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“P.S I know you two and if I’m gone I know what you could become. Because I know who you really are. A junkie who solves crimes to get high. And the doctor who never came home from the war.
Will you listen to me? Who you are really doesn’t matter.
It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures.
There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted.
There is a final court of appeal for everyone.
When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope.
When all else fails, there are two men sitting, arguing in a scruffy flat, like they’ve always been there, and they always will.
The best and wisest men I have ever known; my baker street boys. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”
Mary’s note to John and Sherlock stunned both of them in different ways. John was constantly impressed with how often that woman surprised him, even in death. She was no longer here with him, in his mind, but he still thought of her every day. A mixture of regret, guilt, loneliness, and grief swirled through him every time his mind touched on her. When he was with Rosie he thought of her often, which meant there was pride and love as well.
Rosie was getting so big and he wished dearly that Mary could see it. He and Rosie were surrounded by love and support most days though and it made everything bearable, and often even okay. As the days and weeks and months wore on, things even started to be good.
Sherlock was also stunned by Mary’s ability to constantly surprise him. After he had so greatly misread her before learning of her hidden past, he’d paid extra attention to her habits, tells, and actions. From then on he was able to deduce and predict everything about her, but not that she would speak to them from beyond the grave, twice - or one other thing. Sherlock too was filled with guilt any time he thought of Mary; guilt about how he wasn’t able to predict her saving him, guilt about how she so arduously and with certainty put the weight of value on his life in a way that had never existed, despite the good he put out into the world.
Mary had left John with Rosie and Sherlock, and Mary had left Sherlock with John and the task to look after him.
John and Sherlock didn’t really speak about the DVD. It was mostly just “well” and “right” and “that’s that” and they got on with it, sitting in their own awkwardness, determined to proceed forward as normally as possible. One thing they took to heart though was to return to the familiar. To find support in one another and to be a part of the world again in the ways in which they could help.
--
The first day they returned to 221B Baker Street to examine the damage was difficult. It was close on the heels of the trauma that Eurus had inflicted and seeing the devastation to their flat was disheartening. They were relieved to realize that the blast was not as severe as it could have been. Esurus hadn’t wanted to kill them and had of course predicted their ability to escape it alive, though not unscathed, and tailored the blast to that. The apartment was ruined, but it was there structurally and some of the heartier items survived. John and Sherlock shared a silence as they dug through the rubble pulling out what they could identify. The steer skull here, a stack of books that had been under a chair there; they piled it off to one side in boxes so that a cleaning crew could come through and remove the debris, giving them a clean canvas.
In the middle of this Sherlock would fly off in Mycroft’s helicopter to visit his sister; they wouldn’t speak but he would play his violin for her - classical favorites as well as his own composed pieces. He was creating those more often now; a lifetime of repressed memories and emotions bubbling to the surface. He would play for Rosie during the day as they stayed in John’s house, or sometimes late into the early morning while everyone slept. John thought to try to get him to contain it to waking hours but realized it wasn’t all that disturbing and if it brought Sherlock some peace, then it would be fine - Rosie slept through it and that was all that mattered. It also helped that when Sherlock would pay them to sleep, John was able to do so dream free which was a great relief.
Sherlock became more and more invested in Rosie and connected with her in a way John would never have guessed. Sherlock was playful and engaging and sweet with her; doting on her at every chance. He was still his calculating, analytical, logical, detached self - but there was more. The experience with Eurus had broken some kind of damn that he’d built inside. Parts of him before Redbeard, before Archie, before he rewrote his memories -- started to come back. John could start to see the outline of who that child might have become if his sister had not been who she was.
Mycroft and his parents called Sherlock emotional, and you could see why. His compassion grew and he let himself feel. It hid, more often than not, behind his normally cold exterior; but John, who knew Sherlock better than anyone, could see. The veil was lifted more at home than elsewhere and he and Rosie got to know a new Sherlock.
--
Rebuilding 221B had been taking some time as they were in no rush. Sherlock would be gone for days at a time, and John had his daughter and the surgery where he was still trying to maintain his job, so things moved slow at their flat.
John and Sherlock were putting up the wallpaper, bickering slightly about lining up the pattern correctly, when they heard the bell at the street right and Mrs. Hudson head towards the door.
“Ah, that’ll be Lestrade”. Sherlock intoned.
