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Rosie let out a squeal, smile wide on her face when the thin arms wrapped around her and lifted her up, “You really must find a more clever hiding place,” though Sherlock was giving advice he could not keep the smile from his face, as if he would want to.
John rolled his eyes from where he observed at his chair, “you know you could let her win sometimes,” at the obviously ridiculous suggestion, he added on, “or at least let her hide for more than a few seconds before you find her.”
Lifting up his daughter and placing her on his shoulders, “that would be preposterous, she'll never learn like that.” Though Rosie didn’t seem to mind losing hide and go seek yet again, content to hold onto Sherlock's head as she rode on his shoulders.
John did not continue the argument, instead watching in amusement as his husband and daughter played. After watching a few more moments, smile on his face, he announced, “Rosie dear, it’s time to get ready for bed,” upon her immediate whine, he continued, “we can play more tomorrow.”
Leaning forward so she could try to look at Sherlock's face, voice sweet and small, “violin?” She asked, innocent as an angle.
“That is not the proper way I taught you to ask,” Sherlock chided with no real force behind his words.
John once again rolled his eyes. Standing up, he walked over and lifted Rosie off of his husband's shoulders. Though he pretended it was not a struggle with how much taller Sherlock is than him, “just play the bloody violin,” he whispered to his husband before giving their daughter a kiss on the cheek.
While John walked off with Rosie, helping her change into her pyjamas and brush her teeth, Sherlock found and brought out his violin. John ignored his husband totally not loudly grumbling about his ‘demanding Blogger’. He did not even need a warmup, knowing he could play Rosie's lullaby in his sleep. As if he can’t play any song in his sleep.
With Rosie all cozy, John sat back in his chair, hugging her close while Sherlock began to play his instrument. Though she may have denied more than a few times that she was not tired at all, she let out a sleepy yawn just after a couple notes. Before the song was even half way over, John could feel the inevitable heaviness of sleep weighing his daughter in his arms. By the end of the song her eyes were long since closed, breathing deep and even.
Though of course Sherlock knew his daughter had drifted off, he did not even hesitate before seamlessly transitioning to his next song. This one, not quite a lullaby, but not such an abrupt change as to wake up their sleeping child.
After soaking in a few more moments of cuddling his sweet baby girl, John stood, making his way over to Sherlock. Though, instead of wishing her goodnight as he would normally, he continued to play.
Brows furrowed, “Sherlock?” He asked, loud enough to be heard above the violin but soft enough not to wake the child. When his husband only continued to play, as if he had not heard him even though John knew he must have. Reluctantly, he carried the girl upstairs to her bedroom. With a kiss and a soft ‘sweet dreams’ he placed her in her bed. Only after making sure the nightlight was on and she was properly tucked in, did he go back down to his husband.
He did not have to step into the room to know he was still playing, the lovely music echoing through the whole flat. Though it would be easy to stay entranced by the music, John did not let himself float off, “what are you thinking about?” He asked blatantly.
Though the man only continued to play, once again as if he had not even heard John. Huffing out a breath, he tried again, “Sherlock, stop playing and talk to me.”
When Sherlock began his next song, John left no room for argument, “if you’re not going to talk to me, then at least come to bed.” That is what got his husband to pause his playing, staring at him. Without saying a word he put down his violin, casually walking over to their bedroom like he had not just been ignoring his husband.
Once in bed, Sherlock laid completely still, hands together in front of his face. With a sigh, John asked once again, “what are you thinking about?”
After a few breaths, Sherlock finally spoke up, voice as emotionless as he could manage, as if John can not see right through it, “how can you love me?”
That got John to sit up, looking at his husband incredulously, “I married you-”
But Sherlock cut him off, “I didn’t ask do you love me, I asked how,” he said it like he was explaining something trivial for the hundredth time, “It’s elementary really. It’s obvious that you do love me given how your eyes scrunch up when you smile and how you put up with me, just to name a couple examples not even Rosie could miss. But how you can love me is the question.”
John sighed, “And that I proposed to you is another so very obvious example:”
“Yes obviously,” he agreed flippantly.
With another sigh, “Sherlock, you’re the smartest man in the world and you still can’t figure out how I can love you?” There was an undeniable sadness to his tone that not even the so called ‘high functioning sociopath’ could miss.
Sherlock stayed silent, waiting for John to continue. “Sherlock I love you because of how much you care about people,” before he could protest, he added on, “even if you deny it. And because you make everything exciting, you make life worth it,” he said the last part a bit quieter before clearing his throat, “Need I go on? No, don’t answer that I’m tired, now come here,” he commanded as he laid back down.
Sherlock did not need to be asked twice, though it was clear he was still thinking over his husband's answer. Shifting over, he wrapped arms around John, spooning him.
“The real question, Sherlock, is how could I not love you?”