Work Text:
John snatched Sherlock’s uneaten buttered toast from the plate as he walked past, trying to figure out where he put his keys.
“Rosie said she doesn’t want to be in the play,” Sherlock announced suddenly. He had been plucking at the violin since before Rosie and John were even up. There was a notebook balancing precariously on his knee.
“And why not?” John asked, only mildly concerned. He stopped in his search and tried to catch Sherlock’s eyes to glean if he had anything to do with this sudden change of preference, but Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the violin strings and violin strings only.
“The music is subpar,” Sherlock replied with a single-shouldered-shrug. Something crashed in the Watson bedroom.
“I’m okay!” Rosie yelled down and then there was another, quieter bang before everything went quiet again. John frowned for a second longer and then turned back to Sherlock, unimpressed.
“The music is subpar? That’s what my seven-year-old daughter said?”
Sherlock remained undeterred. He shrugged again looking up at John with a smile in his eyes. “She is very intelligent.”
“Of course she is – she’s my daughter,” John replied with a snort and decided to let it go. It wasn’t that big of a deal anyway, so if Rosie and Sherlock were conspiring against the school’s arts department, he was not getting involved. He eyed Sherlock scribbling down a mess of dots that must translate to notes in his head but were little more than gibberish to John. “Composing?”
“Mhm,” Sherlock hummed. “A new score.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. “A whole score? For what?”
Sherlock hummed again. “The play.”
“The play Rosie doesn’t want to be in – that play?”
Sherlock looked John in the eye. His lips twitched as if to smile but in the end, he just shrugged and looked back down to his notes. His pinkie plucked a string seemingly absentmindedly. “The lyrics are acceptable... it’s the music that causes the conundrum of her participation.”
John let his head fall back, eyes to the ceiling. He sighed. “So the music is subpar, but the lyrics are up-to-par. Got it.” He went to put on his shoes and jacket – he and Rosie really did have to get going as soon as the lady deigned them with her presence – but then stopped and turned back to Sherlock. “You know you don’t have to compose a whole new score for her, yeah? If she doesn’t want to be in the play that’s completely fine…”
Sherlock snorted. Their eyes met, and then Sherlock – the cheeky bastard said, “I know it’s fine.” John’s eyes narrowed while Sherlock grinned. “But the lyrics are quite good for an original elementary production.”
He looked like was going to elaborate further but then Rosie came bounding down the stairs with all the sparkly rainbow chaos of a seven-year-old at seven in the morning. She looked okay so John dismissed the last few worries about the earlier crashes. She rushed past him to the fridge.
“Did you pack your hat?” he called after her. “The wind picked up outside…”
“It’s in my bag, dad.” Rosie’s head was deep in the fridge, but John could picture her rolling her eyes just fine without even having to see it. “You told me two times already.”
“Just checking.” John lifted his hands in surrender. “Hey, Rose?”
Rosie turned to him, eye-roll in her eyes, chocolate milk in her hand. “Yes, dad?”
“You know that you don’t have to be in the play if you don’t want to, right?”
“I knooow,” Rosie groaned and proceeded to open her chocolate milk – obviously a higher priority than this conversation. She took a sip. “But Sherlock said he’ll make the melody prettier. It’s all flat and boooring – I’ll fall asleep if I have to sing that.”
John huffed a laugh and when he glanced at Sherlock, he could see that he too was biting his lip and trying not to burst out laughing. “Okay, bud, as long as you’re happy.” Rosie nodded and John nodded too. “Good. Jacket’s there. Where’s your shoes?”
“On my feet, dad.”
“Where they should be. Good.” John nodded once, and then he nodded twice. He patted Rosie’s shoulders and turned her towards Sherlock. “Come on, say goodbye to Sherlock and let’s go.”
Rosie took the last few steps to Sherlock quickly and confidently but gave him enough time to put away the violin before tackling him in a hug. She hung off his neck as Sherlock hugged her back. “Bye, Sherlooock.”
“Bye, Little Watson,” Sherlock said, releasing her. She grinned at him with all her teeth and then ran out of the flat and down the stairs.
“Be careful! You’ll –”
“John,” Sherlock interrupted calmly and John turned on his heel, frowning.
“What?”
Sherlock held up the keys. John’s shoulders slumped and he went to take them.
“You tossed them to the sofa yesterday,” Sherlock told him. John sighed, annoyed with himself and then took the keys. He spun them around his finger once and then smiled down at Sherlock.
“Thanks, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gave him a brief nod and John leaned down to peck his lips quickly. “You’re picking the terror from school today, don’t forget. See you tonight, yeah?”
