Chapter Text
“She needs a passport, Sherlock. I can’t just shove her under my jacket and hope she stays quiet through border control.”
Sherlock continued flitting between a microscope, Petri dish and case file, his head a whirlwind of movement, whipping between the three. John was not added to the cycle; Sherlock hadn’t looked at him for the last hour. The lab was littered with samples of soil, the air redolent with an earthy scent that reminded John of childhood days digging for earthworms.
“I’ve got to pick her up in, god, 15 minutes,” John said, glaring at the time on his phone. “You go alone, find whatever it is you're after and fill me in tomorrow.”
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively without looking up. “Mycroft will sort the passport. Meet me at St Pancras. Both of you. Bring a trowel.”
John rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.
“Maybe,” he muttered, as he made for the exit. He had never quite learnt how to say no to Sherlock; even John could hear the lack of conviction in his maybe and he knew that Sherlock had heard it too. He hailed a taxi to Rosie’s nursery, and arrived just in time to avoid incurring more late collection fees. He didn’t miss the look of relief in her keyworker’s eyes as she passed Rosie over to him.
“Home time, Ro,” he whispered into her hair. “Then we’ll go and find Sherlock.”
“Shuck,” she echoed with a nod as they began the short walk to 221b.
Six months had passed since John had finally accepted Sherlock’s offer and moved back to Baker Street. As he’d hauled their belongings up the stairs on moving day, he’d found the experience comfortingly familiar and yet wholly different from his first time moving in. The front door made the same creak and the corridor still had the same lingering smell of wood polish with a hint of Mrs Hudson’s incense. But the number of boxes and bags he was dragging in demonstrated how much his life had changed. The last time moving in, he’d had a duffel bag full of clothes, some toiletries in a carrier bag, and a satchel stuffed with his laptop, a few books and his gun.
But those were the belongings of a single depressed veteran. These, he thought as he scanned the boxes in front of him, were the belongings of a man with a far richer life.
Rosie’s possessions dwarfed his, of course. She had a significantly larger wardrobe than him, far more books, and a variety of toys. Then there were the larger items - a highchair, her buggy, the cot. John looked at the piles he’d sorted from the van and questioned whether he was making the right move. Baker Street was cluttered enough as it was. Could it really contain a toddler and all their paraphernalia alongside Sherlock’s fondness for hoarding?
John lifted another bag - this one beginning a soft tinkling tune as he accidentally pressed a musical toy - and reminded himself why he was doing it. 221b was home for him, more than anywhere else he’d lived. His fragile friendship with Sherlock was growing back to its former strength. He loved their quiet evenings together and had been sleeping at Baker Street more frequently; Rosie even had a travel cot here. Mrs Hudson living downstairs was a good reason too. She doted on Rosie and had offered childcare whenever he needed. No more taking a sleeping Rosie out of her crib and into a taxi to pass her over to someone while he went off adventuring with Sherlock. She could sleep right where she was and maybe wake up not knowing he’d been gone. It was the right decision. For now anyway. John did his best to not project ahead, to not wonder what he’d need to do once Rosie grew out of sharing a room with him. For now, they would be happy here.
Sherlock, of course, had been nowhere to be seen when John had arrived at 221b that day. His text had simply said: Experiment. Urgent. Back later - SH. John suspected the urgency was the urgent need to avoid helping with the move.
As it turned out, he had been glad to have arrived at Baker Street alone. Having dropped the first batch of bags and boxes onto the landing, he’d stopped to catch his breath, glanced into the living room and froze at what he saw. The coffee table had been moved, the sofa was turned at an angle, the shelves in the corner had vanished, a play mat was spread on the floor, and a stairgate blocked the way to the kitchen. Sherlock had baby-proofed.
