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Sex was non-existent. Intimacy wasn't there. Kisses grew shorter and hugs became a curt pat on the back. It was hard to make time for intimacy when there was a baby in the house. Mary often felt tired from caring for Eleanor all day and when they did have a moment together, they were disturbed by her crying.
Now Mary was out. Has been out for the past few days. Something to do with friends? Family emergency? It was all very vague and she was out of the front door before John could ask any questions. There was plenty of formula for Eleanor, she assured him, and extra nappies were in the linen closet. And then she was gone.
* * * *
Eleanor was propped up by a number of pillows into a sitting position and happily gnawed on her plastic teething toy. Drool dripped from her bottom lip to her chin and onto her hands and John took a damp cloth to wipe her off.
She stared at John with her big blue eyes – his eyes – as he gently took each hand and cleaned her off. Finally he cleared away the saliva that dribbled down her chin, and as soon as she was tidied up, she began gnawing on the toy, drooling all over herself again.
John sighed and was about to wipe her off again when there was a knock at the door. It was a foreign sound to him – he rarely had visitors.
John scooped Eleanor into his arms and rested her on his hip as he went to the door. “Who could it be?” he cooed to her as Eleanor threw her teething toy, giggling as it hit the ground. She grabbed a fistful of John's jumper and tried to get as much of it into her mouth as she could.
The man behind the door startled John. Tall, dark curly hair, a large dark coat (collar turned up, of course), with a duffel bag hanging off one shoulder and a pillow tucked under his other arm. The man smiled, his eyes squinting into crescents. “John,” he said, his tone cheery as he stepped into the house.
Already his mind was reeling just from being in the front room. The house was clean. Perfectly clean. A sign of boredom: either John or Mary had too much time on their hands and scrubbed and rescrubbed the place. But Mary wasn't there, was she? Shoes missing from the tidied shoe mat and coat missing from the polished hanger. She didn't have work, not when she was on maternity leave, and she didn't have much in the way of friends or family, going by her invitation list for the wedding. Where could she be?
Eleanor gurgled, her eyes on the strange man.
Wherever Mary was, she obviously didn't feel like taking Eleanor.
“What are you doing here?” John asked as he rubbed the baby's back.
“Asbestos was found in the flat. Not surprised considering its age, but to keep it up to building standards it has to be removed. And I need a place to stay.”
“A text would have been nice,” John muttered.
“Mary's out, I take it?” he asked as he ventured into the house, dropping his belongings on the freshly vacuumed sofa.
“Yeah, she's uh...” It seemed he'd already forgotten where she was.
“I won't be here long, just a day or two at the most,” Sherlock said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I've brought a few case files along to keep me occupied. You'll hardly know I'm here.”
John placed Eleanor on the ground, propping her up against some pillows and went to fetch the teething toy, brushing it off with the back of his sleeve before giving it to her. The baby eagerly grabbed for the toy and immediately placed it in her mouth.
“How is Amelia?”
“Eleanor.”
The baby in question was perfectly fine. Developing at a normal rate, gaining weight as she should. Today John had put her in a yellow dress with a matching knitted headband. John enjoyed dressing her up and she had more outfits than she knew what to do with. Perhaps she was a bit spoiled, but John liked spoiling her. And he never got tired of being stopped by people when taking her out for walks in the stroller. People would coo at her and tell him how incredibly beautiful his daughter was and John would proudly nod, and Eleanor would soak up all the compliments.
“She's fine,” John replied quietly.
An awkward silence fell between them (silence save for Eleanor babbling to herself). Sherlock began to wonder if showing up unexpectedly was a good idea. John was obviously uncomfortable or stressed about something, but what, Sherlock couldn't exactly tell.
“Tea?” John finally said and excused himself to the kitchen, getting the kettle ready. Something felt off with Sherlock's visit. Sherlock sat on the same spot on the sofa as he always did when he visited, forgot Eleanor's name, paid no attention to her. That was all normal. But something in the air around them felt different, as if a certain tension was developing. Charged in a way, that would ignite at any moment if a spark were present.
