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Chapter Text

John was used to having dreams, or more properly, nightmares.

The heat of the desert, the grit of sand, the sound of artillery fire.  Then there was the burn in his shoulder, an ache in his leg, a gasp for breath and waking up on sheets dampened with cold sweat. But lately the heat and sand had been replaced by the cold concrete of a carpark coupled with a pain in his chest, or more frequently, a grassy hill with granite pressed against his back and red stones underfoot becoming redder with blood as his fingers entangled in blonde hair finding only softness where hard bone should be.

He’d been alone on the mountaintop with Mary for only five minutes before they had arrived with Mycroft’s helicopter to take them away, but it was enough time sear the memory into his brain, into his body and his nerves, so that he still felt the weight of Mary’s body in his arms, the metallic smell of her blood in his nostrils, even as they took her away. Five minutes.

But there would be no time for so many other things. No time to say goodbye. No time for the conversation that didn’t happen after the carpark in Marleybone, when he was in hospital and she was in Cardiff, because a phone call could have given both of them away. No time for the conversation that didn’t happen in the helicopter up Pen y Fan because the rotors were too loud. No chance to ask Mary the one question he wanted answered straight from her lips, the one question that had been burning in his mind the moment he found out she had worked for Moriarty. Did you ever love me? Was any of it real?

No time now for answering questions, no time now for making plans. Plans for their own future, whatever it might have been, plans for their daughter’s future. There would be no more joint decisions made, about what Rosie’s first food should be, how often would she be allowed to watch tv, what their holiday traditions would be. No time to share the sleepless nights and new-found joys of parenthood.

John had no answer. No plan. No more time to get them.

She’d said “Never alone,” but here he was, on top of a mountain, alone.

Afghanistan had been dust and noise, but the Beacons were silent. There was no bang, no shouting, just the exhale of Mary’s last breath as she fell and the dull ping of bullet on stone. What was the line? “Not with a bang, but a whimper?”

Why was there crying then?

*****

John jolted up in bed, the rapid movement straining his stitches and reminding him that he still had to take it slow.

He had a daughter who was crying. Where was his daughter?

John stood up in the darkness and started to move toward the sound, taking two steps before banging into the side of the crib.

John’s mind was still fuzzy from nightmares and sleep. Why was the crib in his room? It should be in the nursery…

Then he remembered he was in 221B.  Sherlock had invited him to stay over while he was still recovering. So he could help.

Or so Mrs. Hudson could help really, John thought as he rubbed his shin, since Sherlock wasn’t exactly the helpful sort when it came to these types of things. He turned his attention to the small child still crying in her crib. John lifted her up and rested her on his right arm, his good side.

“It’s alright luv, Daddy’s here.”

Rosie only wailed louder.

He raised her up a bit and sniffed her bum through the sleeper. Yep, definitely a change needed there. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 2:15 AM. She could probably use some milk as well. Well, no use in eating if you were uncomfortable, right? John carried Rosie over to the towel he had placed on the foot of the bed earlier that day and grabbed a nappy from the open box on the floor.

“Nappy first. Then milk.”

John changed Rosie, doing his best to clean her up in the darkness, then raised her up to his shoulder and walked slowly down the stairs, soiled nappy in one hand and Rosie in the other, her wailing having resolved itself to a soft whine.

The lights were off downstairs too. Sherlock was sleeping, then. Unusual, but there wasn’t a case on, was there?

John put the nappy in the bin, clicked on the kettle and grabbed one of the small plastic bags of breast milk from the fridge and poured it into a bottle.

John had thought Mary was crazy, stressing herself both out nursing and pumping. He had said there was nothing wrong with formula, but she had insisted, and who was he to say otherwise? At the time she had said it was for when she went back to work, but now he had to wonder, had she suspected things might go otherwise? Was it possible she knew that death might come for her soon? If she had thought, if she had known¬ and not told him, not warned him -- He shook the thought out of his head. He couldn’t think about that now. He placed the bottle into a mug of hot water and admitted to himself that he was grateful for the milk at least. One lingering gift. A bit of Mary still in the world. It couldn’t answer his questions, but it could nourish their daughter.

He hummed to Rosie, rocking her while the bottle warmed up. There are so many steps to all of this, he thought. He hadn’t given feeding much thought until three days ago, when Rosie would be hungry and Mary would shift her shirt and take care of it. Demanding for Mary, but easy for him. Not that he hadn’t been involved. He’d changed god-knows how many nappies in this first month and he’d rocked and held Rosie at all hours until his arms went numb. He shifted his daughter in his arms now, even her slight weight pulling against his aching chest, as he tested the temperature of the milk on his wrist.

Rosie took the bottle easily, and John whispered another debt of gratitude, this one to Mrs. Hudson. Rosie had wanted nothing to do with bottles for those first days without Mary, when he was back in the hospital after the Beacons. That first night they had had to feed her with a spoon. Mrs. Hudson had said her sister’s youngest had done the same thing, and had popped off to the shops as soon as they opened, coming back with a bag-full of tiny teats. John hadn’t known that there was such a wide variety of rubber nipples in the world, but apparently his daughter was a connoisseur, and rejected the first half-dozen offerings before mercifully clamping down on one advertised as “natural flow.”  

John sat down in the familiar faded red chair and looked at the tiny creature in his arms, now sucking away contentedly. Babies were such strange squishy things, but there was no doubt that she had his nose, framed by Mary’s cheeks and chin. Everyone had said Rosie had his eyes, but as he looked into them, so open, unburdened, and unassuming, he couldn’t agree. John ran his thumb across Rosie’s cheek, Mary’s cheek, then pulled his hand back to his chest, clenching it to stop it from shaking slightly. He kissed the downy blonde hair on top of his daughter’s head and leaned back in the chair, the night drawing close around them both.

*****

John woke up three dreamless hours later, to find himself tucked under a plaid throw, but missing a daughter.

John started to scramble out of his chair, when a pale hand came to rest on his shoulder, stopping him. “It’s all right John, I’ve got her. You sit.”

John turned his head to see Sherlock Holmes in pyjamas and a dressing gown, with a baby in his arms. It was a somewhat disconcerting sight.

John shook the sleep from his brain, “She’ll need to be changed, and she’ll need milk.”

“I’ve already changed her and her milk is warming right now. The kettle’s hot, would you like some tea?”

“Sure.” John was thrown. “You changed her nappy?”

“There’s a picture on the front and two sticky tabs to fasten, it doesn’t take a genius.”

“Yeah, but it’s, well, it’s poop.”

“I’ve dealt with things far worse than poop.”

John had to give him that. His work as a physician had inured him to all manner of bodily fluids, but even then, there had been things in his work with Sherlock that had turned his stomach.

Sherlock handed John a mug. “I don’t know if you need to keep track of these things, but it was a seven on the Bristol scale.”

“What?”

“The poop.”

 It took John a moment. “You know the Bristol Stool Scale?”

 “It’s relevant to the work. As I said, it was a seven. I can write it down if you want.”

Sherlock had removed Rosie’s bottle from the warm water and was now feeding her, something that provided John with even more cognitive dissidence than the sight of Sherlock merely holding a baby. “What? No. Don’t write anything down. Sherlock, it’s all going to be liquid-y. She’s a newborn, all she drinks is milk.”

“About that. When does she start eating other things? Because at the current rate of consumption, we will expend the reserve Mary supplied soon.” Sherlock’s attention had waivered and the bottle had drifted away from Rosie’s mouth, causing her to make tiny bird-like sounds.

John placed his mug on the far edge of the table, as far away from the chair as possible. “Give her here Sherlock.”

John nestled Rosie in the crook of his arm, and gave her the bottle. He looked at the fluid draining from the bottle under Rosie’s lips. It made him a little sad. “How long?”

“Eight days, maybe nine, by my calculation.”

That’s all? John thought. He swallowed down the emotion that seem to be rising up his throat. “She won’t start eating solids for months yet. I’ll get her some formula today,” he said flatly, he eyes not lifting off the bottle, lest they give him away.

“I can go.”

John did look at Sherlock then. “You never do the shopping,” he said incredulously.

“I’m perfectly capable --,” Sherlock huffed, then paused, stilling himself. “You are still recovering from your injuries and Mary isn’t here anymore.  I am offering to help.”

The mention of Mary was too much for John. “Yeah. No, that’s fine. Do the shopping. My card is in my wallet.”

“I can pay –“

John cut him off, his voice harsher than he intended. “Use my card. She’s my responsibility Sherlock. I can pay to feed my own daughter.”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned John for moment, trying to clue into what he had done wrong. “Of course.” His voice was quieter than usual as he crossed to the desk where John’s wallet sat and removed his pin card. “Any preference?”

John knew he should apologize, but he didn’t have the energy for it. “I have no idea. She’s still a newborn, whatever’s best for that.”

*****

When Sherlock returned an hour and a half later, John was on the sofa, with Rosie positioned on a pillow. She’d eaten, been changed twice and they had moved on to the entertainment portion of the morning, which consisted of John dangling a stuffed sun covered in ribbons and a mirror panel above her head, the pair of them cooing at each other.

John looked up at Sherlock briefly, before returning to his burbling.

“That took a while,“ he said, not unkindly, his mood from the morning having dissipated.

“There was an astonishing array of options. I took the time to interview several shoppers before making a selection. There were surprisingly open to conversation. Apparently when you are man in the baby food aisle, women take pity on you. It’s a bit insulting, though in this case, helpful.” He removed two canisters from the plastic bag. “I hope you don’t mind, but I got two. After the incident with the teats, it seemed wise to have options.” Sherlock’s voice turned apologetic, “I can return one if you want.”

John felt a bit chagrined, had he been that short with Sherlock earlier? “It’s okay. Probably a good idea actually.” His eyes met Sherlock’s. “She’ll probably need to eat again soon, so you can mix some up if you want. It’d be right up your alley actually.” It was the closest he could provide to an apology.

“How so?”

“It is formula after all. Basic chemistry.” 

Sherlock smiled at that and picked up one of the canisters and looked at the instructions on the back before clicking on the kettle. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed a measuring beaker and glass rod.

“Are those sterile?”

“Of course, John. I’d never contaminate one of my own experiments. I’m not Anderson.” Sherlock tore the seal off the canister and pulled out the tiny plastic scoop. He tapped the powder off it in disgust and tossed it aside before hitting tare on his scale and starting to pour precisely the right amount into his beaker. Apology, it seemed, accepted.

Chapter Text

Sherlock took to his new role as formula-preparer-in-chief with gusto. He prepared each bottle with laboratory-level precision and began to compile a spreadsheet of data with feed times, lengths, and consumption amounts. Fortunately Rosie seemed to be less picky about her food than her rubber nipples, and devoured both types of formula with ease.

“That really isn’t necessary Sherlock.” John said from the sitting room where he was changing yet another nappy, as he heard Sherlock furiously typing away on his laptop in the kitchen. “Parents have managed to feed their children for generations without the use of pivot tables.”

“It’s data, John it’s interesting.” He looked up from his computer. “Is that a soiled nappy?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Babies poop a lot, it’s kinda their thing.”

“Can I have it?”

“I really should say no, shouldn’t I?” He walked over with Rosie to the trash bin, before sighing and handing the nappy over to Sherlock. “Why do I say yes to you all the time?”

“You wouldn’t let me have the placenta remember?”

“Fine, but don’t do anything weird with it, okay?”

“I’m just going to weigh it and categorize the stool. There’s nothing weird about it.”

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock opened the nappy and quickly looked back up at John. “John, this stool is different. It’s browner and thicker. Almost a 6 or 5. Is she all right? You said all the stool would be the same.“

“It’s fine Sherlock. She’s drinking formula now, it will be a little different with formula. That’s perfectly normal baby poop. We only have to worry if it’s bloody or she doesn’t go for a couple days.”

“So you do need to keep track.”

John pressed the fingers of his free hand to the bridge of his nose. “No Sherlock, I don’t. If she doesn’t poop in more than 8 hours, I’ll just know.”

“Of course.”  Sherlock pulled the nappy off the scale, wrapped it up and tossed it in the bin. He moved his pointer over his open spreadsheet and deleted the columns for nappy weight, stool consistency, and color.  He pointed to the section on feeding. “She’s taken quite well to the formula.”

“Yeah. That’s a bit a relief. I guess she’ll eat anything.”

“What about the remaining breast milk then? I’ve been doing some research –“

John cut him off. “No Sherlock. No research. I don’t want you telling me the proper way to raise my daughter according to Babycentre or the National Health Service or WHO or whoever. This is my child, not a science experiment. I will make sure that she is properly fed, clothed, sheltered and loved.”

John took a breath, his voice gentler. “If you want to make it scientific, do what you do best. Observe. For non-verbal creatures, babies are surprisingly good at telling you what they need, you just need to pay attention.”

Why was Sherlock making him feel so shorty about everything? John closed his eyes for moment. “Anyway, I’ve already decided about the breast milk. I want it to last as long as possible, so I’m giving it to her once a day. That should stretch it out for a few months.”

“Yes. Good.”

“I’m taking Rosie up and going to bed.”

“It’s only seven o’clock.”

“And she’ll probably be up in a couple of hours. I’m going to get a lie down while I can. I’m exhausted.”

John trudged up the short flight of stairs to his room. After three board books and six songs, Rosie was asleep, but she woke up and began to wail every time he attempted to put her down in the crib. After the eighth try, John sighed, and settled down on the bed, propping his back up against some pillows and resting her small frame on his chest.

John rubbed his hand up and down Rosie’s back, feeling the quicker rhythm of her breath compared to his own.

“Research.” John huffed.

He was just trying to help, the more sympathetic portion of John’s mind thought.

His less generous side countered. Yeah, well he may be an expert on ash, but he’s bollocks on human interaction and not exactly a prime candidate to be involved in child-rearing.  It’s just temporary, anyway, just until my stitches are all set and I’m not so goddamned weak. It’s not like I signed up to co-parent with Sherlock Holmes. Rosie is my and Mary’s daughter. Ours. Not Sherlock’s.

But Mary isn’t here anymore.

I know that. I know that!

Mary's absence once again settled on John, the weight of his child on his chest seemingly increasing tenfold. So it’s up to me then. It’s all up to me.

John hadn’t noticed that his own breathing had begun to shallow and quicken and was surprised by the sobs that poured out of his body, his chest shaking as he clutched Rosie to it.

*****

“You didn’t really know did you? That she was mine first? Ever really think about what kind of woman you married? Desperate or devious, and I think we know which one she is now, don’t we?”

John stood stock still in a carpark in Marleybone, while Jim Moriarty taunted him.

“Now look at each other. Take a good look at her.”

John looked around the deserted carpark, seeing nothing, then suddenly Mary was there, a metre in front of him, completely nude.

“Mary, where are your clothes?”

“No need to hide. I’ve got all the coverage I need right here.” She raised her arm and aimed her gun at John’s chest and pulled the trigger.

The bang echoed off the concrete walls as fire exploded in his chest. He fell backwards in slow motion. Rosie was in her carrier wailing.

No. Rosie was in Mary’s arms, quietly nursing at her bare breast. She cooed at the child. “It’s all right darling. Mommy just had to shoot Daddy, but it’s all right. Mommy’s got you now.”

John was still falling. Then his head hit the concrete.

*****

John sat up gasping. His arms just managing to cling onto Rosie before she slid off his chest.  Her wail at being shaken awake was much louder than the one in his dreams.

“Shit.” John grimaced at himself for cursing aloud. “It’s alright Rosie. Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

Rosie wailed even louder.

John felt her bum for heaviness. Nope. Nothing there. This was just his fault. Great. He looked at the clock, it had been almost three hours.

“Are you hungry? We can go downstairs and get something to eat.”

He eased Rosie up on his shoulder, ignoring the crick in his neck from falling asleep propped up and the ghost pain burning in his chest. The movement quieted her for now.

He stood at the top of the landing for a moment, his legs still shaky, an after-effect of the dreams. It took a full minute of controlled breathing before he felt confident that he could walk down the stairs without stumbling.

He fumbled his way down the stairs, this left hand bracing as hard against the wall as his weakened side would allow, and made it to the darkened hall without incident. He could see the light from Sherlock’s room shafting out from beneath the door as he made his way to the kitchen.

John spotted the canisters of formula on the table next to Sherlock’s equipment. He reached out for the nearest one and noticed his hand shaking. He grasped it back to his body, clenching and flexing his fingers, trying to shake the tremor out. He rotated the canister on the table and bent down to read the directions. Great, he thought, I let Sherlock make her formula all day and now I’m half awake and I’ve no idea how to do this. He grabbed a bottle and the scoop Sherlock had tossed on the table earlier. He opened the canister and put the scoop in, but as he raised it, his hand began to shake and scatter powder over the top of the container. He fingers flew open as he dropped the scoop back in the powder, angrily.

“I can’t do this,” he sighed.