And not only baby-proofed, but made the place welcoming for a toddler. It was still unmistakably 221b - haphazard stacks of paper, dusty tomes, miscellaneous objects strewn across the shelves - but everything at toddler height had been cleared. In some places, the dusty books had been replaced by new wooden toys and children’s books. Sherlock had done everything in his power to make it clear that this was Rosie’s home now too. Taking it all in, mouth agape, John wondered if Sherlock’s absence might have had more to do with not wanting to be there to see his reaction.
Sauntering in hours later long after the unpacking was complete, Sherlock, acting as if nothing had changed, had leapt straight into a monologue about his latest research.
“Kidney ischemia in rats, John,” he spoke at speed. “The possibilities for extrapolation are fascinating.”
John had watched him stalking around the living room, waited for the moment Sherlock paused for breath and then said simply, “Thank you. For all of this. I appreciate it.”
Sherlock had turned to John, given a quick nod, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts, and ducked into the kitchen to continue his monologue. John had smiled at the floor, any doubts about the move assuaged.
Today, as he carried Rosie up the stairs and collected her go-bag, he felt again that he’d made the right decision. He wasn’t convinced Mycroft’s powers extended to arranging a passport in two hours, but he hoped Sherlock was right. A trip to Paris did sound appealing. He hadn’t been since a girlfriend had insisted pre-Afghanistan and he had recently been thinking of taking a trip out of London. He’d just been thinking more of Portsmouth than Paris. For all John’s protesting at the lab, Sherlock’s insistence that he needed soil samples specifically from Paris had come at the right time. Bags ready, John hailed a cab to St Pancras hoping that they wouldn’t be home until Sunday.
****
Sherlock leapt out of the car almost as soon as they arrived at Pere Lachaise leaving John to wrangle Rosie and assemble the pushchair. By the time John had had a brief argument with the frame that just wouldn’t bloody click together, Sherlock had found the man he was looking for and was conversing in rapid French. John stood by for a little while but his GCSE French was picking up next to nothing. He tapped Sherlock lightly on the shoulder and inclined his head indicating that he would take a walk.
Pere Lachaise was as impressive as John had heard. The cemetery’s outer wall had seemed intimidating as they passed, but once they were through the gates and onto the tree-lined alleys the place had an air of welcome and calm. Autumn leaves provided a colourful contrast to the aging tombs; their oranges, reds, yellows seemed all the more vivid next to the grey of the monuments. The air was crisp but not cold, the sun beginning to set behind the clouds. A perfect autumn day. John paused and looked around considering which path to take. Recalling that Oscar Wilde was buried here, he decided he might as well tick that off as a landmark. He checked a nearby sign for directions and took the path to his left. The cobblestone provided a soothing motion for Rosie and she soon dropped off.
John was not a man uneasy with death. He had been around too much of it to find a place like this unsettling. It wasn’t an opinion John would express to anyone but Sherlock, but he actually enjoyed cemeteries, ones of this kind anyway. He had visited a number of London’s Gothic garden cemeteries, and each of those times had been, if not for pleasure, then for interest. He appreciated the memories held in each inscription, and the feeling of stillness and peace.
As he followed the path to Wilde’s tomb, John thought of the graves of the people closest to him, and the two for whom he had selected monuments: Sherlock and Mary. Choosing a headstone had been intensely painful both times, but for different reasons. Mrs Hudson had helped him choose a plain slate option for Sherlock, Mycroft coldly insisting that he had no preference, and John had spent two days scribbling ideas for the wording, crossing each through, trying again and ultimately deciding to leave it at ‘Sherlock Holmes’. It said everything it needed to.
Choosing Mary’s, he was so angry, so utterly furious, that none of the options seemed right. He had thrust the brochure at Janine and asked, no, demanded she choose. She had selected a white marble stone engraved with flowers and a sickly sweet inscription of Mary as a ‘loving wife, mother and nurse’. John had nodded as he read it, biting his lip to stop himself adding, “And an assassin who sacrificed herself for god knows what reason.”