While waiting for the tea, Sherlock pulled out a case file and began reading it, ignoring Eleanor the way he always did. But the baby stared at him, unblinking, as she gnawed on her toy. After a moment of consideration, she began crawling into his direction (though she hadn't quite figured out how to push herself forward with her legs and ended up more or less dragging herself with her arms). The toy was still in her mouth and a look of concentration came over her face as she tried to both crawl and keep her toy in her mouth at the very same time.
Then she arrived at the sofa and flopped at his feet, tired from her journey. Sherlock grinned and picked her up, placing the baby in his lap and the case file on the cushion next to him. She was such an odd mix of both Mary and John. At the same time she looked like both of her parents and someone completely different.
John always wanted a family, Sherlock suspected. And Eleanor made him very happy. It was the only thing he seemed to talk about, and how couldn't he? She was adorable, with large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and a button nose. A perfect child. There were many things Sherlock gave John when they lived together: adventure, spontaneity, and enough action for a lifetime. But Sherlock could never have given John something like Eleanor. It was for the best John found Mary.
The mugs were placed on the counter, a tea bag in each. Now John just had to wait for the water to boil. The sound of the clock ticking away over the stove was starting to get to him. The faucet dripped to a rhythm that didn't match the clock and it started put him on edge. Breathe, John. It wasn't like him to get so irritable so quickly. And lately he had been nothing but irritable. Stress of being a new parent, probably.
But something new was making him stressed: the thought of Sherlock in his own living room. Of Sherlock being so near to him. They hadn't been near each other for a long time – Sherlock had his cases and John had his family. John craved his touch, even just to shake hands. A hug would be asking for far too much.
John tapped his fingernails on the counter. Sherlock had been on his mind a lot, lately. The thought of their adventurous cases kept him up at night. Of course John thought about Lestrade and Molly from time to time, but Sherlock occupied such a large space in his mind. It started to take over and cloud his vision in a way he didn't understand. And now that Sherlock was here, in his home, sitting on his sofa, he wasn't sure what to do.
The kettle squealed.
When John returned to the living room carrying the mugs of tea, he tried to hide his grin when he saw Eleanor sitting on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock looked nearly embarrassed to be caught holding the baby and he quickly removed her from his lap, placing her on the cushion next to him. John said nothing as he handed the tea over. When Sherlock reached out to accept the mug, their fingers brushed together and a spark formed.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
* * * *
Eleanor was placed in her crib. Dressed in her onesie with little pink and purple sheep bouncing around, she immediately fell asleep. Eyes closed, mouth open and hand wound around John's index finger, she slept peacefully. It took John a moment to pry his finger from her hand without waking her, but he managed. When he was free, he took a moment to walk around her room, taking in the decorated nursery.
Eleanor's name was spelled out with small wooden letters, each a different colour. Her dresser was white with a number of stuffed animals piled on top of it. A toy box sat in the corner with the remaining stuffed toys tucked away. It was a perfect little nursery for a perfect little girl. Eleanor cooed in her sleep and John smiled as he leaned over the bars of the crib to kiss her cheek.
Downstairs, Sherlock had helped himself to the linen closet and found a blanket or two for his makeshift bed. John wanted to offer him a better place to sleep, but what was going to be the guest room became Eleanor's room. But Sherlock didn't look too terribly uncomfortable.
“Sorry we don't have anything better.”
Sherlock fluffed his pillow and leaned his back against it as he reviewed case files, his version of a bedtime story.
“Better than living in an asbestos-filled flat,” Sherlock replied.
John took a seat in the living room chair. It felt odd to have Sherlock in his home. The last time they had seen each other was ages ago. Life just became too busy with a full-time job and a baby. And he couldn't afford to go on dangerous cases. Not when he had a family. John missed running the streets of London in the middle of the night, after a suspect, but that part of his life was behind him. Time to move on.
