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So here he was again, John tilted his head back and looked up at the window to what had been his living room window a couple of years back. With a sigh he looked down on the bags at his feet. One year, one year was how long Mary had stayed after their wedding before leaving him and their daughter, leaving behind only a note saying that she had been hiding long enough now. A smile crossed his face as he looked on his little miracle girl that rested peacefully in the crook of his arm, she was only his now and he would do everything to make sure she had a safe and healthy upbringing. Including this. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door labelled "221 B". Sherlock opened imminently as if he been standing inside the door waiting (which he probably had).
"John," the detective greeted the nervous doctor.
"Are you sure this is okay? It isn't too late to say you'd rather don't," John blurted out as his nerves got the better of him. His speech was greeted with a wrinkled forehead from the detective.
"Nonsense, of course you are going to stay here. Here let me help you with the bags," Sherlock simply grabbed all John's bags, turned his back, and started to climb the stairs as he continued speaking, not checking if John followed (some things never changed).
"I have cleaned and aired out the whole flat, your room is as you left it. And also with the money I make now at consulting I was able to rent the apartment downstairs where I ((+have now)) moved all my experiments. So the flat is completely baby proof."
Stunned by Sherlock's speech and the clean state of the living room John remained standing there, slowly rocking his daughter as the detective went upstairs and left John's bags. Soon Sherlock swept into the living room again and faced John.
"Welcome back"
"I'm home," John replied without thinking, but that was what 221 B Baker Street was, home.
The silence that followed was broken by his daughters happy gurgling. Sherlock looked down at the small girl in John's arms and a slow smile spread over his face.
"May I hold her?" he asked, almost breathless.
"Hold her...? Oh, of course," John replied caught off guard by the question. He took a step forward and slowly shifted the girl over to the other mans arms.
"You hold her like this. Don't forget to support her head," Sherlock allowed himself to be arranged to fit the worrying new father's demand, still with a look of awe on his face the detective looked down on the girl.
"Hello Amalia," he whispered.
It was about to become one of those precious moment you only see in romantic movies when everything is perfect and everybody is happy and very much in love, then the mood was broken by Amalia's high cry. John glanced down on his wrist.
"Ah, it is time to feed her again, poor darling, she must be hungry," he stated and stroke a hand over his daughters head.
"Be a dear and rock her a bit while I run upstairs, grab her milk powder and prepare it," he addressed the detective that still looked down on the small life (now screaming to express how displeased she was of the lack of food) in his arms with a silly smile on his face.
"I stocked up," he said without looking up, making John stop in the middle of a step.
"You will find everything you need in the kitchen."
"Oh, okay," John said, voice coloured by surprise, we are talking about the man who couldn't remember (bother) to pick up the milk here. Reading his thoughts (oh, sorry, deduced) as usually, the man's deep voice followed John as he went out in the kitchen.
"Believe it or not, John, I know a few things about taking care of babies. I helped out with my little brother."
"There is three of you?" The surprise almost stopped John's search through the shelves to find everything he needed, but the urgency to stop his girl from crying was bigger than the surprise.
"Yes he is five years younger than me and works for MI6"
John didn't even wasted energy to be surprised anymore as he slowly warmed the milk to the right temperature.
"Am I going to meet him?" he asked, remembering how he met Mycroft, not his most pleasant day.
"Unlikely, he seldom leaves his dungeon," the reply came. The doctor hummed as he came back to the living room carrying a bottle of milk. The picture that greeted him was stunning, Sherlock's long limbs were arranged protectively around his little girl who had gotten a hold of one of his locks, tugging on it with joy (recently Sherlock had let his hair grow out a bit so now it reached his shoulders). Despite the fact that it must have hurt a lot Sherlock just smiled down on Amalia with a soft look on his face.
"Want to feed her?" John blurted out to Sherlock’s surprise and very much his own.
"May I?" Sherlock's face shone up as if John had offered him a triple locked room murder.
"Of course, if we are going to live here you better learn to do that," John said and handed over the bottle. Sherlock effortlessly shifted Amalia over to his left arm and tested the warmth of the liquid before offering the bottle to the three month old. She grabbed on with her mouth at once and started to drink.
"Oh, she is a hungry one, I always had to trick Emanuel to drink"
"Yeah, she is a healthy girl," John said with a smile, letting the revelation of the youngest Holmes's name pass. Sherlock lifted his head and gave him one of his looks again.