Wilde’s tomb was distinct in its appearance and easy to spot from a distance. It was cleaner than those around with a barrier preventing visitors from getting too near. John wheeled Rosie closer to get a better look. A tour group stopped behind him and a woman speaking English began to explain the history of the monuments nearby. John tuned in to her speech as she switched to discussing Oscar Wilde.
“Now hopefully none of you came today with the hope of kissing Mr Wilde’s tomb!”
Titters passed among the assembled group.
“It has had this perspex screen installed since 2014. Prior to this, the tomb was covered in lipstick kisses from people who travelled from all over the world to pay their respects and show their affection for Wilde. The marks made for quite the sight, but sadly they were corroding the stone and the screen had to be installed to protect it. It always saddens me to think that Wilde himself will never know. Inside this tomb lies a man who died believing his work was toxic, that his name would only be spoken with derision, that society was disgusted by people like him. But in the 21st century his tomb was corroding from the adoration he was being shown. This perspex is a symbol of the love so many have for him, of the worth they see in his work.”
John mused on the tour guide’s words. A person could never truly know their own legacy, or fully know what others would say of them after death. Sherlock, of course, was one of the few who did. Of the many thoughts John had had about Sherlock coming back from the dead, he’d never considered the unique experience Sherlock had had in learning just what people thought about him. Finding out that Sherlock had been at his own funeral, had stood and watched John mourn was one of the hardest parts of forgiving Sherlock. While John had come to understand why Sherlock had made the choices he had, it had felt unforgivable to learn that he had watched John in such distress and walked away. It now struck John that perhaps that was not the only thing that had made it so hard to forgive. Perhaps it was also embarrassment that Sherlock had heard the words John would only have felt comfortable telling a gravestone.
The tour guide continued, “How terribly tragic that Wilde never knew how loved he would become. If only it would be allowed to wake him up for five minutes to tell him that and then let him go back to sleep again.” She indicated for the group to follow and led them back the way John had come.
“Taking some time to imagine Mycroft as Lady Bracknell?” Sherlock appeared, pulling John from his reverie.
“God I’d forgotten about that. Horrifying thought. So you got the soil you wanted?” John asked, gesturing to the bag in Sherlock’s hands.
“Not soil, John. Necrosol,” Sherlock said with a gleam in his eyes. “Six samples, from across different areas of the cemetery. All anthropegenic soil – that is, soil affected by its interaction with human decomposition. Analysing this in comparison necrosol from other cemeteries will provide insightful forensic knowledge.”
“Am I to expect a new post on The Science of Deduction enumerating the differences between London and Parisian cemetery soils?”
“Perhaps,” he said, checking his watch, “Well, time to go. We need to be on the other side of the city in 40 minutes.”
“We’re already done with the whole point of the trip?”
“Mostly. Now let’s get moving.”
John hadn’t expected any typical tourist sights to feature on this trip. After all, their primary aim was to collect soil containing human remains. So he was definitely surprised when he heard La tour Eiffel in Sherlock’s directions to their taxi driver. Sherlock had quickly disappeared into scrolling his phone in a manner John recognised as research mode so he didn’t bother to enquire further. He spent the rest of the journey making Rosie laugh with a slapstick performance of Ten In The Bed. John miming falling out of bed and bumping his head on anything nearby never failed to amuse her.
The driver pulled up to a kerb and Sherlock was out before John could even unclick his belt.
“Just in time!” said Sherlock, as he pulled the pushchair frame out of the boot, effortlessly clicking it together with one hand. “Come on, Rosamund.”
They weaved through the crowds, Sherlock leading and stopped at a corner with a perfect direct view of the tower. John had heard of the light display - loved by tourists, hated by locals - but hadn’t seen it on his last visit to Paris. His brief surprise at Sherlock’s choice was explained when Sherlock crouched down next to the pushchair and gave Rosie a detailed explanation of what they were about to see.
