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Chapter Text

The door swings open with a dull thud. They enter shoulder to shoulder, just like in the old days, electric from the adrenaline of the mad rush through Londons’ streets. Yet another mad rush in a few months. In those moments, it almost seems like everything has come back to normality.

A little earlier, as they ran across Marylebone Road at full speed, they themselves seemed to have returned to what they once were. Without shadows on their faces marked by a few wrinkles, without the halo of silent desperation that has accompanied them both, almost always, since everything changed.

In the small hallway the atmosphere, as always, cools down, and the weight of reality returns to weigh mercilessly on their shoulders. John's seem to visibly arch a little. Sherlock, for his part, hangs up his coat and steps aside, suddenly resigned, giving way to him.

John hates it when he does that. Too often, since they moved back in together. The sparkling detective with the sharp answer, capable of weaving entire frescoes of enigmas with his tight monologues and of drying up a plant in its pot with his caustic jokes, suddenly becomes a silent ectoplasm within those walls, who seems to live with the sole purpose of not contradicting him.

Besides, the germs of this radical transformation were already visible on the day of that painful confrontation, when John confessed his betrayal, when he ended up crying on his chest. Never so weak, never so defeated. Then there were the events of Eurus, as hallucinating as a bad dystopian movie. And then life slowly resumed to flow, against all expectations, materially condensed in the ever-growing body of that soft and pink little girl who was the only being who allowed herself, in her perfect innocence, to insinuate into their lives the now inconceivable concept of normality.

Sherlock, in spite of the desert of shards he carried inside, tried with all his might to embrace that normality with the same eagerness with which he had previously rejected it. He was still the brilliant and irreverent detective, the man of pure logic, at least externally: but within those walls that they had rebuilt with maniacal care, to make that house exactly as it was before the bang, he was a different man. He was quiet and thoughtful, he often smiled a sad smile, he didn't do potentially dangerous experiments, he didn't play the violin at three in the morning, he didn't keep toes in the refrigerator. He didn't smoke, didn't stuff his snow-white arms with nicotine patches. Neither John nor Mycroft had any clue to suspect he was at risk of relapse, despite all the drugs he'd taken in a few weeks after Mary's death.

He thought about Mary a lot. In fact, he thought about her all the time. He saw her sly eyes, blond curls, huge smile. He saw it again in the newly sprouted teeth of this little girl who was becoming part of him, throwing up on his robe, falling asleep on his chest as they waited for daddy to return from work, after playing endless hours on the soft carpets of that living room that still and increasingly was the last refuge of the desperates. It was a miracle: and coming from him who considered the concept of divinity the last refuge of the incapables, it was a remarkable concept. Inside her lived the genes of that incredible woman who could hit the pennies in the air with a gun shot, and who had used some of her last moments of life to tell him “I so like you”. After saving his life, his life, and not just because of a sudden act of recklessness, nor out of debit, nor out of pride, nor out of self-sacrifice. She had seen something in their future. And she had even said it, in that heartbreaking last message, "if I’m gone, I know what you could become".

What could he and John become? A family? When he thought about it, he felt like laughing and crying at the same time. Right now, they were the complete opposite of a family. I'm sorry Mary, I'm letting you down again.

John was light years away from this. He was shrouded in a cloud of muted, unresolved anger, an anger that almost made noise. In the early days it could be clearly felt, as he banged pots and pans washing dishes in the kitchen; Sherlock's was now almost always empty, while from his he often had to throw away the leftovers, because his stomach was completely knotted. He was getting thinner and thinner. Sherlock, who ate by force to make him happy, would have given anything to see him soft again, wrapped up in one of his old ugly sweaters.

The first few days, there was a silence in the house that pierced the air. Rosie stayed downstairs most of the day, at Mrs. Hudson's, who spoiled her in every way possible to spoil a one-year-old girl. John used to come home from work, lock himself in the bathroom, have a shower, lock himself in his room until dinnertime. God knows what he was doing. Then he used to come back downstairs and set about making dinner for them and the baby. They ate in an unreal atmosphere, without looking at each other's faces, trying not even to make noise with the cutlery.

Sherlock was still fine with it. For him, it had already been a miracle the day that, after a month of spending more time in Baker Street than in his own home, John had arrived with a van from a moving company. He had unloaded a couple of large duffel bags and some unidentified baby paraphernalia: a crib, a changing table, a walker perhaps? He had left Rosie downstairs, and had thrown open the apartment door, surprising him in his usual brooding position in the armchair.

The first thing Sherlock had seen landing in the hallway was a black duffel bag thrown clumsily through the door frame, followed by John himself entering with a heavy step and unceremoniously informing him that he had taken over the room upstairs. "I thought it would be all right with you," he had added half-heartedly, without looking him in the face. Sherlock had stood up abruptly, showing far too much approval. Even the bright smile that had sprung to his face - a real smile that he had seldom given to anyone other than one of the three Watsons - said a lot about how much he was okay with that decision. "Of course it's okay, John," he had merely pointed out. Then, to moderate his enthusiasm, he had sat back down, closed his eyes and rejoined his hands. When he opened them again, there was John, preparing dinner. Their first dinner together, again, on Baker Street, as roommates, since before his flight off the roof of the Barts. Sherlock had felt something restructuring inside him.

They'd built a sort of routine, marked mostly by the little girl's rhythms, that she didn't even have to make too much effort to bewitch them. It came naturally to her. She had voices, looks and gestures that could melt a brick.

One night they were watching a cartoon. Or rather, a cartoon was running on the TV while John sat on one side of the couch staring into blank space, Sherlock sat on the other side of the couch dismembering some electronic obsolete object that looked like a video game console and Rosie sat on the carpet playing with wooden cubes. At a certain point, the child looked up at the cartoon; some might say she took a critical look as she watched that sort of black rabbit in a red tracksuit spouting the worst platitudes with unbearable background music. Rosie turned towards the sofa: she looked first at John, lost in the void, then at Sherlock lost in the integrated circuits. She dropped the cubes, climbed into the middle seat of the couch. "Rosie bore," she said with all the seriousness it could take for a child to express her deepest feelings. Then she grabbed them both with chubby little hands, John by the left arm, Sherlock by the right, getting their instant attention. "Daddy will you play with me?" The sly eyes darted from one to the other. John and Sherlock looked at each other with the exact same expression as when they had seen Mary's DVD predicting their future. A mixture of dismay and mutual understanding. A thousand questions and a thousand answers bounced around in the usual game of looks they had been playing for years without even realizing it. And then one of them answered "Of course!", while the other answered "What are we playing?". And for a moment they looked back at each other and gave each other a tiny smile. That had been the evening. From that moment on, it seemed to Sherlock that he had glimpsed a glimmer of hope toward a less leaden future.

