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Finding a jeweler and an adoption lawyer on Christmas Eve was a challenge that John should’ve anticipated, but in all the drama from yesterday, he hadn’t. And so here he is, standing on the pavement in front of the jeweler’s CLOSED sign, holding his phone with his finger hovering over Mycroft’s name. He’ll have to tell Mycroft the whole story if he expects any help, and that’s what’s bothering him the most. Mycroft will want to know why he only decided to make Sherlock his partner in everything in his life today, of all days, and why it absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow.
He lets his face rest against the cold glass of the shop and sighs. There’s nothing for it; he’s going to have to tell Mycroft.
In all honesty, he’d been considering proposing to Sherlock since he had moved back in nearly a month ago. Mary had finally faffed off to parts unknown to continue her paid killing spree and John, heaving a sigh of relief, had returned to Baker Street with a duffel on one shoulder, a baby on the other, and instructions to a moving company to bring the rest of his things progressively to the flat.
Sherlock had welcomed them with open arms and a wary attitude. At first, John had been insulted by the aloofness; he knew Sherlock loved him, as Sherlock is actually a girl’s name was probably the worst cover up for I love you Sherlock could possibly have come up with. It had taken him a couple of days, but eventually he had realized why Sherlock hadn’t been letting himself get closer: Sherlock thought this was temporary.
John had endeavoured to prove that it wasn’t. He had meticulously unpacked every box, putting everything back exactly where it had been before this whole mess had started, and the flat looked just like it always had (besides the crib in the upstairs bedroom and the baby toys scattered here and there in the sitting room). He had left Sherlock alone with Mina several times when he’d gone to get the shopping; the first time, Sherlock had given him such an incredulous look that for a moment John had been afraid he’d say no. None of this had helped. Sherlock still tip-toed around them, did no experiments, kept the flat meticulously clean, and John had to figure out how to convince him.
And then, this morning, he had finally figured it out. Sherlock had been an angel with Mina, always coming upstairs to calm her in the night if she cried. He would stand there, rocking the little tuft of blonde curls in his arms as her cries turned to coos and she eventually went back to sleep. John isn’t sure if Sherlock knows this, but he had watched every single time, his heart threatening to explode with how much he loved Sherlock.
Mina, however, is not stupid. While she isn’t even quite a year old yet, she has a very specific vocabulary. Before Baker Street, it was limited to Ma, Da and a variety of coos and wails that each had a specific meaning. John had known each one, but Mary hadn’t particularly cared. The deliberate way in which she uttered each sound had never failed to impress him, and within a week, Sherlock had them all figured out in a spreadsheet with soundbites embedded in it, making John’s heart swell with affection. What it came down to was that Mina knew exactly what she was talking about it.
Which leads John back to this morning around half five. Mina had slept through the night, but half five was still quite early for John, who had blinked awake to her crying in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock had been rocking her gently back and forth, understanding her wail of Rock me, dammit, and she had rapidly started cooing instead, reaching up towards Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s answering smile had been incandescently beautiful. John had never seen him smile like that, and if it meant he would keep smiling like that, John never wanted that moment to end. Like all good things, however, it had, but not in the way either of them had expected. Mina had waved her tiny fist in Sherlock’s general direction and said very clearly, very deliberately, Pa.
Everyone in the room had frozen except for Mina, who was incessantly chanting Pa Pa Pa Pa Pa at Sherlock, clearly waiting for another smile. Sherlock had turned a worrying shade of green before placing her gently back in her cradle and flying down the stairs and out the door. John had been sure he had caught a sob in the flurry of movement, and that had been when he had decided.
He was going to marry Sherlock, and Sherlock was going to adopt Mina, and damn it, they were all going to be a happy family together.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like this is going to happen without Mycroft’s help, and John steels himself before tapping Mycroft’s name and putting the phone to his ear. It rings once, twice, and then:
“John, what a pleasant surprise,” Mycroft says, and John can hear the contempt dripping from his voice.
“Mycroft.”
“From where you are so sadly standing, I can only infer that a happy announcement is about to come my way,” Mycroft continues.
John forces himself to be happy that Mycroft hasn’t demanded the whole story, then says, “I need your help.”
“Yes, yes… Adoption lawyers are notoriously hard to get a hold of at this hour, but I’ll see what I can do. As far as the ring is concerned, I see you’ve already picked one out, so I will have it sized and everything will be sent to the flat in the next two hours. You have to be the one to answer the door, mind,” and John can hear him sneering, but he is much too grateful to do anything but thank him.