“Yeah, I invited him but I don’t think I told you that.” John tilted his head squinting his eyes a little in the way that he did any time Sherlock made an improbable observation.
“Of course not, John.” Sherlock paused and for a moment genuine concern passed his face. “He’s brought Molly Hooper too.”
John had the decency to look slightly guilty. “Uh, that one is also on me.”
Sherlock pursed his lips as the greetings drew closer to the bottom of the stairs and the guest began to ascend them.
Sherlock had not seen Molly since that day he tried to save her life on Sherrinford island. Thinking about her also filled him with guilt and after many years of unused human insight he’d not known how to approach about what he’d had to do to her.
Sherlock turned and busied himself at a bookshelf as Lestrade and Hooper appeared at the landing. Lestrade knocked on the side of the door frame giving a “Hello, hello!”
“Ah! Greg, Molly! It’s great to see you. Thanks for coming and helping out. We’ve been going so painfully slow and I think we’re ready to get back in here.”
Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder “Of course! I’ve got some cold cases I need you to look into soon anyway.”
From behind Sherlock he heard Molly head towards the kitchen, the rustling of bags of take out, and the unmistakable smell of curry wafting his way. “I’ve brought lunch! I’ll just put it in here, shall I?”
Sherlock could tell that she had been glancing his way but as soon as he knew her back was turned he gave a look over his shoulder. She was opening one of the bags and pulling out variously sized cardboard containers to place on the kitchen counters. She looked exactly the same and Sherlock wondered for a moment why he thought she might not.
He glanced over and John and Lestrade who were both chatting amiably about some inane thing but who were also giving him pointed looks with their eyes and tilting their heads towards the kitchen.
Even Sherlock understood the subject of their non-verbal communication - he needed to talk to Molly, to apologize.
Damnit.
He moved into the kitchen as Molly finished laying out the plastic cutlery and stood to one side.
“Hello Molly.” he stated in his subdued tone.
She jumped slightly and held a hand to her chest. “Oh! Sherlock. Hi…”
Sherlock paused unsure how to continue while Molly looked at him expectantly.
“You look like you’re doing well.” he stated, noticing that indeed she was. Her skin had a healthy pallor, she appeared well rested, and there was something different about the look in her eyes - but then he always had problems reading the eyes.
“I am. Thank you.” She glanced away. Down at the food. Across the room. Anywhere but his face.
“Listen Molly. There’s something I need to say to you.”
Molly held up her hands in plight. “Please don’t. I know. I know what happened. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Please Molly, I find that I actually do need to say something.” He surprised himself by taking both her upheld hands and clasping them both between his own.
Molly, being too stunned, said nothing and allowed him to continue.
“First I need to say thank you.
Thank you for believing in me.
Thank you for helping me.
Thank you for being someone I can always turn to.”
Sherlock took a breath.
“Thank you most of all for loving me; though I very, very, often do not deserve it.
You have been the truest friend to me.”
Tears welled up in Molly’s eyes as he spoke but Sherlock continued determined to plow through this awkwardness.
“Secondly I need to apologize.
I want to apologize for…”
Molly cut him off.
“No, wait. Please. I need to say something.”
Sherlock stopped speaking, startled by her outburst. He noted that John and Lestrade had done away with all pretense of chatting and that Mrs. Hudson who had entered the main room carrying a tray of tea had also stopped to watch them.
Molly blazed ahead.
“I know you’re going to apologize for hurting me. For breaking my heart. For having to say you…” she swallowed her words and had to clear her throat quickly before continuing.
“... for saying you love me when you don’t.
But that would be a lie.”
Sherlocks forehead furrowed ever so slightly.
“It would be a lie because you do love me.
Maybe you don’t love me in the way that I would want you to.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment but she forged ahead boldly anyway.
“And not in the way that you love John.”
Now it was John’s turn to shuffle slightly in embarrassment while everyone wondered to themselves if she intended those to be two separate categories or not.
“You may not love me like that, but you do love me. You love me. You love Mrs. Hudson there. You love Greg… and don’t pretend you don’t know who that is Sherlock Holmes.” Molly chided and Lestrand scratched the side of his nose looking away while Mrs. Hudson grinned over her tray of pots and cups.
“You only pretend to forget his name. You’re Sherlock, you remember everything.