John's smiles were actually becoming more frequent, especially since he had started following some cases with him again. The one with the “dancing men”, which had amused him greatly. Not to mention the high-speed chase in Rathbone Place. All small but memorable things in the gray desert that until recently had been his permanent state of mind. Of course, in the evening that black cloud often reeled him back in, and so sometimes he got up from the couch, turned off the TV and went up to his room dragging his feet without even saying “goodnight”. But sometimes the light in his eyes would shine again as before.

Today, as soon as we returned from that mad rush, his eyes glittered just like that. "What idiocy!" he exclaims in that usual tone between bewildered and amused, bending down on his knees for a moment. "How idiotic to take a two-mile walk running to chase a guy on a bicycle!" Sherlock takes a moment to look at him. It's been six months since he came home. He has on one of his old sweaters again, gained some weight back. His hair is short again, the way he used to keep it. There's only a few more wrinkles to make him notice the difference from when he first saw it in the Barts' lab. He is on the point to to smile, so he puts on his saccent tone: "It was essential to see the style that guy pedaled to solve the case, John. From a cab I could never have ascertained that. Besides, a little exercise is good for you at your age", he ventures, with a half smile. John once again makes that expression of when he wants to punch him, but in the end he is ready to forgive him everything. And Sherlock slips into that smile again, like the day Angelo rang at their door to bring back John’s crutch, in that same hallway. The smile that says "trust me, I know what to do for your own good". John stares for a few seconds contemplating that expression that makes him feel for a moment as if he were the stupidest and most precious person in the world at the same time.

Then Rosie's voice is heard from Mrs. Hudson's apartment. They both turn their heads in that direction, simultaneously, both of them suddenly aware of everything again, like an anvil suddenly dropping on your shoulders, and you know it but you're never quite ready. Sherlock steps aside and resumes his resigned attitude, heading for the coat rack to hang up his coat. He takes one last look at John, who gives him back one that oscillates between desolate and doggy. Then he lowers his gaze, as John goes to retrieve Rosie. Again for today, the magic ends here.         

Chapter Text

Innocent, Rosie certainly is, being only a child of less than two years: a spotless mind, just as Heloise wrote to Abelard in a poem that was inside a five-pound sylloge by Alexander Pope that Sherlock had to read years ago to solve the case of a dealer in rare books.

“Eternal sunshine of a spotless mind!” A verse that had stuck in his mind and that curiously comes back to his mind just now, while the little girl is innocently scrambling a stuffed rabbit, sitting on the floor not far from him. He is rummaging through his mental palace to try to solve an apparently insoluble riddle: how to remove a work of art worthy of Jackson Pollock but made with markers instead of tempera and done not on a canvas but on a leather sofa. Sherlock looks at her again: innocent she certainly is, but from the expression with which she's looking at him, with a smile that seems to hide the most perfect criminal plan, he's not so sure anymore.

When John returns from work, he doesn't even hear him come in, he's so absorbed in solving the case: and that's how the doctor finds him, with a bucket of soap and yellow elbow-length gloves, while he's scrubbing the back of the sofa with the utmost self-denial. He's stronger than he is: he starts laughing like a madman. He ditches the leather briefcase and bends over his knees, laughing to tears. Sherlock jerks at the sudden sound and then continues the operation, without turning around: "I don't understand what you're laughing at, it's a solution that I've studied specifically to remove spirit dyes without ruining leatherette surfaces". "But how," John laughs between laughs, "is this sofa fake? "Not that I've ever wondered about that," replies the detective, still without turning around, as he shifts a strand of hair that has fallen in front of his eyes with his gloved hand, "but, unfortunately, yes. She doesn't turn to look at him because she doesn't want to show him how pleased she is to see him laughing. Oh, maybe she'd even clown around to hear him laugh like that again. John retrieves the briefcase and goes upstairs, still giggling and commenting to himself about the only investigative consultant in the world who cleans with the energy of an expert maid.

A few days after the couch case, Sherlock sneaks out before dawn, while the house is still asleep. He's been following a trail for a couple of days. Serial deaths among homeless junkies. Deaths that don't make sensational news, of course, but about which his network of irregular friends keeps him constantly informed. The police investigate listlessly; in the end it's just junkies dying of overdoses, though they do so more frequently than usual.

He returns home in the afternoon, before John, and picks up Rosie from Mrs. Hudson's. He takes her upstairs, clutches her to his chest, and then makes her do the airplane lying on the perfectly spackled couch.

That's how John finds them, and he gives one of those half-smiles of when he doesn't want to flinch but just can't bring himself to remain impassive. "You left early this morning," he says.

"Your observational skills are becoming more amazing every day," Sherlock replies as he makes funny faces at the little girl while continuing to hold her up to him, and she's laughing her ass off. He's in his pajama pants, wearing an old gray short-sleeved shirt. It’s because t's starting to get hot, it's late spring. But it's rare for him to be uncovered like that, though. He's usually always in his impeccable suit, even at home, at any time of the day or night. At the most he puts on one of his fluttering robes.

Now that he thinks about it, John hasn't seen his arms since the day he uncovered his left in the fake analyst's house, only to find it horribly battered. Even in the face of that painful evidence he didn't believe him. Of course, it was his fault; he was, and perhaps still is, the incarnation of deception. Perhaps she shouldn't leave him with the child so lightly. He's still an addict with a clear, also if latent, tendency towards self-destruction. He peeks at his forearms, hoping not to be noticed. They are as smooth as silk, even the scars from the holes are gone now. Naturally, Sherlock notices, and even feels a little offended, but he says nothing. He is certainly not innocent. On the contrary, he is guilty. Guilty of too much arrogance, too much self-confidence. Norbury, Norbury, he repeats in his head like a vain prayer. Then he brings the child to his chest and holds her again. Sorry Rosie, it's my fault you don't have a mom anymore.