“Thank you, Mycroft,” he forces past his teeth.
“Happy Christmas, John,” says Mycroft before hanging up.
John looks at the ring in the window again, yellow gold with a discreet honeycomb pattern embossed around the edges, and thinks that maybe everything will be all right after all. He turns up his collar and heads home, hoping Mina hasn’t tired out Mrs. Hudson too much.
***
Sherlock comes back around three o’clock in the morning, and while John’s been in bed since eleven, only now does he allow himself to drift towards sleep. He’s vaguely aware of a presence standing in his doorway as he loses consciousness of his surroundings, with a small whisper of I’m sorry.
***
Two hours later, Mina wakes everyone up by wailing that she’s bored. This cry had only appeared after they’d moved back to Baker Street, and John starts to wonder if Sherlock will start a long-term nature versus nurture experiment when he finds out just how long-term this arrangement is. Sherlock comes flying up the stairs to rock her back to sleep, and John watches with a broken heart how sadly and cautiously he rocks her now, as though she were a knife waiting to stab him through the chest. Sherlock slinks back downstairs, but not before John catches the full-body flinch when Mina sleepily mutters Pa. John waits five minutes, then reaches under his bed to pull out the box that contains the rest of his life.
***
Downstairs, he finds Sherlock standing with his back to him, looking out the window, his right fist clenched into the side of his dressing gown.
“Sherlock,” John says, and he turns around.
“What is it, John,” he replies, his voice cracking on John’s name.
John doesn’t let him say anything else. Instead, he puts the box down on the coffee table and gently unclenches Sherlock’s hand from his dressing gown, lacing his fingers through Sherlock’s to take its place. Sherlock looks down at their joined hands in awe, but says nothing as John leads him to the sofa and sits him down.
He had had a bit of a speech prepared, but in the end, he decides to cut to the chase.
“Sherlock, do you know why I named her Mina?” He keeps the I deliberate. He had been the one to name his daughter, and he had fought Mary tooth and nail for this name.
Sherlock shakes his head in what looks like ages old frustration. “I haven’t the faintest. I have searched your family history, I have searched Mary’s fake family history, and I honestly cannot deduce where that name came from. Did you choose it at random?”
John takes a breath, then steps forwards, much further into Sherlock’s personal space than he usually dares, and reaches down to cup Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock is looking up at him in confusion, but there is hope gleaming in his eyes.
“It’s the short form of Wilhelmina, Sherlock.”
He watches as Sherlock processes this at the speed of light, then lets himself be pulled down towards Sherlock as he crashes their lips together. It’s not elegant, or particularly skilled, but its desperation echoes John’s own and he opens his mouth to Sherlock as their tongues stroke together, every feeling they’ve ever had for each other naked and exposed.
Eventually, it becomes less desperate and more tender, and John pulls away with one last brush of his lips, letting Sherlock is actually a girl’s name hang over them, envelop them, consume them, as he pulls Sherlock to himself.
The moment could not be more perfect as he reaches behind himself to get the box and lay it in Sherlock’s lap. He’s put a small bow on it, but otherwise it just looks like an ordinary white box, the perfect size for legal paper. Sherlock looks down at it in confusion, but opens it when John smiles encouragingly at him.
Sherlock reaches inside and takes out the papers, holding them at eye-level as he reads them what looks like several times. After about seven, he looks up at John, still confused.
“These are adoption papers, John. For Mina,” he says, still completely disbelieving.
“Yes,” says John.
“You intend for me to…” he trails off, not knowing what to do with the rest of the sentence.
John reaches into the box and pulls out the other one concealed inside. “I intend for us to raise her, yes.”
Sherlock tears his eyes from the papers to look at the new box nestled in John’s hand.
“John, surely you don’t mean to –,” he starts, and John has had enough of his disbelief.
He gets down on one knee to do it properly, and hands Sherlock the box.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?”
Sherlock looks like his head will explode as he looks from the papers to John and back again, finally settling for collapsing on top of John whispering Yes brokenly into his shoulder.
“We’re staying for good, Sherlock,” John says quietly.
He smiles into the top of Sherlock’s head as Sherlock frantically nods, not willing to let go of John yet. They can’t stay like this forever though, as Mina’s I’m being excluded and missing something important wail sounds from upstairs. He pulls Sherlock back up and is rewarded with the incandescent smile he had never dreamed could be directed at him as he says, “Go bring your daughter down here so she can open her Christmas gifts.”
And Sherlock does