You remember everything, and you love us. You even love Mycroft”
Sherlock gave a sharp bark of laughter at that, dissolving the tension that had been building in the room.
“You love us, fiercely.
I once heard your brother call you emotional and I thought it was the funniest thing at the time. But he was right, wasn’t he? You are so full of emotion but you just keep it locked away. Maybe in that mind palace of yours?”
Sherlock searched Molly’s face, his own full of wonder and relief.
“You are so full of emotion Sherlock, and full of love - you wouldn’t do what you do if you weren’t.
So don’t apologize. You weren’t lying and you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She took a deep breath and let it out signaling that she was done speaking. Sherlock took a few moments taking a deep breath as well. He placed his hands on either side of Molly’s arms and looked her in the eye.
“You are rarely wrong Molly Hooper and you often know me better than I know myself.”
He paused and everyone in the room unconsciously held their breath.
“And I’m glad to see that your senses haven’t dulled.” Molly released her breath as he continued.
“I’m going to hug you now. That will be adequate I hope to wrap all this up, hmm?”
Sherlock pulled Molly into him, giving a calculated deep squeeze and released her stopping to give her a light kiss on her forehead.
“Thank you”
“Thank you”
They spoke in unison chuckling slightly immediately after.
Sherlock clapped his hands together stepping away. “So! What did you bring us?”
--
John was so relieved that Molly and Sherlock had repaired and strengthened what was between them. Molly confided in John as they shared a cup of tea between the time she had been set to look after Rosie and he had returned from work, that she felt like she was past the hold that Sherlock had on her. She still loved him of course and always would but she felt freed from the way in which it consumed her and ruined her other relationships. She had even asked out the cute guy that worked her corner shop and assured John that he looked nothing at all like Sherlock. Molly said that she now knew definitively that there was no world in which Sherlock would ever be hers.
“Besides” she added “even I know he’s meant for someone else.”
John nodded “ah yes, The Woman.” Molly just raised her eyebrows skeptically and placed her mug in the sink. “Uh huh. Sure”.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he called after her as she headed towards the front door.
She put on her coat and started to leave. Closing the door she replied “When you know, you’ll know.”
“...What?” John called as the door closed with a click.
There was no response.
--
221B Baker Street returned to its former glory and John and Sherlock returned to work. John dropped more shifts at the hospital as he spent more time solving and preventing crimes. He and Rosie spent increasingly more time at the flat, so they moved out of their house and back into John’s old rooms above. It wouldn’t be ideal forever,as Rosie grew, but it was better this way. There was too much of Mary in the old place and John was relieved to be gone. He had Rosie to remember her by and did not need to stay in the bed that they once shared together.
Mrs. Hudson became a go-to babysitter when John and Sherlock needed to run off on a case and she was more than pleased to do so. There were other members of their village who could also be called on and they all readily jumped at the chance. Greg would help out now and again, Molly and Janine would both often be by to spend time with their god daughter. Even Anderson was called upon in a pinch to watch her; when they returned his hair was filled with butterfly clips and he’d produced seven drawings with Rosie’s help. Even Mycroft in his concern had insisted on adding security measures and protection to the structure when 221B was being rebuilt. It had come in handy and made the men of Baker Street feel more secure about maintaining residence there. They became a family, John, Sherlock, and Rosie, and the village of people who loved them were more than enough support that all felt well looked after.
--
After John had bullied Sherlock into texting The Woman back, they would sometimes have a covert visitor - arriving in one disguise, leaving in another. Irene would show up unexpectedly, but never at a bad time, and would talk for hours with Sherlock or with John as well; she would coo over Rosie, and would chat with Mrs. Hudson or any friend who came by.
John would press Sherlock as to the status of their relationship and he would just get brushed off. Sherlock would say something about “it’s not like that between us”, but wouldn’t elaborate.
There were parts of John that was relieved that nothing seemed to be advancing there; he was terrified of things changing in a way that would take Sherlock away - and if he and Irene Adler became something real, Sherlock would probably need to leave with her. John and he had a good thing going here and he didn’t want it to change. Not like that.
