Chapter Text
Life goes on. Or rather, it's supposed to. But things in John's life never really went the way that they were supposed to, and he'd learned to live with it. The Final Problem had come to pass, they were picking up the pieces of the aftermath, and Baker Street was due to begin its rebuild within the week. Things were good, or were supposed to be. Life was meant to move on, but yet.
But yet. John's life was filled with but yets, far too many for his liking. For example, he himself had a lovely daughter and a spacious house in the suburbs. Things were alright. But yet, but yet, he hated it. Every inch of this life he was struggling to maintain, he despised it to the very core. Not Rosie, never Rosie, but instead the false air of mediocrity that he gave off to all of the neighbors. It wasn't him, it was far from him, and what he wouldn't give to burn the entire place to the ground. John knew how good it would feel, how righteous he'd feel, but having the police called on him didn't seem like the brightest idea. So here he stayed, in the stupid house contained within the stupid neighborhood he hardly even liked, partially drowning in the memories of what this place used to contain.
The other side of the bed remains empty. No more blond curls sprawl across the pillows, and the other side of the closet is a hollow space. He'd given away most of Mary's things a few days ago, after he'd gotten back home and had a spare bit of time to recover from the horrifying experience in Sherrinford. He still kept a few, nestled away to keep for Rosie when she was older, but he himself knew how desperately he needed to let go. Mary no longer lingered around as a figment of his grief-addled brain, so he'd taken it as a sign. He'd felt lighter in the slightest.
Life went on. But no, it didn't, because there was another bump in the road, another hitch in his throat. There was Sherlock Holmes, there would always be Sherlock Holmes, and nothing about that fact had changed over the course of seven years. The last time he'd seen Sherlock had been when they'd parted ways once they were back in London, Sherlock in one cab and John in the other. He'd not received a call nor text from the detective in the days since, and that slightly worried him. Where was Sherlock, now that there was no Baker Street to return to? Why hadn't he reached out? Was he waiting for John to make the first move, considering they were still on thin ice after what had transpired after Mary's death?
That left him here, at 10:32 PM on a bloody Tuesday, feet wearing treads in the carpet of his sitting room as he paced back and forth in front of the coffee table. He'd put Rosie down for bed a few hours ago, but yet (there was another one of those but yets), he couldn't sleep. He hadn't really slept since after Mary died, and even after he'd reconciled with Sherlock after putting him in hospital. His mobile sat, motionless, on the coffee table, the very source of his internal debate. It was late, of course it was late, but a part of him was itching to at least try Sherlock, to reassure himself that Sherlock was alright. It'd been itching for days, but being manic on three cups of coffee at a late hour seemed to do the trick.
The mobile felt heavy in his palm, his fingers trembling in the slightest as he pulled up a fresh text thread, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He might as well start off with a greeting, and leave it at that.
Hi.
God, this was a bad idea, he already knew it was a bad idea. He couldn't do this, what was he even thinking-
Good evening, John. -SH
The response had been almost immediate, was that a good sign? Had to be, considering Sherlock had replied at all. John was almost sloppy in his attempt to fire off a reply.
You're up late.
So are you. -SH
I haven't heard from you since (DELETED)
I wanted to see how you were (DELETED)
I really wish you (DELETED)
Just checking in.
It's been awhile.
This was definitely the worst idea John'd had in a long while. Already the conversation was plummeting slowly downhill, and he'd only gotten as far as a small greeting.
I'm not out on the streets, if that's what you're asking. -SH
Nor am I doing drugs. -SH
Not what I was implying.
Do you mind if I call?
I know it's late.
It's fine. -SH
Oh, lovely, why had he suggested a call? It wasn't like he wasn't going to see Sherlock again, considering that they'd most likely bump into each other once they went back to Baker Street to assist with the rebuilding, so why on Earth did this feel like such an important thing to do? But he'd already extended the offer, Sherlock had accepted, and that was that. John pulled up Sherlock's name in his contact list, hit the call button, and held the mobile up to his ear as it dialed. The call was picked up almost immediately, but there was only silence on the other end, accompanied by a bit of rustling about.
"Hello?" John's voice sounded tentative, even to his own ears, and he could've slapped himself.
"John." Sherlock sounded as tired as John felt, but at least he was there, a steady presence in John's ear. "Is something the matter? I only inquire as it's late in the evening, you don't usually-"
"No! No, there's nothing wrong, Sherlock." John quickly interrupted, taking a seat on the sofa, running his tongue over the back of his teeth. "Sorry, erm- I just . . . I was wondering how you were doing. I mean, we haven't really- Christ, forget it, this was a stupid idea."
"Oh." said Sherlock, and there was another beat of silence on the other end before he spoke again. "No, it's- I'm fine. I'm staying with Mycroft for the time being, until Baker Street is rebuilt. I haven't really been- still trying to process everything, I suppose."