He’d have to use the breast milk, and they’d already used one today. This isn’t the way he wanted to do things. He could feel the hot burn of tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he closed them.

“John.”

John opened his eyes to see the backlit form of Sherlock standing in the door to his bedroom.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just, tired and these directions are… complicated.” It sounded stupid coming out of his mouth. He couldn’t make some damn formula. He couldn’t even feed his child properly.

“They are. It’s my fault, I should have walked you through it earlier.” He picked up the scoop and removed it from the canister. “I can do it now.” He voice was gentler than John could recall.

Sherlock reached over and clicked on the kettle. “Boil the water for one minute. We probably won’t need to do that later, but it says to ask your doctor first, so we’ll boil for now.”

John shifted Rosie to a more comfortable position in his arms and nodded, taking it for granted that Sherlock was deferring to someone else’s expertise.

“Now we measure. You can use the scoop, but the scale is more accurate.”

“The scale is fine.”

Sherlock placed a clean beaker on the scale and hit the tare button. “You’ll need 20 grams for every 2 ounces. She’s been drinking a little under 3 at a feeding, so we’ll need 30 grams. Would you like to measure or shall I?”

John flexed his hand. “I’ll do it.” He grabbed a spoon and scooped some powder into the beaker, his hand still shaking, but only slightly.

Sherlock noticed. “You had a dream?”

John ducked his head. “Yeah.” In all the time they had lived together Sherlock had never mentioned his nightmares, though he had been sure that Sherlock had known whenever he’d had one. Why now?

“Afghanistan?”

“Marleybone. The carpark.”

“Ah.” Sherlock turned away to click off the kettle and breathed to the wall. “I have nightmares about that one too.”

John looked up in surprise, unsure of what he’d just heard, but Sherlock was back in teaching mode, pouring the steaming water into a second beaker.

“Let the water cool to room temperature before you mix. I usually assemble the bottle now.”

“Ah, okay.” John turned to the sink and grabbed a bottle, ring, and rubber nipple and fumbled with them on the table top. “I can’t put this together with one hand.”

“I’ve got it.” Sherlock popped the nipple into the ring with his thumb. “I can pre-assemble some tops for you.”

The men stood in silence as they waited for the water to cool, while Rosie continued to burble on John’s shoulder.

“Or we could pick up some kind of chair for her, so you wouldn’t have to carry her all time. Two hands." Sherlock raised his own feebly in demonstration.

“I’ve got one back at my place. It’d probably be a good idea to bring it over.”

They stood in silence some more, John’s remaining tremors fading in the quiet of the flat, until Sherlock took his pinkie finger and dipped it in the water. “That should be good, you can add the water now.”

John poured the water into the beaker and stirred it with a glass rod, before transferring it into the bottle.

Sherlock reached over and screwed the nipple on top of the bottle. “Now it’s the same as before. Check the temperature on your wrist and you’re all set.”

John took the bottle from Sherlock, not looking up. “Yeah. I’ve got it from here.”

Sherlock looked down at Rosie, then back up at her father, hesitating.  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

The door clicked shut behind Sherlock and the lights in his room blacked out. John headed back over the stairs. He transferred the bottle to his right arm, beneath Rosie, and took a deep breath. Here goes. He reached out with his left arm to the railing, his legs still weak below him.

Rosie drank her milk quickly, 2.8 ounces, and nodded off to sleep, making no fuss this time as her father placed her in her crib.

John looked over at his own bed. The sheets tossed and ruffled on the left side, smooth and untouched on the right. Even in his nightmares, he was still trying not to wake Mary.  

John crawled back into bed, his body grateful for the support of the mattress beneath him. He pulled the covers up over himself and reached out his hand over the smooth sheets to his side. He ran his palm over them, feeling their flatness, their emptiness. His fingers clenched tightly around the fabric, until he released them imperfect, marred.

He curled up in a ball on his good side, hoping that he could make it through the night with no more dreams and minimal wake-ups. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock sat in his bedroom in the dark, reading webpage after webpage and forum post after forum post on air-guns. The high contrast of the screen to the unlit room hurt his eyes, but Sherlock wanted to John to think he was asleep when he, inevitably, came back downstairs for another late night feeding.

It wasn’t that he was trying to avoid John, but he didn’t want John to know he was working on a case, or at least not this case. Not yet.

John had too many other things on his mind right now to add seeking out his wife’s murderer to the list. That at least, was something that Sherlock didn’t need permission to help with.

Sherlock picked up the dated mobile from his bedside table. He’d been carrying it constantly since he’d swiped it from the Broadcast desk at Atos, and he thought he’d be rid of it by now, that it’d be silent after Moriarty was confirmed dead. He’d tagged and bagged it for MI-5 even, but then on the morning John had moved in, another message.

The timing made him nervous. Was this S.M. monitoring the flat? Did he know John was here?

No, Sherlock was not trying to avoid John, he wanted to keep his eyes on John’s every movement. He wanted to ensure that John and Rosie were safe and that Mary’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain. That John was still recovering from his injuries provided an easy excuse to keep him close by, but each day that John's wound shifted more from stitches to scar brought Sherlock one day closer to John leaving again. He had to find S.M., and soon.

Sherlock’s right hand moved to the spot on his chest where he’d once felt the accuracy of Mary’s aim, his finger tracing along the outline of his scar through his shirt. It was something he did often without noticing, a tic that had developed whenever he thought about John. “We match now” he had said.

But the shot John had received from Mary seemed to have been much worse than this own. He wasn’t healing as quickly as he should have been and the stress put on his sutures at the top of the Beacons hadn’t helped matters. Special allowances had had to be made to get John released from hospital, first for the Beacons, then a second time for Rosie.

“She’s just lost her mother. Unless you’re going to let me room-in with an infant in the Recovery unit, I am going home to take care of my daughter.”

Everyone agreed that letting someone with a slightly healed traumatic injury go home to take care of a newborn alone was a terrible idea. But if Sherlock Holmes was a stubborn man, John Watson had him beat by ten.

He’d found that rather admirable.  

The fact that John was a doctor, gave them a little sway. The fact that Mycroft was Mycroft, sealed it.

Still, John had had to agree to a long list of restrictions before his release. Chiefly that he could not live alone, he was not to lift more than a stone and that he would be released to the care of Doctor Hooper for twice-weekly monitoring until his stitches dissolved.

“I’m not that kind of doctor.” Molly had hissed in Sherlock’s ear when he proposed the latter arrangement shortly after she arrived at the hospital for visiting hours.

“They don’t know that. You are a doctor and you work at St Bart’s. You wear a lab coat for work! That should be sufficient for their purposes.”

“Well, I’m not wearing the lab coat to your flat.”

“Molly, you don’t even have to come. I’m certain that between John and myself we can ascertain whether he’s healing properly or not.”

“I sign that release, I’m coming, if only to make sure you’re not running John ragged with your little requests.” Molly’s expression brooked no dissent.

“What requests?”

“Get my phone in my pocket, John requests. He is healing and he has an infant to take care of. If you say jump, he asks how high, but he needs to put himself first if he’s going to be any good for that child.”

It wasn’t like that, was it? Sherlock had thought. “Of course. I shall be the picture of helpfulness and healing, a very Florence Nightingale.”

“You better.”

Sherlock rubbed his fingers on his temples. Molly would be over tomorrow and John wasn’t healing well at all, and it wasn’t his fault. He was trying to help, but John was being so odd about the whole thing and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch Rosie from one moment to the next. Nor had he considered that John’s dreams would return, but he’d seen the tremor in John’s hand as he measured the formula, the one he tried to hide, as clearly as daylight.

Sherlock had new appreciation for nightmares now, since it seemed that every time he closed his eyes he saw John on the concrete of that carpark. He now knew intimately what it felt like to wake up in a cold sweat and have all the air in your lungs disappear. All the more reason to not sleep, to find this “S.M.” character.

Clearly Moriarty had an accomplice, perhaps even a second-in-command.  Someone at least, with the wherewithal to use Moriarty’s communication channels. And since he knew about what happened at Pen y Fan, it would have had to have been the shooter, yes?

An extremely skilled shooter with a silent air rifle in league with James Moriarty. Surely a unique individual.

But his research was leading him nowhere. There were all manner of air guns in production that shot everything from paintballs to BBs to darts, but he found nothing currently manufactured that shot bullets. There had been, once upon a time, but that had been two centuries ago. Was is possible the sniper was using an antique? A modified Girardoni?

Sherlock shut the laptop. He knew more about antique weaponry in his mind palace than he would find there. He closed his eyes.

Girardoni air rifle. The Windbüchse, wind rifle. Invented 1779. Utilized by the Austrian Empire 1780-1815. Demonstrated on the Lewis and Clark expedition. Popular with poachers for its silence.

Where had he read about that? Visier, German gun periodical. 2007. Then further research, Die österreichische Militär-Repetier-Windbüchse, pub 1891. “Firearms of the Lewis and Clark expedition.” 2005.

He was probably looking for Austrian or German then, or potentially an American history buff, with exquisite aim. Or, perhaps an American history buff with exquisite aim stationed in Germany. Yes, that would narrow it down quite a bit.

Sherlock flipped the laptop back open, his fingers hovering over the keys as he considered the best search terms, when his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of an infant’s wail upstairs. So soon?  Sherlock looked at the clock on his screen. No, it had been hours, he’d been reading in the dark for hours. Sherlock closed the laptop again and listened.

He heard John slip out of bed, his feet heavy on the floor above. The door opened and John made his way down the stairs. But the rhythm was all off, it was far too slow. Why was John so slow on the stairs? Of course. He was injured, half awake and carrying a child. Of course he’d take the stairs slowly. Of course.

Sherlock realized he’d made an error. He was forcing John to go up and down stairs every few hours each night. Stairs he wouldn’t have had to navigate in his and Mary’s home, a home that had a high chair and all of the seemingly endless list of accessories a baby needed. He’d insisted John come to Baker Street to make things easier for him, but instead he’d just made them more difficult.

He heard John click on the kettle and pop open the formula canister. Sherlock placed his laptop on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. He’d help John with the formula.

Sherlock stopped himself just as he pushed himself up to standing. Why hadn’t John said anything about the inconvenience? One word and Sherlock would have given up his own room.

He thought back to John’s odd behaviour over the last few days. “I can pay to feed my own daughter.” “I’ve got this.” The soldier’s set in his jaw. Pride. It was pride.

Well, that was foolish. He’s just tell John to get over it and accept some help already.

He stopped himself again. He had learned a thing or two in his time with John Watson, and one of them was that people didn’t like being told when they were being idiots, especially if they deserved it. Sherlock sat back down.

He lay back against the mattress and steepled his fingers under his chin.

How do you help someone who doesn’t want any help?

Sherlock considered the question until the darkness overtook him. His last conscious thought was to register the slow pace of John’s return upstairs.

*****

“That’s it’s? No grand last minute confessions?”

The Welbeck carpark was quiet. And cold. Why was he so cold?

Sherlock looked down. Ah, that was it. He was just wearing a hospital gown, hardly appropriate for February.

“Nothing for poor old Sherlock? He is going to be so disappointed. But ah well. That’s its then.”

Moriarty looked over at Mary, her arm outstretched, gun in hand. “Now Mary.”

She was crying, why was Mary so sad?

“I’m so sorry, John.”

Sherlock watched as the bullet shot out from the barrel of Mary’s gun, the air rippling around it as it spiraled in slow-motion towards its target. Sherlock tried to run to stop the bullet, push John out of the way, but he couldn’t move.

The bullet pierced through John’s jumper. Dark red staining the cream cables.

Sherlock looked down at his hospital gown where blood was dripping out of his own chest into a puddle on the floor.

*****

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and thumbed the home button on his phone. 5:23 A.M. Did this child never stop crying?

Sherlock rolled unto his back and sighed. Bit not good, Sherlock, he thought to himself.

Half-asleep, he heard John click on the kettle.  There’d be tea soon, which was something. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep now, he might as well get up and have some tea.

He got out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, running his fingers through his hair as he pulled open the door and made his way groggily into the kitchen.

“Morning John. Miss Watson.” Sherlock nodded as John spooned powder into a glass beaker and Rosie cried. He crossed to the counter and looked for the mugs. There weren’t any, how strange.  

“There isn’t any tea.”

“No Sherlock, I’m a bit busy at the moment. You’re just going to have to help yourself.”

Sherlock shook the sleep from his head. Help. Yes, that’s what he was supposed to be doing.

Sherlock opened the cupboard and pulled down a box. “English breakfast all right?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” John was trying to bounce Rosie into silence on his hip while he waited for the water to boil.

Sherlock grabbed the kettle and measured 3 ounces into a glass beaker by John and poured the rest into the mugs. He picked up both mugs and placed one on the table next to John’s chair. “Tea.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock watched John as he leant back against the counter and rolled his right shoulder while Rosie still wailed.

“Have you taken your paracetamol yet this morning?”

“Not yet. Empty stomach.”

“I’ll make some toast.”

“Fine.” John dipped his finger in the water and mixed it with the formula before adding it to the bottle and twisting on the cap. He checked the temperature on his wrist and offered it to Rosie, who accepted greedily and the flat grew miraculously quiet. John heaved a sigh of relief and crossed over to his chair, sliding the mug of tea further away from himself.

Sherlock wondered if watching applied in the same way to toasting as it did to water boiling (which scientifically, was nil, but metaphorically, was another matter). Still, he managed to get bread warmed, buttered, and in front of John before Rosie finished her bottle.

“You haven’t touched your tea.”

“You can’t exactly drink a hot beverage with a baby in your lap, Sherlock. It could spill.”

“Oh. Right.” The tea was supposed to be helpful. “I can take her while you drink.”

“No, Sherlock. It’s fine. I’ll drink it later.”  John let Rosie’s bottle rest on her chest. “I’ll eat a bit of the toast if it makes you happy.” He picked up a slice and took a bite, while Rosie whimpered for the bottle she couldn’t quite reach.

Makes me happy? That wasn’t what this was about. Or was it? Sherlock had an idea.

“Actually, no.”

“What?” John looked up.

“I’m not happy. I don’t choose to sleep often, but when I do, it needs to be uninterrupted. You tromping up and down the stairs all night is incredibly disruptive.”

“Newborns need to eat a lot, they need their nappies changed a lot and when they need things, they cry. I’m sorry if you didn’t realize that before you asked me to stay here. ”

“It’s not the crying, I learned how to tune out crying ages ago. It’s the stomping up and down stairs. The kitchen is here and you need things in the kitchen. Most often, it seems in the middle of the night. So it looks like if I’m to get a decent night’s rest we’re just going to have to switch rooms.”

 “I’m not taking your room Sherlock.”

“Then you’ll have to sleep on the sofa then, because I’m sleeping upstairs tonight.” Sherlock took a drink of his tea, then stood up and went into his bedroom.

“You’re a git, you know that?” John yelled over his shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be a git who will be sleeping better.” Sherlock popped back out of the doorway and started his way up the stairs, his arms full of pillows.

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Sherlock smiled to himself as he stripped the sheets off John’s bed. So that’s how it was done.

Chapter Text

This is it, John thought. This is my life now. I will be forever stuck under a sleeping child, watching the third hour of Breakfast, with no feeling in my right arm.  From here on out, it’s all sleepless nights and bad daytime telly. I can’t feel my right arm, I’ve read all the journals within reach, and I’m going to go mad.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was reading something intently on his laptop at the desk.

John had been there three days now, and he couldn’t recall having a single conversation with Sherlock in that time. They’d thrown a few sentences back and forth, but they were all about something routine, like what did he want for takeaway, or about Rosie. Then again, that seemed to sum up all his conversations these days.

Was it this silent the last time he had lived in Baker Street? What had they talked about then?

“Are you working on a case?”

“Nope.” The p popped resoundingly as Sherlock continued to scroll down the screen.

“You look pretty intent there.”

“I’m reading.”

“Whatcha reading, then?”

“Die österreichische Militär-Repetier-Windbüchse”

“Ah yes. A classic. My mum used to read that one to me at bedtime.” John was desperate. “Care to read it out loud?”

“It’s in German.”

“At this point, I’m so bored, I don’t care.”

“But you haven’t even touched the papers yet today. You always read the papers.” Sherlock turned and pointed to the stack he had placed next to John’s chair that morning.

“Have you ever tried holding a newspaper with one hand? It doesn’t work.”

Sherlock closed his laptop. “I can read it to you.”  He grabbed The Times from the top of the stack and sat in his armchair. “Shall I start with the crime section?”

Well, thought John, if this is happening, I should at least have fun with it, right? “Nah. I’m feeling in more of a “Life Section” mood this morning.”

Sherlock put down the local news and pulled up the Life section, and flicked open the paper crisply. “The Man Who Knows What to Eat to Live Longer, and it involves…beans. Carol Midley, reporting.”  Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John.

