Archive of Our Own

John stepped out of the cab onto Baker Street at well past ten at night, his bag cutting into his sore shoulder and the weight of the world pressing down on his back. He stood there for a stretch on the pavement, rubbing his eyes and the back of his sore neck and worn out at the world in general, and sighed.

Home, sweet home.

He exerted the very last of his strength to let himself in quietly, the windows all dark and the shades drawn. Mrs. Hudson was practically deaf, these days, and slept without her hearing aid, but he still didn't want to risk waking her up. He had no will for a good night cup of tea or a quick dinner, either- nothing at all beyond trudging his interminable way up the interminable stairs, and collapsing into bed.

He'd never imagined this for himself, back in medical school. Going on his forties, working double locum shifts between a surgery and an A&E, a single father with a perpetually aching shoulder and a knot in his stomach. Eating dinner alone in a hospital cafeteria, getting in so late he was barely awake in time just to see his daughter off to daycare. Coming home to a shared flat in the middle of the night, his daughter already put to bed by its resident madman because John hadn't been there to do it himself.

It wasn't that he needed to do it. Not really. John had quite a bit of money saved up, from his various misadventures over the years, and Sherlock had what was quite simply an obscene amount of money, and absolutely no limit to how much he wanted to dote over Rosie. Much to John's astonishment. Rosie was not going to want for anything that him working a double shift could ever provide.

John stood in the door to his room, lamplight heavy in the dusty air and his leg aching underneath him, staring at the best steal in all of central London with arguably the best and worst flatmate in all of the commonwealth, and felt a little bit like he was staring at a dusty bedsit just south of ten years ago.

He was exhausted, and it wasn't because of the double shift.

John let his bag hit the floor with a tired, limp thud, toeing his shoes off at the heels and shrugging his shirt off with exactly as much gusto. He checked his alarm on his phone, to make sure he'd wake up with enough time to at least see Rosie in the morning.

Then he flattened himself face-first into the creaking springs of his bed, and let his mind blanket into nothing.

"Good night," he grunted to himself.

He shut his eyes, and burrowed away into sleep.

For about three seconds.

"...shh.Don't do that, now. Please. Please be quiet."

John squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and considered suffocating himself with his pillow.

"Not now, Sherlock. Please. I just want-"

"Shh, Watson."

"-to go to..."

Watson?

John squinted an eye open, the other half of his face still squashed into his pillow. Sherlock kept talking, his low voice fading in and out of the room. It was his growl of a baritone, almost too low to be heard, and John squinted into the darkness in sheer bafflement.

"...mustn't make noise. Not now. John's only just got home, Watson, Daddy just got home, he's very tired. We mustn't wake him, shh..."

A red like blinked at him in the darkness, and just like that, it hit him.

The baby monitor.

Sherlock was in Rosie's room. Upstairs, in the newly cleared out room in 221C turned into a nursery, forced upon them by Mrs. Hudson refusing to take no for an answer, talking to his daughter in the middle of the night.

"Please," Sherlock's voice came through, unspeakably low and rough. He sounded almost panicked, worried enough that the words cracked through the tiny monitor, desperate to rock Rosie back to sleep. "Please don't cry. Shhh, that's it, please don't cry. Crying doesn't make Daddy appear, we've been over this, Watson... what a tender world that would be."

John fumbled out of bed, stumbling on the sheets and almost as frantic as Sherlock's voice from a floor away. He grappled the baby monitor up off the floor, sitting there listening to his best friend trying desperately to soothe his daughter because John was the worst father in the world, and all he wanted was to shut the noise off.

And then he got the baby monitor in his hands, sitting there on the edge of his bed and sick enough to throw up. He couldn't hit the button.

John sat silently, his eyes shut and his thumb hovering over the button, and listened.

"...you'll see Daddy in the morning," Sherlock was murmuring, voice still a low rumble. He sounded desperately worried and exhausted, rocking Rosie back and forth to the static of the monitor. "I know you want to see him now. I do, too; I want him to complain about the mould I'm cultivating next to the toaster. I promise, it's won't contaminate consumables. I know I'm a poor replacement. In the morning, yes? He's very tired right now. In the morning."

Rosie started to quiet, the beginning of whining softening to sniffles. The soft, rounded edges of the plastic crushed into John's fist until it hurt.

How many times had Sherlock done this? How many times had Sherlock sentiment is a defect in the losing side Holmes, with his days dominated by cases and sulking and his nights by experiments and skulking, rocked his upset daughter to sleep because nobody else was there to do it?

