Chapter Text
Angelo’s hadn’t changed at all. Same lampshades, the same paintings on the wall, even the waitress seemed familiar. John did not remember the last time they’d been here, but it must have been years ago. Before Sherlock had died.
John refused to think about that. This was a special day. He had just moved back into Baker Street a month ago, and this was the first day John got off work early enough to go out with Rosie without risking her falling asleep in the middle of their dinner. Angelo’s was the obvious choice for tonight, the perfect place to celebrate a new beginning. The three of them as a strange kind of family. To be honest, John felt relieved when he realised that Angelo was not working tonight, too many comments about Sherlock and him dating and who would believe them that they weren’t, now that they had shown up with a toddler?
Rosie enjoyed her noodles, decorating the tray and floor with half of them and John’s heart filled with joy to see her happy. It was wonderful to have her back with him; he had missed her in the months since Mary’s death and still felt guilty for leaving her, but if he was honest with himself, he was only now emotionally stable enough to take care of her again.
“You’ll have to teach her table manners.” Sherlock looked straight at John.
“She’ll have you as a role model, Mr. I’ll-eat-anywhere-but-the-table.” John caught Rosie’s sippy cup midflight and put it back in front of her.
“I’m sitting at a table right now.” John smiled at the serious look on Sherlock’s face.
“And you are actually eating. I am so proud of you, Sherlock Holmes.” They smiled at each other and continued eating. John felt happy and content. He loved the adventures and the dangers that were part of life with Sherlock, but it felt good to know that the two people he loved most were safe. Not only safe but seemingly happy themselves.
“Dada. You.” Rosie held one of her noodles towards him and John smiled at her.
“Thank you, that is very kind of you, love bug.” Rosie beamed at her father and continued eating. Then she suddenly stopped, grabbed another noodle, and held it out to Sherlock.
“Ro’ie. ‘Erlock, eat.”
John had never seen Sherlock smile like this before. The detective took the noodle from the little fingers like it was one of the most precious things in the world. “Thank you, Rosamund.”
“Eat.” Rosie looked at the detective with a facial expression that a one-year-old should not be capable of. Sherlock followed her order, still smiling. “She is a real Watson.” The gist of happiness, it was right here with him.
They finished dinner and walked back to Baker Street. It was still light out, but John was sure it would be dark by the time they reached home, because Rosie had decided she wanted to walk home, her tiny little hands closed around John’s middle finger on the right and Sherlock’s pinky finger on the left. John caught people smiling at them and realized he was smiling too and so was the detective next to him. Family. The 221B Baker Street family.
He had to carry Rosie for the last ten minutes of the walk, because she was in danger of falling asleep walking.
Back in the flat, John helped Rosie out of her jacket and shoes. She clung to his neck, which made each a harder task than it should be.
“I’ll put the little Miss in her bed. Say good night to Sherlock, love bug.”
The toddler yawned and reached her arms out for Sherlock. His flatmate picked her up and she pursed her lips at him. Sherlock kissed her good night and she giggled, grabbing his curls. “Goo’ night, ‘erlock’”
“A good night to you, too.”
John took Rosie from Sherlock. “Dada. Night. ‘Erlock.”
John kissed his daughter’s forehead and nodded. “Of course, how could I forget? Good night, Sherlock.,” he said, knowing that he would return downstairs once the princess was asleep.
“No, no. Dada kiss.” Rosie pouted and John hid his face in her hair, because kissing Sherlock good night was all he wanted to do, for the rest of his life.
“Oh, no, love bug. Daddy and Sherlock don’t kiss each other.”
Rosie looked at her father in utter shock and then her lips started trembling. John knew what was going to happen and once Rosie started crying, it would take hours to make her stop.
“Sweetheart,” Sherlock’s voice was soft, and Rosie turned her head towards him. John had never heard him using an endearment and it warmed his heart. The detective took a step towards them and then his mouth was pressed against John’s. The kiss lasted less than a second, Sherlock’s lips warm and dry. John closed his eyes, opening them again when he heard Rosie squealed happily.