“Sounds fascinating. Love beans.”

“Jamie Oliver has visited the places where people live longest — but Dan Buettner did it first and drew a different conclusion…”

John settled deeper into his chair, shifting Rosie slightly so he could feel his fingers and let Sherlock’s voice drift over him as he described the usefulness of avocados and dementia rates in Ikaria. This isn’t so bad, John thought.

By the time Molly knocked on the door 221B, Sherlock had intoned his way through the lifestyle sections of The Times, Telegraph and Independent, leaving John feeling fully informed on the topics of muscle dysmorphia, enchanting exotic plants, the silent threat of Meningitis on our students and the location of Britain’s best fish finger sandwiches, the latter article receiving a resounding “no thank you” from one man and a mental note made for future reference by the other.  

Sherlock rushed to open the door. “Molly, wonderful! Do come in.” He began stripping Molly of her coat.

“It’s nice to see you too, Sherlock.”  Rosie yawned and cooed, as Molly removed her scarf. She crossed to John and smiled at the waking child. “Hullo there Rosie. I didn’t wake her, did I?”

“You did, but it’s brilliant. I’ve had to go to the loo for hours.” John shoved Rosie into Molly’s arms and scurried to the bathroom, as much a one could scurry with one leg half-asleep.

“Why didn’t he just put her down somewhere?”

“I’m beginning to think that becoming a parent divorces a person from certain levels of logic.”

“Over-attached is he?”

“That’d be one way of putting it. I’m surprised he’s even letting you hold Rosie right now.”

“He doesn’t let you?”

“Nope.”

Molly’s lips scrunched up as she looked at the whimpering child in her arms, “Well that’s no good. The whole point of this was to give him some help.”

“I am trying.”

John made his way back to sitting area and reached for Rosie.

Molly pulled Rosie closer to herself. “Nuh-uh. Not until I’ve done my examination.”

“You really don’t have to do this, Molly.”

“I signed a piece of paper accepting you into my care. You’re officially my medical responsibility, so take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“I need to check your stitches. Take off your shirt.”

John looked at Sherlock, who simply shrugged and said, “Doctor’s orders.”

Molly cast a glance at Sherlock. “We can do this in private if you’d like.”

“Here is fine.” John pulled his jumper and shirt off over his head, wincing a bit as he lifted his left arm.

Molly blushed a bit as she handed Rosie off to Sherlock, and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her pocket. “I may not be a GP, but I did go to medical school and I certainly know what an infected wound looks like.” Molly pulled the gloves on with a snap.

She looked John over before she hesitantly stepped forward and leaned toward him, pulling off the dressing that was covering the wound and hovering her fingers just above the red line of newly formed scar tissue. “You’re looking a little thin, but there’s no infection and the cut is beginning to seal itself well. The stitches are holding strong. I’d say you still have a good two weeks before they dissolve, but it should heal much prettier than your other one.” Molly blushed again as her eyes drifted from the pucker on John’s shoulder to his face. “Do you have some clean bandages, or should I put this one back on?”

“Up in my room. Unless Sherlock moved them. He recently decided that he needed to be upstairs so the baby wouldn’t disturb his sleep.”

Molly raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Sherlock, do you mind?”

Sherlock took Rosie and made his way up the stairs.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore. A bit itchy.”

“That’s to be expected.” Molly chewed her lip, she and John weren’t particularly close, this was probably pressing, “But how are you feeling?”

John’s face closed off. “Tired.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected too. Just, just don’t push yourself too hard, okay? You don’t have to do everything. You can put her down if you need to. ”

“It’s fine Molly. I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock came with a package of gauze and some tape and handed them to Molly.

Molly lay the gauze over the line of stitches, and carefully applied the tape over the edges. “That should do it.” Molly took a quick sniff of John, before leaning back up and stepping away. “But when was the last time you took a shower? Because, you smell, well, sour.”

John grabbed his shirt and jumper and pulled them back over his head in one piece. “She spits up a lot.”

“Yeah, but when?”

“The hospital I suppose.”

“You need to take a shower, John.”

“I will.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed as she calculated the likelihood of John doing what he said he would.  “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to take a shower, now, while Sherlock and I watch Rosie, then I’m going to go get Martha and we’re all going to have sandwiches together.”

“Who’s Martha?”

“Does it have to be now?”

“Mrs. Hudson. Seriously, Sherlock? And yes now, John. Doctor’s Orders.” Molly crossed her arms and stared at John, her mouth fixed in a firm line.

John sighed and headed off to the shower.

Molly turned to Sherlock, her face beaming, “Time to play with the baby!”

*****

Lunch was from Speedy’s and John did find it considerably more relaxing to eat his sandwich and crisps with two hands, while Molly bounced Rosie on her knee. He was even grateful for the opportunity to help Mrs. Hudson with the washing up. It was the longest time he had gone without Rosie in his arms since he’d left hospital. He really ought to go get that baby seat, he thought, then he could do it more often.

“It’s all right, John. I can wash these up, you go sit.” Mrs. Hudson insisted.

“I’ve done enough sitting for one morning and anyway, you’re not my housekeeper, right?” John winked.

“Oh, John. It’s not housekeeping. It’s helping. When my sister had her first, I don’t think she had to cook a meal or wash a dish for months, and she just had the baby, not a hole in her lung.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson, perfectly capable. As soon as these stitches heal up I’ll be out of everyone’s hair.”

“I never said you weren’t capable, dear, but everyone needs a break now and then.”

“I’m fine.” He looked around for something more to do, but it didn’t take much time to wash four plates. “Anything else?”

“I’d did have one question.” Mrs. Hudson broached gently. “It’s about the funeral.”

“Yes.” John’s expression grew closed, he picked up a plate and started putting them away in the cabinets.

“It’s in two days. I’ve taken care of all the arrangements like you asked, but are you sure you don’t want to say anything?”

“Mary got herself killed and left me to be a single parent, what is there to say?”

“It’s not as bad as all that, John.”

“No, Mrs. Hudson. Let someone else eulogize her. I hardly even knew who she was.”

Mrs. Hudson frowned. “Sherlock did volunteer -- ”

“Sherlock?”

“But after the speech at the wedding, it doesn’t seem like a good idea. I don’t know if those people could stand another speech from Sherlock.”

“No, go ahead and let Sherlock talk.  He can rant or praise Mary to high heaven for all I care. I’m never going to see most of those people again anyway.”

“If it’s what you want.”

“None of this is what I want! Who would want this?” John slammed a cabinet door shut.

“John!” Mrs. Hudson jumped and Sherlock and Molly stared from the living room.

What had happened to that relaxed feeling he’d had? It was all gone now. “I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson placed a soft hand on his arm. “It’s all right dear.” She squeezed gently. “I’ll let Sherlock know to write something up.” She dropped his arm and looked at him as she headed back to the sitting room. “It will be all right. Come along, Molly.”

Molly stood up and handed Rosie to Sherlock. “I’ll get my coat.”

“I’ll take her.” John strode over and took Rosie before her weight could even settle in Sherlock’s arms.

Molly looked at Sherlock and frowned as she slid her arms into her sleeves.

“John?”

“Molly.”

Molly straightened up as she buttoned her coat and put on her most serious face. “One last thing. Every day, you are going to let someone watch Rosie for a minimum of 15 minutes while you take a shower. I’m not changing bandages for any more smelly patients.”

“Got it.”

“15 minutes minimum.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.” Molly wrapped her scarf around her neck and kissed John on the cheek. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Sherlock followed Molly down the stairs and out the front door, closing it behind them.  “Thank you, Molly.”

Molly looked at Sherlock sternly.  “You should really give him back his room, Sherlock. He’s the one that needs sleep.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He has trouble carrying Rosie down the stairs.”

Her stern expression faded, “Oh. That’s good then. Keep doing that.”

“I will.”

“And do take care of him.”

“In any way I can.”

Upstairs, John took Rosie and sank back in his chair, pulling out a board book that had wedged itself between the cushion and the arm. Good enough, he thought and opened it up for the eighth time that week. “Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were – Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.”

Chapter Text

Too many of these, John thought, I’ve been to too many of these. Whether it was a helmet on a rifle or a piece of granite, it all seemed an insufficient marker of a human life. He knew some people found comfort in the ceremony of the whole thing, but he wasn’t one of them. He would have much rather stood in the back of the chapel, or, better still, not come at all. But whether he wanted it or not his, his role as mourner-in-chief required that he sit in the front, stiff in his best suit, with Rosie in his arms in a hastily purchased black velvet dress.

He hated the way she looked in black, harsh against her pale skin and blonde hair. Babies shouldn’t be in black, shouldn’t mourn. Did she even know what she’d lost, other than a source of warm and ready milk? She’d know it someday, when the other children ran to their mommies in the park, or in primary school when some child, lacking in subtlety, asked why she hasn’t finished her family portrait, an almost blank page consisting of only two figures.

He should get Rosie a dog. Round it out a bit. He’d always wanted a bulldog as a child, never got one. But not yet. John couldn’t imagine adding a puppy into mix, not on top of everything else, and certainly not while he was at Baker Street. He tried imagining Sherlock with a dog and couldn’t do it, couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept of Sherlock dealing with something that required so much attention, not to mention affection.  

John watched with mild curiosity as Mary’s friends stood to speak her praise. He had been married to her and known so little about her in the end, what did they know? David was standing at the front of the chapel now, babbling about something, Mary’s laugh, was it? She did have a wonderful laugh, the kind that made you laugh just to hear it.

The edge of John’s mouth turned up slightly, just for a moment, before his gaze settled back on David. His eyes were red, clearly he’d shed a tear or two. Supposedly a great friend of Mary’s, but he and Mary had seen him, what, once, since the wedding? Not that he minded, never much cared for David. Always hugged Mary a little too long. Oh, he was done. Should he clap? No, of course not. You didn’t clap at funerals.

John felt movement at his left side as Sherlock stood up and made his way to the dais.

“I doubt that any of you expected or wanted to hear another speech from me so soon, and frankly I never planned seeing most of you ever again, but here we are."

Sherlock removed a folded piece of paper from his suit coat pocket and smoothed it across the podium.

“I only knew Mary for a brief amount of time, so I’ll keep my remarks brief. Of all the people I have met in my life and line of work, there have been only two people who initially greeted me not with judgement or derision, but accepted me as I was with open arms.  John Watson was the first. Mary was the second. In this, she showed herself to be unique.”

Sherlock’s gaze met John’s. “But Mary was not just a unique individual, for she loved more deeply and was willing to risk more for those she loved than almost any human being I have ever encountered, and this, this depth of love, made her extraordinary. There are so few truly extraordinary individuals in this world, and I am glad to have known, however briefly, one of them in Mary Watson.”

For the only time on that long, long morning, John felt his emotions push their way up through his core, getting stuck somewhere in his throat. They sat there, burning and uncomfortable as he closed his eyes and tried to swallow them back down. So it was that he only felt, not saw, the warm presence on his left side, closer than before. John let the smallest finger on his left hand drift against side of the hand that lay beside his on the wood of the bench, before another longer, thinner finger lifted up to rest on top of his own.

John watched mindlessly as people drifted past the casket (closed, thank God) on their way out of the chapel. He allowed himself to be ushered to the graveside, where he threw his handful of dirt down the shaft and afterward he nodded graciously at the words of condolences that were muttered between mouthfuls of hors d’oeuvres, and accepted the envelopes pushed into his hand accompanied sad faces intoning “For the baby.”

At least he thought he had done. He couldn’t properly recall. Everything about the morning was a blur except for the weight of his daughter in his arms, the growing feeling of loss in his chest, and the constant presence standing just to his left. That and the brief appearance of Bill Wiggins, notable only for out of place he appeared among the mourners in their suits and Sunday dresses. But he probably knew the real her better than most of them, John thought as Bill had shaken his and Sherlock’s hands.

After what felt like hours, John turned to his left, and said “Please, can I go now?”

It was no sooner said than done, and John found himself in one of the cabs that always appeared so readily for Sherlock, feeding Rosie from a bottle and making his way back to Baker Street.

“Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”

“No, I just want to sit.” John sat down on the sofa, it was the closest piece of furniture to the door. No, I want to lie down, he thought. So he did, placing Rosie on his chest and wrapping his arms around her. He still had Rosie at least.

By the time Sherlock had removed his coat and scarf, John appeared to be already asleep. He grabbed the throw off the back of John’s chair, then came back to kneel next to John’s feet, removing his shoes carefully.

“Did you mean it?” John said, not moving or opening his eyes.

Sherlock unfurled the blanket and laid it gently across the father and daughter. “Every word.” He let his hand linger for a moment on top of the soft fabric, feeling the firmness of John’s arm underneath, a firmness that belied the fragility of the man to which it belonged. Then he turned and made his way up the stairs, unfolding the piece of paper Wiggins had passed him earlier.

*****

Pen y Fan was hardly high enough to affect oxygen levels, but even so John’s breath came in gasps and spurts. Blame the cold air and the stitched up hole in his lung. Stitches that has just been shoved fiercely.

“Did Sherlock really think a man barely out of hospital was going to put an end to me? He really has lost his touch. Once upon a time I thought he was a genius, but clearly he’s an idiot like the rest of you. That was his plan. Hand you a gun and send you up here all alone?”

Moriarty was saying something, but John couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear, everything was sharp pain and lack of air. Breathe. He needed to breathe.

He wasn’t that high, why was the air so thin?

“He’s not alone. Never alone.”

Mary, he has a gun. He wanted to call out, but he had no breath to do so. Why had he agreed to this plan? Why had be brought her here? How could he let both of them, Rosie’s only family, risk their lives this way?

He heard the safety click off the gun, his gun in Moriarty’s hand.

Mary! He wanted to cry, but instead there was a bang. Mary touched her shoulder, her fingers coming back red.

Then another bang as she slumped forward and John saw the hot-barrelled gun fall from his own fingers, Moriarty nowhere in sight.

He killed her.

He killed his own wife.

Her body fell into his, pinning him back against the Obelisk.

He couldn’t breathe.

Why was the air so thin?

*****

John awoke, finally able to fill his lungs with air. He looked down at Rosie, asleep on his chest, the black velvet of her dress revealed where the blanket had slid away.

He hated her in black.

Babies should have no reason to mourn.

But his did.  How could he let that happen?

He pulled the blanket up to the back of her neck, covering the dress.

He hated that dress.

He’d put it out in the rubbish tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes had to thank Molly Hooper for the best fifteen minutes of his day. John may be a stubborn man, but he was also a military one, meaning that when orders were given, orders were followed.

And so, with as much precision as a child will permit, John took his fifteen-minute parenting break every morning. He would bathe, and if time still allowed, drink a hot cup of tea and look at the papers. John’s face looked less ragged and his back was a little straighter when he stepped out from the shower. Molly may not be “that kind of doctor,” but her prescription seemed to be doing John a world of good.

It also meant that Sherlock got fifteen uninterrupted minutes, mostly alone, with Rosie. He would do things as he had seen John do them: read to her from tiny cardboard books that took a ridiculously short amount of time to read, or lie on their stomachs together while Rosie shifted and grunted and tried to raise her head. Sometimes he’d prop her up on pillows and play her the violin, but mostly he would just hold her.

She was so small, so new, yet utterly complete. With the exception of teeth, every piece was there, sculpted in miniature. Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, each with its own minuscule nail. Then there were the impossibly long eyelashes, and soft curls of hair. And inside, a brain soaking up every moment, connecting synapses and forming memory, translating sensation and sight into familiarity and mood. To see human development from its earliest moments was fascinating, but as Sherlock’s minutes added up into hours, he saw how right John was – Rosie was a child, a gift, and no science experiment. On the third day of the arrangement, Sherlock took to his laptop and deleted his spreadsheets.  

Sherlock’s only regret was that it was always, only, fifteen minutes and not a minute more. Military precision.

John would let Sherlock purchase take away, make sandwiches, do the shopping, and wash dishes, but since that first day, he hadn’t been allowed to make any more formula or change any nappies. He had only one time of day to hold Rosie, just those daily fifteen minutes, and he couldn’t understand why. Molly and Mrs. Hudson seemed to have open access to the child when they visited, but not him. Was John secretly so sexist? As a single father himself, it hardly made sense.

The thought niggled at him as he rifled through his wardrobe, looking for items appropriate for today’s task. If he couldn’t help out with Rosie directly, at least he could protect her as he had sworn to do, by finding S.M. and ensuring he would bring no more sorrow to this family.

*****

Sherlock watched as Bill Wiggins paced back and forth just past the gate at Surrey Square, a golf bag slung conspicuously over his hunched shoulder, and rolled his eyes.

Sherlock tossed another handful of bird seed to the pigeons in front of him. It was 10:08 and Bill hadn’t figured it out yet. For man who likes to fancy himself my protégé, Sherlock thought, he’s being terrifically dull.