Because it sounded like a lot.

"There we go. See? That's not so bad, is it, Watson?"

Rosie made another small snuffle, and Sherlock sighed.

"Good girl. Very good girl."

Silence settled again, between Sherlock and Rosie and in the darkness of John's room. He swallowed hard.

He should be angry. He should. Shouldn't he? His daughter was having nightmares, evidently common enough an occurrence that Sherlock had a routine for how to calm her down, and had never seen fit to so much as let him know. Fuck it, he was angry. He wanted to shout at Sherlock, to hit something, to storm upstairs right now and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Whatever Sherlock was doing, he was doing it better than John ever had.

I am such a horrible father.

Sherlock was quiet, for several more moments. Rosie was quiet as well, at first, but soon made another whine of discontent, the noise she made when someone was trying to put her down and she wasn't happy with it, and Sherlock immediately aborted said course of action. "All right," he sighed, "all right. A little more, yes?"

"Sher," she said.

"You're all right, Watson. Did you know that?" Sherlock murmured something to himself, low and under his breath, and John- John could see the small, adoring smile on his face. "I've read all the literature. Nightmares in otherwise healthy babies of your age are common, and not especially indicative of future health problem. Especially for those with such a tumultuous early infancy. You exchanged primary caregivers multiple times- shh, Watson, no; it's not John's fault. Not Daddy's. Your pregnancy was quite high-stress, too, that wasn't his fault. That was mine. And everything after it, Watson, as well. It was... he..." He stopped, a heavy breath rustling through the static. "John did all that he could."

There was another moment of silence, still and dusty between them all.

"He loves you very much, Watson," he rasped. "Did you know that? He loves you very, very much. Even this sociopath can see it."

John inhaled sharply, a lump forming in his throat. He squeezed the baby monitor again, wanting to throw it across the room. "Sherlock."

He wasn't. He wasn't a good father, and he wasn't a very good friend, either. Not if his friend could still stand there and say anything at all like that ever again.

Had John told him, it wasn't his fault? Had John ever actually sat down with Sherlock and told him it wasn't his fault that Mary was dead? Christ, that it wasn't his fault that Mary had shot him?

He couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever apologised to his own best friend and now he was sitting here, listening to him apologise to his daughter instead.

A seething mist built up behind his eyes, miserable and heavy with grief. John pressed a hand to his eyes, measuring his breaths in and out, in and out. He wanted to lie down. He wished he'd never picked up the bloody monitor.

"Sher," Rosie babbled again. "Sher?"

"Yes. Sher. Very good, Watson." Another low, long hum. "Did you know that nightmares run in your family, a bit? John used to have them. Daddy did. He never talked about them, but it was simple enough to deduce, really... I'll teach you how to do that, someday. Deduce. Shhh. There you go. I used to play violin for him sometimes. Would you like that?"

There was a brief pause, and then, an indignant huff. John could almost hear the gruff smile on Sherlock's voice. He got the feeling that Rosie's answer had been to tug on his hair. "Tough crowd? I suppose you're a bit too young. Or you inherited your father's ear. Would you believe that he once told people I was playing classical music? I was playing Beethoven, Rosamund. Beethoven. The state of musical education in this country is appalling."

Sherlock was pacing, perhaps. Rosie liked the movement, all babies did, but Rosie especially loved being held by familiar faces. That included Uncle Sher.

"Daddy?"

"Clever girl. Yes, I'm talking about Daddy. You're very clever, aren't you- he's just what you need right now, and you know that, don't you? He is unparalleled, in his natural ability to temper nightmares. He is amazing at it. You've seen so yourself, you know just how good he is at it, how hard he tries. I... am quite sorry you're stuck with such a poor second best. He- oh, no. Shhh! Don't cry, Watson, Rosamund, don't cry-"

Sherlock hushed Rosie again, his voice lulling in and out of range. He sounded tired and stressed and ready to drop.

It was... astonishing.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock. He did, of course. With his life. And it wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock with Rosie. He'd doubted, at first, moving back in with an unrepentant drug addict only weeks after a relapse and- whatever the bloody hell Sherrinford had been. But John did doubt him not anymore. Sherlock had gone above and beyond to prove himself in every way. Sherlock Holmes was unendingly devoted to satisfying Rosie's every last possible whim. He would do anything for her.

There was a difference, though, between loving someone, and being able to soothe a crying baby.

No offense meant to Sherlock, but he'd never exactly given John reason to believe that's a piece in his massive skillset.