“Can you look at this? I think I need help.” Sherlock didn't need help, not at all. But he missed John. There wasn't an asbestos problem at the flat (and if there was one, it was still undiscovered), he just needed an excuse to be with John. Because he was always with his wife or the baby. It was petty, being this jealous of an infant, but he was.
John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder and looked at the case files. It was hard to see the fine print, so squinting he leaned forward and closer to the file until his neck brushed up against Sherlock's curls. The sensation sent a jolt through his body and he immediately stood upright.
“I don't know,” John said quickly as he returned to his chair. “I don't know, you're the detective. I'm just the blogger.”
John had to keep distance between them. Being that close to Sherlock made him feel uneasy. So close he could get a whiff of his scent, the smell of the shampoo he used. The fabric softener used in his clothes. That aftershave he used – as much as John tried, he couldn't find in in the stores.
“A lover's quarrel turned violent,” Sherlock muttered as he flipped through the files.
John crossed his legs. The spot on his neck still felt sensitive.
Sherlock looked over to John. “A little dramatic, don't you think? There had to be something else to it. A lie wrapped in there. An affair on the side. Or maybe they were never lovers, just staged to look that way.”
John looked away and scratched his neck, never expecting Sherlock's hair to feel that soft. Soft and thick and he could run his fingers through it and tug at the curls and –
“A red herring in a sense. The relationship never happened. Just a cover-up to manipulate those around him. Proclaiming he loved her all this time to get an easier sentence. Claiming it was an accident and acting heartbroken when it was all planned.”
Maybe he could do something fast, on the sofa. Just kiss him, have a little shag and then go to bed as if noting happened. Both pretending like nothing happened. It wouldn't hurt anyone. Mary didn't have to know. Sherlock was good at keeping secrets.
“But what's the motive? Why kill her in the first place? Why need to make up these lies unless...”
Just one touch. One kiss and that was all he'd need. Just something to take away that pressure that was building inside of him, that made him feel like he'd burst.
“One-sided. She loved him but it was unrequited. Killing her does seem a bit extreme of course,” Sherlock went on. “Something else had to be involved.”
What would he taste like? What would his bare skin feel like?
Sherlock flipped through the files again, going back to the basics. “She had a sister. An attractive sister.” Sherlock grinned. “So the sister pushed her down the stairs. He was the sister's lover and jealousy got in the way.” Sherlock paused. Would he be willing to kill his own brother for love? Perhaps if he believed in love.
“I'm going to bed,” John said suddenly and excused himself from the living room. After taking a shower, he tucked himself into bed. What had come over him? That hadn't happened before. At least not to that degree. But the thought of Sherlock sleeping on the floor under him made it hard to fall asleep. Just one touch. Just one touch would help him fall asleep.
* * * *
Partway through the night he felt the mattress grow heavy as someone crawled into bed next to him. Arms snaked over his body and held him close and lips kissed his cheek. But he didn't feel anything. No sparks, nothing that made his heart race.
“Mary?” John asked and she nodded.
“Sorry I got back so late. Traffic was terrible. I would have texted you but my phone ran out of batteries. Forgot the charger here.”
Her touches were empty and he tried to feel something. Nothing. There was nothing.
“Need the toilet,” John muttered as he left the bedroom and trailed down the stairs to the living room. Just so he could brush his fingers across Sherlock's sleeping form, to see if that touch would make him feel anything. Compare the touch to Mary's.
When he arrived at the living room, the sofa was empty. No blankets, no duffel bag, and no Sherlock. The cushions didn't even look like they had been sat on. “Sherlock?” he whispered, tiptoeing through the rest of the house, trying to find some evidence of Sherlock's stay, because he couldn't have imagined all that. But there was nothing that said he was there.
John brushed off the feeling of disappointment and went back to bed.