Bill looked down at his mobile and then cast a sideways glance in Sherlock’s direction, which Sherlock responded to with a small nod, a move that only seemed to further discombobulate the man, as he skittered off to the nearby stone wall, very distinctly facing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, stood up and brushed the bird seed residue off his hands and headed over to the wall.

“Looking for someone?” Sherlock said, in a wobbly voice that sounded like weak tea.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Bill stood up and moved to the other side of the wall.

“You look like you’re looking for someone. I know lots of people around here.”

“Really. I’m fine. I’m meeting someone, who’s a bit late, is all.”

Sherlock let his voice grow low and sonorous. “He was five minutes early, actually.”

Bill blinked and leaned in toward the old man. “Sherlock?”

“Yes. Now keep it down. Did you bring it?”

“Course I brought it. I don’t lug a golf bag ‘bout East London for the fun of it.” Bill looked Sherlock up and down again. “Why you are dressed like my granddad?”

“In some cases, such as today’s, it helps to go unnoticed.”

“The disguise is brilliant, top-notch, really, but I don’t think you need it.”

“I have gained a certain level of notoriety in my career.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t need it.”

“I’m fairly recognizable these days, especially to the criminal class.”

“Yeah, but this fellow is blind.”

Sherlock sighed, straightening his stance and removing bits of his disguise. “That would have been helpful to know beforehand.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was relevant.”

“Everything is relevant until it isn’t.” Sherlock began stalking off toward the flats nearby. “Come along.”

*****

Sherlock looked around with wonder at Wilhelm Von Herder’s flat. Outside a drab Council building, but inside, the flat was packed. From the dingy taupe carpet to the top of the builder’s white walls were stacks and racks and crates of every bit and bob a man could ever find useful. Bolts and batteries, bits of wire, screwdrivers and strings - the world’s junk drawer writ large.

Von Herder himself sat at a card table soldering a piece unto the base of a model train. He stopped suddenly and reached toward a plastic drawer to his left, and riffling his fingers along the contents, he pulled out a tiny gear and continued on with his work.

What knowledge must be in those hands, Sherlock wondered. “Mr. Von Herder. I have heard you are a man with no small skill in mechanical matters, and I have job which I believe may require your particular expertise.”

“A job?” Von Herder’s voice was quiet and even, his accent holding traces of his German roots. “Yes, I could use a job. Could use the money. Batteries don’t come cheap.”

“I am looking to make some modifications to this.” Sherlock nodded to Wiggins, who pulled a long rifle out of his golf bag.

Von Herder pulled open several drawers and placed his train parts and equipment neatly inside, then patted his hand on the table. Wiggins set the gun down gently before him, and the elderly man traced his fingers across the stock and barrel, his fingers lingering over the rounded brass butt.  “A Girardoni. Don’t get many of these.” 

“Then you have seen one before?”

“Haven’t seen anything these 26 years past, but yes, I’ve held a Girardoni. I imagine you have something else for me too, then?”

“Yes. “ Wiggins poured out a bag containing five revolver bullets.

Von Herder picked one up and rolled it between his fingers. “I thought so.”

Sherlock continued. “I’m going big game hunting the month after next and I’ve been told these are quiet silent.”

“No gunpowder. No bang. Yes, quite quiet. But don’t bother lying. You want your BB-gun to shoot bullets. Okay. I can do that. You will pay?”

“Of course.”

“Then I don’t ask why, or who you are. I hear your voice now. I’ll recognize it when you come to pick it up. I don’t need a name. I just do the work, get my money, and that’s enough for me.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

“What did the other one sound like?”

“Nothing special. Man, like you. British, like you. Bit fancy, like you. Not so low as you though. You have your answer now. You still want me to fix your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. One week.”

“See you then.”

“You see. I’ll just be.”

*****

As soon as they were back outside, Bill was buzzing with excitement. “So we’ve got him then, right?”

“Got who?”

“The man with the gun. The one who shot Mary.”

“We’ve got the man who made the gun. All we have on the man who shot the gun is that he’s male, British, a bit posh, and not a baritone. Covers a good deal of the male population of London, I should think.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got on with less than that before.”

Sherlock started pacing in front of Surrey Square. “We have something but not much. I was certain the sniper was a discharged American soldier, which would have narrowed things down considerably, but the pool is wider than before.”

“So what are we going to do now?”

“We?”

“Well, with John out with the baby, and you bringing me along today, I figured…”

“What? No. You were here to carry the gun.” Sherlock cast Bill a withering look and paced some more. “John isn’t out of anything!”

“Oh. Well. You know that if you need me.”

“Yes, yes. I‘ll text. Now go away. I need to think.”

Sherlock plopped down on the low stone wall. He had the origin of the gun, but it gave him nothing. He pulled the Atos phone from his pocket. Not a single message since the last one. Still nothing.

Everything was nothing.

All he wanted to do was help John, find this man, aid with Rosie, and nothing he was doing was helping anything. It was all nothing.

Sherlock grunted and tossed the Atos phone across the park, where its cheap plastic case shattered against the concrete sidewalk.

Sherlock breath came out in huffs, his anger somewhat resolved. Then his eyes widened as he realized what he’d done and raced toward the remains of the phone on the ground, his hands scrambling to push the broken pieces back together. They fell apart in his hands. He pushed the on button, over and over, but the screen stayed blank and cracked. He squeezed his fist tight, the screen cracking more and cutting into his palm. Even if a new message was to come, he’d have no way of knowing it now.

Sherlock walked over to the bin at the entrance to the park. He looked at the bits of broken plastic and let them slide from his fingers into the bin. It was worthless now.

He looked at the blood on his palm and curled his fingers in over the cuts as he walked away.

Nothing.  

Chapter Text

Sherlock heard it before he saw it. Just a few small coughs, enough to lift his attention from his book. And there was John and Rosie, covered in milk. “Remind me, what is the difference between spit up and vomit, again?”

John looked at his shirt, mildly disgusted, but mostly resigned. “At the moment, I’m not entirely sure.” He sighed. “I’m going to have to give her a bath.”

Popular culture had seemed to indicate to Sherlock that babies loved baths and that children, specifically boys, only gained an aversion to washing up once they were well out of nappies. But Rosie seemed to be an anomaly in that regard. He had not participated in any of John’s attempts to bathe Rosie, but it was clear it was an unpleasant experience for all involved. The attempts were brief, rushed, and accompanied by a continuous wailing.

Sherlock had quickly learned not to make recommendations where Rosie was concerned and in any case John had tried any number of variations over the kitchen sink. Warmer water, cooler water, bubbles, no bubbles, hovering over the water or seated. It made no difference to the inconsolable child.

Sherlock could hear John tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter as the sink filled with water, stopping only to turn off the tap and peel Rosie out of her soiled romper. Sherlock watched out of his side vision as Rosie’s crying raised in volume as she neared the water and lessened as John pulled the child back to his chest.

John stared at the sink for a moment, before turning on his heel and heading toward the bathroom. Sherlock soon heard the stronger gush of water that indicated that John was filling the tub.

Moments later, John’s head peaked out through the door.  “Sherlock, could you give me a hand here?” John’s head disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

Sherlock sat a moment, blinking at the door, before he shut the book and scrambled to the bathroom, where he found John standing in front of the high-walled tub, half-filled with water.

“I’m thinking that if I sit in the tub and hold her, she may not cry and I can do this properly,” John said,  “But I can’t get in and out of the tub with her in my arms, I’ll need you to hand her to me.”

“All right.”

John leaned out and gently placed Rosie in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock instinctively pulled her close, to keep her nude form warm.

Sherlock looked down at Rosie as John pulled off his milk-stained shirt and unbuttoned his trousers, hesitating for a moment before unzipping his fly and pushing them to the floor. Sherlock did not see John consider his pants briefly before stepping into the tub with them on and sitting down, the water warm, but not hot.

Sherlock looked up from Rosie’s face only after he heard the sloshing of the water settle. He didn’t mean to stare, but his eyes quickly settled on John’s scar, healed enough now to be un-bandaged, red and raised against John’s skin, paler than usual from the winter, though not at pale as Sherlock’s own. He could barely make out the stiches, and even then, in only a few places. It’d be a week, maybe less, and they’d be dissolved completely, and John would leave.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked.

“You can hand her here.”

Sherlock leaned over the tub and handed Rosie to her father, who cradled her gently in his right arm and sank her legs into the water. The child made no protest.

John beamed, “I think this may work.”

Sherlock felt suddenly very aware that John was mostly naked in a tub in front of him. “Good. I’ll just go then.”

“No stay. I’ll need you to take her when I get out. And I may need you to hand me some things. I didn’t grab a flannel.”

Sherlock grabbed a flannel from the counter and passed it to John, then closed the lid of the toilet and sat down. John took the flannel and dipped it in the water and began to gently squeeze water over Rosie’s toes and belly, working his way slowly up to her chest, humming a bit of tune Sherlock didn’t recognize.

His eyes darted between Rosie being washed and the parts of John’s body that rose over the edge of the tub. John was thinner than usual, but still more muscular than people would expect under the unsuspecting jumpers and denim. Strong and utilitarian. Efficient. But there was that red line cutting across it and the pucker at his shoulder. Both would ache when the barometric pressure changed, he knew that now, his hand drifting across his own scar. A body so strong, but weak enough to be affected by a dozen millibars of air pressure. What a piece of work is man, he thought.

“What’s that?”

“Hmm?” John didn’t look up from his daughter, the flannel brushing over her downy hair.

“The song you’re humming.”

“Octopus’ Garden. It seemed appropriate, but I can never remember all the words.” John looked up at Sherlock, mock concern on his face, “You didn’t delete The Beatles did you?”

“I do appreciate music, John. The Beatles did some very creative things sonically and George Martin provided them with some rather nice orchestrations.” Sherlock smiled back. “I only deleted the Ringo songs.”

“Well you better relearn them, she seems to like the Ringo ones best.”

“There’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

“Not among six-week olds.” John rinsed the last of the soap from his daughter’s head and gave it a kiss. “All clean. Could you grab a towel?”

Sherlock grabbed a towel and considered it briefly before placing it across his shoulder and kneeling by tub. John leaned over and placed her in the open towel, which Sherlock quickly wrapped around her, pulling the bundled child to his chest.

“Do you mind taking her out and getting her dressed, while I … you know.” John nodded at the pile of his clothes on the floor, suddenly aware of his own damp pants and near-nudity.

“Not at all.” Sherlock hugged Rosie in more closely and went toward the sitting room, hearing the water moving around John as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He found some tiny clean pyjamas folded on the back on the sofa and grabbed a nappy from the near-empty box on the floor. After cursing the number of snaps along the crotch of the pyjamas, Sherlock got Rosie dressed and warm, and he settled into his armchair, humming She’s Leaving Home.  

John came out from Sherlock’s room, dressed in his own pyjama bottoms and shirt, and stood in the kitchen, smiling at the sight before him. “Trying to convert her to Lennon/McCartney, are we?”

Instinctively, Sherlock stood and offered Rosie back to her father. “Here you go.”

John waived him back down. “It’s all right. I’d like a cup of hot tea, if you don’t mind.”

This was the first time John hadn’t immediately taken her back, to Sherlock’s surprise. “If you’d like.” Sherlock sat back down and nestled Rosie in the crook of his left arm.

John clicked on the kettle and pulled down two mugs. “What would you like?”

“None for me. Holding the baby.”

“All right then, tea for one.” He placed the second mug back up on the shelf and sat down in his chair while he waited for the water to boil.

Sherlock took a moment to take in the face below him. “She has Mary’s cheeks.”

“Yeah, she does.”

“But your eyes.”

“Mrs. Hudson said that too, but I don’t see it.”

“They’re your eyes.” Rosie’s eyes fluttered shut as she nuzzled into Sherlock’s arms. “She is beautiful, John.”

John smiled. “Yeah, I think so too. Though I thought beauty was a construct.”

Sherlock blinked. “You remember that?”

“Some of it. A lot of the night is rather fuzzy.”

“Ah well, I was wrong. Your child is quantitatively beautiful.”

“Quantitatively, huh? How so?”

Because she has your eyes, Sherlock thought. “Because she has a highly symmetrical facial structure, which studies have proven to be most appealing to the general populace.”

“I’ll call the modelling agencies now.” John got up to pour the water into his mug.

Sherlock glanced back down at his arms, then whispered. “John, she’s fallen asleep. What do I do?”

“You can put her to bed and hope she doesn’t wake or you can hold her, but I will warn you that if you chose to hold her, your arm and leg will fall asleep after a while.”

“With that ringing endorsement, I suppose I ought to choose the first option. But I think I can hold out while you finish your tea.”

Sherlock watched as John settled back down into his chair. “Favourite Beatles song?”

“I Am the Walrus.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John.

“I dunno, depends on my mood. I’m guessing Eleanor Rigby for you?”

“Yes, once upon a time. Now my preference seems to lean toward Golden Slumbers.” He nodded at the child in his arms.

“I’d take any slumbers, gold, silver or bronze. I don’t know how you function on so little regular sleep. It’s driving me a bit batty.”

Sherlock and John bantered on for another hour, until Sherlock’s arm fell asleep and John’s tea grew cold. Sherlock had forgotten how much he missed this, the comfort and familiarity of John as flatmate, and it ached a little when he thought of how close to healed John’s scar was.

“Yeah, I think it’s going to rain tonight.” John nodded at Sherlock’s hand that lingered on his scar. “You feel it too now, right?”

“The change in barometric pressure?”

“The pain in your scar. I’ve felt it for years in my shoulder. It’s not as obvious after a while, it just becomes a nudge. A bit helpful, actually, you know when to take an umbrella. Someone should shoot your brother, then he wouldn’t have to carry his around all the time.”

“Of all the reasons someone should shoot Mycroft that is not the one I would have chosen.”

John’s laugh was cut short by a yawn. “I really should get to sleep. She’ll probably be up to eat in a few hours. Do you mind putting her in the crib? She’s more likely to stay asleep if I don’t have to transfer her twice.”

Sherlock followed John into his old room, piles of John’s clothes and baby accoutrements replacing the stacks of books and journals that usually resided there. He realized he liked it better this way. He placed Rosie gently on her back in the crib, where she shifted slightly before settling into deeper sleep.

Sherlock stepped back as John brushed his fingers across the fringe on her forehead. “Good night baby girl.”

Sherlock turned to leave and stopped himself. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me…” his voice trailed off as he nodded at Rosie.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

*****

The wound on John’s chest ached from more than the shifting weather as he tried to take in the cold air on top of Pen y Fan.  God, he was cold. Who goes up on a mountain in February? He’d been up here for 15 minutes already and he was starting to think the whole thing was a bad idea. What if Moriarty didn’t come? What if he just shot John on sight? He sat on the edge of the obelisk, too tired to stand, the weight of his Sig in his coat pocket hardly reassuring given his physical state.

“John!”

John raised his head. What was Mary doing here? That wasn’t the plan. She was supposed to hide further down the mountain, follow Moriarty when he came up. She shouldn’t be here now. This was all wrong.

“John!”

“Mary, what are you doing here?”

“It’s all right. I’ve brought everything we need.” John’s eyes widened when he saw Mary carried a nappy bag and cooler. His eyes darted up to her bright red coat, the top buttons undone to reveal a downy blonde head, held in a carrier.

The panic rose in John’s chest. “What are you doing? You can’t bring her here!” He tried to stand, but he was too weak. He looked down to see a trickle of blood seeping out of his own chest.

“Anywhere but here, Mary. She can’t be here.”

“It’s all right John. The milk is in the cooler and there are nappies and a change of clean clothes in the bag.” Mary began to unbutton her jacket and remove Rosie from the carrier.

“Moriarty is coming, Mary. There’s a shooter out there somewhere. You have to go. Take Rosie and go.”

Mary placed Rosie in his arms. The trickle of blood had stained a large circle on his jumper now. “I just have a few things I need to attend to, so you’re going to have to watch Rosie on your own for a little while.”  She buttoned up her jacket again and kissed Rosie on the top her head. “She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

John watched, unable to move, as Mary started her way back down the hill. The blood on his chest was starting to soak into Rosie’s pyjamas. “You can’t leave her here. You can’t leave me here! I can’t do this alone!”

Mary called back casually over her shoulder, “You’re not alone, John. You’re never alone.”

He heard no shot, but saw her shoulder jerk and a moment’s pause.

“Mary?”

Then her knees buckled beneath her in the distance, her body falling face first to the red stone.

“Mary!!”

John looked down at his feet. The blood was pooling much too fast.

Rosie began to cry.

****

John’s whole body quivered as he tried to steady his breathing. His fingers shook as he reached for his mobile and hit one of the speed dial numbers.

An automated voice responded. “You have reached the office of Doctor Ella Thompson. If this is an emergency, please press 1.”

