Work Text:
"And if I'm gone, I know what you could become"
Mary's words cycle in my mind over and over again all night. She doesn't think that- No. Of course not. But the way Sherlock looked at me after her video ended- God. He looked so sheepish like a scared puppy, afraid to admit what she implied is true. Her "Baker Street boys."
It doesn't even sound crazy. Sure, I'm not gay. But am I straight? I don't know. Other than Mary, I've never felt a longing like this before. Now the one person who could've helped me figure it out is dead. Yet, if she hadn't died, would I even be questioning myself right now? Moving back in with Sherlock probably isn't helping, but being in that big house with Rosie was too much to bear. Sherlock walks in, breaking up my thoughts. He stares at me with that look and his eyes shining down on me make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Huh? Yeah. Fine." I mumble, picking up the newspaper I discarded earlier.
Sherlock gives me another glance before going into his room and shutting the door. I can't focus on the paper, more of Mary's words keep flooding my brain.
"God I had six months of bristly kisses for me, and then his nibbs turns up..."
"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes."
In all honestly, I did shave for Sherlock Holmes. Him coming back from the dead and the fact all he could comment on was my mustache really irked me. Every time Sherlock comments on something about me it bothers me. Maybe it's because, surprisingly, he does it so infrequently that every time he does it truly means something. Or maybe I just want to be perfect for him. Like how I just stood up to go make dinner because I want Sherlock to be happy and it be because of me. Or how every night when Rosie cries I don't hesitate to calm her down because while I might still be pissed at Sherlock for one reason or another, I don't want to inconvenience him. But the best example of all is how I'm actively trying to forgive him for everything because I don't want to lose him again.
"What're you cooking?"
There he goes again, breaking up my thoughts, but I'm not even mad.
"Nothing yet. I was thinking pasta. Does that sound okay?"
And there I go again, seeking his approval.
"Course'. Is Rosie asleep?"
"Yeah, finally. She was up all night last night."
"I know."
"How?"
"I was awake."
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't. I was awake long before she even started."
"Oh."
I take out the only pan from under the sink and start the stove. I can feel Sherlock's eyes burning into the back of my head. For the first time in a while, I welcome the feeling. Mary is gone and she isn't ever coming back. But she may have given me and Sherlock a chance to start something new. So what if I don't understand my feelings completely? I doubt Sherlock does. So what if "Baker street boys" sounds comforting and warm? It doesn't matter. Mrs. Hudson sure welcomes it, Angelo suspects. Hell, I don't think Mary was clueless in the least. She knew what she was doing, throwing those words around so casually. Sherlock sighs behind me. I wipe my hands off with a rag and turn around, gripping the counter. We lock eyes and share so many thoughts in a matter of seconds.
"Am I crazy?" Sherlock murmurs.
"No. Not crazy." I shake my head.
Before I have time to think I'm walking over, put my hand behind his neck, and bend down, our lips meeting in the middle. I know now, this is all I wanted. Mary knew that. She just had to give us the final push. And I will forever be grateful she did.
We pull apart, chests heaving and we are still close enough for me to feel a brush of Sherlock smiling.
"I love you." Sherlock whispers.
"I love you too,"
"And to think we were the last ones to realize." I finish after a moment.
Sherlock chuckles and pulls me back in for another kiss.