Work Text:
The sitting room of 221B was silent until the knock on the door. It was empty until Mrs Hudson peered inside, a tray of scones and biscuits in her hands.
“Yoo-hoo,” she called softly, and the words warmed the empty space like sunbeams through the windows. Silence drew her in, and she eased the door closed, instinctively knowing to keep quiet.
She smiled indulgently at the mess: toys strewn across the floor, spit cloths piled on the table, and a half-empty bottle lying on its side on John’s chair. She sighed and smiled, fond and accepting, and set down the tray so she could set to work.
Clear away the dirty dishes and mugs and spoons, drop the dirty spit cloths in a pile in the hall. Pour the rest of the bottled formula down the sink, and leave everything to soak. Better not to risk the noise running water would cause.
A quick glance at the still-closed bedroom door – and then as quickly as she dared, she fluffed the cushions on the sofa, shook out the blanket on the back of John’s chair, straightened the curtains, and found a clean spit cloth to give everything a quick dusting. She toed the rug back into place, scrubbed at a spot on the floor that was sticky with something best left unidentified, and took a quick inventory of the fridge (plenty of milk, not nearly enough fruit).
And only then did she creep to the bedroom door and, burning with curiosity, push it open.
The room was dark except for the daylight-glow from the window. Sherlock slept on the far side of the bed, turned toward her. His brow was still furrowed possessively, but his breathing was steady. His hand rested on Emily’s back where she lay on her stomach between her fathers. Her dark curly hair was an unruly halo around her flushed face, peaceful and sweet and so very, very relieved.
And then John, on his back, one arm flung above his head. He was still pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but his breathing was slow and steady.
Next to him on the co-sleep cot was the baby, still wrapped up tightly in his swaddle, frowning in the way sleeping newborns often did.
All four of them: exhausted. Asleep. Home. Safe.
Mrs Hudson’s heart caught, just a little. Safe. That was the most important – that was the best bit. Safe and home, under her roof, with a mess in the sitting room and the washing up in the sink, and Mrs Hudson closed the door, grateful to have them all exactly where they were meant to be.