John steadied his hands just long enough to press 1 before the phone fell from his fingers to the tangled sheets below.  

Chapter Text

Sherlock was surprised to see John come out of his room wearing a jacket and carrying Rosie and a black nappy bag. “You’re going out?”

“Yes. I have some errands to run. Mrs. Hudson is going to watch Rosie for a little while.”

“I can watch her.”

“I already talked to Mrs. Hudson.”

“Are you out of formula? Because I was planning on going to the shop this afternoon.”

“It’s fine. I just need to go out, on my own.”

Something wasn’t right. John hadn’t left the house for anything other than a doctor’s appointment or the funeral since he came over. Sherlock’s eyes scanned John, looking for clues as to his plan.

John watched himself being observed. “I’m just going for a walk, Sherlock. I just need some time by myself, clear my head a bit. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Sherlock looked at John’s shoes. They were all wrong for a walk. At least a long one and John was hardly in the condition to take a walk for an hour. His clothing was more formal than he had worn in weeks. Almost like work clothes. Then a bit of motion caught his eye. John was clenching and flexing his left hand, something he only did when he was fighting a tremor. “You’re going to see your therapist.”

John closed his eyes. “Yes. Fine. Could you not deduce me please?”

“Is it the dreams?”

John looked at Sherlock, his expression flat. “My wife revealed that she worked for my arch-enemy, and then got herself killed leaving me to be a single father to a newborn. The dreams aren’t half of it.”

“You can talk to me,” Sherlock said quietly.

John shook his head and laughed, a single, sad little laugh, “No, Sherlock, I can’t.” John shrugged the nappy bag further up his shoulder and headed for the doorway.

“I thought you said people didn’t have arch-enemies in real life.”

“Normal people don’t.” John shut the door behind him and Sherlock listened as he gingerly made his way down the stairs.

*****

John sat stiffly, his arms crossed, in Ella Thompson’s office, his body fighting against both his weariness and the overstuffed comfort of the armchair.

“How is it this morning?”

“Okay. Manageable.”

“You’ve never called with an emergency before.”

John’s eyes darted out the window to his left, his gaze settling on a tree that was just starting to bud leaves.

“What’s changed, John? Why now?’

John closed his eyes and took a breath. “Mary is dead.”

Ella spoke as gently as possibly. “And the child?”

John shook his head. “Rosie is fine. Six weeks old tomorrow.”

Ella leaned back, a hint of relief passing over her face. “Your wife passed away. How you feel about that?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been so busy with the baby that I’ve hardly had time to think about anything, and when I do I get angry that she’s left me to do all of this by myself. But then I go to bed at night and it just seems so big and empty and hollow. It’s hard to sleep – because of that, because of the baby, but when I do, I dream.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Not anymore.”

“What then?”

“Mary. Her death was… sudden. I see it replaying in my head over and over again and I can’t help but feel that it was somehow my fault, or worse, that she knew it was going to happen.”

“Why do you think that?”

John ran his tongue across his teeth. “She had been nursing Rosie exclusively since she was born. When she died, she left bags and bags of breast milk in the freezer.”

“A lot of nursing mothers also store milk. It’s very common.”

John shook his head. “She’d been feeding and pumping from almost day one, she was insistent about it, and I can’t shake the feeling that it was because she knew there was a chance she might die soon.”

“The last time we spoke you were conflicted about your future with Mary, because she kept secrets from you. Do you think this may be related to that?”

“We’d resolved that. Or I thought we had. We were going to stay together, raise our child together. We committed to it.”

“But now you’re single father.”

“Yes.”

“Raising your daughter on your own.”

“Yes.”

“Mary broke her commitment.”

John hesitated. “Yes.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“When I first met Mary, she seemed...  She was exactly what I needed. For so long, nothing felt like anything, and then she showed up at my surgery and was this perfect beam of light. Almost too perfect. But more than anything, she was there.  I would call and she’d answer, I’d roll over in bed and she’d be lying beside me.”

Even with the buds, the tree was still mostly bare, a tangle of branches.

“We had never spoken about having children, I’ve never given much thought to whether I ever wanted them or not, and we're both older, but then, there she was, pregnant. And it was exciting and terrifying. Then I found out she had lied to me and … But we put that behind us and Rosie was born.”

“Do you resent your daughter? For being born?”

“I never thought much about having children, but I look at her in my arms and I think ‘How could I have ever not wanted this?’ From the moment she was born I thought –this is my job now, everything else is secondary, my job is to protect this child.”

“You say protect.”

“Care for. Love. Raise.”

“But you said protect. From who, what?”

“You know what I do with Sherlock. I’ve seen what people in this world are capable of.”

“And you need to protect your daughter from that?”

“Yes.”

“You said you felt that Mary’s death was somehow your fault. Do you think your daughter needs protecting from you, from your life?”

“I –“ John stopped, unsure. “I’m the only one left. She’s got no one else.”

“Raising a child, especially a newborn, can be very overwhelming for new parents. Do you have people who can help you?”

“Mary was an orphan and you know my family is of no use.”

“Friends then.”

John’s fingers traced along the fabric over his knees. “I’m back at Baker Street, staying with Sherlock. Temporarily.”

“Are you finding that helpful?”

“He doesn’t know the first thing about babies…”

“Did you before you were a parent?”

“He’s a menace to most adults, god only knows what he would do to a child.”  

“Do you think he’s unsafe?”

“No.”

“That he would harm her, intentionally or not?”

“No no no. It’s not – It’s just. He’s unreliable!”

“How so?”

“Because any moment he could leave!” The desperation he heard in his own voice frightened John. Ella sat back in her chair, her pad and pencil flat on her lap, untouched.

John pressed his lips together and blinked, quiet. “Rosie just lost her mother. I don’t want her to get attached to anyone else who won’t be there for her.”

“Her or you?”

John looked back at the tree. The leaves were so tiny now, but soon they would begin to unfurl.

“No one can promise not to die, John.”

John looked at Ella, and remained silent for the rest of the hour.

Chapter Text

Sherlock bounded down the stairs to the sitting room and grabbed his great coat with glee. It’s wasn’t a break in the S.M. case, but it was just the distraction he needed. What they both needed.

“Oh John, it’s wonderful. Almost as good as a serial killer.”

John looked up from the sofa where he was changing Rosie into her second outfit of the evening and tossed the spit-soaked one in the ever-full laundry bin.

“What is?”

“This case! Lestrade texted me. He has dead man in bed with a severed horse head!”

“Like The Godfather?”

“What?”

“The Godfather. Mafia movie? Very famous?”

“You can tell me all about it in the cab. “ Sherlock flung his scarf around his neck and headed for the stairs.

John lifted Rosie up to his shoulder and started toward the kitchen.

Sherlock poked his head back through the doorframe. “Why aren’t you coming?”

“I have to stay with Rosie.”

“So bring her with you.”

“It’s a crime scene.”

 “I know.”

“With a dead man.”

“Yes, he’s already dead so it’s perfectly safe.” Sherlock picked John’s jacket off the hook and held it out to him. “There’s a severed horse head, John.”

“Exactly why I’m not coming. She doesn’t need to see that. I don’t want to have to explain murder and equine decapitation to an infant.”

“So leave her with Mrs. Hudson. We never get cases this good.”

“That’s not Mrs. Hudson’s job. She’s your landlady, not my nanny. It’s not fair to her to just dump Rosie on her whenever having a baby around isn’t convenient for you.”

Sherlock lowered the jacket. “It’s not fair to you that you never leave the flat. You still have to be you, John.”

John turned and resumed his path to the kitchen. “Ask Lestrade about The Godfather. I’m sure he’s seen it.”

****

Sherlock stepped out of the cab alone, and took in the townhouse at 427 Park Lane. Not exactly an easy spot to smuggle a horse head into, he thought.

He crossed under the tape and made his way upstairs to the master suite where he found Lestrade frowning at an elegantly appointed bed, marred conspicuously by the facedown body of an elderly man, and the large head of a bay horse, both half-covered by the duvet.

“No John?” asked Lestrade.

“Nope.”

“Thought not. How’s things with the baby? Tell John I’ll be over to visit soon, I’m just buried in mounds of paperwork right now, weeks away from the office will do that for you.”

 “Yes, your ‘sabbatical’ seems to have done you well. Gained what? Half a stone?”

“Yeah, you try spending all your time locked up in a safe house with nothing to do.

“I’m quite certain that my brother had several pieces of exercise equipment available.”

“There’s only so much a man can do against your brother’s food.”

“Indeed, it’s had much the same effect on him for years.”

Lestrade gestured to the bed. “What do you want to know?”

“Oh it’s more fun if you don’t tell me anything.”

“Have at it then.”  

Let’s start with the horse, thought Sherlock. There’s a good amount of blood, but not copious amounts, not enough. Clearly the horse was killed earlier and the head transported here - killed maybe an hour, two hours earlier. He leaned down and pulled open the horse’s lips. Five years old. Male by the size of it. Bay with a white blaze on the forehead. Sherlock stopped, his head snapping toward Lestrade.

“Who owned this horse? Has anyone reported a stolen horse?”

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it’s not his.”

“What?”

“Ross. It’s not his.”

“How do you know about Ross?”

“I do read John’s blog, you know. We all do. It’s the first thing we thought of, well after The Godfather, of course. Horse with a silver blaze. We called Ross and all his horses are accounted for.”

Sherlock leaned back down to the head and ran his gloved finger across the blaze, chalky paint coming off on his fingers. “It’s painted, recently too, not quite dry. Someone painted this horse’s head to look like Silver Blaze. Why would they do that?” Sherlock’s gazed moved to the body. “What do you know about the man?”

“Not much. He’s old, not the homeowner, there’s no ID in the pockets. We were waiting for you to flip him over.”

“Let’s do it now.”

Lestrade nodded at a nearby member of the forensics team, who pulled back the duvet to access the body, clattering something long and heavy to the floor.

“What was that?”

“I dunno, we hadn’t looked under the covers yet.”

The technician bent down to pick it up and rose with a long rifle with a rounded butt in her hands.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “No. No no no. Turn him over quick!”

The body was quickly pushed to its back, revealing the face of Wilhelm Von Herder, with a single bullet hole between his eyes.

Sherlock’s eyes closed and his head fell back against his neck.

Lestrade was holding the gun in his hands, examining its odd proportions. “What kind of murderer purposely leaves the murder weapon behind? There’s got to be prints all over this thing.”

“Probably not the murderer’s prints. No, he’s too clever for that.”

“What are you talking about? Do you know who this this?”

“Not by name, no. But I know who did this. I suspect when you test that gun you will find two sets of prints, one set belonging to this man – one Wilhelm Von Herder, a blind mechanical genius with a side business in arms modification, and a second set belonging to Bill Wiggins.”

“Bill Wiggins? The scruffy bloke who follows you around?”

“The very same.”

“Why would his prints be on the gun?”

“Because he’s the one who handed it to Von Herder. Only the murder didn’t know that, he probably thought my prints would be on it and he could nicely frame me for murder.”

“Why would he think your prints would be on it?”

“Do keep up Lestrade. Because it’s my gun, obviously!”

“But why do you have a strange antique rifle and why would you give it to that man?”

“Because, when you remove the bullet from Mr. Von Herder’s forehead, you will find the markings to be strikingly similar, though not exactly like, the ones that were found in Mary Watson’s body. Similar because they were both fired from the same type of gun, modified by the same man, but different because Mary was killed by his gun and Von Herder was killed by mine!”

“So you’re saying this was all set up by the guy who shot Mary, the one who worked for Moriarty?”

“Yes, thank you for joining the conversation. He had sent me a message on the phone from Atos a few days after Mary had died. I hadn’t heard anything further, so I tried to track him down. I found Von Herder and he admitted to having worked on a similar rifle. I had received no further communication and the Atos phone, unfortunately, broke.” Sherlock looked down at his palm, where the cuts were still healing. “It seems he found a different way to send me a message.”

“That’s quite the message, Sherlock. Even in The Godfather, they didn’t kill the guy. It was just the horse!”

“The Godfather. John told me to ask you about The Godfather.” Sherlock’s eyes bounced around the room, looking for anything else out of place.

“How haven’t you seen The Godfather? It’s one of the great crime movies of all time.”

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and began texting frantically. “I’m interested in crime fact, not fiction.”

Take Rosie and go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s. Stay away from the windows. – SH

Lestrade threw a hand out to the bloodied sheets. “Well sometimes people get inspired.”

What? Why? - JW

Sherlock looked back up at Lestrade. “You said Von Herder wasn’t the homeowner. I know that. How did you know that?”

“Because the homeowner is the one who called us in.” Lestrade grabbed a clipboard from a side table. “Ronald Adair.”

Sherlock tried to place the name but couldn’t. Clearly the bodies were for his benefit, why place them here? Ah. Yes. S.M. was a sniper, the paragon of efficiency. Perhaps he was aiming for two birds with one stone.

“Do you know him?”

Sherlock shook his head and typed up another text.

I’ll explain soon. Be back in 40 min or less. – SH

“Is he here? Let me talk to him.”

“He’s downstairs with Donovan. But take it easy on him. He’s had quite the shock as you might imagine.”

Ronald Adair sat at the end of a long table in a formal dining room, next to Sally Donovan. Sherlock swept into the room and took the seat to Adair’s left.

“Hello Sergeant Donovan. Things going well at the Met?”

“No more bomb threats if that’s what you mean.”

“No? How dull. They only try to kill you if you’re a threat.” He grinned obsequiously. “Now Mr. Adair.” Sherlock turned his attention to the well-dressed, but obviously shaken man seated beside him. Sherlock’s eyes stopped momentarily on his hands (Smoker. Mostly cigars), shirt pocket (Money clip, full of cash.), glasses (Near-sighted, looks at screens all day.),  and shoes (High end, but comfortable. On his feet all day, looking at screens. Stockbroker.) Sherlock’s mind cycled through the facts: Cigar smoker, carries lots of cash, stockbroker. Gambler. “You are a frequent gambler, are you not?”

Adair looked over at Donovan, who shrugged and sat back.

“But you’re not a very good gambler are you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you are very visibly shaken by your experience, more so than would be considered respectable of a man in our society, and so would seem to be generally awful at covering your tells. You do, however, have a large amount of cash in your left shirt pocket. So would does it belong to?”

“It’s mine.”

“Please. Ronald. Ron. You are a poor gambler with visible tells and a dead horse in your bedroom. You’ve seen The Godfather haven’t you? Clearly someone is trying to tell you something. Did you owe someone over a horserace?”

“No. I never bother with horses. Too many variables. I play cards every now and again. That’s it.”

“Because cards are a game of skill.”

“Yes.”

“And you just had a good night.” He looked at Adair’s pocket again. “A very good night.”

“I suppose so.”

“So good that even you can’t believe how good a night you had. Especially with the dead horse upstairs. But why would someone threaten a man so dramatically over fairly-won gains?”

“I don’t cheat if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, you couldn’t could you? Your face would give it all away in a second.” Sherlock looked back down at Adair’s arms. The man was shaken and sweating, but his shirt-sleeves were still buttoned.  “But what if someone cheated for you? And you didn’t know until afterward, when he asked for his piece?”

Sherlock reached down to Adair’s cuff and unbuttoned it, revealing a dark bruise around his wrist.

“Who was your playing partner?”

 Adair looked nervously at Donovan.

Donovan urged him gently, “It’s all right, you can tell us. The more we know the more quickly we can catch him.”

“He’s always at the club.”

“Which club?” Sherlock interjected.

“Bagatelle. Any night you go in, he’s there. Very well respected. Very good. Makes his living at it, I think. Most nights I leave with less than I came, so when he asked me to play, I was flattered. It was the best night I ever had. But something didn’t feel right. I studied economics, I know a bit about probability, and even for a very good player, let alone me, it was too much. Before I left, I asked him aside, said thanks for asking me to play, but that I wasn’t a cheating man. I promised I wouldn’t say anything, but handed him the money and asked him to quietly return it to others at the table. He grabbed my wrist, pushed the money back into my hand, said I’d had a streak of good luck, but there was no need to press it, and there was no reason to tell anyone anything.”

“Yes. Fine, all well and good. The man’s a cheat, you’re not, but what is his name?” Sherlock stood up sharply, knocking his chair to the floor.

Ronald Adair jumped in his seat. “Moran! Sebastian Moran.”

“Sebastian Moran. S. M.” Sherlock tested the name on his tongue then extended his hand to Adair, who shook it warily. “Thank you very much, Mr. Adair. You’ve been most helpful.” Sherlock picked up his chair, slid it back under the table, and moved to exit the room.

Adair looked back at Donovan. “But what about the dead man in my bed, and the horse head?”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Oh I wouldn’t worry about those, those were for me. But do ask Sergeant Donovan to put you into some kind of protective custody.  Mr. Moran probably won’t appreciate that you’ve been talking to the police. Word to the wise, if you find a decapitated horse in your bed and you know who put it there, probably don’t call the Met.” Sherlock spun on his heel and crossed the rest of the room, stopping only at the doorway. “Bagatelle, was it you said?”

