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„Case, John!“ There is no denying the excitement in Sherlock’s voice, the same excitement Sherlock first heard shouting ‘It’s Christmas’ so many years ago. It pulls him in, as it always has, and John can feel his own heart beat faster in his chest. He hasn’t been part of a case in ages, and as he realises with a look at his watch, he won’t be now.
The disappointment sinks in his stomach like a stone to the bottom of a lake. As much as he wants the adventure, as much as he loves the work, there is a priority in his life now, a love that is deeper than any love he has ever felt.
“I can’t. Got to pick up Rosie and I’m already running late.” John grabs his jacket. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He is out the door, not looking back. Seeing the look of disappointment on his best friend’s face, he can’t bear that again. Moving back in with his daughter, he had hoped they would become closer, more than friends.
John finds an empty spot on the tube and watches his hands as the train rattles on. He wants to get out at the next stop, go back to Baker Street. But he can’t, and only thinking it makes the guilt swell up in his chest. He thinks about Rosie’s sweet face, thinks about what she has been through at such a young age: losing a mother she does not remember, and a father who was too distraught to raise her in the months after. She deserves all of his attention, all of his love, and if that means he has to fight down that silly little urge to go on adventures with his detective best friend, he will do just that.
Rosie makes an excited noise when she spots him. She drops the toy she’s been playing with and runs over to him. He catches her, holds her to his chest. “Daddy.” She beams and points into the room. “Play pirate. Can play pirate, Daddy?”
“We’re going home, love.” John strokes a hand over her curls, anticipating her disapproval. She does not disappoint. Her red mouth pulls into a dramatic pout.
“Daddy, nooo. Rosie stay and play and play and play. No go home.” They have been playing this game ever since she started at the nursery. She doesn’t want him to go in the mornings, and in the afternoons is too busy with her friends to care much for him. But John has wrangled Sherlock Holmes for years, and that has taught him a few tricks – and an abundance of patience.
This time, it is not enough. Ten minutes after entering the nursery, John has a sulking Rosie sitting in a corner, and his arm hurts a bit where her shoe has hit him. She’s tired, he knows, but he is too, with the only difference being, that social norms forbid him to just throw himself on the floor and let all that anger out in a strop. He wishes he could, sometimes.
John lets her pout. He sits down on the too-small bench, her shoes in her hand, and he waits and waits. Until in swoops his saving grace, long coat billowing behind him. Sherlock looks dark against the colourful furniture like it is the last place he should be at. Still, his presence is very appreciated by both Watsons.
Rosie looks up at him with a bright “Sher”, her sulk abandoned as she lets him scoop her up. She is obsessed with him, and John’s heart grows a little bit every time he sees the love between his daughter and her godfather.
“Sherlock,” he says, quickly getting up. “What are you doing here?”
“Case, John. Do keep up.” Sherlock smiles at him, then he is off, and John needs to catch up with Rosie’s shoes and her backpack. A few minutes later, they are in the back of a cab. John is not sure how they got there, but as the effect of the surprise simmers down, John is confronted with the reality of the situation.
“Sherlock,” he says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. But as he has established, letting down Rosie is not an option. That means, he must disappoint his best friend, must tell him no, and pull out of the case before it has started. And he must disappoint himself. All he wants is to do is close the rift between them, the one that has formed over the years, widened with fake deaths and real wives and unbearable hurt. Instead, it seems to grow bigger every day.
There is nothing they can do. Too many chances missed. They are lucky to be alive, lucky to be friends.
“Sherlock, we can’t. No cases with Rosie. That’s just too dangerous.”
He expects hurt, barely visible behind a mask of indifference, just enough for John to see. Instead, Sherlock looks at him with an expression that is too familiar. The glint in his eyes, the raise of his eyebrows says ‘Don’t be stupid, John’.
“We are taking Miss Watson to the zoo, John,” he says as if that was the most obvious thing on this planet. John looks at him, confused. His protest is almost lost in Rosie chanting ‘zoo, zoo, zoo’ repeatedly.
