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“Happy new year, Mary,” John stepped up behind his wife, resting a tentative hand on her hip and brushing his lips gently against her cheek. She had only just woken from a nap, still recovering after the birth of their daughter Anne.
After the tumultuous year that was, it was a relief to be at home, to have things in some kind of quiet order, despite the lingering fear of the unresolved issue of Moriarity’s return. The East Wind, John’s brain interjected. He ignored it.
“Happy new year to you too, muppet,” Mary smiled, turning in the careful embrace and resting her head on John’s shoulder a moment, and if it seemed that she couldn’t quite relax into John’s arms, he supposed it was mirrored in the tightness of his own shoulders, the tension in his lower back.
They were in the kitchenette, and over Mary’s shoulder John could see the living area was dim, lit only by a cheerful string of blinking lights flickering between red and orange and the muted London fireworks on the telly, the sound turned off. Mrs Hudson was dosing on the couch, a glass of sherry beginning to tip rather threateningly toward the rug. John squeezed Mary’s shoulder and let her go, taking two steps to the couch and plucking the glass from between Mrs Hudson's fingers.
“Did you have a good nap?”
“Not bad, bit hard to sleep through next door’s party. What’ve you– where’s Sherlock?”
John turned, with some concern, toward Mary. They had invited Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly to meet the baby and have a New Year's drink. Molly and Greg had excused themselves when Mary had gone to lie down, but Sherlock and Mrs Hudson had been reassured by John’s insistence that they stay for the fireworks.
“Christ, no, he went to the loo a half hour ago – I was doing the washing up, I didn’t think - ”
“No, he’s not in the loo, I’ve just been. You don’t think…”
“Surely not.”
John couldn’t quite suppress the sinking ache of fear in his stomach, nor identify its source. What was he afraid of? But he was afraid as he made his way swiftly to Anne’s room to find – to find -
To find Sherlock sitting in Mary’s rocking chair, his suit coat somewhere disposed of, with John’s tiny new baby curled up and, as far as John could see, asleep against his chest, her face mostly obscured by her butterfly pacifier. Sherlock’s right hand was resting protectively against Anne’s back, and one finger of his left hand looked comically large wrapped in Anne’s tiny fist.
One of Sherlock’s shoeless, stockinged feet was tipping from heel to toe, moving the rocking chair evenly, with careful pace, backwards and forward. Sherlock’s eyes were half lidded, his head tipped, apparently in quiet contemplation of Anne.
John knew better than to think his thunderous jog down the hallway or his presence in the door hadn’t been noted, and sure enough Sherlock looked up slowly at John and his face arranged itself in a guarded smile.
“Sorry,” Sherlock’s voice was impossibly deep, improbably soft and warm, “She was fussy when I walked past… “ he opened his mouth, as if he had more to say, but thought better of it. He closed his mouth and returned his eyes to the tiny bundle of stripey onesie in his arms.
“She probably needs a change then,” John said quietly, padding into the room to crouch by the rocker. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s knee to steady himself, settling his eyes on Anne.
“Did that, didn’t I Annie?” Sherlock mumbled quietly.
“You? You changed a nappy?”
“Shh. Yes. Gosh, is that so - ”
“It is a bit actually,” John’s voice returned to quiet, nursery levels and he found himself smiling up at Sherlock. He’d called her Annie, god, a pet name. Who’d have thought that a baby girl would be the absolute undoing of Sherlock Holmes?
John pressed his lips together and pushed himself to stand.
“It’s gone New Year,” he murmured.
“Has it?” Sherlock enquired, standing with all the seamless grace he always moved. John was still finding his feet with the baby, but Sherlock seemed completely at ease. Despite not having listened to a single word John said about how to hold her, he was carefully supporting her neck as he deftly returned her to her crib.
Sherlock paused a moment, bent over Anne, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her head. John wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear Sherlock utter, “Happy New Year, Annie, I love you.” But he did, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. He felt heavy with some indefinable emotion, with unspoken words. He leaned back against the doorframe, watching Sherlock, trying to take in the curiously still, curiously lovely moment with his curiously wonderful detective. His.
Sherlock turned, glanced at the door a moment, and then settled his eyes on John. He cleared his throat and took a step forward. There was a long moment where John mused on Sherlock having removed his shoes, on his rolled up sleeves, on the spot of what John thought was probably drying baby vomit on his chest. God I love you, John’s brain interjected. He allowed the thought to linger.
“And,” Sherlock paused again, swallowed, “And Happy New Year. John.”
Sherlock took another step, and that took him across the room. Sherlock stuck a hand out, as if offering it for John to shake. John thought of the airfield, of that goodbye he’d not believed was goodbye.
“None of that,” he took Sherlock’s hand, pulled the man against him, and wrapped both arms around him. And if Sherlock seemed to relax wholly against him, John supposed it was mirrored in the way his arms tightened around the other man’s shoulders, the way he turned his head into Sherlock’s neck, the way his bones relinquished an ache John hadn’t realised had taken hold.