Sherlock hummed again, face weirdly blank all of a sudden. He blinked once, twice, three times and then nodded. John nodded back and shoved the keys in the pocket of his jacket. He waved behind him as he dashed out the door. Throwing an arm around Rosie’s shoulders, he ushered her away from Mrs Hudson’s morning gossip and into the wind-ruled streets of London, to battle the traffic and attempt to get to her school at eight-thirty on the dot.
𓆸
John opened the door with a sigh of relief, glad to be out of the cold. The wind had subsided some but not all the way and he’d forgotten to take a scarf in the morning. As he was shrugging off his jacket, Mrs Hudon’s door opened.
“Oh John, thank God, you’re back,” she breathed out and walked to him quickly. She grabbed his arms and pulled him further into the shadow of the hallway.
“Mrs Hudson,” he started, bewildered, “is everything alright?”
“Well, I suppose – nothing is currently falling apart, but –”
“What is it?”
“It’s Sherlock,” she whispered and John immediately closed his eyes. Of course something happened with Sherlock.
“Is he alright?”
“Physically maybe, but… he’s been acting… strange all day,” Mrs Hudson explained, leaning closer to John and glancing up at their flat all the while. The chances of them being overheard were rather small, but John had to admit that the chance of Sherlock suddenly bursting into the hallway was considerable.
“What do you mean strange?” John asked in the same hushed tone. “He seemed fine to me this morning. He was composing…”
“I barely heard any music all day! And sometimes he’d start playing and stop. Just like that! No mistake or anything that would cause it…” Mrs Hudson told him. She was wringing her hands together and looking at him like John should just jump and fix it right this second even though he still had no idea what there was to fix.
“And when I went to bring him some tea around ten,” she continued, “he was just staring into space. You don’t have any cases, no?”
John shook his head.
“And he wasn’t even lounging! He was sitting at the kitchen table, John, just staring into nothing. He barely even noticed I was there before I touched him!”
John looked down at his shoes, trying to think of a reason for this behaviour but nothing came to mind. Sherlock this morning was all mischief and calm. It was a good, normal morning.
“Did he pick up Rosie from school?”
“Oh yes, yes, you don’t need to worry about that,” Mrs Hudson waved him off quickly. “As he was better around then – Rosie sat him down and made him write down how she wanted some song to go. She sang and he wrote it down – it was quite adorable.”
“Yeah, she, um, she has a play coming up and apparently the music is subpar compared to the lyrics,” John explained with a shrug and Mrs Hudson nodded.
“I came to check on them later… she was doing homework – such a good child, it’s a miracle with you two for parents – and Sherlock was back to staring at the wall. At least he moved to the couch this time so it wasn’t looking so concerning.”
John hummed in acknowledgement and scratched the back of his neck. “Did he say anything to you? That might indicate what’s… going on?”
Mrs Hudson shook her head, looking at him sadly. “Not a word. I even asked him about it. He said: ‘Nothing to worry yourself about, Mrs Hudson, thank you’ and that’s how I knew I shouldn’t pry. You know how he is when he gets in that polite mood.”
John did know and the knowledge – and the idea of that mood making an appearance out of the blue – made him cringe. He took a deep breath and nodded once.
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for telling me,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He turned to leave but just as he was taking the first step up Mrs Hudson called him back.
“John? You two… you didn’t happen to have a fight, did you?”
John’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again when nothing coherent came out. He shook his head and glanced up the stairs briefly before looking at Mrs Hudson again. “No, no, not at all.”
“Good,” Mrs Hudson said quietly. “It’s no good fighting with your husband and with how the two of you are…” She sighed and shook her head. John ignored most of her statement and just nodded vaguely turning back to the stairs.
Just that second the door at the top slammed against the wall and Rosie came running down, her jacket and scarf flying behind her and Sherlock on her heels.
“Oh Sherlock, don’t damage my wall!” Mrs Hudson yelled from her doorway, but her admonishment was drowned under Rosie’s cackle and then in her excited, “Dad!”
A buzzing armful of his daughter slammed into him and he caught her with the skill of someone who had grown inside his hugs for years. He closed his eyes briefly and rocked them side to side. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was watching them – a smile seemed to mellow out from his face.
“John,” he muttered. “You’re back.”
“Yeah,” John nodded and released Rosie. “It is evening.”
Sherlock hummed and put his hands into the pockets of his coat. John frowned at the gesture, but before he could examine it further, and before the thoughts swirling in his head from the moment Mrs Hudson came to him as soon as he walked into the house could overtake his attention, Rosie took his hand and dragged him back towards the door.
“Sherlock and I are going for a walk,” she declared. “And you’re going with us, right?”
“A walk?” John asked. His eyes moved from Rosie to Sherlock. “In this weather.”
“We have scarfs, dad…”
“I don’t have a scarf,” he pointed out. He did want to join the two of them on a walk, but the mere idea of going back out in the cold when he’d just saved himself from it had him shivering.