And now. Here he was. Listening to him dote on his daughter straight out of a Hallmark card.

"Did you know-" Sherlock started, then lulled to a stop. He made shushing noises again, waiting until Rosie was no longer crying her little eyes out. "Did you know, that you are in good company? Well- perhaps that's debatable. I'm assumed to be good company, usually from someone who has never met me before. I'm quite detestable company, once you get to know me." He paused for another long moment, a quiet settling. "I suppose it's the other way around, then... at the moment, I am the one in good company."

It went quiet again, quiet enough for a pin to drop. John's heart thudded miserably in his ears.

"I have nightmares, too," he said.

"Sher?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "Yes. Sher." Rosie babbled again and Sherlock's smile was visible even over the baby monitor. "I didn't used to. I had to go away, a few years ago, for... I'll explain it to you, sometime. If John allows it. It's not something your father likes to remember. Or that I am particularly proud of. Shh, Watson. There we... ow. Not so hard, please." He paused for a heartbeat again. "You definitely have your father's hand."

Silence.

"I missed your father. Very much so. But you know, I actually didn't start to have trouble sleeping until I came home? Not quite so- not until John moved back in, even. I... got hurt, and John stayed to make sure I was all right. It's silly, yes, Watson? I had missed him very much, but it wasn't until he was there that I stopped being able to handle it." He broke off to breathe deeply again, deeply enough that it was audible, even underneath Rosie's soft snuffling. "I also got hurt while I was away. And it all started to come back up again, and John being there was the only thing that kept me... well. You understand, don't you, Rosamund? It's why you want him here instead of me. You're a very clever girl; I'm sure I've mentioned that."

Sherlock lapsed back into silence for several moments, lost in thought. Rosie must've gotten his attention again quickly, because almost immediately he made a disgruntled noise, and there was the sound of shifting over the monitor. "All right, if you truly insist. A quick snack. If you insist, Rosamund- I'll see what I can find."

Sherlock put Rosie down, by the sound of it, a new quiet blanketing, and John sat back to roll the monitor by his side. He covered his mouth again, breathing through his nose, desperately trying to wrestle down the knot in his stomach to stay calm.

He thought about when Rosie had been born, and he and Mary had been tentatively reconciled, and the silent tension between them had been so thoroughly suffocating they'd barely been able to breathe. He remembered a regimented, scheduled routine, night after night, Mary handing Rosie off to him and then back again, trading off sleepless nights as mechanically as they had patient charts at the surgery.

There'd never been a night when he'd gotten home late, too late after a case and exhausted, and Mary had looked after Rosie instead of him, just because she could. There had been no occasion where Mary had let John sleep on what was supposed to be his night... and no occasion where he'd taken over for her, come to think of it. Just a mechanical, dry co-existence, because John hadn't loved her anymore and Mary had known it and neither had known what to do about it.

There had never been one single occasion like this one tonight: Sherlock, silently ducking into Rosie's room to feed her and quiet her and rock her to sleep, explicitly because John was too tired to do it himself.

For god's sake, he hadn't even known Sherlock had nightmares until he'd learned it over the bloody monitor.

John ran his hand through his hair, sunk heavily back onto the mattress. He listened to Rosie quietly babble to herself, straining his ears for the inaudible sounds of Sherlock rummaging in the kitchen. How many nights had this happened, and he'd slept right through it? How many nights had it happened and he hadn't even been here to not see it?

And why?

Because he was so tired, so fed up with life handing him more than he knew how to handle that he'd started taking double shifts, just for something to do? Somewhere to be where he didn't have to think about his dead wife, and Sherlock's scarred chest, and Sherlock's bruised face and veins, and Sherlock's terrifying out of nowhere sister, and John left to drown in a well with Victor Trevor's tiny skull in his hands?

But Sherlock had been through all of those, too. Sherlock had survived exactly what he had. And here he was. Talking about nightmares and missing John, and here he still was.

He shouted at Sherlock for using drugs as a distraction, but when it came down to it, John wasn't any better, was he? No. No, he was worse. Because Sherlock had gotten clean for him and Rosie, and thinking on it now, John honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd done for Rosie what Sherlock was doing right now.

What am I doing here? What am I really doing?

A clatter came over the baby monitor, Rosie perking up and Sherlock's responding in kind. "Here we are," he said warmly, his voice still a low rumble. "Just a few. Then bed, yes?"

"Bed," Rosie whined; John could almost see her batting her little fists. "No!"