In this case of the junkies he decided not to involve John because it's not the usual funny puzzle to be solved while sitting in an armchair or at the most doing a few runs around the city: it's something that involves a bit of field work, nothing too dangerous, but anyway John should not be put at risk for any reason, ever again. Sherlock still occasionally wakes up from his short sleep in a cold sweat, with the image of his best friend chained at the bottom of a well in his eyes. In those moments he would want to go upstairs, throw open the door to his room and make sure John is safe in his bed. Irrational. He really a cup of tea - but not Darjeening, rather the kind you inject into your vein that finally makes your brain slow down and silences all the voices and all the guilt. No tea, we said. Just stay strong and try to get on with everyday life.

John came back home late last night, had an emergency with a patient, had to visit him at home. It's now seven o'clock and he's still sleeping the sleep of the righteous, but Rosie doesn't feel the same way. She wakes up and climbs down from her crib set up next to her father's big bed, on which she climbs to claim his attention. "Daddy, Daddy, I'm hungry!" she announces in his ear, depositing a couple of light slaps on it with her chubby little hand for good measure. John makes a noise that is somewhere between a whine and a grunt and turns away. Before the little girl repeats the same treatment to the other side of his head, she is promptly grabbed and lifted by two strong hands, while Sherlock whispers to her "Let daddy sleep, he's tired from work. I'll make you breakfast." Rosie clings unabashedly to the detective's neck. John smiles in his sleep as he hears her ask as they leave the room, "Will you make me pink milk?" Pink milk is his own special insight, which involves simply putting a drop of tasteless natural food coloring in it; but Rosie raves about it, she's convinced it's unicorn milk. In the end, it's easy to fool an innocent child. Or at least it seems easy.

"Daddy, Daddy, are we going on the giant wheel today?" the little girl breaks the silence of the kitchen by looking up from her pink milk. Sherlock looks up from the newspaper and sets down the buttered toast he had just bitten into. He had promised her the day before, to make her forget a tantrum, naively hoping she would soon forget. "I'm sorry, but I'm busy today, I have to catch a bad guy," he smiles at her, hoping this would put her off the request. "Maybe in the next few days...". "Ouch, you promise and then you don't keep your promises. Dad says that's the worst thing you can do!". Now, that's a tough one. Sherlock lowers his gaze as another load of guilt slams into his shoulders and slides down from there to settle squarely on his stomach. He loss the hunger instantly. He gets up to throw the toast in the garbage can. God, how he need that cup of tea.

John makes his entrance into the kitchen a few minutes later, while he's still leaning against the sink staring at the tiles like he's trying to read the secret of the universe into them. Rosie is blowing bubbles with a plastic straw in her now almost cold pink milk.

"Thank you," he tells him simply, yawning.

"You're welcome," Sherlock answers without turning around. Rosie gets out of her chair and disappears into the living room, from where a few seconds later the sound of a cascade of wooden cubes being knocked over onto the floor can be heard.

"One of these days, someone's going to kill themselves by slipping on one of those cubes," says John as he sits down at the table and pours himself some black coffee. "That would make a really good crime scene," the detective replies and finally decides to turn to him. "Your daughter keeps calling me dad," he resumes, taking care not to put any particular inflection into the sentence. John is silent for a few seconds, then takes a breath and replies, grabbing the newspaper on the table and sinking into it to avoid looking at him: "Of course, we live together, you spend a lot of time with her, you do with her practically everything I do with her. She obviously sees you as another dad. From her point of view, you are." He struggles to maintain a reasonable, almost academic tone.

"Maybe not just from hers," Sherlock replies, and then disappears from the kitchen without giving him time to counter. John follows him with his gaze, blinks repeatedly with an interdicted look, and then goes back to reading the paper. Every now and then, Sherlock says things that are better not to go into.

Sherlock waited until everyone was asleep to sneak out of the house. It's after midnight. On the corner of Dorset Street and Manchester Street, just across the street from Paddington Gardens, Wiggins is waiting for him. "Are you sure?" asks Sherlock. "Yeah, it's the new drug dealer, the one we tailed a few days ago, too... but he only sells to those at the last stage, doesn't give it to anyone smart enough to wonder what's in it."

"And where is him at the moment?", asks the detective.

"Follow me," says only Wiggins in that nasal voice of his, starting up with his shaky step. They spot a guy in his forties, all dressed in black in an unmistakable attitude, leaning against a lamppost. He's waiting for customers. Sherlock lurks behind a trash can to follow his movements. He had left Wiggins behind, because that guy is too slow and too loud. What he didn't expect was that the drug dealer would have a lookout with such expert, spic-and-span manners. Perhaps an ex-military man, at any rate someone well trained... Sherlock feels him swoop in behind him without even realizing it. He is grabbed by the neck and slammed against the wall. This guy is also in his forties, cold and determined eyes, also dressed in black. It almost looks like some sort of uniform. "Our boss is politely asking you to take your attention away from his business" he whispers to him as he comes disgustingly close to his ear, "and this is his business card" he concludes spitting a little. Sherlock, who is struggling to get his head away from that unpleasant face, not before having recorded all the salient clues he could get from its appearance, feels more surprised than truly dismayed by the pain that suddenly attacks his right side, below the last floating rib. Then he's pushed back against the wall and finally dropped, as the footsteps of the guy disappearing into the dark echo through the buildings.

Sherlock tries to follow him, but is forced to freeze immediately by the pain that begins to increase, along with the typical hot, wet feeling that spreads across his skin. He shifts under the light of a streetlamp before deciding to move the flap of his coat and unbutton his jacket. There's already a big red patch on his nice white shirt that's spreading as far as the eye can see down his side. At that moment, Wiggins arrives and looks at him in fright: "What have you done?" he asks him in that senile tone of his. Sherlock is angry with himself for the umpteenth time since this morning. How could he have been such an idiot? Already It already seems to him to hear John's screams. Maybe he can always find a way to disappear for a few days, maybe get covered by Mycroft, even if the idea of asking him for help is as repugnant as ever. Better to have some of his doctors sew him up and then come back home with some excuse and forever keep secret the fact that he took a stab for wanting to go out alone, at night and with no other assistance than that of a slowed-down junkie. Yes, he will do that. He's already rummaging through his jacket for his phone when suddenly everything goes black. "Shit" Sherlock has the time to think, before he slumps to the ground.

