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Pain is an ugly little thing. There is no one way of it.
It can be a loud and harsh thing. Filling all senses.
It can be cold and sharp like a knife of ice twisting in the gut.
It can be hot and small like a glowing nail in the chest.
It can be heavy and all encompassing like a heavy burden on the shoulders.
But it all is pain. Pain is omnipresent. It never really leaves, it only dulls with time. We move and grow around it. We learn to live with it. How to touch it and handle it.
But sometimes it moves unexpectedly and hurts as if it is a new pain.
[) ♡ (]
His fingers brushed over the soft fabric, marveling at it.
His shoulders dug into the soft mattress below him.
His legs were tangled up in the sheets wrapped around him.
He felt the warmth of the sun on his face.
He could hear quiet breathing, threatening to ease him back to sleep.
Oh why should he resist, right?
Sherlock wouldn't mind him being a moment late. Hell, he probably wouldn't even notice.
Resolved, he moved a tad closer to Mary, touching her hard and muscular, but lean shoulder. Breathing in her scent of paper and chemicals.
Wait what
Mary had soft and relatively small shoulders. And she smelled like chamomile and her heavy perfume.
Watson opened his eyes quickly and stared at the dark black locks. Lean masculine shoulders. The curve of a male back.
Hips, barely concealed with a shared sheet that he himself was still tangled in.
Watson tried to untangle himself as quietly but quickly as humanly possible. He felt dizzy as he rose, stumbling slightly. His view tilted and he had to hold onto the wall for a second.
He moved to leave the room, his hand already on the door knob when Sherlock moved.
He opened one eye to look at him, before making an indignant noise.
"It's too early. Come back to bed after checking on Rosie. Or bring coffee", he grumbled more to his pillow than towards Watson.
Who could only nod before hurrying out of the room. He pulled the door shut behind him and stumbled to the bathroom.
What the hell was going on?
He searched through the bathroom vanity, frantically for the piece of paper that he had put there oh so many years ago.
There.
He stared at it before slowly starting to read it out loud:
"My... My name... My name is John Hamish Watson. I am forty... forty-six years old.
I am father to a beautiful four year old girl named Rosie Watson.
My wife and her mother, Mary Watson died three years ago.
We live in London, Baker Street 221B.
With Sherlock Holmes. The very eccentric man, that I somehow fell in love with.
We are safe here. I am safe.
I am surrounded by people I love, that love me back."
He took a couple of calming breaths before looking in the mirror. Staring at the few stray grey hairs. At a small scar on his cheek. He couldn't remember getting those.
He closed his eyes, pressing them shut.
Trying to breathe through the pain behind his eyes. His hand laid on his chest, feeling his heartbeat and his breathing.
He had a daughter. Mary was dead. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Apparently.
He sat down on the closed toilet and held his by now pulsing head in his hands. Everything felt off, his body, the tiles under his naked feet.
The pounding in his skull made it hard to think, each heartbeat echoing behind his eyes like a drum.
His mouth was dry, tongue heavy with the taste of whiskey and bile.
He tried to piece the night together.
There’d been… what? A case? No, dinner. A bottle... two, maybe three? Sherlock talking about chemical compounds, John laughing too loudly, too long. Then warmth. A blur.
His stomach twisted.
He couldn’t remember getting into bed. Couldn’t remember when that bed had started belonging to both of them.
He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, trying to drag the memories back, but all that came was static. Flashes of Rosie’s smile, Mary’s laugh, Sherlock’s hand brushing his. Too much, too fast, and none of it in order.
“Stop,” he muttered, but his chest was tight, breaths coming short and shallow. He opened his eyes and stared at the grout of the tiles. A stray children toy. It swam before his eyes, tilting and warping. He gripped the piece of paper harder, crumpling it.
What happened? What if this wasn’t the first time?
The thought hit harder than the hangover.
His throat closed.
He could feel the panic rising, cold and dizzying, like he was falling backward through years.
A sharp rasp at the door stopped his spinning.
"John? Can I come in?", Sherlock's voice was soft, almost caring.
John stared at the door. Opening his mouth, trying to say something. Anything. But no word left his lips. Only a strangled noise escaped him.
But it was enough. Sherlock opened the door slowly, poking his head in first.
"I assume this isn’t another protest about the bathroom tiles? Even though I have to admit, I also dislike them."
Sherlock was making easy conversations while slowly stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He made his way over to him, kneeling in front of him and taking John's hands in his.
They were warm and surprisingly soft.
Sherlock put both of their hands onto his chest and looked at him.
"Can you concentrate on my breathing? Feel my chest moving, try to match it for me, yes? Breathe in... and out. In. And out. Like that very good, Doctor. Better?"
John nodded, feeling a lot calmer. He concentrated on the man before him. The crow's feet forming around his eyes, a short and kept beard, a few grey strands. He looked older. But it suited him, made him human. His eyes were trained on John's face, filled with warm concern and a undefined softness.
