two years ago. It had started as a holiday in India to get to know his mother’s culture and now he worked there for different charities and health organisations.
John was proud of him, but he missed having his big man around. The pictures he sent showed a happy young man with long, dark hair amidst hordes of children. “He’s so much like you, Dad. This need to help people, it’s impressive.”
“Yeah, and he is as ignorant of danger as his father is.”
Large hands grabbed John’s shoulders, squeezing them softly. “I am not ignorant; I am looking for danger. Actively.”
John covered the hand on his left shoulder with his own, turned his head around and looked up at his husband of over thirty years. He was still gorgeous, white hair falling in curls as thick as ever into a pale, barely wrinkled face, as if even age did not dare to touch the great Sherlock Holmes. The pale eyes still scanned every bit of their surroundings, now supported by glasses.
“As if that were better, love.” They kissed briefly.
“Ewww. Get a room you two.”
They all turned around to see Kat standing in the door frame. She smiled and Sherlock was the first to hug her.
Their youngest daughter had shaved one side of her head and John could see parts of her sleeve tattoos peeking out from under her leather jacket. She was wonderful, bright, brilliant even and she wore the word “freak” as a patch of pride. She was a doctor, and a mother, and John was so proud of her.
“I can’t and won’t leave my hands off your dad, Katherine. That’s called love.” The two curly-heads smiled at each other, then Sherlock bent down to kiss a sleeping Minerva. Their youngest grandchild had her head tucked against her mother’s shoulder, her small mouth hanging open a bit. John wanted to eat her alive, that’s how cute she was.
Shawn entered the room as Sherlock hugged Rosie, kissing her cheek. John got up from his chair and a sleepy Mary from his son-in-law. Soon, she would be too big for him to hold her, which made John a bit sad. Time was cruel, sometimes, even as he tried to focus on the good sides of growing old.
“There’s the birthday boy. Twelve already. You should stop growing.” He smirked at Aiden, who stepped into the kitchen behind his father, eyes glued to his phone. He looked up and even accepted a hug from his old grandpa.
Sherlock’s hand petted the mop of blond hair on their grandson's head. He was the only one still allowed to do that. “Happy Birthday, Aiden.”
They lay awake in the room that had been John’s, then Rosie’s and that now served as a guest room. John’s chest was pressed against his husband’s back. Sherlock had learned to appreciate his body heat with old age. Their hands lay intertwined on the detective’s belly.
“Rosie is pregnant again. She will tell us tomorrow at breakfast. I should probably not have told you that. You are horrible at acting surprised.”
John smiled, kissing the pale skin behind his husband’s ear. “Who would have thought that the Watson family would grow that big, that there would ever be a Watson family? We are two lucky bastards, love.”
They moved and Sherlock laid his head on John’s chest. “I like being Sherlock Watson way more than I liked being Sherlock Holmes.”
John hugged the other man tighter, pressing kisses to his hair. “And I love you more than I love myself.”
They fell asleep in each other’s arms, and they would do so for six more years.