Chapter Text

"That's impossible! I don't believe it. I can't believe it. I always forget that this is his nature, the fault is only mine, I keep trusting this bastard...": this is the litany of angry screams that has been going on from half an hour outside the door of his hospital room. John hasn't come in to see him yet, but it's certain that he's already documented about his condition extensively and, knowing that his life is not in danger, is now taking advantage of the fact that he's stuck on his bed and has to hear all the curses he's hurling at him, lashing out at anyone who comes within his range. First and foremost, Greg, of course.

"I swear I didn't know anything about it, John," the inspector justifies himself in an almost frightened voice. "I don't know what he's up to, I have no idea who did it, and there's no way to get anything sensible out of that Wiggins guy." "Then arrest him!" rants John, who would be more than happy to know he's behind bars, given the bad influence he's had on his roommate for years. "And what am I going to arrest him for? For calling an ambulance? Please, John, be reasonable," Lestrade tries to appease him. "I'm done being reasonable for a long time!" shouts John again, so that even Mycroft, who has made his appearance in the corridor and is approaching with his phlegmatic step, can hear him.

"Dr. Watson, if you don't stop screaming I'm afraid security will be here any minute. Your screams can be heard from outside the ward," the major Holmes points out, carefully examining the handle of his umbrella.

"Please, Mycroft, don't you get involved too" roars John. Then he looks at him for a moment and smiles one of his smiles, one of those angry smiles that are usually a preamble to the irreparable. "But what am I to expect from you, in the end you're exactly the same selfish asshole he is," he concludes, his voice rising in a crescendo over the last words, which he addresses directly to Sherlock's door frame before kicking a plastic chair.

Sherlock feels a twinge in his side and closes his eyes. Perhaps he imagines that kick landed on his ribs instead of the chair, right there where he's already taken so many from John that day in the morgue. Terrible moment, but comforting in a way. If it would have done any good, maybe brought Mary back, he would have been lying there on that floor getting kicks from John for a whole day. 

Outside the door now there is silence. Everyone went to see him, except John. The hospital will release him in a couple of days, fortunately the wound didn't damage any vital organs and is healing well. He already feels a lump in his throat at the thought of the climate he'll find when he sets foot in Baker Street again. With all the work he'd done over the past few months to get John back to being a little more peaceful. Now he will have to start all over again, in fact it will be even worse. Now he's lost his confidence again.

He asked a burly nurse for morphine only to get a disapproving look and a sarcastic response, "Mr. Holmes, after all that has happened to you over the past few years, you're not going to tell me that you can't stand the pain of a small cut?" Well, here's another avid reader of John's blog.

The long black car sent by his brother deposits him in front of the door of 221B and then silently pulls back into traffic. For a moment Sherlock is tempted to chase after it and ask the driver to pick him up and take him as far away from there as possible. He sighs and straightens his back. Then he walks through the doorway and is greeted by Mrs. Hudson's affectionate welcome home. "Is he up?" asks Sherlock in an uncertain voice. "He's up," confirms the elderly woman. "Oh, now don't quarrel, though," she then adds in an almost broken voice. "For my part, I'll do my best," replies the detective in a colorless tone; "however, I'm afraid it won't be enough," he concludes in a tired voice as he starts up the stairs after hanging up his coat.

Sherlock opens the door of the apartment trying to make as little noise as possible. He crosses the threshold and sees him slumped in his armchair with a half-full glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle next to it on the small wooden table. "Hello John" is the best she can manage to utter, in a low voice. The sentence hovers around the room and as the only response he gets a mocking cry, halfway between a laugh and a grunt. After a few more moments, John's voice finally breaks the silence. "Welcome back to the great detective," the doctor enunciates in a tone of derision, raising his glass in a solitary toast before emptying it in a single gulp. The voice is quite firm, though. Maybe he's not really drunk.

"Rosie?" says Sherlock, approaching shyly. "She's at Molly's," mutters the doctor. "Good thing," Sherlock points out, shifting his gaze to the bottle. Then he closes his eyes and bites his tongue realizing too late the enormity of what he said. "John..." he immediately resumes as if he wanted to apologize, but he doesn't make it in time. The doctor has already slammed his glass full force on the small table and stands up abruptly, facing him.

"What is it, Sherlock? You're not by any chance lecturing me, are you? I misunderstood, didn't I?" The tone of his voice has already risen several decibels. Sherlock commits the additional imprudence of taking a step back. "Well, are you scared now? Now? Of me? Not of going around at night getting stabbed, that's perfectly normal for you, isn't it? But you're backing away from me! What, are you afraid I'll beat you up again? Maybe I haven't beat you enough yet..." on this last sentence his voice softens while his eyes glaze over and he looks away.

Sherlock opts for the mocking approach, even though he knows it could be the anteroom of catastrophe. "If it'll do any good, you can certainly beat me more," he does as he spreads his arms slightly, provoking him.

John looks at him in disbelief, as if considering accepting the offer; then he covers his face with his hands and growls. "Your lies will send me to the nuthouse. And that little girl loves you in spite of herself. One of these days I'll have to explain to her why he doesn't even have you anymore, besides his mother?" She's screaming now. He leans back in his chair and grabs something white. A cloth wrap full of dried blood stains. Evidently he was holding it in her lap while he drank, before Sherlock arrived.

Sherlock solves the riddle in an instant. It's his shirt. John rolls it up better and throws it at him. It hits him in the chest, and then falls to the ground with a tender pof, opening like a white rose streaked with red. Sherlock lowers his gaze and stares at it for a few seconds.

"This is yours," John growls. "They gave it to me at the hospital along with the rest of your things. I'm sick of your blood. I can't see it anymore." 

"John, I didn't want to lie to you, I wanted to keep you safe," Sherlock begins in a pained tone. "It wasn't supposed to be anything dangerous, but still, I didn't want to involve you...you have Rosie and..."