"Yes. I know it's boring. It's so boring, isn't it? But it's healthy for you, or so John says, and he needs the sleep, anyway. So do I, I think." There was another heavy pause between them. "I can stay in here, if you'd like. It's much easier to go to sleep when someone else is there. When I was still in hospital, before John moved back in? That was the best I've slept in a long time. When he stayed with me, I mean. Recently, too." Yet another silence, broken by the ticking of a clock and breathing and Rosie sniffling.

"It's been difficult again, recently. I met my... sister. And- well, what happened isn't all that important, is it, Rosamund?" Sherlock laughed roughly, then made another grunt, the sound of his hair being tugged again. "But it's given me a lot to think about. Other mistakes that I've made, and people I've let down. Why I am the way that I am. It... seems as if I might've been looking for someone like your father my whole life."

"Sher," Rosie mumbled again. From the sound of it, her mouth was right next to the monitor. "Dada?"

Sherlock heaved in a great sigh, long-lasting sigh. "Yes. But I digress. Dada is very tired right now, Watson. He's... unhappy. I'm not sure how best to assist, and I think a great deal might be because of me, but- he's doing the best that he can," he said matter of factly. "Yes? He just needs us to help him, all right? Can you do that, Rosamund?"

"Sher!"

"Your language skills increase without bounds, Watson. Good girl." There was another faint sound, a kiss on the cheek, and then the loud rustling of Sherlock putting Rosie down.

John sat there with his head in his hands, and was utterly miserable.

This was so messed up. This was so wrong. He was the worst father in the world, the worst friend in the world, he couldn't- how was this the first time he was hearing any of this? How had he never just bloody asked? God, they'd flown back in after Sherrinford and he'd never even fucking asked Sherlock about it, had he? He'd never had any idea what to say, and it wasn't as if Sherlock had ever volunteered to talk about it, but now he was listening to him tell a one year old baby about it and it was more than Sherlock had ever said to John about anything.

People looked at him like he was crazy, when they asked about Rosie, and he'd answer oh, Sherlock's watching her, or Sherlock's got it. They glanced at him askance, not just strangers, but even people like Lestrade. People who knew Sherlock, and they'd still double-take, hesitant and reluctant. Sometimes they even came right out to say it.

Are you sure that's wise?

And just look at them!

This was all his fucking fault.

He covered his mouth with his hand again, breathing in sharply and desperately trying to muffle it-

And over the monitor came the same sound.

A plastic clattering noise; Sherlock moving the baby monitor. Sherlock finding the baby monitor. Then a low gasp on his end, one low, startled whisper of an inhale.

Once again, a shared silence spread between them. John's heart beat in his ears, a steady thump, thump, thump, and the lump in his throat made it hurt to breathe.

"...John?"

John gulped.

He didn't have any idea what he supposed to say. But he sat there on the edge of his bed, that damn monitor still dangling from one hand and his heart in his throat, and all that he knew was that he just had to say something.

"I'm here," he said miserably.

"...Ah."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Now or never.

"Sherlock," John said, squeezing his eyes shut. "Can you come up here, please?"

For several long moments, he once again did not reply. When the answer finally did come, it sounded like the very last thing that Sherlock wanted to do in the entire world.

"Okay."

He still didn't know what he was going to say.

But this clearly was something that needed to happen, and it needed to happen now.

Sherlock appeared in his doorway after just long enough that John had started to think the man wasn't going to come up at all. He creaked down onto the old landing and appeared as a shadow, all six foot two of him, a looming, dark silhouette haloed by lamplight and a wreck of curls that stood up on end. Fully dressed as if for a case, all dry cleaned dark cotton and button-downs and on a knife's edge

He stood there on the very edge of John's room, not a step further, and still looked like he wanted nothing more than keep going all the way downstairs and not come back.

"John," he said, swallowing audibly. "That was. Unintentional. You were not meant to-"

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock stopped.

"I'm-" John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes again, each breath suddenly more ragged than before. "I'm sorry. Have I said that yet? I'm- I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock went dead silent again, still looming in the doorway; John couldn't see anything but the hot weight of his own hands. He wanted to crawl under the sheets and never come out.