“The zoo? But I don’t even have anything for Rosie. She hasn’t eaten yet, we need nappies, and…” he interrupts himself as Sherlock lifts a posh-looking, black leather bag. John noticed it when Sherlock had arrived at the nursery but had refrained from asking. He never gets a satisfying answer to questions like that.
“Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches, we have nappies and baby wipes. Change of clothes, should an accident happen.” Sherlock lists the items as he would a deduction, and John loves him just a bit more. Sherlock ‘I’m a sociopath’ Holmes cares so much for his goddaughter, loves her fiercely.
Raising her, John knows, would not be possible without Sherlock, Sherlock, who plays the violin if she cannot sleep, who does not tire of telling her stories and carrying her around the flat to look at all the trinkets there. Sherlock, who picks her up from the nursery if John has to work longer and takes her to the park while John has his therapy sessions with Ella. They are good together in that way. And maybe, it is enough. Wanting more is greedy. That is what John has to tell himself, over and over, until his hopeful heart finally believes it.
“You came prepared, ey?” John brushes a hand through Rosie’s hair, and his fingers twitch to reach up and do the same to Sherlock’s dark curls. He does not. “Well, the zoo, then. Surprise outing. Nice.” He knows he is babbling. He cannot stop. He only shuts up when the cab stops, and he is busy convincing Rosie to put her jacket on. In this, he succeeds. Not a complete failure as a parent, then.
Rosie insists on walking, tiny hands closed around Sherlock’s finger on the right, and John’s on the left, as they make their way to the entrance. She gets a bit shy for a moment, as John gets their tickets from the grumpy-looking woman at the box office and is back to her bubbly self the second she is out of sight.
“We only have two and a half hours. That makes it almost impossible to do the pink route. We can do blue, and then maybe go to the farmyard after. Rosie will enjoy that.” Sherlock is already stirring them in the direction of gorilla kingdom.
“You really got it all planned out, haven’t you?” John grins at his best friend, who winks back. The moment ends, interrupted by Rosie yelling ‘ooooook’, and pointing at a few monkeys. She reaches out for John to pick her up so she can see better. Sherlock is an expert on them, of course, and he has a whole presentation prepared, and he is lucky that both Watsons just love his voice and happily listen as he lists preferred foods and characteristic behaviours.
By the time they have reached the gorilla exhibit, Sherlock has just finished his lecture on the differences between monkeys and apes, made difficult by Rosie waving and greeting monkeys, apes, and homo sapiens alike, waving her little hand. It is adorable enough to finally shut Sherlock up in favour of watching her. John watches Sherlock, pale eyes fixed on Rosie in adoration he is not even trying to hide.
John tries to focus on the animals, but his brain is conjuring up imagines of them as a happy family – and he does not need much of an imagination for that. How often does he wake up to Sherlock feeding Rosie breakfast, or come home to find them curled up on the sofa with a book? Where do the lines between Godfather and parental figure blur? Would Sherlock want them to? So many questions John is afraid to ask, not wanting to disrupt the peace they have created for themselves over the past months.
That fear surely plays a part in the awkward silence that spreads between them once Rosie has fallen asleep, not long after they have passed Tiger Territory. Making friends with everyone must be exhausting. She is heavy like a stone against John’s chest, mouth hanging open and John shifts her a bit, his bad shoulder playing up.
“Well, that must have been a miscalculation in my plan,” Sherlock says after a moment, nodding in the direction of the sleeping toddler. John nods, follows him into the reptile house, then suddenly stops.
“No. No, wait, you are Sherlock Holmes. You don’t just miscalculate. And you know Rosie’s nap times by heart. You don’t just forget,” John has to quicken his steps to keep up, all careless strolling forgotten. John should have known.
“Sherlock?” he hisses, not sure if he is mad or excited. “Talk to me.”
The detective stops in front of a terrarium, suddenly very interested in the snake behind the glass. John opens his mouth to request an answer when he speaks.
“This is just a small stake-out, John. Nothing to worry about, or dangerous.” Their shoulders touch as John steps closer. He should be mad, maybe. Worried, absolutely, because it is never just a stake-out with them. And he is. Rosie is too young to know about crime. She cannot be part of this world, and John thought Sherlock understood. They had talked about this.