Adair nodded dazedly.

“Very helpful.” And with that, Sherlock disappeared.

Chapter Text

John sat at the table in the kitchen of 221A, his fingers tapping impatiently against the side of the floral teacup Mrs. Hudson had provided him.  He nodded at appropriate intervals as she said something or other about her nephew and bounced Rosie on her knee, but his attention was focused keenly elsewhere, his ears straining to hear the smallest sound at the door to 221 Baker Street.

It had been 22 minutes since Sherlock sent his last text, and John was growing more impatient by the minute. Not that he minded spending time with Mrs. Hudson, but he disliked doing anything under duress. Go downstairs. Stay away from the windows. The phrases cycled in his head over and over again.

John hear the click of the latch turning in the front door. He let go his teacup as he pushed back his chair and stood up.

“Would you mind watching Rosie for a moment?”

“Of course, dear. You can use the loo down here if you need to.”

“No need. I’ll be right back.”

John closed the door to 221A behind him and strode over to the front entry, reaching it just as Sherlock shut the door behind himself.

“Oh good, John, you’re all right –“

John’s left hook met Sherlock’s right cheekbone before Sherlock could finish his sentence.

Sherlock looked at his friend wide-eyed.

“What did you do?” John’s voice came out as a low growl.

“What?”

“What did you do?”

“Lestrade texted me, I told you there was a case, invited you – “

John took both hands and placed them firmly on Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing hard enough that Sherlock’s back hit the wall. “My daughter and I are staying away from windows and hiding in Mrs. Hudson apartment.” John pressed his good arm across Sherlock’s upper chest and pinned him there. “What. Did. You. Do?”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and for a moment he thought he saw fear, but if there was a flicker of it, it was gone now.

“I was working on a case.”

“What case?” John pushed Sherlock harder against the wall. “Whose!”

“Yours.” Sherlock’s voice, though slightly muffled from the pressure on his lungs, was calm and even.

“What?”

Sherlock looked down at his friend, grabbed the arm pressed against his chest and pulled it away, slowly but firmly, releasing himself from the wall.

“What do you mean mine?”  John stepped back, his adrenaline ebbing away, leaving in its wake the realization that he had exerted more energy than this body was capable of just yet. John felt his breath come in a bit shallow and ragged. “I never came to you with a case.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mary’s killer.”

“The sniper from the Beacons?  You said there were no leads, that you went all over that hilltop the next day and found nothing useful. You told me so in the hospital.”

“He texted me.”

“What?”

“On the Atos phone. The day you moved in. “Said ‘until we meet again.’”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“What would you have me do? You have a half-healed hole in your lung and can barely make it through a day at the flat, hardly the condition to go traipsing around London after a highly-skilled sniper.”

“It’s my wife’s killer, I should be involved.” John’s disbelief was returning to anger. “And that was weeks ago! How could you not tell me?”

“And what would you have been able to contribute from your armchair, John? I asked to you come with me on a simple case tonight and you refused. Do you have an extensive knowledge of antique Austrian weaponry that I am heretofore unaware of? Have you a comprehensive contact list of locally-based snipers on hand? Because those are things that would be useful. Not you following me about like a wounded dog complaining about how dangerous or inappropriate everything is.”

“This is something that affects me. I have a right to know.”

“I was taking care of it. So you needn’t bother.”

“But you didn’t take care of it, did you, Sherlock? He’s still out there somewhere, with your address and a rifle and once again I’m putting my life, worse my daughter’s life, in danger just because I’m around you.  I knew I never should have come here, not with Rosie.”  He looked up the stairs to 221B. “Is it safe to go up there?”

“Yes. I didn’t know it when I left, but the horse head was planted as a message for me from the sniper. It had been painted to look like Silver Blaze. Lestrade confirmed that in the film it was a warning. I merely texted you in an overabundance of caution. That’s all it was, a warning – telling me to stop. To not pursue him anymore.”

“Then stop, Sherlock. Just stop. Stop trying to do whatever is it you’re trying to do and do one thing that is actually helpful.”

“What is that?”

“You go upstairs and pack my things. My stitches aren’t even healed from the last time, so I don’t particularly fancy getting shot at again just because you couldn’t leave well enough alone!”

“Since when did you become a coward? When did the man who ran headlong into danger, craved it, turn into someone so in need of my protection?”

“We don’t need your protection, Sherlock. We need protection from you. Pack my things." John turned to head back to Mrs. Hudson’s.

“24 hours, John. That’s all I need to finish this. He slipped. He’s clever, but he’s not Moriarty. I know who he is now and where to find him. All I need is to do is link him with his gun and he’d be locked up for life. You want to be involved, fine. Then don’t leave. Work with me for the next 24 hours.”

John closed his eyes, the image of Mary’s fingertips wet with blood flashed across his mind, the feel of softness at the back on her skull, all blood and broken bone and hair, twitched in his fingertips. He turned back around. “Who is it?”

“Moran. Sebastian Moran, a professional gambler at the Bagatelle.”

“Colonel Moran?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John moved to the stairs, he needed to sit down. “What have you gotten us into?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Not that useless after all, am I? He fought in Afghanistan. Not my regiment, but everyone knew about him. Fantastic card player, I knew plenty of blokes who lost money to him. But he was an even better shot. He was discharged, dishonourably, a few months before I was invalided out. It was very hush-hush, but there were all sorts of rumours.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“That he was sacked for some unsanctioned hunting.”

“Poaching?”

John shook his head.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “People?”

“That’s what they say.” John took a deep breath. “I thought that all of this was supposed to be over now. With Moriarty gone. Isn’t that what Mary died for? What was it all for, Sherlock?” John looked to Sherlock, but found no answer there. He rubbed his hands over his face. “We got rid of the most dangerous man in London, only for you to piss off the third most dangerous man in the city”

John closed his eyes, steadying his breath, steadying his mind.

“Who’s the second?”

“Right now? Me.” John’s eye locked with Sherlock’s. “Because injured or no,  I am a man protecting his child. Whatever you’ve got planned, I’m involved. No protests, no questions, no more secrets. You said this is my case, yeah? Then I’m going to be there when we solve it.”  John pushed himself up off the stairs and moved back to Mrs. Hudson’s doorway. “Colonel Moran? I hope you’ve got a good plan, whatever it is, because we’re going to need it.”

“I’ll put my best man on it.”

John didn’t return Sherlock’s attempt at a smile as he closed the door to 221A behind him.

Chapter Text

By 8 AM the next morning, John was standing in front of the window at 221B, looking at the flats across the way, having accepted Sherlock’s assertion that it was just a warning, that Moran wouldn’t risk anything in broad daylight, and as a professional gambler he probably didn’t get out of bed until 10 in any case.

Sherlock paced, deep in thought. “He’s a sniper, John. So if he did want to kill one of us, it wouldn’t be as if he’d be looking to knock on the front door and stab us with a knife. So what would he be looking for?”

“I’m the wrong Watson for that sort of insight.”

“You’re still a military man, hardly second best. What is he looking for?”

“I dunno. Cover and a clean shot.”

“Exactly. We’re only on the second floor, so one could presumably make the angle from ground level, if one of us were close enough to the window, but there’s no discretion in that, even in the middle of the night. The best angles are from straight on or, failing that, slightly above. Second or third floor, tops.”

“Meaning the rooftops are too high.”

 “Yes. But it’s a narrow street, not many options. Considering what he did to Ronald Adair, he probably wouldn’t be averse to breaking into someone’s flat, but which one? There are four that would provide an appropriate angle. We have to narrow it down.”

“Or he could just go into the empty one.”

“What was that?”

“The flat across the way. Second floor. There’s a big “To Let” sign. Been there for days.”

Sherlock raced to the window. “Oh John, brilliant. Perfect! That’s exactly the spot. That’s where he’d try to kill me from.”

“You really shouldn’t be so excited about that.”

“But if that where he’s going to be, that’s where we’ll be able catch him. I just have to ensure that he’s sufficiently motivated.”

“You’re going to encourage him to shoot you?”

“Yes. Don’t you see? This is even better than if we just connect him with the gun. Attempted murder on top of the other charges? He’d be locked up for good.”

“But won’t he need something to shoot at? I’m not volunteering to be your decoy this time.”

“No, of course not, you’re far too short to be mistaken for me. This is where Mycroft comes in.”

“You do know I was joking the other day when I said you should shoot Mycroft.”

“Mycroft isn’t being my decoy either. Tall enough, but a bit too corpulent, don’t you think? And the profile is all wrong. No, Mycroft has access to something that will be just the thing.”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and pressed a few buttons with a flourish and waited for the pickup. “Hullo, Brother Dear. I think it’s time to bring my twin out of hiding.”

“You mean to tell me that there’s another Holmes? I don’t think I can handle another Holmes brother.”

“Don’t worry, John. This one’s a bit of a dummy. Much easier to handle. In the meantime, I think we have some flat hunting to do, give the realtor a call while I finish up with Mycroft.”

*****

“As you know, there are two bedrooms, and plenty of room for your little one.” The realtor’s heels clicked their way up to the second floor flat at 224 Baker Street as Sherlock adjusted Rosie in the carrier on his chest.

“I can carry her you know.” John hissed at Sherlock.

“I doubt the carrier would feel pleasant again your newly formed scar tissue and it helps prevent my being recognized. No one expects to see Sherlock Holmes with a baby strapped to his chest.”

“Fine. But don’t do anything risky while she’s attached to you.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Sherlock called up the stairs as they followed. “And the schools here, they’re good?”

“Yes, some of the best.” The realtor unlocked the door to the flat, leaving the ring of keys dangling in the door.

Sherlock grinned at his good luck and whispered to John arrived on the landing. “Ask her about the heat.”

“What?”

“The heat. Distract her. Realtors love to go on about the heating.”

John glared at Sherlock, then crossed to the centre of the empty flat and grinned at the realtor. “Um, how’s the heat? This one’s always getting a chill.”

“The thin ones always do, don’t they? But you’ll find this spot is very cosy. There’s forced hot water in each of the rooms, as well as a working fireplace in the sitting room.”

Sherlock caught John’s eye and nodded toward the other rooms.

“What about the bathroom? That’s always the worst.”

“Oh you’ll love this,” the realtor gushed, “The previous owners put heated floors in the en suite. You’ll have to feel it. It’s divine. By the way,” she whispered conspiratorially, tapping the spot under her right eye, “What happened there?”

John grimaced. “I left a cabinet door open and he walked into it. I’m still in trouble, best not to mention it.”

“Not a word.”

John and the bubbly woman disappeared while Sherlock made quick work of removing and pocketing two keys from the ring. He then knelt before the sitting room windows to check the angle, before slipping off his shoes and joining John in the bathroom. He grinned at John, while wiggling his be-socked toes.

“She’s right, this is divine.”

*****

Sherlock and John walked all the way to the Tube station and back so the realtor wouldn’t see them crossing the street. Though he was feeling stronger these days, John still moved more slowly than Sherlock and so only just saw him set the knocker askew before Sherlock and his daughter disappeared into the building.”

He could hear Mycroft as he worked his way up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Brother Dear.”

“So you’ve brought him then?”

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to get him off my hands for a while. He keeps frightening the cleaning staff.”

John shook his head. Another Holmes.

So it was to his surprise to see Mycroft in his chair, sat across from not one, but two Sherlock Holmeses. One with his daughter still strapped to his chest and the second in Sherlock’s armchair posed stiffly.

John walked into the room slowly. “So when you said the other one was a bit of a dummy, you meant an actual dummy?”

“Of course, what did you think?”

“Truthfully? That Mycroft had your idiot twin brother locked up in the attic or something.”

Both Holmes brothers rolled their eyes.

“Really, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft chided “This isn’t Jane Eyre. Locking people in attics just isn’t done these days. I kept this one in the basement.”

John walked over and looked at the figure in Sherlock’s chair. “But why do you have an eerily lifelike dummy of your brother in your basement?”

“There were several contingency plans for that afternoon at St. Bart’s, this was one of them. Seemed a shame to just throw it away after that, and it seems now it may be needed. So do tell, Brother Mine, planning on faking your death again?”

John stiffened at the remark, a motion which caught Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock unhooked Rosie from the carrier and handed her to John. “No, of course not.” Sherlock looked back at his brother. “Though I do hope to be murdered this evening.”

“Well, Mummy and Daddy will miss you come Christmas, but who am I to stand in the way of your dreams? May I ask what murderer you are attempting to ensnare?”

“I have reason to believe Sebastian Moran is the man who killed Mary at the Beacons and that he will shortly attempt to kill me.”

“Colonel Moran? That isn’t a man who attempts to kill anyone. I hope you have quite the plan in place, or there is more than one Sherlock dummy in this room?”

“It’s sufficient.”  

Mycroft stood and buttoned the jacket of his suit. “Sufficient? I’m sure John takes great comfort in that. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

“Did you bring the other item I requested?”

“Ah, yes. Make a bit more sense now.” Mycroft pulled a small plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and placed it in Sherlock’s hand before exiting the flat.

*****

Sherlock stepped into the Bagatelle, all shrouded windows and dim lighting designed to trick the senses into thinking it was later than it actually was to make the visitors feel better about gambling in the middle of the day. Even so, the half-dozen members involved in what appeared to be a game of whist were sorry looking creatures, but Colonel Moran wasn’t among them. Not that Sherlock expected him to be, a man of Moran’s gambling talents wouldn’t waste his time on such a low-stakes gathering. This was merely a drop off.

Sherlock approached the hostess stand, a small red box wrapped with a cream ribbon in his hand. Inside, displayed on a cushion of cotton, sat one of the bullets from Pen y Fan. Sherlock tucked a cards under the ribbon.

“Can I help you sir?”

“Yes, I was hoping to see one of your members, Colonel Moran. But I don’t see him here.”

“Yes, sir. He usually doesn’t come until the evening. Shall I let him know you’ll be coming back?”

“I won’t be able to return this evening as circumstances require me to be at home. However, I merely wished to leave this little gift for him. Just a small token of thanks for all he’s done.” Sherlock slid the box across the stand.

“Of course sir.  I’ll makes sure he gets it.”

*****

The sun was just beginning to set as John kissed the top of Rosie’s head and checked the straps on her car seat.  “Take good care of her, Molly.”

“Of course! This is good, John, taking a break is good. Besides, we’ve been looking forward to some one-on-one girl time, haven’t we, Rosie? You and Sherlock enjoy your robbery case.”

“We’ll give you a call as soon as we’re done.”

“Not a problem. Take all the time you need.”

John bent into the cab and buckled the car seat in place. He handed Molly some cash.

“You really don’t need to.”

“For the cab.”

“All right, then. Remember, no running about, you’re still healing, but,” she smiled, “have fun!”

****

Sherlock watched as John pulled out his gun and then the separate box with the ammunition. John’s hands checked his weapon and loaded it with skill and efficiency. Military precision. Sherlock couldn’t help but admire it.

The clip snapped into place.

“Ready?”

John looked up, his eyes filled with resolve. “Ready.”

Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, who stood next to the dummy of Sherlock propped up in an office chair. “Remember, stay low, hands and knees, but move the chair often enough to make it looks like a real person.”

“This is going to do quite the number on my hip, dear, but if it’s important.”

“Of the utmost importance.”

“Then you can count on me.”

*****

John and Sherlock knelt behind the drapery in the main bedroom of the empty flat. The sitting room had the better angle to the windows at 221B, but there was no cover for them there, so they’d decided to leave it for Moran.

Even from here, they could see Sherlock’s silhouette pacing back and forth in front of the curtained windows. John hoped for sake of Mrs. Hudson’s hip and his own knees that Moran showed up soon.  “Do you think it'll be long?”

“Doubtful. I'm assuming that he'll have received my message at the Bagatelle no later than six. He'll stay and play cards until it gets dark, pop out to pop me off, and then head back to finish his evening.”

“Murder as a cigarette break?”

“The man gambles for a living and seems to have a habit of hunting people for sport. It's not an unreasonable assumption. “

“Why are you so sure he'll come at all?”

“I left him one of the bullets from the Beacons. He’ll come.”

John heard footsteps on the stairs below.

“Remember – do nothing until he takes the shot.”

John nodded and shifted to a more active crouch. His heart began to race, he'd forgotten about the thrill of the chase, his blood pumping more vigorously as the footsteps reached the landing, and even more so at the scrape of metal against metal as Moran forced open the lock.

The door swung open and all was silent.

Sebastian Moran stepped into the room, a tall, sharp shadow. His head was uncovered and the silver of his hair caught in the shafts of moonlight as he neared the sitting room window and knelt down, each motion efficient and directed clearly to his purpose. He swung a long black bag from his shoulder and removed the strangest gun John had ever seen. It was clearly a rifle, but an old one, the brass tarnished and the wood glossy from years of being touched.