“I’m gonna get it for you!” With that statement, Rosie dashed back upstairs, skipping every other step in her hurry. She disappeared from view and John turned to Sherlock again.
“How are you?”
“Good,” Sherlock said. “How are you?”
“Good.”
They stared at each other for a second.
“You’re sure you’re good?” John asked, lowering his voice in case Rosie was about to come back.
Sherlock frowned at him. “Yes. Why?”
“No reason.”
Sherlock hummed. John debated pressing further but thought better of it. They would have to pause the conversation for Rosie’s sake anyway so it was better to put a pin on it pre-emptively. Just as predicted, Rosie appeared downstairs with John’s favourite deep grey scarf. He wound it around his throat and put his jacket back on.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes!” Rose took one of John and Sherlock’s hands each and pulled them to the entrance door. John braced himself for the cold, but really, with Rosie’s hand in his and Sherlock’s winding questions about homework keeping her rambling all the while, it wasn’t that noticeable at all.
They still kept it brief because the wind did make it feel colder than it actually was. If it was day and a weekend, John would have suggested finding some place that sells kites and having a go at kite-flying at some park nearby.
But it wasn’t day and it was Friday night so he gently led his two menaces back home, made them eat dinner at the table and then poured Rosie a bowl of Coco Pops for dessert. The three of them migrated to the couch. The TV was turned on. It took John twenty minutes to steal the remote and switch from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire to reruns of Doctor Who to stop Sherlock from completely winding Rosie up just before she was fit for bed.
They watched an episode and a half when Rosie’s eyes started drooping. John sent her to the bathroom while he filled up the dishwasher. Rosie wished them both good night some five minutes later and trudged upstairs to bed.
Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, legs outstretched. His arms were crossed over his chest. The TV was a faint buzz of noise in the background as John puttered around the kitchen putting things away from the kitchen counters.
“We kiss now?” Sherlock’s voice drifted across the flat. John turned his head towards the man, but Sherlock’s gaze was determinately glued to the TV. John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head. He shuffled out of the kitchen and frowned.
“Sorry?” he muttered. Sherlock’s arms tightened on his chest.
He cleared his throat and then started to speak evenly. “You presumed that because of your lack of a visible reaction to your blunder I would pretend to forget about it and therefore avoid discussions on the topic in order to spare your feelings – a rather wonky strategy if you care to ask me–”
“Sherlock,” John interrupted him as softly as he could manage. He took the final few steps to the couch and put his hand on top of it, mere inches away from Sherlock’s head.
“Yes, John?” Sherlock asked through his teeth. He leaned his head back and looked at John with a raised eyebrow.
“There’s no strategy,” John said.
Sherlock blinked. “Excuse me?”
“There’s no strategy,” John repeated. “I have no strategy.” He sighed. His hand twitched with the desire to touch Sherlock in some way – his hair or shoulder, didn’t matter – but he thought better of it. Sherlock’s agitation seemed to be coming to a head and he didn’t want to misstep. “Do I?” he asked, quietly patting the cushion. “Need a strategy to kiss you? Why is kissing you a blunder? I kissed you before and you never reacted or objected or–”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and his head straightened. It broke the eye contact. “Whenever you… kissed me, there was an obvious familial undercurrent to the interaction. Your… kisses –” John could practically hear Sherlock’s grimace at the word “– were of the same nature as the ones you gave to your daughter and –”
John huffed. He briefly touched Sherlock’s shoulder before pulling away again. “Oh I don’t know if they were of the same exact nature – look, I love Rosie, right? And we’re physically affectionate, us Watsons, yes?”
Sherlock nodded hesitantly as John continued to stare at the mess of his curly hair. Sherlock sighed. His arms fell away. “Rosie’s hugs are rather… all-encompassing.”
“Right,” John nodded quickly even though Sherlock couldn’t see him – he liked to think (and he was pretty sure he was right) that Sherlock could just tell when he nodded or waved or moved in any way when out of view. “And I’m physically affectionate with you,” he continued, “and – Sherlock… Can’t you tell what I mean? Don’t you know what I mean? I thought you knew what I mean, Sherlock… I mean… the deed? Sussex?”
A moment of tense, pointed silence passed between them and then Sherlock said, loudly and clearly – though still very tensely and pointedly, “I thought you weren’t gay, John.”
“Well, and you are still married to your absent wife named Work?” John scoffed. Sherlock leaned his head back again and their eyes met. John narrowed his eyes, unwilling to look away but Sherlock did it for him. John sighed. He came around the side of the couch and sat on the armrest. His knee touched Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock didn’t move.
John looked down at Sherlock with a small frown.
“Sherlock,” he muttered.
“M-hm,” Sherlock hummed. His eyes were glazed over, though pointed at the TV.
