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He felt John freeze. A hand still rested in his hair, gently threaded through so fingertips brushed his scalp. Lips hovered just a breath from Sherlock’s temple, still and surprised.
Morning, love.
The words had been automatic. A good morning, sweetheart, for Rosie was customary. Morning, love, for Sherlock was not, but was understandable. Instinct. Mouth moving faster than mind.
Yet they set Sherlock to fluttering in a way he could not quite catalogue. His heart rate was elevated, he knew. Slight irregularity in the pulse; evening out, now. Warmth in the face, chest, and ears. Red-tinted flush likely. Dampness on the palms.
And an utterly unidentifiable buzz in his head. He knew, of course, that his ears had not been stuffed with cotton, nor his mouth blocked shut, but all physical signs seemed to point toward both of those occurrences. Why else should he feel so heightened, like he was thrumming with some kind of electricity? Had he been struck? Was this shock? Why else should that electric buzz stem from his temple?
The temple John’s lips had brushed just moments ago.
John was generally quite affectionate, Sherlock knew. He had seen John with any number of girlfriends. He had treated them all reasonably well. Physical contact was normal for John. A touch on the waist as he passed by a girlfriend; a kiss hello and goodbye. He was physically affectionate with Sherlock, too, on occasion. A touch on the shoulder to tell Sherlock he was leaving. Soothing fingers on his wrist to calm him; gripping fingers to keep them together as they fled some danger or another. An embrace, now and again.
And, apparently, a kiss on the forehead in the morning.
What to do with this? This new development? John seemed to be processing it, too. Utter silence. Elevated pulse. Faint flush in the cheeks and ears. A slight twitch in the fingers still buried in Sherlock’s hair.
There they sat, frozen in time. John was not breathing—he was close enough that Sherlock should have felt it—and his heart was pounding louder than Sherlock’s own.
Yet there was one among them who was unbothered by this utterly monumental act.
Rosie, babbling loudly and rapidly as always, chose that exact moment to fling her stuffed bumble bee from the safety of her high-chair. It flew rather gracefully through the air, spinning with a happy jingle and drawing both Sherlock’s and John’s gazes. It landed with a metallic splat, skidding across the floor and coming to rest beneath the sofa.
The pause was brief this time, broken by a thin wobble from Rosie’s mouth that signalled an impending meltdown. Both men moved, then froze again.
Rosie sniffled loudly, breaking their trance once more.
“I’ll—” John said, the sound rough and staccato. He reached out to Rosie, his hands pulling Sherlock’s attention for just a moment before he jumped from his chair, scurrying across the floor for the toy. It look longer than he had hoped to retrieve it and he was forced to lie on his stomach, stretching his arm blindly beneath the furniture.
When he stood, John had Rosie on one hip, bouncing her back and forth to soothe her. Sherlock, avoiding his gaze, passed Rosie the toy. His fingers brushed John’s arm as he gave it to her.
John did not quite hide the shiver that passed through him at the contact.
An interesting development. Most intriguing. And most confusing.
Sherlock cleared his throat, sitting back in his chair. Rosie babbled delightedly, shaking her newly-recovered bee toy above her head in triumph.
“Sherlock—”
With one word, all became clear. It took only two syllables, a short burst of sound, a name loaded down with regret and awkwardness.
He could not let John say it. He could not hear those words of apology, those self-deprecating jokes. He refused to hear those bells of regret.
“Good morning, John,” Sherlock said quietly. Hands cold, moving with the barest hint of a tremble, he reached out. Sherlock caught John’s free hand and pulled it toward him. Softly, he pressed his lips to the knuckles.
Rosie babbled nonsense, shaking her toy wildly.
John was motionless once more, staring down at Sherlock.
“Right,” John said finally. He turned, swinging Rosie off his hip and back into her chair. He had a curious expression on his face; one Sherlock was intimately familiar with. John had made a decision, he knew. That look was one of trepidation, but one of determination, too.
“C’mere, then,” John said, and then his hands were cupping Sherlock’s face and—
John Watson was a rather good kisser, Sherlock quickly learned. He was gentle, yet firm, the warm press of his lips shocking and shockingly welcome. Sherlock chased him as he tried to pull away, one hand catching the back of John’s neck and pulling him in closer, closer, ever closer. Sherlock’s chest was tight, his every muscle contracting in a way that was somehow beautiful rather than painful. Every neuron in his brain was suddenly silent. His mind was quieter than it had ever been, smoothed and calmed by the gentle pressure of John. John, John, John.
Finally, they broke.
“John,” Sherlock breathed. There was no purpose to the word. He just wanted to hear it. Just wanted to say it, feel his mouth shape around the name, feel it pour through his lips.
John closed his eyes. Gently, he tipped his forehead against Sherlock’s.
They stayed like that just a moment before John straightened up, smoothing a hand over his hair.
“Right,” John said again. He was slightly breathless, though his heart rate was settling. “Got that settled, then. Morning, love.” He crossed the room, scooping up his coat. “Can you keep an eye on Rosie for a bit? We’re out of milk.”
Sherlock blinked at him. “I’ll come with you,” he said, standing too.
John stared. “You? Coming to the shop? Willingly?” He laughed, shrugging on his coat. “If I’d known all I had to do was kiss you, I’d’ve done that ages ago.” His words were light, but his gaze serious.
Sherlock met his eyes, holding them a moment. He understood. He knew. He knew this wasn’t about the shop; this was about John giving him space. This wasn’t about milk. This was about John letting him change his mind.
But they were, in fact, out of milk.
And arsenic powder, which Sherlock needed for his latest experiment.
And Sherlock wasn’t planning to change his mind.
“I need some things,” Sherlock explained. “It will be good for Rosie to go out.”
And I would like to spend more time with you.
John shrugged. “Right, then. Get your coat. It’s cold,” he fussed. “Don’t need you freezing to death.”
Sherlock scoffed. “I’ll be fine.” I could never be cold with you.
John rolled his eyes. “Don’t come complaining when you’ve got icicles down your nose,” he warned.
Sherlock ignored that, tugging a woollen hat onto Rosie’s small head as she giggled and waved her arms. As he bundled her up for the cold, he realised that as monumental as that moment had felt, little had really changed. They were still themselves. They still argued about the milk. They still worked together for Rosie. So their relationship had gained some nuance. Was anything truly different?
Sherlock shrugged. Did it matter? Did it, really, in the grand scheme? He was still John’s. John was still his. They were still here, their little family curled up together in Baker Street. Shocking as that kiss had been, that instinct, the little pet name and casual movement coming so naturally to John… it had changed little. Little that mattered, anyway.
Sherlock still loved John.
And John still loved him.