Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their review goes to MissMollyBloom. 

- TOUCHSTONE -

As it turns out, John has no intention of having their little chat at a coffee shop where anyone might hear it.

No, he's been ordered to bring Sherlock back to his so that Mary can cook him dinner and glower at him for worrying her and make him hold the offspring and ascertain whether he's alright or nearly dead already. The process will be nauseating but Sherlock suspects that resistance is futile.

And besides, he tells himself, it might not be so bad.

Not with John and Mary there. Not with the little one. Not with the fact that it could be worse, that they could be making him dine with Mycroft, or even, God forbid, his parents. That would be torture indeed. Besides, for all that he resents their taking John away from him, Sherlock retains a great affection for the Watson family and that affection bubbles up at the oddest times, of which now is most definitely one-

So he watches John order a white americano and pretends to be put out when he finds a strong flat white rammed into his hand, a stirrer and several sugars parked precariously on its lid. Glowers as John counts out his tube fair into his hand and tells him to put it away. With deft ease Sherlock pockets the change and then picks up the… accoutrements for his coffee, popping the plastic lid off. Adding the sugar and stirring, all the time keeping watch as John harries him across the road to the nearest Tube station, his face still set like a thunderclap.

Several untenably chipper American students (it's the Abercrombie & Fitch hoodies which give it away) take one look at him and scatter like so many pigeons.

John doesn't notice, choosing instead to pause at the top steps of Kilburn Tube Station and gesture tersely for Sherlock to join him. It is more an order than a request.

One might almost assume, Sherlock thinks sarcastically, that John Watson is a bit miffed at his best friend.

Sherlock takes one look at the dismally cramped entrance (he has spent a great deal of the last month sleeping in such places) and contemplates demanding a taxi. But he realises that a) he has no money besides his fair so it would have to be John's shout and b) the likelihood of John paying for a taxi when he's this pissed off is miniscule. So he trots alongside, pausing only to give the station a quick scan and assure himself that no, there's nobody annoying here he can pickpocket with a clear conscience before feeding his coins into the automatic ticket vendor and purchasing a ticket.

If they were going back to Baker Street, he muses glumly, he might have talked John into walking.

But he isn't going home, no, he's going out to the wilds of glorious Hendon and that will require travel on public transportation. Sherlock doesn't see the point: Good schools and safe playgrounds for the offspring and affordable(ish) property prices aren't the most important things in the world, after all.

It really is ridiculous, he huffs, that John moved so far out of the city.

But far out of the city he truly is. So they take the Jubilee Line as far as Bond Street, then hop on the Central Line for a measly two stops before finally joining the Northern Line to Hendon. All the way there, John says not a word, despite his promise that they needed to talk. Sherlock feels certain that there's a quicker way to get to Chez Watson but he suspects that it would involve something plebeian like buses, and that's just not going to happen. Besides, judging by the careful way Watson's watching him from the corner of his eye, his friend is trying to ascertain whether he is sober, and trying to give him time to clear his head if he's not. Which would also explain the silent treatment, he thinks.

He feels a spurt of exasperation for this though he supposes he shouldn't. He is going to be in the presence of the offspring, after all; Normal fatherly response, to keep the little one from harm when she's in the presence of the big, scary addict-

Something twists inside him at that word, something that from another person might be shame, and he has to fight very hard to push it away. It isn't- He isn't-

That word has never been him. It never will be him.

He stopped once and he can stop again. This thing is not his master.

Nothing can ever be the master of the great Sherlock Holmes.

So he closes his eyes, pretends he is visiting his Mind Palace (it's always good for getting John off his back). He sees Molly Hooper there, smiling and shy and still half asleep, wearing her little pyjamas and wrapped in the bed he made for her, in the sheets he washed for her, and he feels a shiver of terror at the happiness and longing that the image evokes. The pleasure of it. The uncertainty of it.

"Do you want to sleep in your bed?" he hears his own voice whisper.

Oh how he wants her to tell him yes.