"...Yes. You have. Several times, John." Sherlock's footsteps ventured hesitantly inside, one after another. "I'm not entirely sure what that has to do with this, but-"

"I am. I'm sorry. I'm so..." He nearly choked on his next breath, desperate to get it in. "I keep messing this up, I don't know how or what I can do to fix it. But I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry, I- I-"

"...I know. You've said so. Many times." There was another lingering pause; then, still unsteady, uncertain, as if he wasn't sure he was welcome, Sherlock moved forward just enough to settle himself on the side of his bed. He was still far enough away from John that he only felt it in the gentle shift of the mattress. "Admittedly, I'm not the most adept at comprehending proper and expected behavior. But you have apologised. Sincerely. And you seem to be thoroughly contrite. My own apologies for overstepping, but... this continued self-flagellation is not, I think, part of an apology. It's certainly doing no good for either of us."

John could do nothing but shake his head, hand still pressed to his mouth. It's not enough. He felt it, right there in the pit of his stomach. It couldn't ever be enough. "I hit you. I- Rosie-"

"I've also been historically unkind to you. I don't want to be angry at you, John; please don't ask me to."

John swallowed again, a lump still in his throat. There were too many answers that he wanted to say. You should be. Why aren't you? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Sherlock remained perched on the very edge of his bed, his head propped still on a fist and his shoulders unbearably stiff, and it remained clear that none of these things were something that he wanted John to say.

It took another few moments, but Sherlock cleared his throat again, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. He stretched his long legs out, gaze averted away. "Watson sleeps best on Tuesdays. She sleeps second best on Mondays."

John rubbed his eyes again, trying to bat away the sleep. He was tired enough that it took him a moment to catch up to Sherlock's roundabout logic, but when it did filter through, it sat in his stomach like a rock.

"...Those are the nights that I'm here."

"Yes," Sherlock said wryly, nodding. "I think she can tell that I don't know what I'm doing."

That was historically unfair, right there. John had just sat there listening to Sherlock know exactly what he was doing for half an hour.

For a genius, Sherlock had always had a stunningly poor perception of his own worth. A perception that seemed to have only been shaken even further after meeting Eurus and learning the truth about Victor Trevor.

Something that someone who was supposed to be his best friend should've realised.

"If I may?" Sherlock paused, his fingers wringing together in the dark. He sounded almost painfully hesitant, and it made John feel even worse. What had happened to this brilliant, silvertongued genius that spoke his mind even to the point of antagonizing a serial killer? What had happened to the man that used to talk until and straight past the point of hurt feelings, tears, and being told to shut up, if only to just maybe earn a fantastic in the end?

That was John's fault, too, wasn't it? All of it was. Sherlock was so different from the man he'd met that day at Bart's, and who else was to blame for that? It wasn't Mycroft. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't on Lestrade, this quieter, reduced version of Sherlock Holmes, the radiance of years ago suffocated down into insecurity and silence and scars. It was John.

It was all his fault.

"John," Sherlock said again. "As someone who is quite accustomed to achieving... as near to perfection as is humanly possible. There is nothing at all wrong with being fallibly human."

"That's not- Sherlock." He swallowed a groan, struggling not to sound impatient or annoyed, because that was not what this was supposed to be. "This is so much- worse than-"

"You had what is, quite possibly, the worst marriage to ever be recorded. You watched your best friend commit suicide. You watched your best friend be shot to near death, and your wife shot to actual death. My role in which notwithstanding. You... met Eurus." He waved his hand at that, a defeatist waggle of his fingers as he sank back, looking a bit shellshocked himself. "The last three years have been breathtakingly awful. I think you are more than permitted a less than stellar reaction."

The weight in John's chest sank further, like a stone. He sniffed against his hands, eyes squeezed shut, and forced yet another breath: in, then out.

Sherlock's words didn't make him feel any better at all.

"Once again, I feel compelled to remind you that my reaction to stress is a seven percent solution," Sherlock tried next, steepling his fingers. "As recent events so aptly illustrate. I think it's absolutely acceptable, and probably significantly healthier, to simply sign up for a double shift."

It wasn't that. It was so much more than that. It had been months and months since Mary had died and John still felt stuck in place and drowning in that bloody well, too exhausted to move on and too miserable to stay in place. He'd failed in so many ways and he hated himself and absolutely none of it could be reduced down to just a double shift.

"What about you, then?" he muttered, when he could finally get the words out. He sent a grim smile sideways, hardly a smile at all. "You seem to be doing well enough for a gold star, next to me. What. Are you flawless enough that you're somehow above reacting like a human being?"

Sherlock blinked at him, barely a startled flicker of his bright eyes in the dark. "Of course not." He slid his hands apart, his long fingers splaying in his lap. "I have you."

Another startled silence spread. Sherlock blinked again, looking as if he hadn't meant to say that at all. He swiftly snapped his mouth shut, his face pale and knuckles white.