Under other circumstances he would have called the weapon elegant, beautiful even, but as he watched Moran pull back the hammer and precisely load a shiny new bullet, he was acutely aware that he was seeing the same motions that had been done to prepare for killing his wife only a few weeks ago, and the thought stoked the embers of rage that had begun to heat in his chest.

Moran leaned forward and slid the window open just high enough for him to rest the barrel of the gun on the ledge. He settled back onto his shin and lowered his eye to the rifle’s sight.

At that moment, Sherlock’s figure across the way shifted from its position in profile and turned to the face the window.

Moran grinned, his eyes tightened and his finger released the trigger.

There was the strange whooshing sound that John had heard only once before, that night on Pen y Fan, but would recognize anywhere.

If shortly thereafter there was the tinkle of broken glass, John did not hear it as he pushed his way past Sherlock and the curtains, Sig in hand.

Moran had barely pulled the rifle from the window and turned back into the room, when the butt of John’s gun landed squarely on the top of his head, crumpling him to his knees.

In the dim light, the growing spot of blood looked almost black against the silver of Moran’s hair, providing a clear target for the second blow.

Before metal hit flesh for the third time, John felt a firm grip on his wrist as another arm wrapped around his body, pinning his right arm to his side.

“He’s down, John. It’s enough.”

John looked down at the floor beneath him, the sight of blood-drenched hair on an unconscious form making his knees weak all over again.

“What did I... Oh god.” Everything felt blurry. Sherlock’s arms held him tighter.

“It’s all right, John. He’ll come to soon. But I can't hold on to both of you and I don't fancy letting Moran get away. Will you be okay if I let you go?”

John nodded and let Sherlock lower him gently to the floor. Sherlock took the gun from his hand and placed his back against the wall, where he felt the cool air from the open window brush against the back of his neck. He looked down at his shaking hands and tried to steady them, as he had done so many times before.

Sherlock pushed the window open further and leaning out, put two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle, before returning his attention to the groaning figure on the floor.

John watched as Sherlock rolled Moran to his side and secured his hands with a pair of handcuffs pulled from his pocket.

Moran eyes blinked open as Sherlock pushed him up to a seated position. “Sherlock Holmes. I should have known.” Moran dropped his head back to rest against the wall, but pulled forward sharply with a hiss. “What did your boyfriend do to me?”

“I imagine you'll have quite the headache for some days, but no permanent damage. It's less than you deserve, but as there are several police officers on their way here as we speak and as I don't imagine that Moriarty would come back from the dead a second time to save me from prison or exile again, I’ll skip murdering you this go around.”

“Moriarty.” Moran laughed. “What a waste. A genius reduced to playing trifling games because of a stupid obsession with the pair of you.”

“And what would you call the horse head, if not a game?”

“A warning. One you didn't pay much can heed to.”

“Well, as John here can attest to, I rarely do as I'm told.”

Donovan, Lestrade and a pair of plain-clothes officers rushed into the flat.

“Sergeant Donovan. I believe Colonel Moran here has a head wound that needs some attending to.”

Sherlock bent over and picked up the Girardoni from the floor and tossed to it Lestrade. “And I believe you’ve seen one of these before.”

Lestrade caught the rifle easily. “Yes, I have. What do you suggest for the charges?”

“Accessory to conspiracy, breaking and entering, animal cruelty, the murder of Wilhelm Von Herder, the murder of Mary Watson, and the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes.”

Lestrade looked over at Moran. “Looks like someone’s been busy. Attempted murder?”

“Yes. If you'll just step across the street, I believe we’ll find sufficient evidence for that to stick.”

“Donovan, get his head checked out and then get him down to the station.”

John watched from his seat on the floor as Donovan led the man who killed his wife out of the room. Normally when they'd got their man, John felt a rush of excitement and accomplishment, but tonight he just felt drained. So when Sherlock held out his hand to help him up, John gratefully accepted.

*****

Lestrade knelt in front of the dummy, taking in the bullet hole between its eyes. “That was one hell of a shot. Through the window and across the street? Jesus.”

Sherlock knelt beside him, admiring the skill with which his double had been killed. “Yes. Exquisite aim. John, come see.”

“I've already seen you with a bullet hole in you. I don't need to see it again, thank you very much.”

Sherlock hadn't thought of it that way, but he looked at his double again, with John’s eyes this time, and his professional detachment withered in the face of his own form, wide-eyed and lifeless, with a kill shot placed squarely between its eyes, his eyes. “You have to take the dummy for evidence, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Don't bring it back.”

“Yeah, I imagine seeing yourself shot in the head would be a bit unsettling.”

“Yes. Unsettling.” Sherlock looked over at John where he stood by the sink, shoulders bowed.

Lestrade bent the dummy over his shoulder and picked it up in a fireman’s carry. “Oof! Lifelike weight too?”

“Of course.”

“I'm sure I make the quite the sight. Donovan’s never going to let me hear the end of this.” Lestrade stopped at the door “If photos of this show up at the station, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Lestrade muttered to himself as he lugged the dummy down the stairs “Who keeps a realistic dummy of themselves around just in case? Sherlock bloody Holmes that's who.”

Sherlock closed the door behind Lestrade.

“Did you text Molly to let her know we've finished?”

“She’s on her way.” John looked down at the bloodied gun in his hand. “Sherlock, am I a bad parent?”

“I don't think subpar parents bother asking themselves that question.”

“I'm serious. Am I a bad father?”

“Of course not, why would you think so?”

“You said it yourself. I'm attracted to danger. I seem to draw trouble to me like honey draws flies. I said we needed protection from you, but I wonder if what Rosie really needs is protection from me.”

“John.”

John looked back down at his hands. “If you hadn't been there tonight, I would have killed that man and then where would Rosie be?”

“There's no use wasting time on impossibilities, I was there and you didn't.”

“But what if you weren't, what if next time you aren’t?”

“I will be.”

“I just keep thinking that she would be better off with someone more stable, someone normal.”

“Normal is overrated. Normal is boring. And in any case it doesn't guarantee anything. You've met my parents, how much more normal could you be? And look at how Mycroft and I turned out. Rosie doesn't need normal.”

“But it’s never going to stop, is it Sherlock? For every Moriarty we stop, they’ll be a Magnussen or a Moran waiting to step into the gap.”

“Perhaps, but then we’ll stop them too. It’s what we do, John. It’s who we are.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe someone like me isn’t fit to be a parent.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to the door, where the sound of a baby crying could be heard downstairs.  John pulled the clip from his gun and hid the pieces in the top cabinets, just as Molly pushed opened the door the 221B.

“I’m sorry to bring her in crying, but it’s been off-and-on like this all night long. She’d been feed, changed, and I can’t see that she’s sick, but it’s only been a few hours and I’m exhausted. You have my respect, John.”

Sherlock took the car seat from Molly and unbuckled the child inside. “I’m sure you did admirably, Molly. I suspect she just missed her father.” He placed Rosie in John’s arms and the crying instantly ceased. “See?”

“You just needed Daddy, huh? Little rascal. Did you boys have fun at least?”

“We caught our man.”

“One more criminal off the streets. Job well done, I say.”  Molly looked down at her watch. “I hate to drop her off and run, but it is getting late and I have a pile of autopsies to get through in the morning. You’d think the dead could wait, but it seems they’re just as impatient as the living!”

“Thank you, Molly.” John smiled gently.

“Anytime. See you Sunday for your check-up?”

“Of course.”

“Probably last one too.”  Molly leaned over and gave Rosie a quick kiss. “You be good for your father now, you little scamp. Goodnight boys.”

“Goodnight, Molly.” Sherlock closed the door behind her and turned to find John already headed for the bedroom.

“I imagine she’s all tuckered out. So I’ll get her to bed.”

“Yes. It’s been quite the evening. I’ll clean up in here, then I think I’ll turn in too.” Sherlock watched as John shut the bedroom door behind him, feeling as if the night was somehow still unfinished.

*****

It had taken about 15 minutes to get Rosie to bed and another 30 before John finally heard Sherlock ascend the stairs to his former room.

John opened the door as quietly as he could and stepped out into the kitchen. He couldn’t sleep yet, at least not tonight.

He looked toward the fridge, usually he and Sherlock ate together after a case, but nothing about this case had felt like normal. They’d gotten their man, yes, but nothing felt solved. Not hungry, he decided.

John wandered into the sitting room and spied the piece of cardboard Sherlock had taped over the bullet hole. He hadn’t cared to look at the dummy, couldn’t look at the dummy, but this he could look at, couldn’t he?

He peeled back the cardboard and felt the cold air of the early spring push its way through the gap. He traced his finger along the glass, the sharp hole and the spider web of fractures that resonated out from its centre. One small rent that lead to so many cracks.

Instinctively his other hand raised to his chest and felt the bump of repaired tissue that ran down his chest. One hole, so many cracks. Even Baker Street matched now. All three of them, marked and wounded.

The window however, could be easily repaired and Sherlock had never seemed affected by his wound at all. So that just left him alone, a gaping, shattered thing.

John dropped his forehead against the cool glass, the night air drifting against his cheek.

“I don’t believe I ever properly apologized.”

John lifted his head, he hadn’t even heard Sherlock walk into the room. “We got him. It’s fine, Sherlock.”

“Not for Moran, I believe the black eye is my atonement for that particular transgression. No, I am sorry that I made you watch me die.”

John began to listen a little more keenly, but he did not respond.

“Death for me had been a static, abstract thing. The first piece of a puzzle waiting to be solved. Death did not affect me, so I did not think that my own death would be anything more than a minor inconvenience for all involved.”

“The rest of us aren’t you, Sherlock. Life. Death. Those things matter to the rest of us.”

“I didn’t understand. Then Moriarty sent me the camera feed from Marleybone and I saw you there on the pavement and the feed cut out. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about what might have happened if Moriarty hadn’t selected the most architecturally interesting carpark in London, if it had taken me longer to find you.” Sherlock took a moment to swallow. “I understand now, a least a little.  I can’t apologize for faking my death, it was necessary and couldn’t be avoided, but I give you my word that I would never willingly do it again.”

John’s fingers drifted back to the glass. So many tiny cracks. So many fissures to repair.

Sherlock took in a breath and straightened himself up. “All right then.” He turned on his heel and made his way back up the stairs.

“Promise?” John turned just in time to see the heel of Sherlock’s foot disappear up the stairs.

Chapter Text

The next several days passed quietly.

John made no reference to Sherlock’s apology or to the Moran case. It seemed to Sherlock as if nothing had happened, expect for one small thing. His morning 15 minutes stretched to 20, then 30 and on the third morning, when Rosie fell asleep on his lap, John left her there, choosing instead to work on the crossword puzzle. 

Sherlock didn’t dare to press his luck by offering to help with Rosie more, instead he soaked up his every extra moment with Rosie and tried not to think that Molly would be over later that day to check-up on John and that she would see that all his stitches were well and truly dissolved, give him the all-clear and that John would pack up his things, take Rosie and leave.

He’d seen it for himself the night before when they gave Rosie a bath. One red raised line and not a single stitch in sight. He had never hated the marvels of modern medical technology more.

As had become their custom, Sherlock had taken Rosie from the bath and changed her and clothed her, while John’s modesty required greater privacy for his re-dressing. He thought it silly, but it gave him a few more minutes with Rosie, so he said nothing.

He wiggled her tiny toes into the feet of her pyjamas, taking a minute to touch the knot of flesh on her stomach that was becoming more and more retracted, Rosie becoming less connected, more independent by the day.  “I fear that you’ll be leaving soon. I’ve read that you don’t have narrative memory yet, that it’s just a mass of positive and negative associations. I hope that you’ll place me, and your brief time in this place, in the positive column.” Sherlock zipped Rosie up and raised her to his shoulder, whispering in her ear. “Know that if ever you may need it, for any reason at all, for as long as I am here, you can always call Baker Street home.”

Sherlock shifted her down to her arms, cradling her. “Also, if you just want to pop by for a visit, I almost always have chocolate biscuits. I’m sure you’ll love those, as soon as you have teeth.”

And then John had come out of the bath and taken her back, though John did, for first time Sherlock could recall since Mary’s death, say thank you.

Sherlock looked at the sleeping child on his lap and then clock on his mobile. Molly would be here in 15 minutes, then how many more minutes would there be before Rosie and John were gone? He’d certainly failed at giving him reasons to stay. His fingers drifted across Rosie’s brow.

*****

Molly pulled off her latex gloves as John pulled back on his shirt. “Clean as a whistle, not a stitch in sight. You really did an admirable job tending to that wound, all things considered. As my final act as your official medical practitioner, I now lift all restrictions – though I wouldn’t go weight-lifting or running around London just yet. Be reasonable.”

“Thank you, Molly. I’ll do my best.”

“Will you stay for lunch?” Sherlock interjected.

“I can’t. I promised a friend that I’d meet her for coffee.”

 “Another time then.”

“Of course. Can’t go too long without seeing this little one.” Molly nuzzled her nose into Rosie’s hair as she sat in Sherlock’s arms. “I should go. I’ll just let myself out, I want to chat a bit with Martha before I go.”

Molly grabbed her coat and headed down the stairs, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock and John stood staring at each other across the flat.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“No more restrictions,”

“Nope.”

“You can lift anything heavy you want.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock looked down at Rosie. “And you’re free to go now.”

“I guess I am. You been a big help these past weeks, really, but I’m sure you’re ready have things back to normal. Just give me a day or so to pack up and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“You don’t have to, you know.”

“What?”

“Go. You can stay as long as you need to. Permanently, if you like.”

“This was just a temporary thing, to get me back on my feet because of the injury. I can’t just move back here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a child now, Sherlock.”

“Of course you do, you’re both welcome to stay.”

“It’s not that simple.  A child isn’t just something you use to fill the time between cases. I have to think about what’s best for Rosie.”  John lifted up his arms and gestured for Sherlock to bring over Rosie.

Sherlock crossed over and deposited Rosie gently into John’s arms and speaking softly, “Wouldn’t the best thing be for her to be around two people who would do anything for her?”

“She had that,” John said, pulling his daughter to himself, “and where did it get her?” He looked back up at Sherlock, something he saw in that face making his voice gentler. “I'll think on it, it's not as if we're going anywhere this afternoon.”

*****

John spent Rosie’s afternoon nap in his room, Sherlock’s room, he reminded himself. He looked around the room at the nappy boxes and neatly folded rompers, the stack of his jumpers on top of the dresser and the piles of his jeans on the floor, his daughter napping in her crib.  It looked like home.

John sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, Sherlock’s bed, and rubbed his hands over his face. Why was he even considering this? It didn't make any sense. He couldn't trust Sherlock, the man had proven that only a few days before, hadn't he? Keeping him in the dark about Moran.

What could you have done if you knew? That more generous side of his brain, the one he hadn't listened to in weeks, spoke out again. Perhaps he was just trying to spare you some worry.

But it was my wife Moran had murdered, didn't I have a right to know?

Your wife? The other one you’ve been so angry with?

She left me alone to raise our daughter.

She died protecting your daughter, and when since that moment have you ever been alone?

John stopped to remember, when was the last time he was alone? He thought first of the hours upon hours with Rosie in his arms, of Rosie asleep on his chest or in their shared room.

It’s not the same, she's a baby.

Not just Rosie.

He thought of Molly checking his stitches and of Mrs. Hudson bouncing Rosie on her knee, then he thought of that unwavering presence at his side the day of the funeral, and the hand that passed him the flannel when he washed his daughter in the tub, and voice that read him whatever inane part of the paper he requested, and the man who was married to his work that had only taken one case in three weeks - his.

15 minutes. That was his answer. 15 minutes a day and the odd shopping trip. Other than that he’d never been alone.

But it's new to him now, John thought, he’ll get bored with it, he'll regret it.

Are you so sure?

John shook his head and picked up an empty nappy box from the floor and tossed some of his clothing into it half-heartedly.

*****

It was inevitable, Sherlock thought when he spied the half-filled box of clothes on the floor in John’s room. It had only ever been temporary. It had been foolish to expect anything else after all that that happened.

Logically it made sense, John had his own flat, his own job, his own life, which he was free to return to now. But logic gave no comfort to the growing weight that settled in Sherlock’s chest.

That’s the price for getting attached, Mycroft would say. But when he looked at John, looked at Rosie, he felt that it was Mycroft, for all his intellect, that was the fool.

Sherlock decided that the only thing he could do was to make John’s last days, (last day?) in the flat as pleasant as possible. So he ordered John’s favourite curry for supper, a meal John ate with one hand while hardly saying a word to Sherlock, or looking him in the eye.

After supper, John had retreated to his room once again, and Sherlock heard the sound of more boxes being filled.