She nods and smiles and pulls him to her, pulls him onto the bed and onto his back and into her good graces- Tells him, tells him that she wants him and what she wants to do to him- with him- what she wants him to do to her-

"Sherlock?" He opens his eyes to John frowning at him. "Sherlock, did you just say something about Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock is aghast at the notion that he spoke aloud, so does what he would normally do in this situation: He scowls furiously at John. Makes his tone as dismissive as possible.

"No, I didn't mention Molly. I'm not still high," he says, cunningly derailing three conversations with one insult. (He can multi-task). Because no, he will not be discussing what happened with Molly with anyone. No, he will not be discussing why the suggestion that he's interested in her is one which he always dismisses as drugs-related with anyone. And no, he will not be discussing whether he's stoned with anyone.

"Anyone," can just fuck right off, quite frankly.

John's still frowning though. "But you said-"

"Yes, well, I'm aware this epic journey you've taken me on is to make sure I'm not inebriated around your child," Sherlock snaps, knowing the best defence is doubtless a good offence. "Accusing me of talking to myself is just more of the same. But I'm not high, so detach, unclench, or whatever it is you do-"

And he crosses his arms angrily over his chest, unsure why but suddenly feeling very… exposed. And petulantly angry, at the exposure.

John stares at him for a moment, nonplussed, and then he does the thing Sherlock's been expecting since that second drugs test at Bart's: He reaches out and with sharp, swift efficiency plants a punch right on Sherlock's nose, right on the already-damaged bridge. Sherlock hears a crack, which means it will have to be set, and my, won't that be a fun after-dinner activity?

Needless to say, his nose now really, really, really bloody hurts.

There's a gasp from the tube passengers- those who can be bothered looking up from their papers or kindles, that is- but John holds his hands up. Informs them with a completely straight face that, "I'm his doctor, that was entirely medicinal."

"For you or for me?" Sherlock inquires sarcastically, looking at his best friend through narrowed eyes. He's managing to blot up most of the blood with his coffee napkin.

It looks bloody ridiculous.

"For both of us," John mutters, "Though more, I suspect for you. I'm not a pillock."

And with a sanctimoniously confident nod which Sherlock feels couldn't possibly be warranted he sits back down, goes back to glaring at his coffee cup. The silence now roaring, rather than merely tense.

Sherlock rather misses the merely tenseness.

They get off at the next station and Sherlock follows John up the stairs, stopping only to scare a couple of would-be Goths when he steps into the station McDonalds to pick up some more napkins for his nose before stepping out into the light. He spies a familiar car as he exits the tube station: Mary's parked to the side, the offspring safely fastened into a baby-seat in the back. To his surprise Mary smiles and shakes her head when she sees his bloodied nose before holding out her arms to him in welcome and giving him a small peck on the cheek. John harrumphs at this but she pays no heed to him.

"Into the back with you," she says. "Try not to bleed all over my baby."

Sherlock snorts. "The offspring or the car?"

John shoots him an unamused look- "And there's the man in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen"- as Sherlock folds himself gingerly into the back seat, watching little Evie from the corner of his eye as if she were the deadliest rattle-snake known to man.

Given who her mother is, she might be.

The baby sees him and grins, holding out a gooey, sucked-upon little fist in greeting. She is gleefully waving one of her shoes in the other, as proud as if it were the spoils of war. When he scowls at this she coos and then giggles, as if he's done some sort of magic trick.

John glowers but doesn't say a word. The display of passive-aggressive skill is absolutely masterful.

"See, she responds well to signs of mayhem," Mary says brightly from the passenger seat. "Takes after all three of her parents, don't you, darling?"

John murmurs something that sounds like, "not if I have anything to say about it," as they pull into traffic and then says nothing for the entirety of the five minute drive to his house. He patently doesn't bring up the fact that Mary just called Sherlock one of his child's parents. Sherlock doesn't either, but then he doubts there's any way he could broach the subject without causing any more offence- Or harm.