“Kiss,” She said, as if to say: “See, this wasn’t that hard, stupid daddy.”
"Good night, John.”
John forced himself to smile, while his brain tried to process what just happened. Sherlock had
kissed him. Only to stop Rosie from throwing a tantrum, but still, a kiss. He should not be shaken as much as he was by it.
John took Rosie to the bedroom they now shared and got her ready for bed, she was surprisingly cooperative tonight and drifted off to sleep after only twenty minutes. John thought about going to bed himself, to avoid Sherlock, but decided against it. His best friend would know he had something to hide, if he went to sleep as early as 9 pm.
So, he went back downstairs to find the living room empty. John sighed in relief and went to the fridge to fetch himself something to drink. No human remains today. Good.
John leaned against the kitchen table, careful not to disturb Sherlock's current experiment.
“John?” Sherlock had changed into his pajamas and his dressing gown. John took a deep breath before looking at him.
“You realize she is going to make us kiss every night now, right?” Oh god, why did he mention that topic, why torture himself like that? Sherlock had probably already deleted it.
“She is very keen on rituals, isn’t she?” Sherlock took the glass out of John’s hand and took a sip of the orange juice.
“Oi! Get your own glass, Mister.”
“Sherlock ignored him. The glass, still half full, was put on the table somewhere behind to John a movement that brought Sherlock way too close. Not close enough.
For the second time this evening, he was surprised by Sherlock’s lips on his. Tender, soft, moving slowly, but oh so sure of what they were doing. And by God, John was not able to do anything but to give into their touch, to respond to the kiss with his own. His hands found the sides of Sherlock’s neck and his thumbs followed the lines of his jaw. This should have happened years ago, John realizes and the love, which had been trapped in a far corner of his heart, denied, ignored, now broke free, filled his whole being. He didn’t even try to stop it, not that he could.
The kiss remained tender, almost innocent, a mere string of light touches, lips, no tongues, or teeth. And John felt torn between keeping it that way and turning them both around and fucking Sherlock against the kitchen table.
Sherlock broke away from the kiss, pressing their foreheads together, rubbing his nose against John’s.
“This…” Sherlock’s thumb ghosted over John’s lips, his mouth following moments later, as if he couldn’t wait until the end of his sentence to kiss him again. John didn’t mind at all.
“This is… what I imagined our first kiss to be. Well, something close to this.”
“Hmmm…” John kissed the corner of his mouth, up the wonderful cheekbones and buried his face in Sherlock’s hairline next to his ear. His hair felt even softer than it looked and God, the smell of it, addictive. The detective closed his arms around him, pressing their bodies together in a tight hug, while John's hand rested on the other man’s chest, trying to process the fact that Sherlock loved him as much he did love his consulting detective.
“So, you have thought about kissing me before?”
Sherlock chuckled and John shivered, as the detective's fingers started moving over his clothed back. He could get used to hugs like this, well, to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to live without them.
“Well, it’s a sort of hobby of mine. One I spent a lot of time on over the last years, especially when I was bored.”
John couldn’t keep himself from smiling, thinking about all the times they had just sat around in their flat, Sherlock in his Mind Palace, thinking about snogging. He moved, so that he was able to look at Sherlock. The honesty in his best friend’s words and face overwhelmed him and he pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s again, in a kiss more desperate, more enthusiastic than the one before. John licked the plump, pale lips and they opened for him, giving access to a wonderful, wet, and warm mouth and an agile, fast learning tongue. The sweet taste of Sherlock, contrasted by the sour juice.
They clung to each other, hands roaming every part of the other's body, that they could reach, disappointed to not find enough naked skin. Sherlock’s greediness surprised John, but then, when Sherlock decided something was worth doing, he was in one hundred percent. And this, them, was worth everything. When they parted, their lips were swollen, and they were gasping for air.