John rocked on his heels and looked around. A diverse variety of people in pairs and groups waited looking up at the tower. John was reminded of the joint excitement one felt at a fireworks display; the anticipation of others was palpable. He was alone, it seemed, in not looking at all at the tower. His eyes returned to Rosie and Sherlock. Glittering lights began to sparkle up and down the tower, but it didn’t pull his gaze from them.
Rosie’s face lit up - both literally and metaphorically - while she looked between Sherlock and the tower. This would be would be the memory John kept of the trip. She clapped her tiny gloved hands and that had Sherlock clapping too. That Sherlock had thought to include something specifically for Rosie on this strange little trip was a reminder of how much he had changed. The man who once claimed to see sentiment as abhorrent was currently grinning at a toddler and reaching for her hand. If John could pop a message back to the past, it might well be to tell this story to the version of himself who had once called Sherlock a machine.
After the display, both John and Sherlock were in a jovial mood and conversation flowed easily between them. They headed for dinner in a restaurant that was formerly a train station; it was an immense space with brightly lit mirrors, hanging chandeliers, and surfaces of sculpted wood and gleaming copper. Rosie sat next to Sherlock and babbled to herself enjoying looking around the room, winning smiles from other diners.
John leaned over to top up Sherlock’s wine glass and enquired whether he had been to this restaurant before.
“Once. I recalled that they had excellent boeuf bourguignon and I remembered you enjoyed the one from Le Mercury.”
“Oh god yeah, I forgot we used to go there. Must have been years since we’ve last been. I’m looking forward to trying this version.”
Their meals arrived and while Sherlock picked at his, John ate heartily, feeling a calm in his chest at the simple pleasure of being in a restaurant with two of his favourite people in the world. Rosie had migrated to Sherlock’s lap and was allowing John to feed her pieces of bread dipped in his bourguignon.
“Will!’ A raised voice broke through the restaurant’s general chatter. “It is you!”
At this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked towards the source of the voice. A well-dressed man with a confident air strode towards them, a wide grin on his face, hand outstretched towards Sherlock. Sherlock faltered for a moment and John caught a brief glimpse of a vulnerable expression he didn’t recognise.
“Victor,” he said, reaching his hand out, composure returned.
“Good to see you, Will,” Victor responded, smiling at Sherlock with a fondness in his eyes. “What are the chances?”
“Indeed. This is John Watson.”
John nodded. “Pleased to meet you. Victor, is it? Excuse me, messy fingers.” He shook a wet wipe from a packet and wiped himself before shaking Victor’s hand. “How do you and Sh-, you two know each other?’
“Boarding school,” interjected Sherlock, impassive.
“Been a long time indeed. Think we last saw each other just after university? Clearly lots to catch up on,” Victor said, gesturing towards Rosie. “How old’s the little one?”
“18 months,” Sherlock replied quickly.
“Well, congratulations. She’s gorgeous. Eyes just like yours, Will.”
John smirked, amused. Before he could correct Victor on Sherlock’s behalf, Sherlock had thanked him and ducked his head, a slight flush to his cheeks.
“Are you visiting Paris or living here now?” Victor enquired.
John briefly waited for Sherlock to respond, but noticing he had withdrawn into himself and responded for him. “Just visiting. Back to London in the morning.”
“You’re still in London? Oh good. I’ll be heading there next Wednesday. Still working in Singapore, but my team’s been tasked with some European liaison. I’d love to have a drink, hear what you’ve been up to.” He pulled out his wallet and passed a business card to Sherlock. Sherlock took it silently and John noticed a brief shift in his expression; something in it made John’s stomach tighten.
Victor shook John’s hand again, ruffled the hair of an amused Rosie and lifted his hand towards Sherlock. John had thought he was aiming for a handshake but he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder with a gentleness that belied his stocky appearance. He bent slightly to be able to look right into Sherlock’s eyes and said, “Good to see you, Will. Really. I’m glad you’re doing well.”
And with a soft smile, he was off at a pace.
‘Will?!’ asked John incredulous, and laughed as Sherlock rolled his eyes.