Whether it was John’s increased activity, the nervous energy of the flat, or something else altogether, Rosie was particularly fussy that evening, making any of Sherlock’s attempts at pleasantness impossible. He wanted to offer to hold her, give John a break, but whatever openness had appeared over the last few days, had been abruptly shut off, and so Sherlock did not dare.

Sherlock opened the freezer and looked at the collection of small plastic milk bags, something he had never expected to see in his home. They had been slowly disappearing, day by day, but now, tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that, they would be gone in one fell swoop. No more milk in his freezer, no more stacks of tiny cardboard books by every chair. No more bottles, no more nappies. No more Rosie, no more John.

It would be even emptier than before.

Sherlock stopped by his old bedroom, John’s room, to say goodnight before he went upstairs, but Rosie’s crying meant he got no more than a hasty “‘Night, Sherlock.” in return.

Sherlock lay down on his bed, which had once been John’s bed, and stared at the ceiling as surely John must have done many times before. He listened to Rosie crying below and thought of the lie he had told John that had led to their switch. Yes, he had learned to tune out most people’s crying ages ago, but not Rosie’s. Every night, at any hour, he heard every cry Rosie made. 

*****

John looked at clock on his mobile. 12 minutes and 28 seconds. She had been quiet for 12 minutes and 28 seconds this time. Before that it had been 10 minutes 45, and before that 8 minutes 10. He hadn’t timed the six times prior to that, but he imagined they all were somewhere in the vicinity of 8 to 15 minutes.

He’d been trying to get Rosie to sleep for nearly two hours. He’d done everything he could think of. She was fed, dry. He’d rocked her, sung songs. She’d calm down and he’d put her back in the crib and all would be fine, then 8 to 15 minutes later, the wailing would start again.

He was so tired and he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he needed to be more firm, let her cry it out, figure out to comfort herself.

But the sound of her crying made him hurt deep down in his chest.

John rolled onto his side and pulled the pillow over his head.

It didn’t do any good.

He pushed the duvet off and stood up, but as he looked down into the crib, at that red wailing face, he felt not just his hand, but his whole body shaking, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He walked out to the sitting room and sat in his chair, leaned forward, dragged his hands over his head and pressed his palms over his ears.

He didn’t bother counting, so he wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting that way when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

John sat up with a start and dropped his hands from his ears. Rosie was still crying.

“John, I heard Rosie crying.” Sherlock’s eyes darted from his face back toward the bedroom. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it’s not all right. My child is crying and I don’t know what to give her and I don’t have anything left to give to her. My daughter needs me and I can’t. I can’t go in there and listen to her cry anymore. Look at my hands, Sherlock. Look at them.”  He held up his quivering arms. “I can’t trust my own hands anymore. What if I dropped her, or worse, shook her? I would never forgive myself. I can’t do this. How could Mary leave me to do this alone?”

John watched as Sherlock knelt before him and grabbed a wrist in each hand, holding him firmly. Sherlock looked him straight in the eye. “Whatever happened with Moran, you would never intentionally hurt your daughter.”

“But what if --”

“You walked away. That was the right thing to do. Rosie is safe in her crib. She is all right. She will be all right. Now I need you to be all right.”

“What am I supposed to do? She needs me.”

“You are not alone, John. You’ve never been alone.”

John stilled for just a moment, he’d heard that before.

“Take a depth breath. What do you do when you’ve had a dream? How do you calm yourself down? Do that now.”  Sherlock shifted both of John’s wrists to one hand and pulled the throw down off the back of the chair and draped it snugly around John’s shoulders. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Good. Now another.” John took another breath. He could feel the edge of his panic dying down, but Rosie was still crying and it cut like a knife.

“She’s still crying.”

“It’s all right. She’s safe. Keep breathing.” Even with his eyes closed, John could feel Sherlock’s gaze fixed on him. “If you’ll allow me, I will go to Rosie. You don’t have to do this on your own. Will you be all right if I go to Rosie?” 

John nodded. It was all he could do.

Sherlock stood, holding firm onto John’s wrists for as long as he could. “Keep breathing, John.” Sherlock placed John’s hands back into his lap and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, wrapping him in tight.

John closed his eyes again and took one long breath after another, counting 1-2-3-4-5 on the inhale and again on the exhale. His world tightened to nothing but his breath and 1-2-3-4-5. The tremors in his body began to quiet, then still. As the tension left his body, deep weariness settled in its place. As John melted deeper into the chair, he realised that the crying had stopped. Just before sleep overtook him, he thought he heard, just for a moment, a baritone voice softly singing the words, “We would be warm, below the storm...” but then all was dark.

*****

Several hours later, John woke up, surprised to find himself in the dark sitting room, alone. He stood up, and the shakiness of his legs reminded him of why he was there. All was quiet.

He rubbed at his neck and wrapping the throw around his shoulders, headed back toward the bedroom to get some proper sleep. He pushed open the door expecting to find Rosie in her crib, but instead he found her nestled on Sherlock’s chest, both fast asleep on top of his bed.

John looked out the door toward the stairs. Yes, he could sleep up there, but it wasn’t his room anymore, and in truth, his legs quivered a bit at the thought. He supposed he could sleep on the sofa, but that didn’t feel right either.  Either way, it felt too strange to be somewhere other than where Rosie was.

He crept into the room quietly and pulled the throw from his shoulders and draped it gently over the sleeping pair. He pulled back the covers on the far side of the bed and crawled in, rolling to his side, keeping his daughter, and Sherlock, in sight until sleep overtook him once again.

For the first night since Marleybone, John dreamed no dreams.

Chapter Text

Four hours after Sherlock got her to sleep, Rosie woke up again. Sherlock woke abruptly, first noticing that John was in the bed next to him, and second that John was still asleep. He decided that just this once, it would be okay if he fed Rosie.

Sherlock rolled out of bed with Rosie in his arms and exited to the kitchen as quickly as he could, doing his best to shush her. He pulled out one of pre-measured bottles of powered formula that John left on the counter and clicked on the kettle to warm up the water. John hadn’t boiled the water in weeks, so it only took a short time to get the water warm enough for Rosie to drink. Sherlock changed her soiled nappy and felt the comforting weight of a baby in his arms as he fed her the bottle.

"I won't tell him if you won't." Sherlock whispered to his tiny co-conspirator. 

With Rosie dry, full, and happy, Sherlock walked back to John’s room and paused. He still didn’t want to wake John. Did he put Rosie in the crib and hope she didn’t cry out again? Did he take her upstairs? It seemed wrong somehow to put her somewhere John wasn’t. He placed Rosie back in the crib and decided to wait. If she cried out again, he’d be there to take care of it. Sherlock lay back on top of the duvet and pulled the throw blanket over himself, he’d wait just for 15 minutes or so, just to make sure she stayed asleep.

*****

When Sherlock woke up, morning light was creeping in from the edges of the curtain and he was in the room alone. It’d only been a few weeks since it had been his room, but still, he felt as if he was trespassing. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him and went out into the kitchen.

John stood near the sink, feeding Rosie a bottle. “Morning. Kettle’s hot if you’d like some tea.”

Whatever the panic that had enveloped John last night was, there seemed to be no trace of it now.  Sherlock picked up the kettle and poured himself a mug. “Would you like some? I can take Rosie so you have some tea, or take your shower, if you’d like.”

“I’ve been released from Doctor Hooper’s care remember? Prescription doesn’t apply anymore.”

“Oh.” Sherlock hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t considered that even his 15 minutes might go away. “I’m happy to do it anyway.” He took a sip of his tea. It was bitter.

“You didn’t add your sugar.”

“Oh yes. Right.” Sherlock grabbed a teaspoon and opened the sugar canister.

John placed Rosie’s empty bottle on the counter and ran his hand through his hair, like he always did when he was uncomfortable. “I was wondering if, uh, would you willing to go to Mary and I’s place today?”

There it was. Sherlock's heart dropped, but he forced himself to appear unaffected.

John continued. “I know I don’t have any weight restrictions anymore, but I don’t want to push it and I could use an extra hand with Rosie.”

Sherlock took another sip of his tea. The liquid was sweeter now, but his mouth still tasted bitter. “Of course. I’ll find some extra boxes for your things.”

“No need, there are plenty of boxes back at my place. We never got around to getting rid of the ones all the baby stuff came in.”

The mug of tea stopped halfway to Sherlock’s lips. “You’re staying?”

“For little while, if it’s all right with you. I’m just not quite ready to do this on my own yet and if we’re staying around for a bit, I could use a few more of Rosie’s things. Just temporarily, until I get settled.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No. Temporary isn’t all right.” Sherlock set down his mug. “You said yesterday that a child isn’t just something to fill time between cases. Not temporary. I understand that fully.”

“Do you?”

“I may be wilfully ignorant of some things, but that isn’t one of them. You have a family you were born into, yes? When you came back from Afghanistan, when I died, that wasn’t where you turned to, was it? You built your own family, with Mary, and now with Rosie. I have a family, too. I wouldn’t choose Mycroft, nonetheless, I have him. But if I get to choose? You and Rosie, that is the family I choose. So no, temporarily doesn’t work for me.”

John blinked, as if he was unsure whether to be flattered or angry.

“But how would it even work, logistically, over the long run? I mean I can room in with her now, but she’s a girl, she’d going to need her own space as she gets older and there’s only two rooms here.”

“So we share a bed, get double beds, I sleep on the sofa, we move. I don’t care.”

“You’d do that? Leave Baker Street?”

“If leaving Baker Street is what my family needs, I’d leave in a second. I’ve done it before." Sherlock took a breath, resigning himself to his fate. "I said it yesterday: two people who would do anything for her. So yes, John, I’ll go to your and Mary’s home. I can either carry your things back there or carry your things here. Whatever you think is best for Rosie, I will do.”

John rubbed his free hand across his forehead.

“What about your work, the clients, the cases?” John gestured to the room, which was still littered with baby things. 

“We could arrange Rosie’s things so I still have room to meet with clients, or perhaps I can convince Mrs. Hudson to turn 221C into an office. You’re both welcome to sit in on as many client meetings as you wish." Hope had made him bold. "I do have one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Anything over an eight, we get a sitter and you come along. We can ask Mrs. Hudson or Molly, or we vet some teenager, but you need to be you and I think better when you’re there.”

John sighed. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Easy is dull.”

“It’s not exactly normal, you know, two blokes raising a kid and solving crimes together.”

“Do you want normal?”

John looked down at his daughter, around the room with its framed bat, and test tubes, and baby things, and finally at the man with whom he’d so often shared a flat. “You know, I don’t think I do.”

“Good. I don’t either.”

*****

John took a deep breath before he pushed open the door of the flat he had shared with Mary. It was hard to think that the last time he’d been there was the night Mary had left so abruptly and he followed her, that night she’d shot him and everything had changed so much.

As he took in the sitting room, filled with furniture Mary had chosen and boxes from baby gifts they’d only just opened, he couldn’t be angry with his wife anymore. She may have left him to be a single parent, but he still got to be a parent. Nine months of pregnancy and three and half weeks, that’s all she would ever have with their daughter, not nearly enough time.

He placed Rosie’s car seat on the floor, the child inside still asleep.

He’d thought about it in the cab ride over. What Sherlock had said at the funeral, those last few things he’d seen her do and he had become certain about two things: Mary did know that she would die and that she did love him. It might not have been at Pen y Fan, but from the moment she had gone to Moriarty without him, had blatantly defied his wishes, she must have known her life was forfeit. She could have disappeared, started anew. It would have been more difficult with Rosie, but she had skill to do it, had done it before and then he would have no daughter and no wife. But she hadn’t run away. She’d come up with a plan, gone to the top of that mountain, perhaps knowing she could be shot, perhaps not. She’d taken the risk so he could be with his daughter. John looked up at Sherlock who followed him into the room. Mary had known that even if she left him, he wouldn’t be alone.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to pack?”

“You can start in the nursery. Grab the books, her clothes, and anything else that looks useful.”

Sherlock toed a box containing a bouncy seat. “Define useful…”

“Anything that amuses her or give us access to two hands, I suppose. I’m going to get the rest of my clothes.”  

“You can forget the Christmas jumper if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’m definitely bringing the Christmas jumper.” John shoved an empty box into Sherlock’s hands. “Go.”

“Yes, Sir.” Sherlock took his box and dutifully disappeared to the nursery.

John took another look around the room, his eyes stopping on a framed photo of his and Mary’s wedding. He picked it up and tucked it under one arm, and picked up Rosie’s carrier with the other. “Well, love, time to decide what we want to take back home.”

Home.

That sounded just about right.

John stopped at the nursery on the way back to his soon-to-be-former room and popped his head in through the door to see Sherlock meticulously packing baby clothes. “If you don’t mind watching Rosie for a bit when we get back, I was thinking I could go Tesco and make us some risotto for dinner.”

Sherlock looked up, a bemused look on his face. “Risotto?”

“The thing with the peas.”

Sherlock smiled up at his friend, his flatmate, his family. “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

John smiled back. “Good.” A hint of color at the window caught his eye. He looked out past the glass to the tree across the way, the leaves were all unfurled and it was just starting to bloom. He straightened himself up and continued down the hall. “Good.”

Chapter Text

“John!” Sherlock nearly jumped out of his seat as he read the text. “It’s perfect, absolutely perfect. God bless Lestrade.”

“I don’t care how unusual it is. Mrs. Hudson’s out, I’m not calling Molly again so soon, and I’m not exposing my daughter to corpses just yet.”

“No corpses. Missing person, possible abduction.”

“Hardly a five, why bother?”

“Son of a lord disappeared from a boy’s school on the north side. He went missing from the second storey of the building – no way to go downstairs without being seen, no balcony, no fire escape, no sign of forced entry.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Lestrade still hasn’t had the chance to meet Rosie yet, seems like an ideal opportunity don’t you think?”

“Oh he’s going to love this. Us bringing a baby to a crime scene.”  

“Shall I get the car seat?”

“No bodies?”

“Not even a drop of blood.”

John shook his head as he pushed himself and Rosie to standing. “He’s going to kill us for this, you know that.”

Sherlock grinned. “Worth it.”

*****

Sherlock and John strode under the yellow tape with such purpose that no one even noticed the car seat swinging from John’s hand until they came to a stop in a bedroom on the second floor.

Donovan’s head turned as they pushed their way into room. “Is that? Greg!”

“Is he here? Finally.” Lestrade turned from where he was looking out the window. “John! Good to see –“ Lestrade’s eyes caught sight of the carrier John placed on the floor. “Oi! Is that a baby? You can’t bring a baby in here!”

“Not a baby. Rosie. She has a name, Inspector.” Sherlock clarified as he scanned the room.

John knelt down to pull the wriggling infant out of the car-seat.  “It’s all right, I don’t believe they’ve been properly introduced yet. Rosie, met Uncle Lestrade.”

“It’s like you’re trying to get me sacked.”

John plopped Rosie into Greg’s arms, smiled and crossed to the floor where a men’s shirt and pair of socks lay on the floor. “Looks like someone left in a hurry.”

Sherlock smiled at John, “Precisely.”

“It’s bad enough I let you two in here. You really can’t bring a baby to a crime scene.”

“Really,” Sherlock sighed, “It’s not as if she’s crawling yet. She’s less likely to destroy evidence than most of your staff. Just make sure she doesn’t spit up on anything.”

“Spit up?” Greg looked all the small burbling creature in his arms with a hint of trepidation. “I’m going to kill you two.”

“I told you.” John whispered as he followed Sherlock’s path to the window.

“Still worth it.” Sherlock reached the east window and looked out each side, then down at the ground below.

Lestrade sighed. “Can’t I at least be Uncle Greg?”

The glow of epiphany lit up Sherlock’s face. “Be back in a tic.” He sat on the window sill and swung his legs out the window, the rest of his long form disappearing a moment later.

“He did just?”

John ran to the window and looked down. “He’s climbing down the ivy. Brilliant.”

“John!” A voice called from below. “I think I see bicycle tracks!”

“Oh, I have missed this.” John sat on the sill himself.

“For god’s sake. Use the stairs!”

“I never get to go out, Greg. Let a dad have a little fun. I’ll be back in ten, 15 minutes, tops.” John reached out to the side of the window and grabbed the ivy-covered trellis that hung there, testing its strength. “If she gets fussy, put her in the car seat and swing her back and forth a bit, she loves that.” And with that, John’s head disappeared below the window ledge.

“Wait, what?”

“And cow tracks, John! Lots of cow tracks. Curious amount of cow tracks, really.”

Donovan looked at her boss, dumbstruck. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson just climbed out a window and left you with their baby.”

Lestrade looked out the window, watching John land on the ground. “They damn well better solve this thing.” He lifted the infant to his shoulder and began rubbing her back. “If she spits up on me, I am really, truly, going to kill them.”

Donovan laughed. “If you kill Sherlock, I’ll help you cover it up.”

The End.