Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last visit to Sussex did it. I’d gone reluctantly, and I hadn’t been back since. Not because the stay wasn’t pleasant. Even though he tempted me with the peaceful countryside, the warm taste of marmalade on toast, and the buzz of beehives, I couldn’t stay. The moment I opened his wardrobe and saw the Belstaff retired on a hanger, I left. 

At least he did try to motivate me.

“Why don’t you write?” he’d asked.

“You should talk,” I’d said. “You’ve always been shite Sherlock at returning emails.” 

Although, that’s all changed since our time together on Baker Street. It’s been over a year since that last visit, but Sherlock has emailed almost daily. From his explanations of the broad diversity of soil types to bees' preferences for Dutch lavender and honeysuckle, it seems that retirement gave Sherlock inspiration to write. I returned his emails—at first. Then they began to fill my mailbox. I hated opening it to see 137 messages unread.

So he began texting me again. It was hard to ignore those.

That day, his question hung in the air. Why had your responses lagged?  

I made some lame excuse to Sherlock, but the truth was I had nothing to say. Nothing happens worth mentioning anymore.

I don’t expect you to answer all of them, but I do look forward to a few lines from you to know how you are getting on. That wasn't what I meant. I was referring to your blog. Why haven’t you updated it? You always wanted to put the blogs in a book, but you told me that you never had the time. You have it now.  -SH

I sighed. It seemed to me that time was all I had now. 

Is it writers’ block? -SH

I hesitated while another comment popped up from him.

I am not the only one who’s noticed. You have 38 comments inquiring on your blog’s status. -SH

This was true. During the first months of retirement, I set out to capture all of the cases I’d meant to write but never had time for. “The Least Fatal Duel” almost wrote itself, and “The Question of the Confused Caterer” came almost as easily. After writing three more, I found myself slowing. As the months passed, I began googling writing tips, thinking that would help my slump. I decided to seek inspiration from other sources and planted myself in front of the fire reading John Grisham and PD James. I even convinced myself that sitting back in my chair catching up on missed episodes of Broadchurch would get the creative juices flowing. In the end, anything was preferable to actually writing the blog. Cleaning cupboards and washing windows became the alternative to opening my laptop. How could I tell him that? 

It was that last case. -SH

He was right. That last case together. I couldn’t write about it. It was too painful. I couldn’t even talk about it.

I’d deflected that same question when I’d visited him. “I like this chair. It’s almost as comfy as the one at home,” I’d said.

“It does resemble the one at Baker Street. When I saw that old stuffed armchair in the secondhand shop, I knew you would like it. ”

“You’ve been busy since I was here last. I see you’ve had the floors finished.” I had also been impressed with his housekeeping. He was actually making an effort.

“Yes, and I’ve also updated the plumbing,” Sherlock had added as he’d crossed his legs.

I had taken a sip of tea. “This is good with your honey. I don't like my tea sweet, but this is good.” That sounded lame, but Sherlock perked up at the mention of his beloved hobby.

“It’s the blackberry bushes. They serve two purposes: it thickens the honey and also gives it a creamy texture with a hint of fruity flavor,” he’d explained. “Also, I’ve also made blackberry jam.”

“You’re making jam?” I’d asked.

“Don’t be so surprised. Jam making is much like experimentation: one controls the transformation of matter. In a kitchen lab, almost any liquid can be turned into a gel. Polymers play a vital role in foods.”

“If you say so.” I’d paused. 

“You don’t want to talk about our last case. I understand. It’s painful to me as well, but more so for Rosie.”

How did he do that? Know what I was thinking? 

“She was Rosie’s best friend, and we couldn’t save her,” he’d said. 

We’d fallen into an uncomfortable silence with only the mantle clock ticking and nature resonating between us.

“Forget the last case,” he’d said. 

Sherlock’s eyes had followed mine as I looked out the window. So different from London. No auto horns or screeching tires or raised voices on the street. Instead there were goldfinch songs and cricket chirps as the oak branches rustled in the wind. 

“If it’s quiet that you need, you are welcome to stay here and write,” Sherlock had suggested. 

“I don’t think that would help,” I’d said. 

“The invitation is always open.” 

I would have loved to stay in Sussex if I didn’t have to remember. His Belstaff reminded me.

A huge part of me wanted to have my old life back again—but that wasn’t the way it would be, would it? I’d sit back in an imitation of my old chair, reliving glory days in a house that’s not on Baker Street, trapped with a madman who tends bees. Worse, he wasn’t the same. Sure he still ate ginger nuts and played his violin at all hours, but he’s become domesticated by planting vegetables and picking blackberries off bushes. 

I missed the old Sherlock. But to be truthful, I missed the old John Watson most. That last case messed with both our heads. Rosie was right that I miss him. Of course I miss him. It hurts with him, and it hurts without him. Rosie and Harry tell me we should be together. I do miss what we had, but I miss what we never had the most. And that was part of the problem.

I wanted more. I’d always wanted it. Long ago I thought I’d accepted that all I’d ever have from him was friendship. I told myself for years that it was enough. It used to be enough. But the day Sherlock told me about the house in Sussex, I knew it wasn’t. What would we be? Two old friends holed-up away from the world. Friends, best friends, but nothing more.  

The chair wasn’t all that was similar. Sherlock had even arranged my bedroom in Sussex like 221 B. The bed faced the same direction, the nightstand on the same side next to the bed with the chair beside it. The resemblance ended there. No wallpaper graced the walls, the ceilings were vaulted, and the windows opened to rolling hills.

I couldn’t live in a quasi reproduction, an echo of what we once had. I needed a new story, not the same old one. But maybe that was all I had left. At least I could tell the story of our life together. I could share that. At least all but the final chapter.

So after that damning text message from Sherlock, I tried to write again. I began with revisions. Starting with “The Study in Pink,” I applied all I learned over those months of procrastination. I started with the lesson of show not tell. I must say that it was invigorating. I was not only reliving the heart thumping moments of our first meeting and the adrenaline rush of the chase, but I also was allowing readers to experience it as well. As I tapped the laptop keys, an imaginary Sherlock sat next to me, reminding me that I’m romanticizing our time together. 

“Flipping piss off,” I told the empty couch.

And that’s it, isn’t it? It’s empty. But writing this—it was preferable to all of 221 Baker Street feeling empty, including me.

I closed my laptop and looked around at the memories: the holes in the wall Sherlock made in his boredom, his adventure in yellow with the smiley face. Is this what I can’t leave, the past? Is Rosie right? Am I afraid of the future? 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will write more.

And I did. I surprised myself how fast and furious it began coming back to me. I revised in a frenzy, adding precise dialog and details as if I was the one who possessed the mind palace. To jog my memory more, I decided to do a bit of interviewing—after all, a good writer does research. I made a list of who to speak to. It was a good excuse to look up old friends and find out how some of our past clients were fairing. It was wonderful meeting up with Molly. I was a bit disappointed that Greg was on holiday in Dundee.

The interviews kindled my creative fires. While Sherlock still spoke to me over my shoulder, I ignored him for the most part and told him to sod off. I did, however, return the real Sherlock’s emails especially regarding my progress on my book.

After finishing my revisions, I began to add cases I hadn’t included. I kept a tablet next to my bed to jot down ideas. In the morning, I would wake with the sun and begin to write. I would become so immersed that I would forget to eat, shave, or change out of my robe. I lived on Speedy’s coffee and takeout. 

I was writing the end of “The Case of the Missing Five Pound Note” where Sherlock had deduced his findings to Greg. I realized I was telling the story again. I needed facts. Details. Greg should have returned from holiday by now. I texted him, and we decided to meet up for pints the next day. 

We met at our usual pub. It had changed hands three times since the first pints we shared there, but the same names  were still carved in it the tabletop. His handshake was still firm and sure. He wore aftershave, something he never did as a detective. He told me he never wanted anyone to smell him coming. 