--
After Mary, and the non-affair with Eurus, John hadn’t been pursuing much himself romantically. He’d experimented a bit with Tinder but was too nervous to actually meet up with anyone. It didn’t feel right. He’d chat a bit and when they wanted to make a date he’d just stop. And then a few weeks later try again with someone else. Part of the problem would be that they would recognize him and then ask about Sherlock and that would kind of kill the mood. It was either that or he would mention Rosie and they’d disappear themselves.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he got to have the romance and marriage once, and now he gets to be a dad. That would be rewarding enough. He had Sherlock. He had his friends. John knew he’d be fine. A small part of him told him that it wasn’t enough though. He tried not to listen to it.
--
Sherlock had his birthday, which came with a party now that John had told everyone when it was; it was small and comfortable and it had cake,good food, and a few drinks. Rosie was staying at Janine’s that night so that the adults could have an evening off, and she wasn’t particularly feeling like attending Sherlock’s birthday party. The last round of Heads Up had been played an hour ago, and it was just Molly and Mrs. Hudson in 221B along with Sherlock and John. Mrs. Hudson was detailing her days as an exotic dancer with Molly’s rapt attention while Sherlock took turns with John in tossing quarters into a shot glass. They were only a couple of sheets to the wind so there was some mild difficulty with this.
Molly waved goodbye and with a “Ta!” followed Mrs. Hudson downstairs and the promise of viewing the photo albums from those days.
Realizing the flat was now empty John closed the door at the top of the landing and wandered into the kitchen after some more cake.
“It’s all gone” Sherlock said from behind him.
“How? It was a huge cake!” John poked at the platter splattered with frosting and crumbs in disappointment.
“Molly had three servings. Almost everyone else had two. Mycroft had half a slice but I insisted he eat the other before he left.” Sherlock’s brother had been by for only a moment at John’s insistence and Sherlock’s annoyance, but John knew he was pleased that some of his family had been there. With it being Sherlock’s birthday, that meant it was nearly a year since that day on Sherrinford. John wondered if it was going to feel like this every year; this looming memory discoloring everything. That was part of why John wanted a party for Sherlock. He wanted some kind of better memory, some kind of something to stave off the fear and hurt that lingered.
As if inside John’s head, Sherlock placed and arm on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. They shared a knowing look before Sherlock said “Chin up! I’m sure we can ask Mrs. Hudson to make us another cake tomorrow.” John broke into a grin. Yes, the cake, that’s what was making him melancholy. “Or we could ask for the recipe, use this kitchen as it was intended.”
“Oh, god no” Sherlock grabbed the half empty bottle of whisky from off the counter and took it with him to the sitting room. “Do you want a topper?” He shook the bottle in John’s direction while dumping quarters out of their shot glasses and set them back on the table.
John checked his texts seeing one from Janine telling him a couple hours ago that Rosie was down peacefully and all was well.
“Yeah, why not.”
“I have plenty of reasons if you’d like me to list them. Heart and liver disease being among the top.”
“No, that’s alright. Yes, I’d like a drink.”
Sherlock finished pouring for them and handed one to John who had taken up residence next to him on the small couch.
“Salude” they clinked glass slightly and threw back the amber liquid that stung at their throat.
John hissed and gestured for the bottle. “You’re not tracking our ideal consumption amount again, are you?” Sherlock shook his head and handed the bottle off “No, I know how much we’ve had though if you’d like me to…” John held a finger up to Sherlocks lips, cutting him off.
“No, I’m fine not knowing”. His finger lingered there longer than necessary as his brain marveled at the softness of Sherlocks lips. John finally caught up with himself though and pulled away to return to pouring for them both. “One more?” he asked.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sure, one more.”
They clinked glasses again and threw the shots back again. “How many is that now?” John asked.
“I thought you didn’t want to know” Sherlock stated.
“I don’t. Forget I asked.” John slumped over and leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder, yawning.
“I’m so sleepy. Why did we just take more shots again?”
“Because it’s my birthday.”
“Yeah. I suppose that’s a pretty good reason.” John heald up his wrist to look at his watch.
“But it’s not your birthday any more, now it’s just another Sunday.”
Sherlock stretched up his arms yawning as well. This move caused John, who’d been leaning on Sherlock, to thud slightly into his chest but made no move to adjust himself.
“It’s not just any other Sunday, it’s the Sunday after my birthday. A significant day. It means I should get to have waffles in the morning.” John felt Sherlock’s hand absentmindedly (or maybe not so absentmindedly since it was Sherlock) reach down and scratch at John’s scalp lightly. It felt good and John tried not to examine too deeply the closeness they were sharing at the moment. They continued chatting about nothing with John leaned (or one might even venture to call it nestled) into Sherlock, and Sherlock drawing little figure eights with one finger in John’s hair.