“I love you.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. His head twitched to whip around but he didn’t turn to John. He completely froze in place. His hands tightened into fists. John cursed the bluntness in his head – it was something so unlike him to just… say it like that, but he’d thought that just saying it like that might make Sherlock just say what was on his mind too. Obviously, this existing strategy was a wonky one, even if you asked John.
He sighed and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He just let it sit there for a minute or so in complete silence. Sherlock relaxed under his touch, slowly but surely, and soon, John felt like he could move again. He took Sherlock’s fist into his hand. Sherlock’s fingers spasmed open and their palms pressed against each other. John gently closed his fingers around Sherlock’s and put their hands into his lap.
“I thought… I thought you knew that,” he whispered into the air – it would be too quiet to hear over the TV if Sherlock wasn’t right there, leaning against him.
“The consensus was that regardless if you did or not,” Sherlock replied hesitantly, looking at their hands, “it wouldn’t be expressed out loud.”
“The consensus?” John frowned again, tightening his grip. “Between who?”
“Me and Mycroft.”
“You talk to Mycroft about me?” John questioned dubiously. He felt like his whole world just realigned itself an inch to the left.
Sherlock, meanwhile, shrugged casually as if this information was nothing to ponder at. “He talks about you. I hum in appropriate places. It’s better than any other conversation topic – especially since Rosie became off-limits.”
“Why is Rosie off limits?”
“Too much sentiment in the air.” Sherlock grimaced mockingly and, somehow, his whole face morphed into the perfect caricature of Mycroft during one of his… moments. It was never clearer that the two were brothers than it was at that second. John snorted once or twice. Sherlock’s lips twitched to a smile in response, and it made some of the tension bleed away from them. John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand again.
“Well, there you go then,” he said. “You can prove Mycroft wrong now when I become a topic of your thrilling conversation again.”
Sherlock’s grinned wider for a moment and then, suddenly, his expression opened up into something soft and vulnerable.
“You love me,” he murmured with the tiniest bit of wonder in his voice – or maybe more than the tiniest bit, but it sounded like he was trying not to let it show too much.
John pressed his lips together and then said, “Of course I do.”
“And we kiss now?” Sherlock asked, disbelieving. His smile overtook his entire face: all his teeth on display, lips stretched wide, eyes bright and sparkling. John smiled back just as widely and nodded without a second thought.
“If you want to,” he said with a shrug, but he barely finished the sentence before a small short burst of laughter from Sherlock pierced the air. John laughed too – it would be impossible not to, with the joy being so contagious and relief so poignant, and Sherlock’s hand so tight in his and Sherlock’s side pressed into his leg so nonchalantly.
“Come here, you,” he managed to say and then he leaned into Sherlock, one hand still holding on while the other found purchase on Sherlock’s shoulder, and kissed laughter from his mouth. Sherlock made a noise when their lips met so surprised and delighted that John’s heart almost burst with happiness. It was clumsy and too fast and too slow, and they weren’t getting anywhere because they kept giggling into each other’s mouths. John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and his forehead and his temple and the corner of his lips.
They were smiling like loons when they kissed again – a press of lips that went on for hours but was heavenly just for existing. John moved slightly, trying to get them back on track, but his fingers grazed the hot skin on the nape of Sherlock’s neck and another peal of Sherlock’s laughter interrupted his efforts.
John pulled back reluctantly – this wasn’t really working right now, and he didn’t really mind, but he had to know what was on Sherlock’s mind. So he asked. “What’s so funny?”
Sherlock took a few deep breaths, some giggles still coming through, and shook his head lightly. “Nothing, sorry, nothing.” He leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder and John instinctively pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around him. Sherlock’s arms snaked around John in turn. “Nothing,” Sherlock said again. “I’m just… happy.”
John stared at Sherlock’s head, stunned. Wonderous, magnificent warmth filled him from head to toe and he understood Sherlock’s inability to stop the laughter. His thoughts were a swirling mess – there were so many things flitting through, none of them concrete, full thoughts: Sherlock was happy, he kissed Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock was happy because they kissed, he was going to grow old with the man he loved more than anyone but his daughter, their daughter, they were raising their daughter together – none of these thoughts had time to form properly.
“I’m happy too,” he said finally, to Sherlock and to their living room and to the world at large. He said it out loud so it must be real.
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him, expectant and happy. Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, seriously, “Can I kiss you again?”
John laughed and then nodded. “Whenever you want.”
“Now?”
“Sure.”
John had only a brief second to appreciate another wide smile on Sherlock’s lips before he was pulled into a deep kiss, much more successful than their last, and then, a moment later, between Sherlock’s legs as he tumbled from the armrest and sank into the couch cushion, perfectly fine with kissing until the world ended – or more likely, the sun and their daughter rose for a new day. But for now, he was happy. And content. And kissing Sherlock Holmes.