“Retirement is treating you well,” I said. “You look ten years younger than the last time I saw you.” 

“You’re too forgiving or the lighting’s poorer in here,” he said with a wry smile. “Take a closer look. My hair is white as snow.” 

I looked closer. His eyes sparkled the same, and sure there were a few more lines on his face, but his hair was still as thick as it was when I met him. 

“How’s the family?” I asked. 

“Rebecca got married last June. And John…she married my replacement. She didn’t want to tell me she was dating him—she knew what I’d say.”

“You mean Jack Robinson? I like him,” I said. “He’d make a wonderful son-in-law.”

“He’s a good detective, but a better husband,” Greg admitted. 

“How’s Dan doing? Done with his law degree.”

“Finished at Glasgow. He’s looking for a place to hang his shingle. How’s Rosie? Still studying chemistry?”

“Yeah, she’s in her third year at Oxford, doing well. No steady boyfriend, thank god.”

“How’s Sherlock?”

“Well, last time I saw him.”

He sighed, and I prepared for a lecture on “Why John Watson Should Visit Sussex.” 

He surprised me and changed the subject. “You mentioned that you needed some background on one of our old cases. A cold case? You aren’t back at investigating again…”

I laughed and took a swig from my pint. “No! Actually, I’m revising my old blog cases into a book for anyone who’s interested in reading it, that is.”

“About damn time!.” 

“I really wanted to get some of your perspectives. Sometimes it’s hard to remain unbiased when it comes to Sherlock.” 

Greg choked as he took a swig from his pint. “Like I am?” He leaned back and caught his breath. It was nice seeing him so relaxed, sitting in the old wooden chair and grinning at me. “He was such an impressive bloke. The way he would break it all down in the end and tell us what’s what.”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Maybe you could tell me about a case or two that most surprised you.”

Lestrade’s sly grin was back. “There were more than a few times you both saved our arses, but that case with Countess Madeleine Bernice…”

“The missing one-of-a-kind five pound note case?”

“Yeah, that one. I never found out how you knew which warehouse to go to. There was no CCTV, the perp didn’t own a mobile. How did he know which warehouse?”

“Would you believe the residue on the perp’s shoes.”

“Really? Sherlock noticed that? Of course he did.”

“And the company name,” I added. 

He blinked at me. 

“Phoebe Freight. Phoebe means five. I know…he had to point it out to me as well. At the time, I thought the residue on the shoe was Sherlock yanking my chain, but he really did know.”

We spent the remainder of the evening discussing old, important cases. We touched so many, but left out the last case. He wasn’t at the Yard anymore. He looked away so many times when it came to us. I was happy he left it alone and that he hadn’t badgered me about going to Sussex to see Sherlock.

Chapter Text

It took Rosie’s return from her last extended term at Oxford to get me to to think about going there again. She showed up at the door of 221 B with two pieces of luggage and pink hair. She didn’t shy away from the topic as Greg did.

“When are you going to visit Papa again? I still don’t understand why you haven’t moved to Sussex,” she asked, plopping down on the couch.

“But sweetheart, that would put me farther away from you.” I took a seat next to her.

“Stop sucking up. That’s no answer,” she said. “It’s not that much further! And don’t tell me again that you hate to leave this place so soon after Mrs. Hudson passed. I understand, really. I loved her too, but Papa moved on. Why can’t you tell me what happened? I know it had something to do with Allison. It’s not your fault or Papa’s what happened. You can’t save everyone.”

I shook my head.  “Even if she’s your friend?” 

“You only took the case because she was my flatmate, my best friend. No one believed she was missing except me and her parents. You believed us. You found her.”

“But not in time.” I sighed. 

“Don’t blame yourself. No one would have even found her body if it wasn’t for you and Papa.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Um, juice. No caffeine for me.”

I got up, and she followed me to the fridge. 

“There must be more to it. Papa won’t tell me a thing, but I can see it in his face. I can see it in yours.”

I wiped off the counter. 

“It’s the reason why you and Papa stopped taking cases.”

I sighed. “It was too close. It could have been you.”

“You’ve had a lot of cases that could have been me.”

“We were always so careful to not let them touch you.”

“But this had nothing to do with you. She was my friend. You tried your best. I never blamed either of you.”

“But the family did.”

“Yes, but later they realized that they were wrong to do it. You weren’t to blame. The man who took her and killed her was. What I don’t understand is why you aren’t with Papa. You say you don’t blame him, then why?” she said, finishing her juice. 

“I never blamed him for that.” But I used to blame him for so much. I learned to let most of it go, but it’s hard to stop blaming myself. After all, I am to blame for how I treated Sherlock. I’m the one who slowed us down. I couldn’t keep up with Sherlock and if we’d been there just five minutes sooner Allison would still be alive. 

I sighed as I poured another large glass of orange juice and handed it to Rosie. She took it in her small hands. Her fingernails were painted black, and a new tattoo on her wrist peeked from beneath her faded blue sweatshirt. “When did you get that?” 

She pulled up the sleeve, revealing a small red rose.

“I like it,” I said.

“Deflecting!” she said.

I sighed again. “It was too much and too close. As I said, it could have been you.”  

“Then why stay here with all the reminders? You are such a bad liar, Papa.”

The thought was never far from our minds. Rosie would be the ultimate leverage for anyone with a grudge. For that very reason after Rosie and I moved back to Baker Street, we never took on someone like Magnussen, Smith, or Moriarty. When Rosie’s best friend, Allison Allen, was kidnapped, it terrified us both. Sherlock suspected then that we might be facing another maniac. I didn’t want to take the case for that very reason. He had insisted, and I gave in.

“Interesting nail color,” I said.

“Still deflecting. You are as bad as Papa—avoiding my questions. He was just as closed-mouthed when I saw him.” 

I leaned back against the counter. “When did you see him?”

She rolled her eyes. “I went to visit him last week.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “I was worried. He’s all alone out there in the country.”

“He can take care of himself.”

“That’s not what I meant. Anyway, I guess I didn’t have to worry about him being lonely—when I got there he had company.”

“Company?”

“Some good-looking bloke. A botanist. Michael Talmadge was his name. Papa said he helped him with selecting the plants for his bees, but it was a pretense—at least on Mr. Talmadge’s part.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s interested in Papa.”

“Interested?”

“You know…attracted to him. After all, Papa is handsome. My friends always tell me how hot he is. Not that Papa cares about that.” She looked me in the face and smiled. “You are jealous!”

I’d been jealous before. The Woman, Irene Adler. Janine Hawkins. But really, they never worried me.

She shook her head. “I don’t think you need to worry. Papa didn’t even notice the guy was staring at his arse.”

“He what?”

Rosie laughed, then took another swallow of her orange juice. “I asked Papa about him. He told me he met ‘Michael down the lane’ when he bought honey from him.”

I walked to the window and stared down at the street below. My insides tightened. “Bought honey…” I repeated.

“He’s lonely and doesn’t understand why you haven’t moved to Sussex with him. I don’t understand. Papa should have talked to you before he bought that house in Sussex, but he didn’t. I know you’re angry about the way he went about it, but that’s Papa. You know that. I understand why you’d be a little miffed.”

I folded my arms. “A little miffed? I wasn’t included. It was like…” 

“So this is the reason? You still haven’t forgiven him from all those years ago when he pretended to be dead.”

“It’s not that at all. I forgave him a long time ago. It’s just…don’t like losing my temper with him.”

“That is it. You’re mad at him for buying the house and not talking to you about it. So your response is to do the same thing and not tell him why you’re mad.” She shook her head.

