Chapter Text
I know what you could become. That’s what Mary had said, in the video. The video she made before she died. John Watson turned the phrase over in his memory, contemplative. It faintly tickled something in the back of his head, but roughly tugged at something in the center of his chest. His head was always better at pretending than his heart. Ever the soldier. It was a war he’d created for himself, and the battle began in January of seven years ago.
A lot has happened since that January. For one, he now has a dead wife. A dead wife who lied to him, time and time again. Her death also brought forth a new life: Rosie. Sometimes John sees Mary looking back at him in her cobalt eyes, a constant reminder of the void she created when she left. His daughter would grow up motherless.
Other things have happened, too. His best friend died. Then he came back. Be careful what you wish for, Sherlock had said. John now wonders if he really has the power to wish things into existence, and if the universe would grant him just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle for me, Sherlock.
The fact of the matter is, he’s stuck. John is suspended in liminal space, torn between the life he could have had and how he could even begin to move forward given the circumstances. Dead wife. Not-dead best friend. Daughter. So yes, he’s stuck—floating in the blackness of uncertainty. Wondering if he has the power to wish things into existence. Hoping he does.
***
Rosie is at daycare. She is often, these days. John has to work, provide for his daughter. But today he’s not working. Today he’s at Baker Street.
It’s drizzling out. Muted light seeps through the double windows in the sitting room, casting a greyish hue about the flat. Its dullness seems to creep into John’s bones, too, or maybe it’s just a reflection of what he feels inside. The faint pitter patter of precipitation on the window panes makes his blinking slow. His eyelids continuously catch on his lower eyelashes, grabbing hold of one another as they beg him to keep his eyes shut. Whether it’s the fact that he hasn’t slept properly in weeks, or just that the sight before him is too much to bear, he doesn’t know.
Sherlock is bent over his microscope at the kitchen table. It’s so familiar, so achingly reminiscent of days filled with running through London’s alleyways, laughing while trying to reinstate oxygen into their lungs, and late nights with takeaway and crap telly while Sherlock sprawls out on the couch, crowding John to one end. But he wouldn’t care about the lack of personal space, not when he could feel the detective’s warmth through his trousers. Not when Sherlock would claim to get uncomfortable and turn his whole body around, John ending up with a lap full of wild, charcoal curls. He still wouldn’t care, not when he would rest his palm on the curls, and Sherlock would seem to subconsciously press into it. He’d softly, so softly一as if any more pressure would break the spell一follow the shape of the ringlets, letting his callouses catch on each one. Sherlock would sigh, John would suppress a shiver, and Sherlock would sleep. He’d sleep, and John would be happy.
Would be.
Because now John isn’t happy, and the feeling has escaped him for some time. It’s hard to live in a home that once held three and has now been reduced to two. It’s hard to accept that he wasn’t happy even when it had occupied three. Wasn’t happy when a ring was placed on his finger. Probably hasn’t been happy since before his not-dead best friend took a fall, and he watched. Before, that’s what he’s been calling it. Before everything, when we were happy.
That’s another problem. He’s been using “we” a lot, too. As if he and Sherlock exist as a single entity. He’s not even sure if Sherlock was happy back then, or if he’s happy now. There is much of the man he doesn’t know. He’d like to think he knows more than most, but even still, he often feels lost in the matter. They’ve never been good at talking. Arguing, sure. Avoiding the matter entirely with pointless dissension, definitely.
But what is “the matter,” exactly?
“Sherlock.”
The man looks up from his microscope. “Oh, John.” He sounds sort of awkward, like he isn’t sure what to make of John’s sudden appearance.
“Sorry to barge in like this. I know you weren’t expecting anyone.”
“No, it’s alright. I was just finishing this up.” He gestures to the assortment of vials and petri dishes scattered on the table.
“Take your time. Tea?”
“If you don’t mind. I think there’s some Earl Grey up in the cabinet. Not sure if there’s any milk in, though.”
“I’ll live without it.”
John shuffles about the kitchen, careful not to disturb Sherlock too much. He fills up the kettle and clicks it on before retrieving two mugs, checking for any sort of inconspicuous residue on them. You never knew what things Sherlock contaminated whilst experimenting. He then drops two bags of the Earl Grey in the mugs and waits for the water to boil. Deciding to risk an encounter with potential severed body parts in the fridge, he searches for milk.