"And what???" rants John interrupting him. "What? Don't you dare use Rosie as an excuse. Don't you dare make me out to be some poor widowed family man to protect. I don't need your pity. I don't fucking want it. You think I don't see you, wandering in here like you're walking on crystal for fear of pissing me off? Start playing that damn violin at night again, do your damn experiments, even put the body parts back in the fridge if you want to, but stop treating me like I'm to be pitied! I can't stand it anymore. In fact, I can't stand YOU anymore, really. I'm leaving".

So saying he grabs the bottle and walks towards the door, while Sherlock yells after him "May we know where you're going?". "None of your business!" he hears shouting from behind the door that slams making the whole building shake. Then Sherlock distinctly senses the thud of John's body collapsing while sitting on the first step.

The detective dashes into his room at a furious pace, throws himself on the bed on his back and covers his face with his long violinist hands, stifling a cry of exasperation. His brain keeps clamoring for that blessed tea.

More than an hour has passed when he gets up from that bed and walks briskly to the door. He opens it and then leans down to pick up John, who is sleeping half collapsed on the step, the bottle at his side empty. He loads him up with some difficulty and drags him inside the house.

"Leave me alone, I'll do it myself," mutters John as Sherlock holds him up. "I don't think so, and I'm not going to let you sober up on the landing. You're not a good advertisement for customers," the detective replies as he kicks open the door to his room and then tosses him with little grace onto his bed, just as John had done to him when he was drugged by the Woman. "My room..." mutters the doctor again. "Then go by yourself, I'm certainly not taking you up there," concludes the detective as he throws a blanket over him and then leaves, closing the door behind him.

John wakes up after four hours with a splitting headache. He was no longer used to drinking like that. It got dark and he feels completely disoriented. Where the fuck is he? He turns his head slightly and finds himself in front of the painting with the periodic table. He shakes his head with a half smile, and immediately groans from the pain in the movement. Only Sherlock could hang a giant periodic table in his room. He sinks his heated face into the pleasantly cool pillow for a moment and inhales. It smells of Sherlock; he obviously knows his smell, but now he smells him as closely as he ever has. It's the first time in all the years they've known each other that he's lying on his bed, he considers. A funny thought to linger on. He basks a few more minutes, then the late hour and the thought of Rosie occurs to him and he rises up in a rush. He walks out of the room squinting in the too bright light of the living room.

Sherlock is in the kitchen preparing tea. John faces the threshold uncertainly.

"I hope you're feeling better, though I don't think so. Acetalide is a tenacious compound to degrade. Still, some ginger tea is a holy hand...I was just about to come bring it to you." "Oh, fancy that, thank you," John does, leaning against the doorframe and frowning with that surprised half-smile that is plastered on his face every time Sherlock does something unexpected and pleasant.

"Rosie's sleeping over at Molly's, we'll pick her up in the morning," Sherlock continues as John watches him juggle the stove in his burgundy robe. Underneath, even tonight, he has a t-shirt and pajama pants. As always when he's in this outfit, he's barefoot and ruffled. "You're a monument of efficiency," the doctor comments before heading for the bathroom. He really needs a shower.

They haven't had dinner. They drank ginger tea and ate a few cookies, still in tenacious silence. Then John went back to sitting in the chair and opened his laptop. To do what is not known, since he hasn't updated the blog since the case of the dancing men (and before that, it had been since immemorial time).

Sherlock walks over to the window and harnesses his violin. He plays one of what he knows are John's favorite tunes. For a moment it seems that time has rewound upon itself, it seems that everything is still undamaged. John closes his eyes and lulls himself into that feeling. Sherlock closes his eyes as well, while his bow dances with gentle movements. Then slowly the melody fades and ends. And with it, the magic again. John re-opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock lowering the violin and bringing his left hand to his right side; and he seems to realize only now that his roommate is hurt, and that despite this he has made the effort to drag him off the landing.

John recovers and rises from his chair. "Let's go," he says in a commanding tone. "Where?" asks Sherlock turning to look at him surprised. "To the bathroom. I'll check those stitches for you. I dread to think what a mess they made in the hospital."

"No need, John, really," the detective replies quite excitedly, going back to harnessing the violin. "Let's go," only John repeats in a tone that admits no reply. Sherlock slumps his shoulders and sighs, then puts down the violin and follows him into the bathroom.

Chapter Text

“And yet I thought you weren't a complete idiot." John is scolding him in a tone that is moderately exasperated but not too high or too mean. "How did you come up with an effort like that? You blew two stitches. And then you were bleeding the whole time. The only solution you could think of is to stick a gauze pad on your wound and don’t tell anything to me?" "It's four drops, it's nothing, John," Sherlock replies in a reasonable tone. "Besides, my doctor wasn't on call," he decides to add, in a tone more sarcastic than cutting. A little payback? He doesn't know exactly, but the result is disconcerting.  

"Excuse me," John admits, incredibly, lowering his gaze after a few seconds of silence. An event so exceptional that Sherlock would like to emphasize it by picking up his violin to play something magniloquent and triumphant. Instead, he just stands there in front of the sink, his arms folded, holding up his old  and frayed blue T-shirt, while John sits on a stool and checks the wound closely. It's a little over two inches long, fortunately it was a small, short blade. A switchblade, probably.  

"I put two adhesive stitches in it," John says. "That should be enough to hold it safe." "I wish that it was enough, to hold it all safe," Sherlock comments half-heartedly, overthinking, as if talking to himself. "What did you say?" John says, looking up at him inquiringly. "Nothing, don't pay any attention to it. I was just thinking about something I read this morning," Sherlock replies in a vague tone.  

"Oookay," the doctor says, stretching the word out of proportion, in the somewhat aphonic tone of when he wants to concentrate. "Let's see what to do," and cautiously places his hands on his hip to stretch the skin. Sherlock involuntarily gasps and inhales a great deal of air. "Everything alright?" mutters John from below, a piece of medical tape between his teeth. "Your hands are frozen," Sherlock comments as he looks up and focuses on the suddenly very interesting appearance of the ceiling beams. "I beg your pardon," the doctor whispers in a gentle tone as he finishes applying the gauze to his wound, "but it's your skin that's warm." His hands linger one on the side of his belly button and one on the last few ribs, just above the wound. Some would say they've stuck to his hip, where they adhere perfectly, to that smooth white skin that never seems to end. "You wouldn't happen to have a fever, would you?" He asks in a doubtful tone. "I don't have a fever, John, I guarantee it, now can we wrap this up? It's been quite a day," Sherlock retorts, speaking as fast as he can, his eyes narrowed, practically breathless. "Sure, we're done," John replies, hastily removing his hands from his body, and stands up to gather the dressing wrappers, not before pausing for a moment to look at his hip bone protruding from above the elastic of his pajama pants. He's always amazed at how it's still all edges and muscles.  