Try as he might John couldn’t help but think about what was happening. Was Sherlock aware of what he was doing? If he was, how was he being so calm and natural about it? They’d only really started hugging recently and it was more of a celebratory “good case” kind of action.
John started to drift off, still speaking but starting to no longer make much sense as Sherlock’s fingers lulled him.Sherlock himself was speaking more slowly and his hand in John’s hair stilled as they both began to fade into sleep.
A woman moaning emitted from Sherlock’s phone. Each could feel the other stiffen as they were suddenly wide awake. They sat up as Sherlock reached for his pocket and John somehow almost without moving ended up sat on the farther side of the sofa
“She’s late” John said.
“She’s east of us somewhere, it’s still my birthday there.” He opened Irene’s message and sure enough it wished him a Happy Birthday. He locked his phone again without replying, as was normal, and stood up.
“It’s late. We’ve got cases tomorrow” Sherlock said by way of a goodnight, and left for his bedroom.
John nodded to himself and sighed as he stood up. “Happy Birthday, Sherlock” he said under his breath, and retreated upstairs to his own bed.
The next day, nothing was spoken of the night before other than musings and acknowledgements about the birthday party, but not what had come after.
--
John woke yelling from a familiar nightmare; he was drowning, being pulled down by chains. Sherlock and Mary were calling to him, but he couldn’t see them or get to them.
No, wait. That wasn’t him yelling. He sat up as he realized it was coming from Sherlock’s room. John looked over at Rosie asleep in her crib and realized she’d spent the night at Janine’s house again. He padded down the stairs as the yelling grew louder and closer.
Cracking open Sherlock’s door John saw him bare chested, twisting in the sheets. Sherlock was shouting “no!” over and over at some unseen but not unknown phantom. They’d both been having these nightmares for a while, but Sherlock was usually not the one to cry out.
“Sherlock.” John called from the door. “Sherlock, wake up. It’s just a dream”.
There was no response, just the cries of anguish. John fully entered Sherlock’s cluttered room now and approached the bed saying his name once more without response.
John placed a hand on Sherlocks clammy shoulder and called his name again.
Sherlock grabbed Johns wrist suddenly and began to twist it back.
“Sherlock, it’s me! It’s me!” Sherlock froze and focused his eyes through the dark until they settled on John’s face. He dropped his wrist and sat up leaning his head back against the headboard taking deep shuddering breaths.
John rubbed his wrist which appeared to be mostly fine and whispered “You were yelling up a storm this time.”
“It was bad this time” came Sherlock’s only response.
“Yeah…” John replied simply with too much that could be said lying between them.
He took a few beats and started to turn away but Sherlock reached out a hand and said “Please, don’t go yet.”
It was such a small request in such a vulnerable voice that it nearly broke John’s heart.
“Yeah, of course.” He glanced around but knew there was nowhere to sit so he perched awkwardly on the side of the bed.
They sat in silence for moments until John realized that Sherlock had begun to heave small sobs behind him.
John turned to look and saw Sherlock curled up, forehead furrowed, and shaking slightly as he tried to muffle his sound into the pillow. John slipped out of his house shoes and turned to lay down next to Sherlock and place his arms around him.
John shushed him and stroked his head as he might for Rosie. What else could he do when confronted with his Sherlock in this state. The cries eventually grew more quiet and his breathing name steady and even as he fell back asleep inside of John’s arms. John remained awake for only minutes more as he tried to examine what he was feeling but sleep shortly took him as well.
--
Sherlock woke first as sunlight cracked through his blinds and the sound of bin collectors clattered on the streets below. He felt John’s breath on his neck and the small snores in his ear before he registered the arm slung over his side and the hand he held in his own clasped up against his bare chest. Sherlock could feel the warmth of John’s body curved into his own from behind and tried to weigh this all against his recollection of last night. He had assumed that John coming to him had been the sweet release at the end of his hellish dream, but in this moment Sherlock was most certain he was awake and that John was not a figment of his mind.
Sherlock took care not to move or breath too heavily for fear it that the serenity would come crashing down around him. He didn’t know which concerned him more, that John would wake and this spell would end, or that John would wake and this spell would end and there would also be the ugly truth of having to face what this meant.