So for once he keeps his silence. John parks the car and picks up little Evie, fusses over her as he brings her and her baby bag inside and leaving Mary and Sherlock alone. The detective eyes his retreating back uncertainly; A slightly uncomfortable silence stretches out, wherein the two sociopaths in John Watson's life take in one another and try to figure out where they stand.

Theirs is a fond sort of détente.

"John's good with the silent treatment, he perfected it on me," Mary murmurs then, sotto voce. She places a soothing hand on Sherlock's elbow, rubbing to show she knows how it feels. "Don't worry, I'll talk him around: He really does want to talk to you, you know- I just don't think he knows how."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow at her and she shrugs.

"You're not the first addict he's cared about," she points out bluntly. Sherlock opens his mouth to object to such a characterisation and Mary shoots him a look which could best be translated as bitch, please. "Even if you're his favourite," she continues, " he's going to have problems with this: Harrie flashbacks are to be expected, Sherlock, and all things considered, I think he's doing quite well-"

"By punching me and giving me the silent treatment?" Sherlock demands.

It's the thing he hates about his lapses, how wrong-footed- how wrong- they make him feel.

And as the junkie of the piece, nobody ever believes he has any right to protest.

Again Mary shrugs. "Could have been worst: He could have gone with Plan A and knocked you out. Left you into The Priory to go cold turkey." Sherlock opens his mouth to object but she holds her hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I was the one who reminded him you'd just escape and probably never speak to us again: We both know that rehab only works if you're determined to get clean, and sometimes not even then-"

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Sherlock scoffs, aware his tone is defensive.

Molly's gaze turns serious. Her eyes are far away, and then suddenly they focus on his with a piercing, laser-like intensity.

"I wasn't born Mary Morstan, Sherlock," she says, very softly. "You of all people know that." And then she lets out a long, calming breath, the ghost of who she once was consciously, actively dismissed as she turns her attention back to the matter at hand. "But before we talk about that," she says, tone normal now, "I want to have a little chat with you about Molly Hooper-"

Sherlock opens his mouth to scoff and dismiss- to be honest, to brazenly lie- but Mary's look quite silences him. He really wishes he knew how she figured out when he's fibbing but she resolutely refuses to share it. A magician never reveals her tricks, etc. etc.

He doesn't tell her that the only other person who can do it is his mother. He feels this would set a dangerous precedent.

So instead he takes a deep heaving sigh and crosses his arms again. Leans on the car's bonnet and cocks his head. "What about Molly Hooper?" he asks in the sort of patently careless voice which might fool Lestrade, or Mycroft, or even John Watson. He hopes he can bluff his way out of this.

Unfortunately however, Mrs. Watson is no fool.

"Oh no," Mary says, "We're not having conversation until you've been fed and I've been watered- And I can be sure you're entirely sober." She grins beatifically. "Then we're going to have a chat about why you ask for her every time you're high." At his unimpressed growl she grins more widely. "Food first, Sherlock, then interrogation. That's the way I was raised, and if it was good enough for my grandmother and my grandmother's grandmother then it's good enough for me-"

And with that she gives him another worryingly bright smile and heads into the house. Sherlock has no choice but to follow. To follow, and to ponder once again how alike he and the new Mrs. Watson might be. As he is handed cutlery and ordered to set the table, he wonders when both the Watsons got so bloody good at letting him stew in his own juices.

They really have developed a knack for it, he muses. Maybe Mummy has been giving them tips.

As he thinks this, he looks over at little Evie. She grins at him, now chewing on her war-won shoe, her tiny fist still drool-covered from its residence in her mouth. For some reason he can't begin to fathom, that feeling of shame twists in his chest once again at the sight of her and he hurries to finish setting the table. He keeps his eyes downcast.

Molly is staring at him, sad and worried, behind his eyelids but Evie coos on, regardless.

She's her parent's daughter, after all, and Sherlock doesn't know why that thought brings neither comfort nor joy.