"Can you tell me five things you can see, love?"
John almost snorted. He wasn't a poor damsel in distress. He was a army doctor, he had seen horrible things. He didn't need anyone to walk him trough grounding techniques. He wasn't....
"Hey", Sherlock nudged his knee.
Fine.
"I see... Uh, I see Rosie's bath turtle. I see her red fish toy. Your blue robe. I see some grey hairs. And absolutely horrendous brown tiles."
Sherlock grinned at that.
Without prompting John continued on: "I can hear Mrs. Hudson rumbling around downstairs. I can hear the coffee machine. My blood in my ears. The television of our neighbors.
I can feel your hands in mine. The cold tiles and the fabric of my pants.
I smell Rosies bath from yesterday. I... I can smell you.
I taste... urg, bad whisky and regret."
Sherlock smiled and nodded before getting up and grabbing a cup, filling it with mouth solution and handing it to John.
While John cleaned the bitter taste of his mouth, Sherlock straightened the piece of paper before putting it back.
"We shouldn't drink like we're under forty anymore. That was a bad idea", Sherlock shook his head.
John spat it back into the cup and handed it into Sherlock's waiting hand, who threw it down the drain.
Sherlock pulled him close and hugged him. Putting John's head against his stomach, gently scratching his scalp.
"Breakfast? Or do you want to go back to bed?"
John shook his head. His memorys were setteling slowly. He felt calm and content again. "No no, breakfast sounds good. And Rosie is most definitely hungry enough to start eating your hidden snacks."
"Oh no", Sherlock exclaimed. "Not my hidden snacks. How could she."
He chuckled, pressing him close again.
Then he let go and moved to leave the room.
"Come on. The coffee should be ready now."
John followed Sherlock out of the bathroom, blinking against the brighter light in the hallway. The flat smelled like coffee, toast, and faintly of Rosie’s favorite strawberry jam. The sound of her voice filtered through from the living room. The high, unsteady rhythm of a child singing to herself, punctuated by the occasional crash of toys.
Sherlock stopped just long enough to glance back, ensuring John was following.
“Still alive?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in mock concern.
“Barely,” John muttered, rubbing at his temple, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. “But the coffee might just save me.”
Sherlock made a small, satisfied noise and strode ahead, dressing gown swishing dramatically around his legs, as if the simple act of making breakfast were a grand scientific pursuit. John trailed after him, slower, steadier. Every step grounded him a little more. The flat was theirs. The warmth in the air, the clutter on the counter, the faint scent of Rosie’s crayons. All of it told the same story his memory still struggled to piece together. But it felt right.
When he reached the kitchen, Rosie was already at the table, legs swinging, cheeks sticky with jam.
“Daddy! You look funny,” she announced, beaming.
“I feel funny,” John admitted, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Morning, princess.”
Sherlock handed him a steaming mug without ceremony, then busied himself with the toaster. “I’ve calculated precisely how long one must toast bread before it reaches the optimal crunch-to-softness ratio,” he said, as though continuing a conversation from the night before.
“Oh, have you now?” John said, wrapping his hands around the mug. The heat seeped into his palms, through to his chest. “What’s the result, then?”
“Two minutes, thirty-six seconds,” Sherlock replied gravely. “Any longer and it becomes unsuitable for jam application.”
Rosie giggled, nearly tipping over her cup of milk. “Un-suit-a-bubble!”
Sherlock corrected her pronunciation automatically but with a soft smile. John just sat there, listening. To their voices, the faint crackle of the toaster, the hum of the city outside. It was all so ordinary. And for the first time that morning, ordinary felt like a miracle.
His body was still heavy, his head still a dull ache, but the chaos inside him had quieted. The panic, the confusion. They’d receded into something smaller, manageable. He could breathe again.
Sherlock placed a plate in front of him. Toast, jam, a slice of apple cut with unnecessary precision. “For the invalid,” he said.
“Cheers,” John murmured, smiling faintly. He took a bite, letting the sweetness melt on his tongue. Rosie was babbling now, explaining something about her dream and a flying turtle. Sherlock was pretending to listen while sneaking a second slice of toast for himself. John watched the scene, his scene, and felt the corners of his eyes sting.
He didn’t remember every step that led them here. But he remembered enough. And more than that, he felt it, the weight of belonging, the quiet love in every glance and word.
When Rosie laughed again, John reached out, brushing a crumb from her cheek. “We’re okay, aren’t we?” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
Sherlock looked up at him over the rim of his cup. “We are,” he said simply.
John leaned back in his chair, took another sip of coffee, and let the warmth spread. The light from the window caught the silver in Sherlock’s hair, the sparkle in Rosie’s eyes. For a moment, the world stilled. And John let himself be exactly where he was.
Home.