“Sherlock. Rosie is here. This is not…”
“I would not bring you two here if it was not safe, John. I would never risk her well-being.” Sherlock looks at him directly, pale eyes earnest. Images fly past, of escapes in the last seconds, of the many times they ended up tied up somewhere. As much as he trusts Sherlock, this is not something he can get his daughter involved in.
“We are just looking. I promise you.” Sherlock insists. “You can wait outside.” If Sherlock were capable of puppy eyes, he would have used them now, and John feels the excitement slowly push back the hesitation, the worry.
“I will kill you with my own hands if anything happens. You know that, right?” He asks.
“Yes,” Sherlock knows he has won if the smirk is anything to go on.
“We will need to talk about this. Soon. Now, I need you to tell me what this is about. All of it. No more secrets.” He follows Sherlock’s gaze, and watches the snake curl itself around a branch, its green scales shimmering in the artificial light. It’s beautiful.
“Wait, does it have to do with the snake?” He can see the detective’s expression shift in the reflection of the glass, and his smile is beautiful, almost proud.
“Well done, John. Not this snake, not this species even. But snakes, in general, yes. Snakes in this zoo.” John’s chest swells with pride, and a moment later he feels stupid for it. Rosie could have made that conclusion. It has literally stared at him through reptilian eyes.
“Snakes then. What did they do? Steal the crown jewels? Kidnap the MP’s husband?” He attempts a joke. Sherlock is not polite enough to laugh, and John appreciates it.
“There is a new party drug. Well, party drug is a bit general. It is sold in two clubs exclusively and has become quite popular with the VIP guests.”
John looks down at Rosie, who makes a soft sound in her sleep. “Glad we didn’t go to a club, then, considering… Why didn’t we go to a club?”
“Because the club is where the drug is consumed, John. But we are looking for the source..”
“The source?” John asks, stupidly.
“Lestrade called me to the crime scene after a woman died. Murdered. Drug courier. I found a substance hidden in her necklace. A very Victorian move if you ask me.” Sherlock walks over to the next terrarium. “I was able to get it into my possession.” He does not have to tell John that Lestrade has no clue about the existence of any hidden drug. He will know about it soon, once Sherlock has solved the case and presented it in a flurry of hand movements and big words, and will only be mad at Sherlock for a short while, just how it always was.
“I did analyse the fluid. It turns out it is venom. Venom from this species.” Sherlock pulls John up close to the next enclosure. “Naja naja. The Indian Cobra. There have been reports in the past, about people in India letting themselves get bitten to experience a high. It’s quite clever. Happiness, sleepiness, for about 3 weeks, no withdrawal. I was tempted to test it.” Sherlock’s gaze shifts to Rosie. “But I didn’t.”
He gently reaches out, and John is almost disappointed when pale fingers brush a blonde curl behind an ear instead of resting against his cheek.
“I considered private people. Surprising, how many of them secretly keep deadly snakes. None of them fit.”
“So maybe it is the one hidden in plain sight,” John concludes, nodding at the snake curled up in the corner.
“Exactly,” Sherlock beams, and a second later, John is pulled through a door that quite obviously says ‘Staff Only’. “And we are here to find out how he did it.” The door clicks shut behind them, revealing the part of the zoo that is not made for the eyes of the broad public. John finds rows and rows of glass boxes, inhabited by the snakes that are not exhibited. The whirr of the humidifiers fills the room, almost covering the noise of the conversations outside.
“What are we looking for?” John adjusts his grip on Rosie, careful not to wake her.
“Anything that can prove the venom is being collected. Tubes, snake hooks. They could have venom on them. Don’t touch anything.”
John tries to work with that vague information, peering into drawers and even into the bin- the things they have found in bins during cases have often been very helpful- while Sherlock moves to look at every snake.
“He’s breeding them.” He straightens, his whispered words filled with excitement. John steps closer to see.
“How do you know? Snake expert all of the sudden?”