That was part of it. What was the point in talking to him? Sure, I was hurt. Here he was again not including me and assuming I would just follow along. I wasn’t a partner, not even in that respect. It was about what Sherlock decided. About him. Even his suggestion that I write in my blog was about him. But it was much more than that. I didn’t want to lose my temper. She never knew about what I did to him after her mother died—how I beat so badly he ended up bloody and broken in hospital. It was more than being ashamed of how I’d hurt him—I was afraid I’d hurt him again. After Allison’s death, it all came apart. We could have lost Rosie. I was so angry and afraid that I didn’t trust myself. I tried to keep it inside. I suppose Sherlock thought the way to solve it was to move us to Sussex and retire, but the consulting detective never consulted me. 

“So, you just didn’t tell him? If you won’t, I will.”

“You don’t need to do it. He knows. He always knows. I don’t have to say it.”

“Yeah, but it’s good to hear it instead of assuming all the time.”

“It’s not only that. It’s hard to leave this place.”

Rosie looked around the flat and rolled her eyes at me. “I see that. You’ve become some kind of hermit. When was the last time you left the flat?”

“You’re drinking orange juice, aren’t you? I went to Tesco yesterday.”

“I don’t mean shopping or errands. I mean going out and meeting people. You know, having fun. When was the last time you had fun?”

“Fun? I am too old to have fun.” 

She laughed. “Not that kind of fun. I mean pint with mates. When was the last time you went to the pub with Uncle Greg?” She set the empty glass on the counter with a thud.

“As a matter of fact, a few weeks ago we had pints.”

“And it’s been thirteen months since you’ve seen Papa.”

Of course she would remember the last time. She probably knew it to the day, hour and minute. Like her Papa. 

“I’ll see him soon. Promise.”

“Good.” She wandered over to the coffee table. She took a seat on the couch and slid the Union Jack pillow to the side. She ran her hand over the cover of my laptop. “How’s the book coming?”

“I think I’m finished. I revised the cases on the blog and added a few new cases that I thought were the most interesting.”

“Really? Could I read it?” 

I hesitated. I should let her, but I reveal so much of myself. 

“So, you reveal some secrets. Hmm. You’re going to publish it—it’s only fair I get a first read.”

She was right. Best not to have any surprises. There was so much I never told her. Maybe this was the best way. Kind of a coward’s way out, but…

“Sure.” I sat down next to her, and she shifted around on the couch until our knees touched.

“When?”

“I’d like to do another fast edit, then I’ll share it with you.”

“What about Papa? Has he read it?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will let him read it.”

“Of course.”

She pulled the pillow into her lap, hugging it against her chest. “Call him. Please. Talk to him.” 

I nodded as she leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. 

“How long are you staying?” I asked.

“A few weeks, if you don’t mind.”

“Any other plans for the summer before you go into your final year?” 

“A few friends and I are planning to go to Paris for a week.”

“What about today? Got any big plans?” I asked.

“I wanted to stay here and visit with you. It’s a nice day. Want to take a walk?”

“Sure. Any place special?”

“Paddington. The Gardens.” 

“A bit longer walk, but I’m up for it.” I laughed. “Not the playground?”

“Nah. It’s changed too much.”

Her time with me went quickly. She kept at me to share the book. I finally did a few days before she left. I waited for her to talk to me about it, but she didn’t say a thing. Me? I couldn’t ask.

We took a walk every day she was here. It was good to get out. The day before she left, we took one last walk to Regent Park.

She put her hands behind her back as she walked next to me. We wandered up to the fountain, and she held out her hand. I followed the ritual and gave her a coin. Since she was three years old, she’d always begged for a lucky two pence from me to give her, and Sherlock or I always handed it to her. Just as in days gone by, she closed her eyes, made a wish, then tossed it in the water with a plunk. She looked like the same child except the bouncy ponytail was pink and the freckles that sprinkled her nose were concealed by foundation. 

“It’s always the same, you know,” she said, opening her eyes.

“Really. What is it?” I asked.

She smiled up at me. “You know I can’t tell you that. It won’t come true.”

With those words, tears pricked my eyes. I knew her wish. It was mine as well. 

The sun filtered across her face. “I finished your book. It’s really good,” she said. “There was so much in those stories that I didn’t know. Especially the ones that had mom in them—I mean, I knew a lot of the actual details of all that happened, just not how you felt. After all she did, you still loved her.”

“I did.”

She sat down on the edge of the fountain and looked up at me. “The woman that gave birth to me wasn’t my parent. You and Papa were. I don’t know how you could forgive her and not yourself.” 

I took a seat next to her. How could someone be so young, yet so wise? 

“You hurt Papa,” she swallowed. She took my hand and squeezed it. “I admit it shocked me to read it. I knew you went to counseling for some reason. I thought it had to do with mom. I didn’t realize…still, that’s not what hurt Papa. What you’re doing now, it hurts him more—not talking to him, not seeing him. He doesn’t understand why you aren’t with him. I don’t understand why my parents aren’t together.”

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“Dad, you don’t have to say anything to me. You need to say it to Papa. Let him read what you wrote. Anyone who reads will see how you feel about him. It’s right there.”

I stared down at the coins at the bottom of the fountain. Some of them glinted beneath the water, but the one I gave Rosie sparkled brightest. 

“At the end of each of your stories, the solution is always revealed. What I wished for, what I’ve always wished for is in between the lines in each of your stories. You need to tell him.” She poked her finger into my chest. “It’s time you did.”

“I’ll call him,” I said as she hugged me. “I will.”

“You better do more than that!” she laughed. “You promised.” As we both looked down into the water, the coin seemed to sparkle all the more. 

I called Sherlock when we got back to the flat. Like I had a choice?

I shared the book with him that night.

Chapter Text

I had a lot to think about on the drive to Sussex. Sherlock had texted me early that morning that he’d finished the book. He didn’t say much regarding how he felt. I suppose he was waiting to talk to me in person.

I drove down the country road. The tires splashed through puddles left from the rain last night, but the day was clear and crisp. As I drove up the last hill, I saw the blue shingled roof of Sherlock’s cottage ahead. Heading down the hill, I saw him standing next to the attached glasshouse with one hand shading his eyes. Dressed in faded jeans, worn trainers, and a simple white shirt, a Sherlock Holmes dressed casually was hard to get used to, but it did look good on him. He jogged up to me, smiling like he used to when we had an eight for a case. He helped me pull the luggage out of the boot. 

“Two bags instead of one,” he commented.

“Yeah. Thought I’d stay a bit longer this time.” 

“I am glad you’re here.” He was blushing as he swung the bag and started toward the front door.

“So am I.” 

Bloody hell! We were acting as shy as two teenagers on a first date. When he got to the front step, I heard something scratching at the door, followed by a bark. 

“You didn’t?” I said.

Sherlock’s grin widened. “It’s been long enough. What, three years since Sammy died.” He opened the door to a black Labrador puppy with its tail thumping against everything in its path—wall, legs, luggage. 

“When did you get him?” I laughed.

“Her. A few weeks ago. Rosie helped me pick her out. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you.”

“I am too. She must have had more on her mind.”

“Or she wanted to surprise you.” Sherlock knelt down, and the puppy jumped up and placed her front paws on his knees. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” He scratched her head.

“Sure is. What’s her name?” We both squatted down beside her and got a few choice licks on the face and hands. 

“Tessie,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Hello Miss Tessie,” I said as her tail ricocheted against the coat stand.

Sherlock picked up the bag and motioned ahead. I followed him up the stairs to my room with Tessie on our heels. Sherlock set the bags on the bed.

 “I’ll make some tea while you settle in. Tessie, come.”

The familiar sound of paws on stairs warmed my heart. I’d missed that. I’d missed it so much. I thought about putting my clothes in the dresser, but somehow became distracted by the view outside the window. I pushed the sheer curtains aside to see wispy clouds caress the blue sky. It reminded me of walking through the vibrant flower beds at Regent Park with Rosie just days ago, but those manicured gardens paled in comparison to the natural beauty below. It seemed bees had excellent taste in plant selection. I didn’t know the names of most of the flowers, but I didn’t need to be a master gardener to recognize perfection. 