Sherlock pulls his shirt down over his abdomen as if he's going to pull it up to his feet and then leaves the bathroom saying goodnight and making a deliberately fatigued and aching gait. Sometimes, he's learned by now, with John it's more effective to play the victim than the shoulder to cry on. 

"Good night, Sherlock," the doctor does indeed reply to him, still in that gentle tone, as he watches the lanky figure walk through the door, covered only by those sagging pants and that threadbare T-shirt that falls slabby on every curve of his back. John gives another half-smile, unseen, and is unaware that Sherlock is also barely smiling as he walks away. A truce seems to be unexpectedly established.  

Sherlock is lying on his bed but sleep is a distant mirage. He had to beat a hasty retreat because it was definitely starting to get too hot in that bathroom and he was feeling a little dizzy. In fact he still feels a strange tachycardia, which could be the effect of stress and exertion. He thinks of John's head pressed into his pillow. That hard head of an inflexible, flawed man that he trusts more than himself. He puts his hand on his stomach, trying to find the exact place where John had pressed his one, which felt really cold, cold enough to scald him. For a moment he wonders idly if he's left a mark there. Still, he wouldn't mind. 

On the morning following that eventful afternoon and strange evening, they pick up Rosie from Molly's. They step out into the dim light of London spring and take a cab, side by side. Strangely, this time they aren't rushing anywhere to get to some grisly crime scene. They're just there, sitting in the back seat, each one looking out his window at the city in religious silence. "It's a beautiful morning," John says suddenly, however. "It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining," Sherlock echoes him after a few seconds. John is silent for a few moments, then turns to him with furrowed brows. "Did you really quote Queen?" he asks him incredulously. "I once solved a case of a DJ who was supposed to be dead, but instead we found him hiding in a closet in his grandmother's house. He had all the Queen records with him," the detective says, looking straight ahead, very serious. Then he turns to John and gives him one of those real smiles that light up the whole block. John laughs, and then gives him a gentle shove, and then laughs again. Sherlock feels like something warm sliding down from his head to the center of his chest.  

They even sat at Molly's kitchen table, having tea. They even laughed as they reenacted some of the more absurd stories that happened during their careers. The speckled blonde, and many others. Then they put to Rosie her jacket on while she was telling the story of all the cartoons she had seen with Aunt Molly, and they went to Regent's Park, all three of them, to get some sun. They even fed the ducks. An almost perfect day, even without murders.  

Sherlock wonders why, every time they pass an almost perfect day, he has to go to bed with the concrete feeling that it might be his last. 

Summer is starting. John is always with the phone in his hand for a few days now. Sherlock watches him, of course, but says nothing. It's been going on since Rosie's last pediatric checkup. Sherlock knows all too well where the clue is leading, but he continues to pretend he doesn't know anything, even when he tries to tell him again about the poor developments in the case of the homeless junkies and all he gets in response are a few distracted "huh?".  

A few days later, predictably, around dinner time John comes down from his room in a suit and tie, all combed and immersed in a cloud of intoxicating cologne. He has Rosie in his arms, tells her "Say hello Sherlock! Hello Sherlock!". He even mimes the gesture with his hand, in a rather silly voice, and then takes her at a steady pace downstairs to Mrs. Hudson.  

By the time he goes back upstairs, Sherlock has already taken the hint, of course, but decides to play coy. "Why did you bring her downstairs?" he asks him, "I could have kept her." "Because I might be late and I don't want you to be disturbed. You'll have things to do, won't you?"  

Way to ease your conscience, Sherlock thinks. Do you feel guilty going out to dinner with a woman and leave me with your daughter?  

"Well, I’m going… have a nice evening!" John says in a vaguely cheerful tone that sounds like a trumpet at a funeral. Sherlock doesn't even answer him. He's already busy trying to figure out who the woman in question is. Definitely that Maggie he always meets at the pediatrician's office. Also a widow, with a child about Rosie's age. John has probably done his homework and considers her a suitable subject to act as a mother figure for his daughter, who lately, at the park, is always enthusiastic, bragging to all the other children that she has two dads instead of just one.  

His project is legitimate, no doubt, perhaps even wise.  

Yet Sherlock, now that he finds himself alone again in the living room of 221b and looks around for a moment bewildered, with the same face he had when he found himself alone while everyone was dancing the disco at John's wedding, begins to feel an inexplicable rage inside, rising like a storm tide.  

Mary, why the fuck did you do what you did? You made reality deviate from its established path. You blew the threads, and now the fabric is irreparably ruined. I was supposed to be over the ground a long time ago, that was my time. And you were supposed to be next to your husband and daughter. But instead we're here now, you dead, me alone, and John with another woman. Nothing could be more wrong. The very idea seems like an insult to the entire universe. If this is John's revenge for all the times we've lied to him, it's a far too cold and indigestible dish.

John comes home earlier than expected. It is only eleven o'clock, and as he hangs up his jacket in the hall he hears chatter and laughter coming from Mrs. Hudson's apartment. The glass door, pulled over, is illuminated by a welcoming glow. John peeks through the crack and sees all three of them there, at the table; Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are entertaining Rosie with some of her fabric puppets, while they laugh and remember who knows what funny story from the past. In front of them is a plate with a mountain of donuts.

John suddenly feels out of place, and is almost tempted to sneak upstairs unheard. Then, soon after, he feels like a selfish shit. Having passed through these two stages, he decides to knock lightly on the glass. "Come in!" the elderly woman greets him with her silvery voice still alight with laughter.

John ajar the door and sticks his head into the warmth of the kitchen. "Am I interrupting?" he says in an uncertain voice.

"Made donuts!!!" exclaims Rosie raising her arms, in the height of excitement.

"Good evening John, don't stand in the doorway, come on in!" the landlady echoes her.

"John," Sherlock greets, bowing his head slightly. Suddenly he is tremendously serious again.