John closed his eyes again, willing himself to stay calm. He sat carefully on the edge of his bed, counting the heartbeats through the silence.

He thought about Sherlock, upstairs, talking about nightmares and being hurt and silence. Sherlock Holmes, rocking a baby to sleep. He thought about Rosie tugging on his hair, mumbling Sher, sleeping better the two nights a week he was home.

He counted ten thudded heartbeats, his pulse under his thumb. Then, he licked his dry mouth, and forced himself on.

"Tomorrow. I might..." No. "I'm going to talk to the locum agency tomorrow." He swallowed hard again, his throat burning. "One shift is enough."

Sherlock looked at him again, his face perfectly unreadable. "Oh. That's... good. That's very good, it's... I'm sure Rosamund will be pleased."

That was all he said. That was the extent of his reaction, right there; something calm and placid and very carefully unbothered. Rosie would be pleased; that was all.

John thought about Sherlock's monologue again. That Sherlock, too, slept best when he was around. He bit his tongue, not quite having it in him to ask if Rosie would be the only one to be happy.

He didn't see the reason for it. He'd been a horrible friend to Sherlock and a horrible father to Rosie. He hadn't earned this. He hadn't earned any of this at all.

But if Sherlock could be flawed and human and still do this, then all John could do was try his very best to do so, too.

"Tomorrow," he reiterated. "I figure they'd be real unhappy to get a call from me this late at night."

"Quite." Sherlock fidgeted, looking supremely awkward and discomforted again. He bounced one leg, his fingers drumming on his thigh.

Bite the bullet, John.

"All that... stuff you said. About- not sleeping well."

"John," Sherlock said, all in a rush. "You realise, of course, that I had no idea you could hear me. Nothing I said was intended to engender any sense of obligation- or was necessarily even true, it was-"

"Do you want to stay?"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut again, and John rubbed his eyes, sighing. It was too bloody late to play these games. "You don't have to talk about it. Lord knows I'd probably be useless at that anyway. But it's late, and I know I'm knackered, and you look worse than I do, and I don't want to hear that you don't need sleep because we both know that's not true. All I'm asking is if you want to stay here tonight. If you think it'll help."

Sherlock sat very, very still. He seemed incapable of looking at John, now, his pale face framed in the faint light, his entire frame stock still and his brilliant eyes glassy and hard. He was motionless for just long enough that John knew the honest explanation wasn't going to come. Not like this.

The proper course of action was simply to turn the light out by his side, curl back down, and wait.

With the spotlight off, it didn't take long.

"I was doing fine. Quite well. I never was able to establish quite the same status quo, after I came back, but it wasn't... an issue. I could handle it. Sometimes not well, but. I was all right. Then Mary died, and then- Victor-" He broke off to swallow again, his voice rough. "I... began to experience unprecedented difficulties in processing."

I began to experience unprecedented difficulties in processing.

Yeah, John thought. Sure. Whatever the hell that meant.

He was pretty sure that was the understatement of the bloody century, there.

He waited several moments, ensuring all that wanted to be said had been said. No follow-up came, and he cleared his throat, turned carefully onto his side. "Sherlock," he repeated. "Do you want to stay?"

Several more ticks of the clock.

"Yes," he said finally, a bit shellshocked. And perhaps he was just imagining it, but to his ears, also more than a bit relieved. "That would be... nice. Yes. Thank you."

Quiet settled between them again, and when John did not further provoke the conversation, Sherlock did not attempt to explain again. He folded himself down very quickly, his long, lanky form settling on the other side of the bed with almost extreme care, but he laid down and stayed there, and it was a step in what just might've been the right direction.

He wondered how many scars were hidden under the length of the dressing gown. How many sleepless nights and terrible memories that he'd never seen before, because he'd never asked. How many were his fault.

How many nights Rosie had had that were just the same, and he'd never known, because he hadn't been here to see it.

"Sherlock," he rasped, his throat tight. "I'm sorry."

The long line of Sherlock's back remained still, his frame utterly motionless in the dark.

"...Okay." Sherlock paused again, seeming to choose his words very carefully. "Then do better."

It wasn't an admonishment or a complaint. It wasn't Sherlock saying that he wasn't good enough now. Or even that he blamed him for anything at all.

It was Sherlock saying that if he wanted to stop feeling like this, then he needed to take a step forward, and start making things better. Not just for him, not just for Rosie, but for himself, too.

John swallowed again, forcing down the lump in his throat, and nodded.

All right, then.

That was just what he was going to do.