“Tea!” Sherlock called up the stairs. I left my clothes in my luggage and met Sherlock and Tessie in the kitchen. I had to admit, I loved its cozy Shaker style and earthy, complementary tones. Along with the dining room, it was nestled at the back of the house. 

“I thought we could go out to the garden patio. I had it fenced so Tessie can run. I still don’t trust her not to bound off after a hare and take a dive in the river.”

I picked up my cup. Sherlock weaved his way round the table through the boot room. Following him was second nature to me although this was, thankfully, much easier than racing over rooftops and through back alleys. Tessie followed us on our heels, dragging a knotted rope chew toy.

“She’ll beg you to throw it. She brings it back but doesn’t always understand that she should let you take it from her. She is getting better at it.”

Although I was a bit nervous, I was glad I got an early start and could enjoy the morning with them. At least I had the tea cup to steady my hands. We sat across from each other in the wrought iron chairs. I had to admit that it was beautiful, and the fragrance of lavender and honeysuckle sure beat the unhealthy aroma of exhaust fumes. 

I tossed the chew toy for Tessie a few times, but she lost interest when a butterfly crossed her path.

“Highly distractible.” Sherlock laughed and spun his cup around in the palm of his hands. He quieted and set down his cup. “I finished your book,” he added.

We both smiled as Tessie gave up on the butterfly and began to chase her tail. “Well, what did you think?” 

Sherlock leaned forward. “Pleased. Very pleased. It was as if I was there reliving our time together. Maybe it’s just an old man wanting to relive his past.”

“Old man? You aren’t old. You may have a few gray hairs, but you still look like that young man who I chased across the streets of London. I’m the one who’s slowed down.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I know I have often criticized how you over-romanticized our time together in your blog, but...maybe I am older and wiser when it comes to such notions. You took such care describing your personal observations, describing me. I felt a bit self-conscious reading it.” He opened his eyes and looked into mine. “That you think of me as honorable, kind. I never thought of myself in that way.”

“You must know you are. Anyone who sees you with Rosie or Tessie here knows it.” 

Sherlock sighed. 

“Should I add or change anything?” I asked.

“I made a few comments on the document, but really, John, you should not change a thing. I heard your voice as you told it. Never change that. It is what draws the reader inside the mysteries. I do appreciate the skill in which you revised the blog into novel form. Concretely describing the settings of each case without being intrusive. I hate authors who overuse imagery. For the most part, your insights regarding victims and suspects, were…accurate.”

Sherlock crossed his legs. “I was surprised you included ‘The Adventure of the Lying Detective.’”

I sighed. I knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“We’ve never really spoken about it,” he said. “We should. You place too much blame on yourself.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I hold some of the—”

“Let me stop you right there,” I interrupted, my head down. “I should never have raised my hand to you. Not that day in the restaurant with Mary, not that day at hospital.” I lifted my head and looked into Sherlock’s face etched in sorrow. “I don’t blame you—not for Mary’s death, not for my actions. Nothing…I mean nothing, excuses my behavior. I could have killed you!”

Sherlock jumped up. “No! You saved me so many times.”

“It’s not a game where you keep score. There is no way to offset what I did to you.”

“Is this why you haven’t moved here? You’re afraid. But we lived together at Baker Street. Why not here?”

“I look around and see all of this beauty. It’s a safe place. Nothing has touched it.”

“And you’re afraid to do what? Break it?”

“That’s what I do. I get angry and break things.”

Sherlock uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “That wasn’t you. That was the circumstances. Mary died in your arms! And you’ve had so much more counseling since, and understand what drove you to do it. It won’t be repeated. I trust you, John. I trust you with my life.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Yes, I should.” 

I sighed again and took a sip of tea. “This place is so secluded.”

“I chose this place because it was so unlike Baker Street. You are right that I wanted quiet,” Sherlock said. “But I wanted it with you.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted it with him also. Why couldn’t I tell him that?

“You showed me some of the grounds my last visit, but we didn’t see any of the northern section. How about you show me around after we finish with tea?” I asked.

“I’d love to,” Sherlock paused. “John, you need to understand…I didn’t come here to get away from you. I wanted you here…I want you here.” 

Tessie barked and ran toward the gate. The sound of tires on gravel followed. 

“Were you expecting someone…other than me?”

“Expectling? No. But not surprised either. I have more than a few people who stop by to purchase honey.” Sherlock stood. 

“The word is out on how good it is,” I teased. “That and getting a chance to talk to the infamous Sherlock Holmes.”

A car door slammed shut, and Tessie’s barking turned from a woof to an excited yelp. 

“I guess you have one of those people here now.”

“I will be right back,” he said, starting to walk to the gate. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He turned to me. He covered his mouth with his hand. “I’m sorry. I thought he understood that you were coming today, but I suppose that’s why he’s here. He has a fascination with our work. He should be coming through the gate in a few moments.”

“He?” I had to assume that he was the man Rosie told me about—the one who was “interested” in Sherlock

“A botanist. He’s helped me with the flower and plant selection,” Sherlock confirmed for me.

Head held high and shoulders back, my apparent rival walked up to the gate with a purpose. His athletic build filled out the flannel shirt and khaki trousers. With his wind-blown blonde hair, he resembled a bloody GQ model. 

He smiled broadly at Sherlock over the gate. Gorgeous dimples appeared. Tessie barked and wagged her tail as he stepped through and gave Sherlock a hug. A hug . He squinted his eyes at me over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stepped away and bowed his head in embarrassment as Tessie excitedly ran in circles around his legs. 

He was shorter than Sherlock but about two inches taller than me. He smiled at Sherlock with open fondness.

“You must be John Watson,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m Michael Talmadge. I’ve looked forward to meeting you.” He held out his right hand, and I shook it with care since two of his fingers were bandaged. 

“Good to meet you. Painful, I bet,” I said, nodding towards his hand.

“I like doing home repairs, but I am afraid I am not very good at them.”

“He had to have fourteen stitches to close up the wounds,” Sherlock said.  

“The bandsaw won,” Talmadge chuckled as he elbowed Sherlock.

“We were working on the beekeeping shed,” Sherlock added.

They seemed too familiar. Now he was nudging Sherlock’s shoulder with his. I didn’t like it. He needed to step away. I should be the one who’s there to help build the shed, not some wannabe-boyfriend botanist. Even Tessie behaved traitorously as she licked his bandaged hand.

Sherlock ducked his head. He was blushing. Why was he blushing? This wasn’t good. My god! Could it be? Had they slept together? I never thought Sherlock would ever…

“I say, it’s a beautiful day,” Talmadge said. 

No, Sherlock wouldn’t. Rosie had to be right. It was one-sided. Still, why was this man here, showing up and walking through the gate, with his gimpy fingers, looking like a lovesick puppy? 

“Would you like some tea?” Sherlock offered. 

I wanted to shout no, no, no, but it wasn’t necessary. Talmadge said, “None for me,” as he patted Tessie’s head. 

“We were going to take a walk to the north of the property,” Sherlock suggested.

“Sounds lovely.” 

I cringed as Talmadge said it. If there was nothing between them, why was Sherlock inviting him along for a walk? 

Chapter Text

With the word “walk,” Tessie became enthusiastic. At least someone was. This wasn’t the walk I had intended to have—there was one person too many. We followed a path single file with Sherlock in front, Talmadge following, and then me with Tessie. She was dragging a stick almost as big as she was. I kept coaxing her to drop it, but she refused. At the new shed, Talmadge had us stop. 

“Have you decided on what color we’re going to paint it?” Talmadge asked, opening the door and stepping inside.

We? I raised an eyebrow and clenched my jaw. Sherlock flashed his eyes to me as he started to follow, then stopped.

“A moss green would be nice, don’t you think, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Good choice,” I agreed, thrusting my hands in my trouser pockets.