The doctor takes a few awkward steps and then approaches the table. "Fun night, I see," he comments with a faint smile. "I imagine more so than yours, since you're back so early," Sherlock raises in a caustic tone, then jerks up in one of his precise, millimeter-measured movements. "Ladies, it's been a pleasure," he declares addressing a smile and a brief bow to both of them, before making his way to the front door. "Goodnight John," he concludes without turning around, and then leaves the apartment and heads upstairs in the flutter of his blue robe.

John turns a quizzical glance to Mrs. Hudson, who shrugs. "Donut?" the woman offers instead, deflecting the topic. "No, thank you, I think we're going to go to bed," John quips, reaching over to grab Rosie.

"No, I'm staying here, we have donuts for breakfast in the morning!" reiterates the child. John turns again to the old woman, who smiles indulgently and declares, "Of course you stay here, and tomorrow morning we'll have a great time having breakfast together... John, don't worry, Rosie is at home here" and dismisses him with a big smile. John considers the situation for a moment and then decides it's okay, he needs a good night's sleep after all.

The good night's sleep is interrupted around three o'clock by Sherlock's hand repeatedly shaking him by the shoulder. "What... what is it?" stammers John, suddenly waking up. "You were about to wake up the whole street," Sherlock says turning on the light on the nightstand. "Huh?" the doctor does again, bewildered. "I guess you were having one of your nightmares... it's been a while, actually," comments the detective in a clinical tone. "Fact is, you were screaming your head off." Sherlock has now leaned over him and is very close. He scrutinizes him with slightly frowning eyebrows, an inquiring gaze as if he could see through his skull, right into his amygdala, dissecting it strand by strand until he discovers the innermost recesses of his thoughts.

John remains motionless, blinking fast, as if he was trapped under that magnetic gaze crowned by shaggy curls. Then, at a certain point, he recovers by clearing his voice. "Ah... well... I beg your pardon..." he says, making to turn away to go back to sleep.

"Well," Sherlock says and straightens up. "I'm sorry the date night didn't have any relaxing effects," he declares a bit sharply before leaving the room.

John makes to close his eyes, but then changes his mind and rises to sit on the bed, looking at him sideways. "Can you tell me what the problem is?" he asks him in that slightly shrill tone of voice he always gets when he's full of disappointment with his roommate; the same tone as when he was explaining to him the importance of the solar system. A tone that has always elicited only one reaction from Sherlock and that is one of skin-deep annoyance. "I don't think it's my place to explain it to you, John," the detective spits in fact, frostily. And then he leaves the room. John remains perplexed for a moment, then turns off the light and lies down again, but sleep is now gone.

In his inner deeps, he knows, why Sherlock is angry with him. Because he considers this new attempt at a relationship of his, as a sort of posthumous betrayal of Mary. Not that he doesn't feel the same way. In fact, tonight, when he was at the table with this woman, cute and pretty yes, but who did nothing but talk about the best nurseries in London, cutting-edge educational models and eco-friendly toys, he even had to hide a few yawns behind a napkin, and then felt some twinge of guilt sting somewhere inside his rib cage. Still, he chased it away. He's not doing it for himself, he's doing it for Rosie, and if Sherlock were less selfish he'd understand that too. Sooner or later, he will understand it, no doubt. Mulling over this vaguely consoling hypothesis, John slowly slips back into sleep.

Sherlock, for his part, descends the stairs in a fury and locks himself in his room. He rummages through various hiding places until he finds the last of his supplies. A half squashed pack of cigarettes, hidden at the bottom of a drawer, which barely contains two or three. He opens the bedroom window and smokes them one after the other, watching the smoke disperding into the night sky sprinkled with a few stars, while the cool breeze lightly ripples the skin of his arms. Mary, how we would need your problem-solving efficiency right now.

Chapter Text

"Maybe it's fair like that." This is Sherlock's conclusion as he stares at the floor of his room, lying half-naked on his stomach on his unmade bed, his head and arms dangling off the edge after another nearly sleepless night. He's basically been upside down for almost half an hour, as if the dizziness he'll get when he gets back up could be some stupid, naive substitute for a good trip of colombian white.

Lately, he's taken to sleeping at rambling hours again, and eating only when he remembers or when he can't help himself because John is watching. Maybe he can't keep him here forever. Maybe it was a foregone conclusion that sooner or later he'd be on his way again. Maybe all widowers sooner or later move on, and with the memory in their hearts of their first love they open up to a new story.

This is not really his field, what can he know about girls, romantic and tormented love stories and all that other nonsense. He doesn't know anything about it and he certainly doesn't care.

But the one with Rosie is a bond that is now inseparable for him. And it's useless to stop and think about what John means by now, again, for his daily life, and to face the daily struggle with his demons, with his guilt feelings that now materialize in an endless list including a woman who died to save him, a crazy sister, a best friend child erased from memory, just to stop at the first and main positions.

John, standing in the eye of the storm, is the key to moving forward, along with his little pink girl who calls him daddy, him whom no one would have thought responsible enough to even trust him with a goldfish. Yet, now, this is the framework that keeps him anchored to reality. Habit. Watching you grow. A purpose. Besides, the three of them have been living together for quite a while now.

But alas, it's also been a month now that John has been going out to dinner once a week with this baby expert chick, who he still hasn't had the courage to introduce to him, though. Maybe he's afraid he'll run her off, like he's run off all his other countless girlfriends, before Mary, of course. Then again, no one can ever be like Mary, ever again, in the whole world. There's the Woman, yes, but she's just an adversary with a certain charm. Mary, on the other hand, was her ally, irreplaceable, wise, quick, determined. Perfect.

Maybe John and Rosie will leave soon to stay with this insignificant Maggie and her brat; at least, this is the only positive side, he will be able to go back to his cups of tea without too many qualms. The really healing ones, other than ginger tea. The kind that can silence the constant rumble that now rings in his ears. It's a storm sound, a storm that thickens, thickens on the horizon without deciding to unload.

It seems to Sherlock that he is living in a state of permanent countdown.

Meanwhile, homeless junkies continue to die. It's just a bad time.

But life somehow has to go on. That's just the way it is, even though it actually pretty much sucks again.