“Can we make a deal here, Sherlock? The next time you’re bored, can you just kiss me, instead of imagining it?”
Sherlock brushed a strand of hair out of John’s face. “I don’t need to be bored to be willing to kiss you, John, do keep up.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Very glad.”
“Can you stop talking now?” “To do what?”
“Oh, isn’t that obvious?” “I’m not the genius here.”
“Oh, now you’re teasing me.”
“That’s all I ever do.”
They kissed between giggles, or giggled between kisses, who knew, and John loved every second of it.
"Let’s move the snogging to the sofa, love. The table is getting uncomfortable.”
A light kiss to his left eyebrow. “I think it would be best if you went to sleep. You have work tomorrow and Rosie did not let you sleep more than five hours last night.”
“Hmm. Snogging still sounds better than sleeping.”
He pushed Sherlock away from him carefully and stepped away from the table. “And I still have an experiment to finish.” Sherlock avoided looking at him.
“Ah. That’s more like it.” John finished his drink and stepped to the sink, to wash out the glass.
“Work is still important. Kissing isn’t going to change who I am, John.”
“No, changing you was hard, yearlong work.” He smiled at the detective, who had taken his place at the kitchen table, looking at the other man intensely.
“And I know work is important, don’t worry. As long as we keep our deal, I am totally fine. Meaning, you can kiss me whenever you feel like it. “He kissed Sherlock reassuringly. “Good night, Sherlock.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he smiled, and John went to the bathroom and then to bed. Rosie was still sleeping, and her soft, regular breaths lulled him to sleep.
He woke up to a soft knock at the door. He mumbled something about coming in and turned to lying on his back, so he could look toward the door. Well, not that he was able to see much so soon after waking up in a room almost completely dark, except for the dim light over Rosie’s bed. 3:21 in the morning. Sherlock moved almost shyly, still dressed in his pajamas and robe. “John?”
John lifted his head to look at him. “Hmm?” “Can I sleep here with you?”
“Sure. Come here.” The robe fell to the floor, the duvet was lifted, and John rolled over to lie facing his best friend or whatever Sherlock was to him now. They exchanged a few lazy kisses and John felt like they had been doing this all along. Kissing was still exciting, of course, but it also felt so familiar, like it was meant to happen.
“We’ll need to talk about this.”
“Not now.”
“No, not now.” John agreed.
They fell asleep, foreheads almost touching, one arm slung around the friend, the lover.
Someone dragged their whole body over John to get to the other side of the bed. John’s first instinct was to throw them off, to defend himself, until he heard Rosie giggling in her bed and Sherlock's groans, as the detective realised that the way across his boyfriend was the shortest, but not the easiest way to get to the waking baby.
“Rosamund.” It was the most wonderful thing in the world to hear Sherlock speak to his daughter with such love. Their daughter.
The two curly-heads returned to bed, Rosie loved morning cuddles and John had to refuse them more often than he would have liked. Working as a doctor meant getting up early and one look at the clock proved, that he had ten more minutes at the most, before he needed to shower and leave for work. There she was, Rosamund Mary Watson, lying in between them on the duvet, giggling, as Sherlock's long, pale fingers tickled her belly, seeking refuge in John’s arms, but returning, whenever that made Sherlock stop.
“Do you think she knew?” Sherlock raised his left eyebrow.
“I doubt that a child her age knows about romantic love.”
John opened his arms and Rosie clung unto him in pretend despair, eyes wet with laughter. He kissed her forehead, looking at Sherlock.
“Love?”
“Of course, John. Love. You are utterly slow in the morning.”
Rosie tried to stand up on wobbly legs, which proved to be extra hard on the soft mattress. It gave John the chance to lean in and kiss Sherlock.
“One day, when Rosie is sleeping up here and we are in your bed, I’m going to show you how good ‘slow in the morning’ can be.”
With that, he picked up Rosie and went downstairs to begin their morning.