Sherlock was confused and he hated feeling confused. Closeness with John made him feel warm and wonderful in a way that nothing else did and for so long he thought that’s just what it felt like to have finally have a real friend. A best friend. As his emotional side had awakened over the last year though he began to see things differently and maybe more clearly.
Sherlock thought of John as a constant in his life. Someone he always expected, and wanted to be around. The thought of having John taken away from him terrified him to his core and the fact that it had nearly happened several times now was heart wrenching. Sherlock could say things like “heart wrenching” now; he understood what that must mean. He was able to recognize what it meant when other people said it. He could relate it to experiences in his past and recognize how he must have felt in those moments.
Emotions like guilt, shame, elation, bliss, grief, and love had all taken on a new meaning for him. Sherlock still found it difficult to express what he was feeling, but he felt all the same.
Most of all he felt for John. He loved John more than anything and John loved him. They’d said so before on several occasions .But, was that like the love of a brother? This was definitely not how he felt about Mycroft or Eurus or his parents. It didn’t feel like a familial love. It also didn’t feel like the love he held for Molly or Mrs. Hudson; two people he cared for most deeply.
Sherlock thought also of how he felt when John insisted he pursue a deeper relationship with Irene. Annoyed? Sad? He cared very much for Ms. Adler and had gone to great lengths to protect her on several occasions, but again it was different than how he felt about the other important people in his life. She intrigued him, she was his equal in many ways and had managed to befuddle him which was a difficult thing to do. There was a playfulness between them, but he couldn’t think of her the way that John wanted him too. Or, maybe he could and he would have if John wasn’t there.
And that was the crux of the issue. He thought of John.
Sherlock thought of Janine and when he so cruelly used her. He realized now that part of it was out of vindictiveness and jealousy. In the moment he reveled in John’s hurt and confusion, it was payback for abandoning him in some sick way and Janine was a bystander. The time he spent with Janine had been fun on some level though. Most of him was detached from it, that it was just part of a case, an experiment, but a significant piece of Sherlock enjoyed it.
The closeness and intimacy they had shared was fake, but the pleasure had been real. He and Janine had not gotten explicitely physical and just thinking about sex at all made Sherlock’s brain freeze, but the physical displays of affection felt nice and kissing was unexpectedly fun.
Being honest with himself Sherlock could say confidently that he wanted more of that and he wanted it with John.
Sherlock could also honestly say he knew it wasn’t that simple. He knew that you couldn’t just flip a friendship on its head like that, he also knew that John was still grieving Mary and that there should be given the time and space he needed, and mostly Sherlock knew that he didn’t know how John even felt.
If you had asked him last week he would have said that John simply thought of him as a brother or best friend, but given the present situation of them holding each other in bed, Sherlock felt comfortable putting his previous assumption up for examination.
He knew that simple friendship and laying in bed together were not mutually exclusive but even he could see that this felt different. If it felt different to him then it had to feel different for John as they were both experiencing the same moment.
Either way, he didn’t want to wake John to find out.
The short knock and the sound of the sitting room door opening did that for them.
John woke with a start behind him and took half a moment to take in their current situation. Instead of pulling away immediately he asked in a just-awoken husky voice “what time is it?”
Sherlock glanced again at the sun through the window and replied “about ten fifteen.”
He reluctantly released his grip on John’s hand as John pulled away from Sherlock to stand up. “It’s late, that should be Janine and Rosie.”
Sherlock stood as well and said “I’m sorry” though he wasn’t sure what about. Was it because it was late and they overslept? Or was it because of how they woke up. The apology hung in the air as John gave Sherlock an unidentifyable look while slipping on his house shoes; he headed into the hallway towards the kitchen. Sherlock threw on his robe and his own slippers before following closely behind John.
Entering the kitchen they found Janine settling Rosie into her high chair and unloading the diaper bags. John made a beeline for Rosie and greeted Janine who had only shot a quick eyebrow raise their way.
“Looks like you two just woke up.” she said coyley.
Sherlock replied simply “I didn’t sleep well last night” in hopes that would be enough explanation.
Janine smirked “I’m sure you didn’t”.
John interrupted to ask how Rosie was and the discussion faded into toddler talk, and then not long after clients began to arrive. The normalcy of it all allowed there to be no confrontation of their truths and it simply was another thing that had happened that day; one they did not talk about.