“Don’t need to be. It is enough to know that this,” He points at a row of glass boxes, and the labels on them. “They are labelled as harmless Hydrodynastes Gigas, but the zoo does not own that species. Never have.”
“So, the snake guy did that? Bred them to supply some clubs with snake venom as drugs?”
“Yes. The murder was an accident. A drug deal gone wrong. Happens all the time. Boring. This. This is clever.” Sherlock beams at him, and John cannot help but grin back.
“We shouldn’t be so excited about drugs,” he smirks.
“People take drugs, John. We cannot stop that. But we can stop these beautiful creatures from being put under the distress of being milked for their venom.”
John raises an eyebrow, then smiles fondly. “Of course. That is obviously the problem here. So, what do we do now? Should I text Lestrade?” He reaches for his phone.
Sherlock’s face does something complicated and John expects a daring grin, a precursor to something adventurous, bordering on stupid. John can already see himself smuggling a deadly snake out of London Zoo, or Sherlock using said snake to fend off a raging drug dealer. Instead, Sherlock nods, with a look at Rosie.
John starts typing a message to Lestrade, adjusting his daughter’s weight to rest against his hip. He is preoccupied with typing, taking more time with only one finger available, when the room rushes into movement.
His back is already against the door when he becomes aware of the sound of footsteps outside. His huff of surprise is the last sound he is capable of, before warm lips press against his. The kiss makes everything else fade into the background, making him incapable of thought as Sherlock’s mouth moves against his, a hand cupping his cheek, sending pleasant shivers down John’s spine. He reaches up and pulls Sherlock closer to deepen the kiss. He runs his tongue along a full lip, eliciting a soft sound from the other man.
That is what kickstarts John’s brain, and brings reality back. London Zoo. Reptile House. Holding Rosie. Someone at the door. There is barely time for John to take in the scruffy beard and dull eyes, open wide in surprise. The scene must look bizarre, two men in the middle of the reptile room, kissing, as a toddler sleeps between them.
Rosie. Shit. He promised to keep her out of this, and so did Sherlock.
He pulls back, but Sherlock beats him to it. Pink-cheeked and with an apologetic smile, he turns to the man standing just a few metres away.
“Sorry, sorry, mate. We just – wanted a moment. That… sorry. We’re gone.” He stammers, pulling John away from the door and out into the main area of the reptile house and into the fresh air. John’s head is spinning with everything that is going on, and he struggles to keep up with Sherlock who pulls him along and towards the exit.
He is holding John’s hand.
John almost topples over, too occupied with the image of their intertwined fingers. He lets go, instinctively protecting Rosie’s head. The toddler stirs, blue eyes opening for a moment. She looks at him confused, stretching.
“Finished your nap?” John tries to hide that he is out of breath, putting on a smile for her.
“Penwings, daddy?” She asks, ignoring his question.
“I can deal with Lestrade. Go see some more animals, and I will meet you at home, yes?” Sherlock suggests, already typing on his phone, the façade back in place, even as his lips are still slightly red from when John kissed him.
John kissed him, less than three minutes ago. Three minutes, and that intricate little timeframe in which laughter could have turned into a second kiss and a third, has closed, giving way to embarrassment and awkward silence. John hates it, hates not being brave enough to kiss Sherlock goodbye as they part ways, or even touch his arm in a promise of more.
Instead, he watches his best friend become a dark spot in the distance, moving towards the exit. He keeps his eyes fixed on him until a tiny hand reaches out to grab his nose.
“Pengwins, daddy,” Rosie insists, then wiggles until he has to set her down on the floor, or else he will drop her. Sherlock is long gone.
The kiss occupies every second, as John looks at penguins and butterflies, and tortoises, before he gets Rosie home and fed. Sherlock kissed you, his brain supplies as he bathes Rosie and tucks her into bed. And you kissed back, it taunts, as he reads her bedtime story, only getting louder once she is asleep and he is alone.
He knows you kissed him back. John stops in his tracks between the living room and kitchen. Sherlock is a genius. He knows. At this moment, he knows, undoubtedly, that John is desperately in love with him, when to Sherlock, this might have just been the means to an end, a simple distraction.