“I thought something colorful would be best, such as a sky or periwinkle blue,” Talmadge added, stepping back outside and patting the side of the shed.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but said nothing. What, no rude comment in return? That was uncharacteristic. Why was Sherlock holding back? 

Not good.

“Moss green,” I reiterated. Sherlock smiled at me.

 “We should build another work bench,” Talmadge added. 

“We?” I muttered under my breath.

For a change, Sherlock had to play the diplomat.  

“The trail is over here,” Sherlock pointed and picked up a short, manageable stick. He tossed it to Tessie as a distraction. She dropped the old stick for the new one. 

Tessie knew the way and ran ahead. Sherlock whistled to call her back. I locked step behind Sherlock and let Talmadge take the rear up the hill. At the top, Sherlock halted. I stood next to him, gazing down the steep hill leading to the River Rother below.

“We can go down the path and follow the river trail until it gets too muddy. We really should be wearing wellies,” Sherlock said.

I didn’t pack mine, and I can’t wear any of Sherlock’s. His feet are almost twice my size. 

“How long are you planning to visit, Dr. Watson?” Talmadge asked.

“Call me John.”

“He’s welcome to stay as long as he likes,” Sherlock piped in.

“Thank you. I hadn’t decided. I’m finished with my novel, so I am at loose ends.”

“Maybe you could solve a case together,” Talmadge suggested. 

“As I’ve said before, we’re done with that part of our lives,” Sherlock snapped. Finally—more like the Sherlock I knew, and for a change, I welcomed the irritation in his voice. 

“But that’s not entirely true. You still solve a few cases that are sent to you,” Talmadge said, unfazed. 

I blinked. “Really?”

Tessie bounded over a fallen branch. Sherlock simply kicked the branch from the trail. “I still get mail and emails to solve cases. I ignore them, but one or two I’ve had to step in—returning a favor, you might say.”

“You hadn’t told me,” I said.

“That is because they were inconsequential,” Sherlock said.

Ahead of us, Tessie chased after a rabbit that hopped across our path. She crashed through the brush, barking, flushing out a large flock of blackbirds. The rush of wings crossed the sky like a dark cloud. 

“She’ll be back as soon as she loses it,” Sherlock said. “She hasn’t caught anything yet except frogs. She’ll chase anything—squirrels, rabbits, deer.”

“You really need to get her trained properly. You still have that trainer’s name?” Talmadge asked as he tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. 

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t need a trainer. I am perfectly capable of training Tessie myself.”

“I see how well it’s going,” Talmadge chided.

Sherlock’s continued irritation with Talmadge almost made me feel better, except it was all too familiar. Hadn’t he always done the same with me?

We walked along in silence for a while with only the song of birds and wind. The hill was steep, and I had to take care not to slip on our way down. I stepped behind Sherlock who led the way. I really don’t think wellies would help here, but my loafers definitely were a poor choice. When I wasn’t looking at my feet, I took time to take in the countryside. It was hauntingly beautiful. I could certainly understand how Sherlock had fallen in love with this place. I thought about the hustle and bustle from London streets. Did Sherlock ever miss it? He must. But he’d always said that when we retired he’d tend bees. But I thought we’d have a few more years before we’d leave London. One day we were on a case, and the next he told me he’d bought this place. 

Distracted with my musings, I briefly lost my footing, and Sherlock grasped my shoulder, steadying me. 

“Last night's storm left this trail slippery,” he said. 

“These shoes don’t help.” 

The river must be close; I heard water rushing over rocks ahead. Sherlock had slowed a bit. He pointed to a clearing ahead. In that moment, he was twenty years younger. The wind tousled his curls, his face flushed and eyes twinkled as he winked at me. It reminded me of the first time I saw him at Bart’s. But we were standing on the edge of a meadow in the muck, not on our first case. In fact, from what I’d learned earlier, he’d taken a case without me. 

He had told me he was leaving that all behind—I wondered now if that was true, and if I had been replaced.

“What was the case?” I asked.

“Angelo’s daughter wrote to me. She needed help and knew I would be discreet.”

Didn’t sound inconsequential to me. 

“She had offered to donate a kidney to a cousin, and was surprised that not only was she not a match but was also not the biological child of her parents. This was a surprise to Angelo as well.”

“Switched at birth in hospital?” I asked.

“In this case, no. It didn’t take but a few minutes to find out that no other child was born that day. It was Angelo who gave me the time frame of when it happened. He said that two weeks after Matilda was born, his wife came to him and said she thought it wasn’t their child. Angelo thought it was only postpartum depression. After talking to family members and neighbors, I narrowed it down to two other families who had children born within weeks of Angelo’s daughter. One of the mothers visited their home. During a visit, the mother switched the child.”

“Why?” I asked. 

“They believed their own child to be defective.”

“Defective?”

“The parents were told their child would have cognitive impairment from lack of oxygen at birth. However, this prognosis was incorrect. Matilda is of exceptional intellect and talent.”

“Damn right. She’s an accomplished violinist.”

“She is.” 

Sherlock flashed me a smile over his shoulder, then whistled before calling Tessie. 

Splashing and barking ensued.

I no longer had to watch my footing—the trail had flattened out and my feet found traction in the loamy soil. 

“She’s covered in mud,” Talmadge said. 

“I remember the day Matilda became the first violinist for the Symphony. Angelo was so proud,” I said.

“He still is. Matilda is and always will be his daughter,” Sherlock said passionately. “No matter, the cousin still needed a kidney. We went to Angelo’s birth daughter and explained the situation. Since she had long cut ties with her family, she was excited to meet Angelo. It seems Angelo now has two daughters.”

“A happy ending.”

“Quite.”

“Still, I would be upset,” Talmadge said. “Not having the opportunity to raise my real daughter.”

“But Matilda is his real daughter,” Sherlock cut in.

Just as Rosie is yours, I thought. 

As we followed the path parallel to the river, Sherlock’s comment seemed to have silenced Talmadge for a while. I spent those moments observing ducks dabbling for food near the banks of the river. Tessie reluctantly obeyed Sherlock’s command to stay and not chase them. 

“We should turn around,” Talmadge said. “My shoes are going to come off in the mud.”

“We should cut through on this trail,” Sherlock suggested. “It’s a bit longer walk home, but not as steep a climb.”

Despite that, going back up the hill was far more difficult than going down.

Chapter Text

I was glad to climb the last hill and see Sherlock’s cottage ahead. Tessie raced to the back patio and waited. Sherlock hosed her off as she shook puppy mud all over us. We left our shoes at the door. We probably should have shed our clothes as well, but there was no way I wanted to see how incredibly fit Mr. Botanist was. 

Sherlock insisted we change, and we left Talmadge in the kitchen. I raced up the stairs and changed fast. I threw on some old trousers and jumper. I beat Sherlock downstairs. Talmadge was making himself at home and preparing tea. 

“You seem to know your way around,” I said. He even knew where the cups were kept and which cup was Sherlock’s favorite. Irritating. 

He walked toward the living room like he owned the place.

“You’ve no need to think I’m a threat,” Talmadge said, sitting on my end of the couch. “He told me in the beginning, he wasn’t interested in a relationship.”

“And he told me once, he was married to his work,” I said. I sat down at the other end where Sherlock usually planted himself.

“More like he was married to the one he worked with,” Talmadge said half to himself.

“You’re mistaken. We’ve never been in that type of relationship.”

He bit back a laugh. “Seriously? You mean the type of relationship where you sacrifice your happiness for the other? The type of relationship that gives your life purpose? The type of relationship where you aren’t whole unless he’s by your side? That type of relationship?” He sighed. “I think you’re confused. The thing is, I could never have that with him. Not that I haven’t tried, believe me. No, he doesn’t want me. In fact, no one will ever do but you. He fits you into every conversation we have no matter how unrelated. It’s always: ‘John said this’ or ‘John said that’ with him. He told me you weren’t gay—that you had no interest in him romantically. After seeing the way you’ve reacted to me today, I wonder why he believes that—you sure don’t hide how you feel.”

