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In hindsight--it is always 20/20, isn’t it--Sherlock concedes that he should have seen it coming. John had always been the more family-oriented of the two, to be sure, and Sherlock didn’t delude himself in thinking that John didn’t still occasionally pine after the wife-and-two-kids scenario. Sherlock also knew that John would never admit such a thing, and also that he was perfectly content with his life as it was. Yet, when they found themselves on a case of child-trafficking, Sherlock hadn’t though of what it might just do to their relationship.
They’d been friends for nearly seven years, in a romantic and sexual relationship for two of those years--though sometimes it felt as if they’d always been such. He knew John was contemplating proposing, how could he not? While John was certainly able to surprise him more often than others, he was rubbish at keeping secrets. John, ever the romantic, was obviously waiting for the perfect moment. Or perhaps some sign that Sherlock was amenable to the idea. After all, he had ridiculed the entire institution of marriage numerous times prior to their relationship change, and a few times after the change as well. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t any idea how to convey that he was more than amenable to the idea of marriage to John. How was one supposed to say that they wanted to spent the rest of their natural life waking up next to one person? To grow old together, possibly purchase a cottage in Sussex and own bees, with the occasional case to solve from home--how was one supposed to tell the love of their life that the life they wanted seemed entirely incomplete without the other?
Conversations about the future never happened and Sherlock was loathe to bring it up out of the blue. Oh, he’d been perfectly happy to know John was willing to spend the rest of their lives together without marriage, but as soon as the possibility became available, Sherlock couldn’t imagine doing anything else. William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes had a wonderful ring to it, really. As did John Hamish Watson-Holmes, for that matter. One name was rarely spoken without the other anyway.
And now they were dashing into an abandoned warehouse, John following behind with his gun in his hand. They ducked behind a stack of empty crates, and Sherlock peered around the edge to see approximately a dozen children huddled together in the center of the room. The children ranged in age, the youngest appearing to be no older than three years and the oldest looked about ten or eleven. No guards in sight, though Sherlock could hear voices drifting through a doorway on their right. Thankfully, none of the children looked seriously injured, a few bruises and an overall look of malnutrition, but no worse for wear.
Slowly, he stepped from behind the crates, finger pressed to his lips to signal silence. He motioned for John to put away his gun, and the shorter man stepped out slowly, a kind smile on his face. The older children looked on with apprehension, and held the young ones tightly, but they watched as the two men approached and slowly loosened their tense muscles. It took a bit of coaxing from John, but eventually they managed to gather up the youngest ones in their arms and bid the older ones to follow closely behind. As quietly as possible, they dashed out of the warehouse to the waiting squad of police cars and Child Protective Services.
The three year old, who on closer inspection was found to only be two and a half at most, clung tightly to John. Parents were called, and arrived to pick up their children, relieved and tearful thanks were given to the two men. However, no one came for the youngest. They tried to get her name, but all they received were pitiful whimpers and clenched fists in the wool of John’s jumper. Lestrade emerged with the criminals in handcuffs and zip-ties, a pitiful parade of men that John snarled at in disdain.
John stroked a hand through the child’s dirty-blonde ringlets, muttering nonsense and pressing soft kisses to the top of her head. Child Protective Services came by to finally inform them of the girl’s identity and the unfortunate fact that her parents had committed suicide barely a week prior from the distress of losing their daughter. When they tried to take her, she wailed in protest and clung tighter to John’s jumper, sobbing into the creamy wool. The second John’s warm, blue eyes turned to Sherlock, the detective knew exactly what was going to happen. What shocked him was how much he actually wanted it. He knew exactly what could happen to children in the foster system, especially young girls, and he also knew how much John would blame himself if something terrible happened to her.
They’d have to work out how to solve cases with a child, to be sure, and Sherlock wouldn’t pretend that he wasn’t just a little scared of the prospect. But he also knew that the idea of parting with this child now, when John seemed so in love, made his chest constrict in a rather uncomfortable manner. “Let’s go home, John,” he stated softly, running his own hand over the child’s curls. The look of such raw, grateful relief in John’s eyes made Sherlock’s heart feel so full of love for this unassuming man.
The girl--Charlotte--fell asleep on the way home, and they carried her silently up the seventeen steps to the flat. The three of them curled up in the large bed, Charlotte placed in between the pair. They’d have to go shopping in the morning and sign papers to legally make her theirs, but in the few moments before sleep claimed him, Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to dread the prospect. It was for his daughter, after all.