There, in the doorframe, John’s heart breaks. For a few hours, he had been filled with the excitement of the next step in their relationship, that maybe the last line between them had finally been crossed, moving them from friendship to romance. Yes, he’d expected the awkwardness of two British males talking about feelings, but in his head, it had always ended with the kissing again. Sherlock might not want this. Doubt spreads from his head to his heart and holds it in a tight grip, as he realises that concealing themselves from the snake venom guy has revealed how deep John’s feelings go, and that might ruin the life they have carved out for themselves.
Sherlock would not try to show it, but there would be hesitation, awkwardness, the love that was bottled up for so long now unable to be contained again. They might have been able to ignore it when it was just under the surface, but now it is laid bare, the elephant in the room.
John feels incapable of moving, stuck in one spot. Maybe if he does not move, Sherlock will just be able to ignore that he is here. They can live side by side, as they have been now, and just ignore John’s heart, openly on display. And John would live with that. He could not live without Sherlock – he had tried that once before, unsuccessfully so. And he would not put his daughter through yet another move or get in between her relationship with her godfather.
John startles into movement at the thought of his daughter. Anything for her. John starts pacing. Maybe he could just deny how much he had enjoyed – had longed for - this kiss. With half a life denying his bisexuality, he had practice at that, at least. He could claim being surprised or catching on to Sherlock’s plan quickly, playing along. Sherlock might do him the favour of believing that.
“Or you could talk, for once in your life. Tell him how you feel, tell him you realise this is not possible, and promise to work on falling out of love. Somehow.” John fixes himself in the living room mirror. “There’s been enough bloody lies and excuses between you and him.”
Before his reflection can consider an answer, he is interrupted by the sound of the door to the flat being shoved open. Sherlock’s curls are damp from the drizzling rain, and his eyes spark with post-case adrenaline.
“Solved it, then?” John asks, as stating the obvious seems safe territory.
“Of course. It was obvious. I was able to prove my theories in a way that even Lestrade could understand. We went back to the reptile house. Lestrade talked to the suspect, who confessed it all. Boring.” Sherlock looks disappointed for a moment. “We did not expect his accomplice to be there.”
“Accomplice?”
“Yes, John.” Sherlock carelessly kicks off his shoes and pulls his socks off. “He was breeding deadly cobras out in the open. Any other snake expert at the zoo would have noticed immediately. Working together and sharing the profits was their only option.” Sherlock walks past him into the kitchen to get some water.
“She was less cooperative. Felt cornered. I was checking the syringes already prepared for selling when she attacked me. She got me in the arm.” Sherlock rolls up his sleeve, not pausing his story for a second. “It would have been more appealing if she had used a snake to attack me. More fun. A syringe was a bit mundane. Well, she panicked. It was what was available to her. It did not help her much. Lestrade’s men got her, and she…”
John is by his side in a second, reaching for his arm, caught somewhere between panic and doctor mode, wanting to help. There is a red dot, stark against the pale skin “We need to get you to a hospital. You need an antidote, Sherlock. Why would you be so careless? That …”
A large hand covers his, and John feels an immediate calm. He looks up into pale eyes, glimmering with amusement. “I predicted her move, John. I exchanged the syringes. She injected me with a simple saline solution. I’m okay.”
John’s shoulders slump with relief, and he releases a breath, hands gripping Sherlock’s arm tighter. His heart is racing. “Of course, you did,” he says, his body releasing all the fear in a chuckle. “Of course, you bloody did.”
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth pull into a small smile, the one John only ever gets to see if he calls him amazing or fantastic, the one John wants to see all the time.
“I am not the man I was when we met. I do love being right, but this life with my Watsons is more important. I would not have put Rosie at risk. Or you. Or myself. Yes, the work is risky, but I can calculate that risk. You know I can.” He taps his finger against his forehead.
John imagines the mind behind the skull, the thoughts racing, constantly observing, analysing, anticipating every move. “I know you can. I trust you, Sherlock. I trusted you today when we went through that door and stepped behind the scenes of the reptile house. I trusted you that if I took my daughter there, she would get back out safely. Because you love her, and you would never let her be harmed.”