I realized that my fists were clenched as tight as my jaw. What was I doing? I took a deep breath. 

“Sherlock doesn’t have romantic feelings for me or anyone.”

“Please. Do you see the way he looks at you? So why doesn’t he know how you feel?” Talmadge crossed his arms. “Still trapped in the closet? He deserves someone who accepts what they are. It must hurt him to be reminded that you can’t give him what he needs. There’s only so much rejection a person can take. I’m not at my limit yet, but I think that Sherlock’s close to his. You need to take your head out of your arse or someone will snap him up.” 

“No one is snapping me up,” Sherlock interrupted, stepping into the room.

“Someone better,” Talmadge said, his eyes boring into mine. “It’d be a real waste if they didn’t. I think I’ll be going now. It was nice to meet you, Doctor Watson.” He turned to Sherlock. “I’ll see myself out. Call me when he leaves.”

Until the front door slammed shut, only the click of puppy nails on the hardwood floors could be heard. Chin down, Sherlock stared at the same floor.

“How much of that did you hear?” I finally asked.

"I was married to my work, but then you became my work.” 

All of it, then. “Sherlock…” As I stood up, my knee bumped into the coffee table.

He stepped closer to me. “Because of you, I began to care. You taught me how to care. You taught me so much. You made me a better person." 

“You made me better. He’s right. I do care for you. So much.”

“It’s true then. What I read. I didn’t imagine it.”

“No,” I said. “Where did you get that flannel shirt?” It looked like an old shirt of mine, but one that had been binned long ago.

He blushed. “It was in a second-hand shop. I bought it because it reminded me of you.” 

I couldn’t help but feel honored when he said that. “You were always a good man, you know.”

“Not always. I didn’t keep my promises.”

I sighed. “Life happens. People can’t always keep promises.”

“I let you believe I was dead. I vowed to protect you and Mary. I insisted that we take Allison’s case. I never should have. Then I didn’t save her. I failed you. I failed Rosie.”

“You didn’t fail. I did.”

“You never failed us,” Sherlock said, stepping into my space. 

“That fiend Tremblay would have drawn us in no matter what. It could have been Rosie. No, it would have been Rosie. You were right to have us take the case. I hurt you. No matter what you say, you didn’t deserve it. I am so sorry, but it doesn’t change what I did to you.” I hesitated. He shook his head and looked so lost. I reached out and touched his shirt. “I like it.”

“What?”

“The flannel shirt on you…that you bought it, because of me.”

“I miss you, John.”

“I miss you. So much.”

He blushed again and smiled. I couldn’t help but tease him a little: “It also proves anything looks good on you—even red plaid.”

“I am sorry that I didn’t let you help decide when and where we’d retire. I should have.” He reached out and bravely took my hand. 

“And I should have said a lot of things to you. I'm afraid I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to that.” I grasped his hand tighter. “Your friend Talmadge was right about me. I have been hiding who I am, but it’s not because I was afraid of who I am. It’s because I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“We are both a bit daft. I was afraid that you didn’t feel the same. I should have been brave enough to tell you, but I wasn’t. So many people had told me I was wrong—but as I read what you’d written, I wondered how I had missed it. I felt so foolish. Why had I never asked you? Why had I never said it? I almost did that day on the tarmac.”

Standing in the kitchen, the bricked walls and rustic beamed ceiling felt more like home to me. I could do this. I could say it—just open my mouth. But nothing came out. 

So he said it for me… “I know you love me.”

“I..I do…” I stammered. “Love you.”

I started to sob. As his swift arms enclosed me and held me tight. this time I didn’t hang my head or cover my eyes as I did after Mary died. I looked into his face. 

“I love you,” he said as held me tighter. “I denied that I did for so long, but I always knew.”

“I denied it until I thought you were gone. There was no way I could deny it then. I should never have married her.” I let my head rest on his shoulder.

“But then you wouldn’t have Rosie,” Sherlock said.

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“We can’t change what was in the past,” he said, “but we can forgive and go on. I would like us to do that.” 

“I want to do that. I do,” I mumbled into his neck as my hands fumbled against the front of his flannel shirt. “It’s softer.”

“Huh?”

“Then the shirt I had.”

We pulled back and our eyes wandered over each other’s faces. My gaze came to rest on the lips I’d denied myself for so long. 

Tessie barked. Sherlock shook his head and grabbed her collar as he pulled her into his bedroom and shut the door. He was back in a moment. 

“Kiss me?” he asked almost bashfully. The man was practically beside himself—a real bundle of nerves. 

I could help him relax. I stepped up to him again. Tessie was scratching at the door and whimpering while Sherlock’s anxious hands grabbed a fistful of my jumper. His lips twitched; his whole body jiggled in anticipation. 

I smiled up at him. Now that I had told him how I felt, it was up to me to show him. He needed to know. His cheeks flushed deeper as he waited. I lifted my chin and his head bowed down as I gently brushed my lips against his. 

The kisses turned from timid to tender. I began at the corner of his mouth, sprinkling delicate pecks across his top lip, then the bottom. With each kiss, I pressed my lips to his a bit longer, a bit harder. When I returned to the corner of his mouth, I was rewarded with a deep moan. 

That moan! It resonated deep inside my chest. My heart pounded harder in response. Then he took those large, beautiful hands, cupped my face and kissed me back. My god, the way he opened his mouth and devoured mine made my legs shake. It was as if his mouth was desperate to capture a part of me. I felt the same. I couldn’t get enough of his lips, his mouth, his tongue. I steadied myself against his desk as I explored his mouth with mine. I let my hands slip down his sides. I felt his ribs beneath the soft. flannel shirt, pausing where his rough jeans slung off his waist. I brushed my thumbs against his hip bones, and he shuddered. I had always imagined what this would be like, to kiss him, to feel him tremble. Nothing could compare to that moment when he gasped and thrust his hips into mine. With a jolt, our cocks met. My god, he was rock hard! I never thought he would react like this. He wanted me ! He wanted me as much as I wanted him.

Our kisses became rough as we ground our hips together. Sherlock took the initiative and pulled me up and walked us backward around the coffee table and onto the couch. I wanted to suggest the bedroom, but my words were cut off from the crushing pressure of Sherlock’s insistent mouth. He pressed down on me and squirmed on top of me. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced, the feel of his hard chest and muscled arms. Sherlock’s groan vibrated into my own chest. I gasped as he lined up his cock and thrust against mine. 

“Should we remove our trousers?” Sherlock groaned.  

I relished his hot breath on my neck and the way our rock hard cocks rubbed together, and thought how much better it’d be if there was nothing between us.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Pants too.” We rolled off each other, snug on the couch, all elbows, struggling with zips and trying to shimmy off our trousers. Sherlock was having a difficult time getting them over his hips and rolled off onto the floor with a thump.

“You alright?” I asked, leaning over the edge. God, he looked so young sprawled out between the couch and coffee table as he triumphantly kicked off his jeans. 

“Fine,” he said, blushing. 

Me? I was fighting with a t-shirt that stuck to me like a second skin. I finally peeled it off. Next, these damn pants needed to get out of the way. I kicked them off onto the coffee table.

I was completely naked on Sherlock’s leather couch. I ignored the reflex to cover myself. What was I doing? What were we doing? One look at Sherlock tugging his pants over the points of his hips chased away my doubts. I could see the outline of his cock trapped beneath his pants. A spot appeared where the tip was wet with desire. I watched with rapt fascination as he twisted out of them. A slap against his tummy announced his cock was free. I licked my lips at the sight. He looked incredible on the floor with his long legs and arms. He caught my eyes watching him, and with a wicked grin, he sent his pants flying on top of mine on top of the coffee table. With a hungry look in his eyes, he pulled himself off the floor and straddled me on the couch. Suddenly he hesitated. I pushed myself up with my elbows. 