“Ah, you’ve a bit left, after all.”
“Might want to check if it’s any good.”
John unscrews the cap, then wrinkles his nose when he smells its sourness. “Never mind.”
Sherlock chuckles. “Sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
Just then, the kettle clicks off. John pours the hot water into their respective mugs, and Sherlock’s chair scrapes across the kitchen floor behind him.
“All done, then?” John asks.
“Seems so, for now. Results are inconclusive. The fibers from the pillow were a bit too damaged, after the honey got to them.”
John turns away from the tea to face the man. “I’m not even going to bother questioning that.” He sounds fond. Too fond, probably.
“Best if you didn’t, anyway.” The right side of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. John quickly looks away before his eyes have a chance to lock onto it.
Turning back to the tea to put a couple scoops of sugar into Sherlock’s, John asks, “How’s the business in Sherrinford?”
“Alright, I suppose. She’s still nonverbal.”
“And your parents?”
“Settling...to say the least. Good thing for Mycroft. He’s been on thin ice with Mummy for months now.”
“I’d imagine.”
John hands Sherlock his tea. They head for the sitting room, settling into their chairs. Familiarity creeps up on John again.
Sherlock takes a sip from his mug. “Very good, John. Thank you.” John’s still not used to hearing gratitude from the man. He tries his best not to act surprised.
“Not a problem.”
Sherlock studies the inside of his mug. John’s avoiding. Stalling. Doing a poor job of it, really, because he’s leaving them in a silence that stretches rather awkwardly.
“John, I hate to sound rude, but if you don’t mind me asking…”
“Yes, sorry, yes.”
Sherlock blinks at him, as if he’s expecting John to continue. Which, fair. But he doesn’t, so Sherlock finishes his question.
“Why are you here?”
That’s the question, the big question. The truth is, John hasn’t really decided on an answer. A lot of different things have been running through his mind—I know what you could become—but none of the reasons he can come up with for being here seem right, in this moment. He’s not sure which first step to take, or which is the correct one.
“I’m not...entirely sure.”
“Alright.” He’s so patient with him. John’s chest aches.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” John blurts. About what, exactly?
“Alright?” Sherlock sounds hesitant now, unsure.
John takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock’s eyes follow the motion. He looks expectant.
“What if, hypothetically speaking…” John wasn’t even sure where he was going with this.
“Yes?”
“...we were to baby-proof the flat?” Well, he definitely wasn’t expecting that to be the thing he came up with.
Sherlock appears rightfully confused. His eyebrows are drawn together, as if he’s thinking very hard about what John had said, trying to make sense of it.
“Because of Rosie?”
“Yes, because of Rosie. It wouldn’t really be much work. Just a gate for the stairs, some locks for the cabinets, stoppers for sharp corners, things like that.”
“If that’s what you want, John, then it’s alright with me.”
“You’ll probably have to start being more careful with your experiments, too; keep things out of reach, make sure not to contaminate anything she can get into.”
Sherlock shakes his head now, and John’s heart sinks.
“I’m sorry, I’m not comprehending. Do you really want Rosie here that often?” Oh.
“Well, yes. That is what I’m trying to imply.”
“John, I’m...I’m honored.” Sherlock looks truly touched. It stirs something in John, and he smiles warmly.
Sherlocked continues, “I only worry about the distance you’ll have to travel if you bring her here on a regular basis. Work is close to Baker Street, yes, but Rosie’s daycare is closer to your flat, which is much farther away. The trip would be very back and forth, and that seems quite redundant, especially with a young child in tow.”
“I don’t think you understand what I’m asking, Sherlock.” John’s heart feels ready to burst.
“Asking?”
“Yes. I’m asking if you’ll have Rosie and I at Baker Street, to stay.”
Sherlock freezes, blinking rapidly. He did this every time a piece of data failed to compute in his mind. John waits patiently.
“You mean...move back in?”
John smiles. “Yes. But only if you’ll agree to all of my terms and conditions,” he teases.
“Anything, John. Anything you want, I will do. Rosie is important to me, as she is to you.”
John is melting, now. He feels like he’s sliding right out of his chair to pool on the floor in a great puddle. “I know.”
And that’s how John came to live in a home of three, again.