Sherlock huffs. “You got hurt on cases before. You almost died.”
“Which was my choice, as an adult. Not the almost dying part, but the going along with you into dangerous places. That is a risk I took, then. A risk I cannot take anymore, because I have a child now, who depends on me. But I still want to be part of the work, at least to a degree. The not almost dying parts of it.” John releases the strong hold on Sherlock’s wrist to brush a finger over the sensitive skin there. He does not let go, holds on just a little longer. “I want to do stakeouts, and maybe come to crime scenes. Or help you sort through files. I don’t care. Just - I don’t want to lose the work, completely. Today was fun. I missed it, missed sneaking around in places where we shouldn’t be.”
A place we ended up kissing in, his brain provides. The mental image is back. Time freezes, or flies by, he is not quite sure which, as they look at where their bodies touch, then into the other’s eyes.
“You want to know why I kissed you,” Sherlock reads his mind, and John is grateful for it. It has been the one question on his mind ever since their lips parted. He nods, slowly, gaze dropping again. His knees feel weak, as he considers just leaving, staying in that safe space of not knowing.
“Our main suspect is an obvious homophobe. Finding us in a compromising situation would make him uncomfortable to a degree that would make it impossible for him to remember details about us or come to the conclusion that we were there for a very different reason.”
And that’s it, isn’t it? A distraction.
John turns to hide whatever his face will reveal about his broken heart, but Sherlock’s hands chase his, as he pulls them back. The touch is so gentle, it brings tears to John’s eyes, as he feels Sherlock’s fingers stroke against the inside of his palm.
“There were seventeen other options, of course, to get us out of there. Other options that I had calculated to be more successful. I chose this one on the basis that I really wanted to kiss you.”
Seconds tick by, as John tries to process what Sherlock just said.
“Is that okay?” Sherlock sounds unsure, now, and John cannot stand it. He does not want Sherlock to believe for a second that his honesty was a mistake when it is all that John has ever wanted to hear. Closing the distance between them, John seals their mouths together.
The doubt, the fear, the hesitation melts away with every soft touch of lips, and John reaches up to cup Sherlock’s face to pull him even closer. It feels as if flood gates had opened, everything holding him back is now gone, and love is rushing out of him, translating into the sweetest touch.
“I really wanted to kiss you too.” He whispers as they pull back to breathe for a moment. “For a long time.” He lets Sherlock wrap his arms around him, tugging himself against his chest. “And I want to do it again, every day, preferably. Is that okay?”
John feels Sherlock nod more than he sees it. “Very much so,” the detective rests his cheek against John’s forehead, and here, in the safety of the hug, John allows himself to say: “I was afraid, that after everything that happened, it would be too late. I was afraid to risk the life we established, living together again, caring for Rosie.”
“I understand,” Sherlock places a kiss against his hair in the sweetest gesture.
“I … Thank you for being brave enough,” John lifts his head to look up at him.
“You weren’t being a coward, John. You were protective of your child, holding back for her sake, and mine. There is no need for that, anymore. No more denying yourself to be happy.”
“Sherlock…” John breathes, not knowing what to say. And then he knows, and he takes a deep breath and is brave. “I’m in love with you.”
John is somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, the weight of Rosie heavy on his chest. He remembers getting up when she cried and snuggling back in bed as soon as she calmed down. John strokes a hand over her back. He knows she will wake soon, full of energy, but for now, he gets to enjoy this moment of quiet.
John turns his head. Next to him on the pillow, Sherlock looks peaceful in his sleep, mouth hanging open. John reaches out to brush a curl from his forehead, filled with so much tenderness for this man.
This is all he’s ever wanted, lazy Saturday mornings and great adventures, the fast, racing brain of the genius, and slow, sweet kisses. He wants all of it, the good and the bad, the domestic and the dangerous. There is so much they still have to talk about, but the most important words were already shared between them. Everything else could wait.
John reaches out to wrap an arm around him, feeling Sherlock snuggling closer. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, fully content.