“Come here,” I said. “I need you to keep me warm.”

He leaned down on top of me. I knew so much about this man, but this was the one area I knew nothing of. Sure, I’d been with a man before. Once. Well, maybe twice. But it had been so long ago. Hell, it had been a long time since I’d done anything sexual with anyone. But I was not surprised that this experience was as unique as he was. His touch was soft—softer than I’ve ever felt, yet his body was all sharp points and edges. He was exceedingly tender as his long fingers found their way into my hair and gently massaged my scalp. 

I expected that his method would be scientific: examining me, deducing me as he explored me inch by inch. But that was not the case. His touch was reverent, ardent, tender.

Our mouths got acquainted again, exploring all the corners we’d missed before. It was my turn to feel bashful as he gripped both of my shoulders, then looked down into my face. How does he do that? Make me come undone under those changeable eyes? Their heat melted me. Sherlock's fingers caressed my bad shoulder, finding the scar there. He traced it like an artist painting a canvas. 

“We need a larger couch,” he said. 

I bit back a laugh. Yes, the couch could be wider. The bed would be better, but I didn’t want to alter this moment. Slowly, his attention turned to my face. His index finger drew across my brow, down my jaw, across my lips. No one could ever move me as he does.

The beauty of his touch wasn’t flawless—in fact, his fingers shook as he touched me. This made it all the more genuine and splendid. I let my own shaky hands explore Sherlock as well. I discovered the ridges of his spine, the bumps of his ribs. I let my hands trail down to the most intimate part of him. So often I had dreamed of this, but now it was real—I touched those wiry curls of his pubic hair, and felt his hard shaft. His cock was as beautiful as the rest of him—long with thick veins, as soft as a baby’s skin, with a pearl at its tip as it popped out of the foreskin in excitement. All from my touch. I did that to him. My heart pounded in my chest from the knowledge.

“John,” he groaned.

I did that too—made him call my name. I took it as a sign and grasped him firmly. Another call of my name, and I began to stroke his cock. Sherlock’s hand reached between my legs and grasped mine in return.

I moaned so loud that I almost felt embarrassed. Almost. Except…

Except Sherlock’s deep moans exceeded my own.

Sherlock suddenly shifted his body, bringing our cocks in line and grasped them both in his hand. The feel of that large palm and long fingers wrapped around us, juxtaposed to his silky smooth hardness rubbing my cock was indescribable. I gave into the pleasure and pain of it all—my heart pumped with abandon. My lungs felt as if they were going to burst from excitement. Every slide and push through his hand made me more desperate to come. 

My mouth clamped shut on Sherlock’s shoulder to keep from shouting. I was so close. My mind rolled with the enormity of the moment—that we were finally together like this—that we love each other. That we could have a life together. Sherlock’s hand slowed and tightened with intent, savoring the last seconds as his hips jerked erratically. 

I didn’t need to see his face, but I wanted to see it. It was more than I’d imagined. Tears sprang into my eyes. What had I been so afraid of? This was the place that I’d longed for and yet denied myself. I hiccupped back a cry as I came, but Sherlock didn't hold back. He sobbed into my hair.

“I love you,” he gasped. 

It took a few minutes before I could actually speak. 

“I wish—” I finally said, but Sherlock put his finger against my lips to hush me.

“No regrets. We move forward from this,” he said as he slowly removed his finger.

“Alright.” I sniffed. “So…moving forward…that would be moving in.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“That’s a yes, and I will help you paint the shed.”

Sherlock laughed. “Of course.”

I rolled over a bit since my back was beginning to hurt. “Also moving forward, next time how about moving this to the bed?”

“Agree. But I’d like to call it our bed,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Our bed.” I squirmed beneath him. “I like that.” His hip bones were beginning to jab into me. I hadn’t cared much until now. He immediately noticed my discomfort and rolled back, tipping over the edge of the couch. With a thud, he landed on the floor.

Still shut in the bedroom, Tessie began to bark.

I rolled over to the side and looked down at him rubbing his side.

“Definitely our bed next time,” he said. “These old bones can’t take another fall like that. It’s good you never unpacked your luggage.”

How did he know that?

A knock came to the door, and Tessie barked louder. We both jumped.

I sighed. “Don’t tell me… he’s back?”

“No. It’s not him,” he said, pulling himself off the floor fast. “But we do need to dress. I’ll fetch a wet flannel.” He grabbed his trousers and shirt as he started to race out of the room. The sound of a key rattling the front lock echoed down the hallway and into the living room. 

“We’ll be right there. Don’t come in!” Sherlock called out. The second Sherlock opened the bedroom door Tessie escaped. Puppy paws slapped against the floor as she raced for the front door. She yipped with joy as the door opened. 

“Hi, Tessie. Where’s Dad?”

Chapter Text

Rosie! I panicked as I threw on my jumper. 

“I’m here, but stay there,” I yelled.

Sherlock raced back in, flinging the warm, wet flannel in my face. 

“Clean up, fast!” he said as he zipped his trousers and buttoned his shirt. I rushed to wipe the come and sweat from me. 

“Can I come in yet?” she hollered.

“Not yet,” I called back.  I thrust my legs into my trousers as Sherlock shoved our pants along with the flannel underneath the couch’s seat cushion. 

“Almost as bad as getting caught by my parents,” Sherlock theatrically whispered. “That is, I assume it is.”

He threw my t-shirt at me, then winked at me. 

Winked . The scamp! I stuffed the t-shirt in with the pants and flannel.

“Alright. Come in.”

The door shut and Rosie peeked around the door. “So you’re decent now?” she asked in mock horror. 

“Yes,” we both said together.

Rosie practically skipped into the living room with Tessie on her heels.

“I kept my promise. We made up,” I blurted out.

“More than made up, I’d say,” she giggled and plopped down on the couch. I grimaced. She was sitting where we had stuffed our evidence.

“So this means?” she asked expectantly.

“Exactly what you think,” I said.

“Um, I’m thinking a lot of things right now,” she shot back.

I scratched the back of my neck. “I suppose you are.” I look at Sherlock standing next to me. For a change, he was at a complete loss for words and looking around the living room like he’d never seen it before. I guess it was up to me.

“So are you going to call him?” I teased.

“Who?”

“Talmadge.”

“No.” He frowned at me for mentioning his name. “Are you staying?”

“Yes.”

A big grin split across both Rosie and Sherlock’s faces. Rosie jumped over the coffee table and into both of our arms, dragging us all together in one-giant hug festival.

“When might we expect a happy announcement?”

“We haven’t discussed that yet,” Sherlock said.

I was gobsmacked. I’m not sure why. I’d heard Mycroft say those very words before and completely ignored them. But today they meant more. They meant a future together forever. Till death do us part forever.

As Rosie and Sherlock looked at me expectantly, I realized I wanted that. God, I wanted that so much.

“We will…discuss it,” I said.

“I should hope so!” Rosie said, punching me in my good shoulder. “You need to make an honest man out of Papa!”

“That’s not funny,” I said, covering my face.

“Yes it is,” said Sherlock.

She raised up on her toes and threw her arms around both our necks. “We need to celebrate. I mean, this is a momentous occasion. What do you have in this place to drink?”

“What? You can’t drink,” I said.

“Of course I can. Wait here. I know where Papa keeps it,” she said, racing off toward the kitchen with Tessie.

I sighed. “Well, I guess she’s all grown up.”

Sherlock smirked. “And so are we.”

She waltzed back in the room with a bottle of red burgundy in one hand and three glasses in the other. She set them down on the coffee table and took a seat in the center. Patting the places at her sides with her hands, she motioned for us to sit down. Unfortunately, Tessie thought it was an invitation, and Sherlock had to drag her off the couch. With Tessie at her feet, we took our places on each side while she poured the burgundy.