"Of course she is; she's yours."
It was starting to become like one of those romantic movies again and John wasn't having any more of that, so he just ignored it. Taking one more look on his flatmate and daughter, who seemed to have found each other, he decided it was safe to sit down. With a pleased growl((-->grunt/sigh)) he sunk down in his old armchair that stood exactly like it had been doing 1 year ago and long before that. Exhausted, he closed his eyes. It had been a trying couple of weeks. Being a newbie father wasn't exactly easy, even if he had insisted to only work half time so he could be home with his daughter (something he was glad for now), and the last week with Mary disappearing had been hellish. Amalia didn’t want to sleep at night and he had to stay home from work to take care of her (nothing he didn't like, mind you, but money was going to get tight and babies cost a lot) since it wasn't anyone els that did that. Half asleep he heard the plopping sound of his daughter releasing the bottle, having finished eating (she never let go of the bottle before it was completely empty, one of the reasons Mary had given when she started to refuse to breast feed. Now John knew that it had been a sign that Mary had prepared to leave.
"Don't forget to burp her," he called out without even opening his eyes.
"Impressive," he heard Sherlock say quietly before saying with a louder voice
"I know John; used to babies, remember?"
"Mm."
John was starting to drift of, falling back to his military habit of sleeping as soon as it was possible.
"You can clearly see the similarities between father and daughter now", John heard Sherlock's voice. "Both drifting off."
With a grunt John rose up.
"I will put her to bed then" he said reaching out his arms after his little girl.
Slowly Sherlock freed the lock of his hair from the baby's iron grip and handed her over to her father. John carried her softly up the stairs, not wanting to wake her up, and put her in the crib. It didn't work very well. As soon as he put Amalia down her eyes sprung opened and she started to cry. At once he picked her up, started to rock her and made calming hushes. A moment later the consulting detective burst throughthe door.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no not at all. She isn't used to sleeping in the crib. She used to sleep between me and Mary."
"Oh" Sherlock got a thoughtful look on his face.
"You don't have to worry she will fall asleep sooner or later"
"Later given the dark circles under your eyes" Sherlock remarked. John made a face as reply. There wasn't anything he could say about it, since it was true.
"We could do it, you know," the detective remarked
"Hm?" John didn't even look up.
"Sleep in the same bed with her between us. Mine is big enough."
"Oh nononono it will be fine. Thanks for the offer though."
"Don't be ridiculous John. I wouldn't take you for a modest one after the military. We are both grown men and it is for you daughter."
Sometimes it was very hard to argue with Sherlock, it was so much simpler to give in.
"Fine, let me just grab her pyjamas and change" Sherlock looked not only a little smug then he went downstairs.
20 minutes later John walked downstairs holding Amalia who now wore a blue jumpsuit with little pink elephants on it. He himself wore a pair of pants and a soft worn T-shirt that might have had green and blue patterns on it, now it was a bit unclear. As usually Sherlock had flopped down on the sofa wearing a dressing robe and matching purple pyjama pants and a T-shirt which would have been too much on anybody else, but now kind of worked.
"We are here now" John said softly.
The consulting detective hummed and gracefully unfolded ((+ his dressing robe)), rose up and walked ahead of them to the bedroom.
"Do you want an extra pillow for her to sleep on?"
"Yes that would be nice."
They settled down with Amalia between them on her own pillow with a knitted purple and green blanket, which had been a gift from Mummy Holmes, over her. It didn't take long for both baby and detective to fall asleep and it gave John some time to think. Before the fall he had often wondered what it would take to get into his flatmates bed and now he finally got in, because of his daughter. Not that he was complaining. Before the fall he had loved the detective dearly and would have liked to be in a relationship with him very much. Now he still loved the silly genius very much, but his "death" had left scars and also this mess with Mary. He simply didn't know if he was ready to risk his heart again. His thoughts were disturbed by something that flopped down on his hip. When he looked down he noticed that Sherlock had turned to face him and had placed his arm over Amalia and his hip in a kind of half hug. With a small smile John leaned over to kiss the foreheads of the two people he loved most in the world, his daughter and Sherlock. He lay down and let his left arm slide over his daughter and if his hand landed over Sherlock's heart to make sure he was real nobody was wiser. He closed his eyes and started to drift off. He was content like this. Finally he was home.