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It was in the autumn of Rosie’s third year that things changed. In the first part of her life chaos had swirled around her. But now, at last, there was rhythm and peace. A fire crackled in the Baker Street hearth. Sherlock played a quiet tune on his violin and John read Rosie a story as she nodded off.
With a soft smile, John kissed her forehead and picked her up. He and Rosie still shared the upstairs room, and so far there’d been no discussion of what would happen as she got older. That subject, like so many others, was simply avoided, stepped around like puddles after a storm.
John returned downstairs to find a fresh mug of tea waiting by his chair. Sherlock had put away his violin and they sat in comfortable silence. John read a journal, Sherlock worked on his laptop.
Sherlock’s phone vibrated and they looked at it in unison. Sherlock picked it up as John headed downstairs to tell Mrs. Hudson they were going out.
They met again in the foyer, Sherlock handing John his coat before sweeping outside to call a cab.
A cool breeze blew down John’s collar as they arrived at the scene. Greg, looking tired, gestured them in. John watched Sherlock as he always did, offering his own words, smiling fondly as he bickered with Greg, then swept out again in a swoosh of coat.
Sherlock led the chase through the night. Perhaps they were both getting a bit old for this; neither complained.
The grey light of dawn was just staining the sky as they made their way towards home, walking side by side. John had his hands stuffed in his coat. Sherlock walked a bit closer to him than was strictly necessary. Autumn leaves scattered around their feet as they cut through a park, alone save for a few foolhardy joggers, breath puffing against the chill air.
Sherlock veered off the path and headed across the dewy grass. Fog clung close, soon leaving them feeling like they were all alone in the world. Sherlock led them to the edge of a pond. The golden light barely touched the surface, diffused and lending an air of mystery. A tension crackled between them as they stood together, watching a lone swan drift across the water.
A leaf fell onto the pond, sending out slow ripples. John regarded it, but Sherlock still watched the swan. “When I was a child I was rather fond of The Ugly Duckling,” he said quietly.
John smiled. “I can see that.”
“It’s not true, though, I didn’t grow into a swan.”
John shrugged. “I’d argue with that.”
“People still don’t want me,” he said quietly, voice hushed.
“And that’s not true either. You’ve got Mrs. Hudson, and Greg, Mycroft too, in his own way.” John swallowed, looking up at him. “Me, of course and….and Rosie.”
Sherlock slowly looked down at him, cocking his head as he regarded John.
John met his gaze, hands slipping out of his pockets, the left squeezing reflexively.
“You do that when you’re anxious,” said Sherlock, not looking away. “Why are you anxious?”
“Because what are we doing, Sherlock?” John looked away, seeing the swan had been joined by another.
Sherlock stepped closer. “At the moment, we’re alone in the park, watching the swans.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” John breathed slowly through his mouth. “I… I’m not gay, Sherlock.”
“There are other sexualities besides gay and straight John.” Sherlock’s voice was gentle. “It’s not black and white.”
“I’m a doctor, I know that.” John stood, rooted to the spot.
“And yet you cling to a binary that doesn’t exist.” Carefully, cautiously, Sherlock reached out a hand and rest it on John’s back
John trembled under his touch, breath catching.
“It’s only us,” said Sherlock.
And it was, John knew that. Always them. Facing whatever dangers came their way. Raising Rosie together. Doing their best to move on from the wounds they had caused one another. He looked down at the water, seeing the two of them together and took one more breath in.
Careful not to disturb Sherlock’s arm, he turned and looked up at the man. Sherlock studied his face, but not in a deducing way, simply taking in his expression. John felt him tense.
Leaning up, John kissed him.
Sherlock wrapped him in his arms and kissed him back with a sigh. It was like coming to shore after a long voyage. It was safety. It was home.
John slowly returned to his feet, looking up at Sherlock. He reached up and cupped his cheek. The breeze ruffled their hair, perhaps not feeling quite as cold as it had. “We should go home,” he said, unmoving.
“Yes,” said Sherlock, leaning in and stealing one more kiss before taking a step back.
John smiled at him.
Sherlock smiled in return. Around them, the fog started to burn off. A few more people could be heard moving about as the city roused from its slumber. Sherlock led the way again, following the pond and then cutting across another field of grass.
John yawned as they reached Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her flat. “I’ve got Rosie, you two get some sleep.”
Sherlock nodded, for once not arguing. They climbed the stairs side by side. They shed coats and scarves and the last lingering chill and looked at each other again. John felt uncertain, despite everything. A stolen kiss in the park was one thing, but what did it mean here, at home?
Watching him, Sherlock reached out and took his hand, leading him down the short hallway to his bedroom. They both kicked off shoes and got in under the covers. John took Sherlock’s hands, watching him in the soft light.
Sherlock leaned in and kissed him again. “Rest, John. I’ll be here.”
And John knew he would be. In the afternoon, in the next morning. In the morning after that. They would go on, they would raise their daughter together, and face whatever adventures came after that. The seasons would turn around them, but here they would stay, binary stars, fixed in their orbits, supporting one another.
John sighed and closed his eyes, still holding Sherlock’s hand and finding rest at last.