She raised her glass. “A toast to my fathers: the best daddies a daughter could ever have.”

“And to the best daughter we could ever have,” Sherlock said.

I watched Sherlock and Rosie drink then added, “To the best man.” 

Rosie flicked her glass, ping, ping, ping. “Well?” she said. “Aren’t you going to kiss?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but leaned over Rosie. It was a reach, but our lips met.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now, I hate to be a Debbie Downer, but now that I have you together, you really need to tell me what caused this rift between you. I’d like to know that you’ve sorted it all out.”

“Who’s Debbie Downer?” Sherlock asked.

“Saturday Night Live? Hmm, Daddy, we really have failed with him.”

“We haven’t talked about that yet,” Sherlock said. “Or the case. We decided to leave the past in the past.”

“Like that’s worked out so well for you. Besides, what’s your book The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have a real ending—it was missing Allison’s case, and we know why. It’s the reason, or a good part of it.”

“What, you want a happy ever after?” I asked her.

“Of course, but I also want answers.”

“She’s got us there, John.”

“It has to do with never catching the killer. You never let any case go like this. Was that the problem? There’s something you never told me.”

Sherlock sighed. His eyes met mine, searching for permission.

“We knew exactly who the killer was,” I said. 

I cringed. Just moments ago in Sherlock’s arms I had agreed to let the past go. Here it was—the reason why I had been so angry with him. 

“I took it upon myself, once again, to solve the problem without John. I still believe I made the right choice, but I understand his anger, his loss of trust in me. I knew when I did it what his reaction would be.” 

He sacrificed himself again…for me, for those he loved. Alone. As if losing years of his life chasing Moriarty’s men, or shooting Magnussen in full view of the press wasn’t enough. At least this time he did it without an audience. What it came down to is that he did without me. 

Rosie was shaking her head. “How did you solve the problem?”

“He was untouchable. A diplomat with immunity. Not only that, he had friends with political pull who said he was with them when Allison was killed.”

“But you have proof that it was him.”

“More than enough,” I said. “His DNA at the crime scene, along with his mobile traced at the scene. Unfortunately, we couldn’t use either since the evidence disappeared from the locker at the Yard. It was him. He did it.”

I recalled that day. Sherlock was beside himself. He hadn’t slept or eaten a decent meal in days and days. I wasn’t in any better condition. Mycroft was the poor soul who came with the bad news to us. I’m afraid neither of us were very nice to him. 

“Get out! What good are you anyway?” he’d screamed at Mycroft. “You can’t even take care of this maniac who’s not only murdered Miss Allen, but four other innocent young women?”

It was a horrible day. Almost as bad as the day the killer showed up at our flat. Rosie's friend was targeted to get our attention. He killed Allison because she was Rosie's friend . It was too much like Moriarty. And it was one point that I would never tell Rosie. She would blame herself.

“So it wasn’t that the evidence wasn’t enough, it was gone?” Rosie asked, bringing me back to the present. “So he got away with it? He’s still out there. I understand why you’d be angry Dad, but not with Papa.”

“I was wrong to be angry with him. It was misplaced,” I said, a shot Sherlock a sharp look. 

“We’ve told Allison’s parents, John. She is old enough to hear the truth about me. What I am.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Is that what you believe? That I judged you for what you did?”

“Judged him?” Rosie blurted out. “What did you do?” she asked, turning to Sherlock.

“He isn’t still out there. The problem was that I did it on my own, and I didn’t tell him I did it. He had to find out on the telly.”

We were watching the BBC World News when the reporter announced that “French diplomat, Georges Tremblay, was found dead” in his hotel room. One look at Sherlock and I knew. I blew up. I even threw Sherlock’s laptop and smashed it against the wall. That is when I walked out and didn’t return for two days. I didn’t trust myself around him.

“You weren’t angry that he killed him,” she said, realization dawning on her. “You were angry because Papa did it alone. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Tessie sat up and laid her head in Rosie’s lap.

“Yes, you’re right…for the most part, except,” I said.

“Except?” She waited for my answer as she stroked Tessie’s head. 

“He did it to keep me from killing him. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This diplomat, he raped and horribly mutilated my best friend. He deserved it—I’m glad he’s dead.”

Sherlock and I locked eyes.

“I’m sorry, John. I should have told you. I should have let you in.”

“You were trying to protect me.”

“And Rosie.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“She may as well hear the rest,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “When the killer was released after the evidence disappeared, he came to Baker Street.”

We all sat quietly as I recalled one of the worst days of my life. That man, that bloody piece of shite, climbed up our stairs, invaded our home. I saw red. 

“I killed them all,” he’d said. “All five young women, to get your  attention. But you completely ignored the first four. Miss Allen was home alone that day when I knocked and asked for directions. I wanted your daughter, but knew she would do. She screamed so pretty. I wonder if your Rosie would have screamed?”

I flung myself at him. I had him on his back, my hands were around his throat, squeezing the life out of him. 

We had to let him go. I said I would kill him. Sherlock said no. 

“He threatened Rosie’s life,” I had said. 

“I know. That is why we will let Mycroft handle this,” Sherlock had said, and I believed him. 

It took Tessie licking my hand to bring me back to the present. All three of them were staring at me with concern on their faces.

Of course Sherlock knew what I was recalling. “It took all the strength your Papa had in him to pry my hands off his neck. Then Mycroft said his hands were tied. So I took it upon myself to solve the problem,” I said. 

“You don’t need to use euphemisms.” She hugged Tessie. “Wait…I remember not long after Allison died. There was this French diplomat who died in his hotel room. It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Correct.” 

“The cause of death was undetermined. They thought it was suspicious at first but later ruled it a heart attack. Oh, Papa,” she cried and hugged him.

“If I hadn’t killed him, your dad would have done it. I couldn’t let him do that,” he said.

“I was so angry. You did it without me. Why do you think that your life is less important?” 

He’d sacrificed himself so many times. He’d taken a fall, a bullet. With Eurus, he didn’t choose me or Mycroft. He put the gun to his own head. When will he understand how much we love him? That our lives are empty without him?   

“It couldn’t be a crime of passion. I planned it. Went to his hotel room, put the drug in his water bottle, and waited.”

“That was too merciful a death for him,” I said.

“But efficient,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry, Rosie, if we sound callous.” 

“I’m not,” she said.

I suppose there are other things she’ll eventually want to know. Who her mother really was, what she really was. I don’t think we’ll ever tell her that her mom shot Sherlock unless she asks. I think that’s something Rosie doesn’t need to know, along with the fact that she was the target of the killer, not Allison. 

“Any other questions?” I asked. 

Rosie sat back against the couch. “I don’t. I know I used to ask you loads of questions about my mother, but after you both separated, I realized that wasn’t important to me. You and Papa are. You are my parents. You always will be.” She sniffed as tears slid down her cheeks. “Now that you’re together like you belong…my wish has come true—that and I got Tessie here!” 

As Tessie tried to sneak herself up into Rosie’s lap, she was rewarded with three loving licks across the face. She had one big puppy as a comforter. The tension left the room as Sherlock and I laughed. Rosie joined in. I loved laughing. I hadn’t laughed much since Allison’s case. I’d missed it so much.

“She’s not supposed to be on the couch,” Sherlock said.

“Technically, she’s not, she’s all over me,” Rosie shot back. She began to squirm under Tessie’s weight. “I don’t remember this couch being so uncomfortable. There’s a big lump where I’m sitting.” 

“Don’t ask why, and for God’s sake, don’t look,” I said.

She clapped her hand over her mouth in mock shock. “OMG! I don’t believe it.” She flopped back onto the couch in a fit of giggles.

It took her a few moments to compose herself, but she did. After all, she’s Rosamund Watson-Holmes. 

“So,” she said. “What’s for dinner?”