"Yeah, me too." John felt a bit easier about the entire situation. Sherlock was safe, warm, had a bed to sleep in, wasn't out on the streets trying to drown his memories with whatever he could purchase off a dealer. That was what mattered. "That's, ah- that's good, Sherlock. I'm glad."
John's fingers curled around the edge of his mobile, glancing around at the interior of his home. It was just him and Rosie, against the world, tucked away in the suburbs that John wished he could escape. But, he felt as if there was an empty, gaping hole. He needed company. He needed it, and that he was sure of.
"Sherlock . . ." John began, then paused, wrapping his head around the idea that'd just popped into his head a moment ago before he continued on. "Listen, I . . . would you want to . . . it's alright if you say no, but- maybe you'd like to stay with me for a bit? Just until Baker Street's done. I know Rosie would love to see her godfather."
So would I, John silently added, but he didn't say it out loud. There was another beat of awkward silence on the other end of the line, and John worried for a moment that Sherlock had hung up.
"Are you sure, John?" Sherlock slowly asked, his tone incredulous. "I wouldn't want to be a bother."
"You wouldn't be. Look, you don't have to accept, I just thought I'd offer. I have a guest room, so you wouldn't be forced to sleep on the sofa or anything like that."
"I- alright. I'll see if I can catch a cab at this hour."
John released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and he probably looked quite ridiculous, smiling to himself in an empty room.
"Okay. I'll see you then." John said, before ending the call and immediately setting off into the kitchen to put a kettle on to boil.
He headed down the hall so he could make up the guest room's bed with fresh linens and a few blankets from the top of the closet, checking in on Rosie for a second before going to check the tea. He'd at least have a cuppa out if Sherlock wanted it, but if not, that was fine, too.
John fiddled with the telly until he found one of the crap shows he enjoyed, just to calm his nerves. In reality, he shouldn't be nervous, considering he and Sherlock had lived together for years. But yet (another of those pesky things), this felt like a first meeting all over again. This time, they were both hurting, trying to heal from experiences that were still incredibly raw.
It seemed like no time at all had passed when the doorbell rang, and as expected, Rosie gave a shriek from the nursery. But John'd wait to settle her back down until he let Sherlock in, so he rose from his seat and crossed the room to the door.
Sherlock looked weary, a few bags settled on the porch around him, but not much else. He wore his usual coat and scarf, his curls in disarray and somewhat flattened on one side, like he'd been laying on them.
"John." Sherlock managed a small smile, although it was quick to fade. "Is it still alright if I come in?"
"Of course, Sherlock. Yeah, let me just-" John bent to grab some of Sherlock's bags, then winced as Rosie started to wail from inside the house. "Ah, I've got to go get her sorted, give me a moment. Take a seat on the couch, there's tea in the kitchen if you'd like it."
Sherlock gave a curt nod, so John turned and walked into the entryway, hearing the door shut behind him a few minutes later, and the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. John set the bags down in the sitting room before heading down the hall and into the nursery, picking Rosie up from her cot and cradling her close, bouncing her slightly to calm her cries. Once he'd given her the pacifier she'd managed to drop and paced around the room with her for a few minutes, she had calmed right back down, and John tucked her back in before going to see how Sherlock was holding up.
Sherlock looked exhausted, not having even stripped himself of his outerwear, although he did pour himself some tea. He cradled the mug in his hands, but did not drink.
"Sorry," was the first thing to exit John's mouth, and he could've slapped himself for it. Although, it did gain Sherlock's attention, accompanied by a questioning look. "It's late, I know, but- I was worried. About you, I suppose. I hadn't heard from you since . . . well, you know, and I thought that you'd like a place to stay."
"A kind offer." Sherlock murmured in reply, setting his untouched tea on the coffee table. "I wasn't ready to reach out to anyone yet, I was still . . . sorting myself out. But, thank you for extending the invitation. It might have been just what I needed."
John allowed himself a smile before gesturing toward the hallway. "Come on, then, I'll show you your room, shall I?"
John was already well on his way down the hall, but the creak of the sofa signified that Sherlock was following. He reached inside the guest room to flick on the light, and stood aside so Sherlock could enter.
"I hope it's alright. We never really had much use for it before, I already went ahead and changed up the sheets and all that."
"Thank you, John." Sherlock gave him a half smile, hefting one of the bags he'd brought up onto the bed and starting to unpack.
"Right, yeah. I'll let you get some sleep." John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward. "I'm just down the hall, in case you need anything. Night, then."
"Goodnight, John."
John nodded before going into the sitting room to shut off the telly, putting Sherlock's mug in the sink. He'd wash it in the morning. Sherlock was in the bathroom by then, soft light flooding out from underneath the shut door, so John left him to it, going to his own bedroom.
After he'd changed, washed up, and laid down, John felt himself relax for the first time in a long time. It felt comforting, to have someone else in the house besides him and his daughter. And the fact that it was Sherlock, that he now knew Sherlock was safe, put him at ease. It was easy to fall into a doze.
Life went on.