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Sherlock blinks, for a moment puzzled as to what has woken him until he hears the faint sounds of Rosie crying downstairs. John and he have swapped rooms when the latter moved back in, since Sherlock's old bedroom is larger and much more convenient due to its proximity to the bathroom and the kitchen. Admittedly, Sherlock would have preferred to keep it, but John and Rosie did outnumber him, after all.
He's not quite used to waking up in the attic room yet though he does most nights whenever Rosie's crying; currently, she's teething, which according to John must hurt like hell. Sherlock turns over and closes his eyes again, to no avail; when the noise doesn't cease after about ten minutes, he gets up, slips into his dressing gown and pads down the stairs. In the kitchen, he puts the kettle on; not much later, John appears, looking rumpled, with Rosie in his arms. Her crying has turned into a tired keening, which is much easier to bear than her wailing.
“Sorry to wake you,” John says in an undertone. “I didn't think her voice would carry that far.”
“Old house, bad insulation,” Sherlock mutters. “Not a problem, though.” He wanders into the living room, takes up his violin and begins to play a lullaby. The new violin still feels a little alien; his old one didn't survive the blast from the bomb, which is something he forgets until his hands remind him that they were used to another instrument. Whenever he visits Sherrinford, however, it already seems like an ally. It's the only thing that's comforting about the whole affair. He likes playing to and together with Eurus, but he's always glad to be leaving again. What a life she's having to accept. What a fate. Sherlock really doesn't know how she's able to endure the confinement, the absence of daylight, the loss of control. Well. She got that back for a while, to no good ends.
He plays a while longer until he notices that both John and Rosie have fallen asleep on the sofa. No tea needed, then. After a moment of deliberation, Sherlock very gently shakes John awake. The doctor blinks: “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” With a yawn, he gets to his feet and disappears in the direction of his room. Sherlock looks at his retreating back; John's return to 221B brought warmth and life back into the flat, which is palpable even now. At one point, Sherlock wasn't sure what was going to happen, if John'd ever forgive him. Sherlock is certain that he will never again forget the raw pain on John's face, the sounds he made: inhuman, unbearable. Furious. Mary's death was worse than anything that happened before, even Sherlock's fake suicide. He still feels a pang when he thinks of her, which probably won't ever stop; returning from being dead for two years seems like a walk in the park compared to the more recent events. For the time being, however, it feels like they have weathered a storm. He and John are still a little cautious around each other at times, as though they're not quite sure that the ice underneath their feet will carry them. Which still is infinitely better than the loneliness of the past few years.
On the following day, Sherlock visits Sherrinford. This time, neither his parents nor Mycroft are present, which Sherlock is glad about. They always look so stricken, his mum and dad, which somehow is difficult to bear these days, especially since he, Sherlock, can't muster up anything other than pity for Eurus. The music seems to be the only thing which they truly have in common; apart from that, she could be a stranger.
It still puzzles Sherlock how his own brain managed to trick him into entirely blanking out such a vital part of his childhood. He knows about coping mechanisms and repression, of course, but the extent of it all seems rather infeasible to him. It also rankles that Mycroft not only knew but elected to keep this knowledge to himself. His reasons may have been noble, but Sherlock is certain that he also, in some twisted way, enjoyed his position as secret-keeper.
As the first weeks after what Sherlock has come to think of 'the reboot' go by, he finds himself wondering about the things he simply can't remember: how did their family break further apart after the fire and after Eurus had been taken away; why didn't his parents talk to him about it? About her?
It pains him to think about it, even though he's surprised by this. He always managed to keep these emotions at bay, but now shutting them out doesn't seem to work anymore; not when his sister is locked away on a rock somewhere in the North Sea. Not when he knows that it is breaking his parents' hearts all over again.
On the days on which he sets out for that desolate rock in the North Sea- John refers to it as 'Azkaban', whatever that means- Sherlock comes home in the late afternoon, and today is no exception. He's tired, chilled to the bone and craves a cup of tea as he gets out of the cab in front of 221B, but John is just lifting Rosie's stroller over the threshold, ready for a walk even though it's already getting dark, as has become usual on a Sherrinford day. So Sherlock wills himself to ignore the coldness; it is much easier now that's not overwhelming his mind anymore whenever John looks at him. Which he does now: he looks Sherlock over as he turns up his collar against the rather icy wind. “All right?”
The light isn't quite back in his eyes, but his tone is friendly and genuinely interested. If only there was something, Sherlock thinks once more as they fall into step next to one another, towards the park. A melody, a magic potion- something to vanish the sadness. It's less visible when Rosie's around, but John is wearing it like a cloak; Sherlock can't blame him.
“Not yet,” he says softly.
John nods; there is nothing to add and nothing to ask. Sherlock glances at him sideways: “You?”
For a moment, John's face remains impassive, then he inclines his head a little: “Yeah,” he says, nodding at no one in particular, and it almost sounds surprised. But to Sherlock, it seems like a step forward, and there haven't been many of those. So he nods as well, and they are silent again. If it weren't for the baby, it could have been a random evening from the time before. They won't get that back, Sherlock is painfully aware of it, not with everything that happened. But they've begun to build on it. Sometimes, it requires silence, or pushing a stroller through Regent's Park at nightfall on a cold winter's day with feet which feel as though they're going to fall off any minute now. Still, he thinks; layers. Steps. One at a time.
They are going to get there.
The End