--
That night John woke again out of his own dreamland hellscape to hear Sherlock yelling as he had the night before. Rosie was still fast asleep so John grabbed her baby monitor and followed Sherlock’s sounds of distress to find him in much the same position as the night before.
Instead of calling his name John slipped off his house shoes by the bedroom door, set down the baby monitor, and padded over to the bed to lay down beside the beautiful man in distress.
Sherlock woke from his nightmare to John’s gentle soothings and fingers running through his tangled curly hair. His body relax from the tension that had gripped him and he looked up through the dark into the nothingness that appeared as his ceiling. The shape of John was in his peripheral vision that grew more into the visage of the man he loved as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
John looked at Sherlock lying there as he relaxed under John’s ministrations. The dark and wild hair that John’s fingers were currently disappearing into, his long straight nose that lead to perfect full lips. But John didn’t want to think about his lips.Instead he looked into those piercing blue and green eyes that saw right to the soul of you - those eyes were looking back at John.
“You were yelling again.” John said quietly, continuing trailing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s a good thing I have my Doctor here then” Sherlock replied.
John smirked into the darkness as silence between them rose and Sherlock closed his eyes again.
John agonized internally over the very simple question he finally asked; “would you like me to stay again?”
The silence between his final word and Sherlock’s answer felt like it went on forever for John. He knew what he wanted to hear and what he was also afraid to hear. Where he got the courage to ask, let alone be here at all was beyond him.
Sherlock’s reply finally came after only at most a couple of seconds.
“Yes.” and then he added “Please.” and finally “If you’d like.”
John nodded smiling slightly and realizing the affirmation was probably missed in the dark he said “I’m good right here.”
Sherlock imperceptibly sighed in relief as his hand sought out John’s unoccupied one to entwine their fingers together. “Thank you” he whispered.
In response John gave his hand a squeeze and moved to hold Sherlock closer.
They fell asleep again peacefully in content.
--
This occured the next handful of nights until at some point John just followed Sherlock to bed in the evening. The first night they did this was the first night neither of them dreamed.
John’s room gradually turned into Rosie’s and without much discussion John began to share Sherlock’s.
There was no great moment where they declared he was moving into it, it just happened slowly - a t shirt here, a shoe there, a hamper of clean laundry brought in and left in the corner to pull from.
Fortunately, if any one of their friends had noticed, none said so or made any deal of it; if they had they might have startled the tranquility of John and Sherlock’s newfound existence.
Though they were sleeping together at night in an intimate closeness, nothing else had occurred. It was simple and peaceful and comforting. They would read in bed next to each other, change in the bathroom, reach for one another once the lights were out, and then chat in hushed tones about their day until sleep pulled them blissfully under. When Rosie would cry out at night through the monitor, they took turns attending to her and occasionally would bring her to bed to sleep between them if she was scared. Their family was solidifying.
--
On the evening after a particularly harrowing case which had threatened their lives once again, John and Sherlock laid facing each other in the darkness . Their hands were clasped together and they were close enough they could feel the breath of the other on their faces.
They both felt the tension rise at the same time and felt it in each. There was a stiffening of their bodies, a stilling of their hands, a holding of breaths. John felt heat flush his cheeks and something twist in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock’s heart felt like it was thundering in his ears; could John hear it?
As if on cue their heads moved closer together, their breath growing warmer on their skin. They could see each others eyes through the darkness and they searched them.
John moved closer next, bringing his face up to Sherlock’s, close enough that their noses touched, his eyes asking a question only Sherlock could answer.
Sherlock responded by closing the remaining distance between them, his heart in his throat as he pressed his lips into John’s.
The kiss lingered but was chaste. It spoke to them both confirming what they had each wondered for so long. The kiss felt so right, like putting the last piece in a puzzle, or reaching the last step in a long flight of stairs. The kiss closed a circle that had remained open for so long; the circle enclosed them within and blanketed them in warmth and security. The kiss pulled them back to that first day in the restaurant where they awkwardly danced around one another. The kiss traveled the miles with them. It followed them through the tragedy and love and laughter that had been with them through the years.
It was a lot to put on a single kiss, but the kiss was everything.
John and Sherlock retreated from the kiss, but not very far. Sherlock brought a hand up to John’s cheek and stroked it gently with his thumb.
“I love you.” he said.
“I know.” replied John.