It's Saturday night. That means it's another one of those nights where John gets dressed up and goes out to dinner with the breastfeeding and natural fiber expert. Rosie is taken downstairs and he's left there alone, half-lying in his chair scratching a temple with John's gun, resisting the urge to unload the entire magazine at that smiley face smiling mockingly at him from the wall.

After a while, he gets up with a sudden movement. He wanders around the room a bit, trying to decide whether to go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's again tonight or maybe go outside the house to see what the situation is like in the uptown drug business. But before he's made up his mind, it's the landlady who comes up to him with the baby in her arms, slouching and with flaming red cheeks. "What do you think, Sherlock?" she asks him in her most concerned tone of voice. "I think she has a fever..." Sherlock promptly takes her in his arms as the elderly woman wrings her hands in concern. He rests his lips on her forehead. "Yes, she's hot, but it won't be anything serious, don't worry. We'll put her to bed, give her a cold compress and phone her father."

Yeah, too bad John's cell phone rings off the hook. After half an hour, the baby starts vomiting, and the thermometer reads 39.5. Sherlock however remains calm, dials 999 and briefly explains the facts. After a few minutes, there are paramedics who examine her.

John, who has picked up his cell phone to take it out of silent mode after driving Maggie home (and after being bored to death tonight as well) finds Sherlock's missed calls and calls him back instantly. But this time it's him who doesn't answer.

John rushes home at lightning speed. When he arrives, the ambulance is still parked at the front door with its flashing lights on. John climbs all the steps at a speed he has never experienced before and bursts into the living room, where he finds Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson just dismissing the emergency pediatrician.

"What's going on?" he asks addressed to all three of them. "Oh, you're Dr. Watson, right? Rosie's father?..." says the sharp-faced young doctor with a smile. "Don't worry, I've already explained everything to your partner," she adds, "Now excuse me but I have another call… Keep calm and have a nice evening!" and disappears down the stairs with the two nurses, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson.

John is so upset that this time he doesn't even bother to point out that he is not gay. Instead he looks up at Sherlock and looks at him with a desolate face.

Sherlock would like to dump all his disapproval on him. That would be perfect. See, you were out pouring wine to some stupid chick who doesn't even know what an alkaloid is, while I was here taking care of your daughter.

Say it, Sherlock. That’s easy. It's on the tip of your tongue now. Say it and you'll feel better. When he gives himself this kind of advice, who knows why, he always seems to hear Moriarty's voice in his head.

Instead, the detective just stares at John for a few seconds with that gaze of his that can pierce the walls, the same gaze that he gave him, in this very living room, shortly after they met, when he tried to intervene on his toxic habits in front of Lestrade. Then he turns sharply and heads for John's room. The doctor immediately goes after him and says, "Is it too much to ask what the heck happened?"

Sherlock doesn't answer him until he has arrived in front of Rosie's crib. He casually sits down on John's bed, which is right next the crib, and leans over to the little girl, who is now sleeping peacefully. He places a hand on her forehead. Her fever is coming down. John approaches but still doesn't sit down next to him. "So?" he asks again. "It's just a flu virus, John." Sherlock answers in a whisper, not looking at him, but rather continuing to stroke Rosie's blonde, slightly sweaty curls. "The pediatrician said that’s a particularly aggressive form is circulating. But nothing that can't be fixed with a little antipyretic. She's only vomited twice, so they didn't find her very dehydrated. They say to give her water often in small sips." "Sure," John does, adjusting his tone of voice to Sherlock's and finally sitting down next to him, "too many liquids all at once would make her vomit again." "Oh, someone finally remembered he’s a doctor!" says Sherlock, still in a whisper, with a slightly sarcastic tone.

John bows his head, hands on his knees. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He then says, genuinely regretful. The detective is silent for a few seconds, and then asks, "And what you're sorry for?" "That I wasn't there, okay?" says John, still in a whisper, but concussing his tone a bit, and then calming it down soon after. "That I didn't answer the phone. That you had to do everything yourself." "I wasn't alone, John. Mrs. Hudson was there."

"You're a perfect father," the doctor draws out after a few seconds of silence. Sherlock turns to look at him sharply, surprise painted in his widened eyes. "Much better than I am, anyway," he adds, bowing his face again, opening and closing his fists resting on his knees, as he always does when he's feeling particularly stressed. Sherlock, as if guided by some mysterious inner force, moves closer to him, almost making his right leg join John's left one.

Then, it is the same mysterious force that makes him stretch out his right hand, slowly, as if in slow motion, until it reaches the doctor's left, intertwining them without finding resistance. John stays looking at their joined hands on his knee for at least twenty seconds, blinking slowly, looking puzzled. Then, without looking at him, he asks him, lowering his voice even more, almost in an inaudible whisper, "What are you doing?".

"I'm probably trying to comfort you"; Sherlock replies just as softly, staring at the floor. John is silent a few more seconds, and then whispers, "Well, thank you, I'd say that's working," and slowly reciprocates the squeeze with his fingers. "You’re welcome”, the detective replies again, and John out of the corner of his eye sees him barely smile as he tenaciously continues to stare at the floor, and he smiles as well.

"Dads sleep together!!!" a voice of perfect gaiety, accompanied by a silvery laugh, jolts them both awake, and they jolt awake pulling themselves up in unison, even risking to give theirselves a head butt. Evidently, they have both finally collapsed from sleep, sideways on John's bed, in their clothes from the night before and in some completely unnatural position, so much so that the doctor feels his neck completely broken and stretches in pain with a big yawn. Only after the yawn does he seem to realize the absurdity of the situation. Sherlock, for his part, just gives him a coy smile and then shrugs, as if to say it doesn’t matter. John smiles too, a nice, wide, clear smile in the morning light. In the meantime, the little girl gets off the crib and slips between them, throwing her arms around both of their necks, one by one. She is as fresh as a rose. Thankfully, she's already on the mend.

A parenthesis of near perfect balance follows. The storm sounding in Sherlock's brain have calmed down a bit. The doctor has taken a few days off to follow up on the little girl's recovery, so they spend a lot of time, all three of them together, within the cozy walls of Baker Street, spoiled by Mrs. Hudson who prepares all sorts of treats, and occasionally cheered by visits from Molly, Greg, and even Mycroft who manages to find a few minutes to come and make sure in person that the little girl is functioning properly again.

These are strange days. Summer moves forward as if in slow motion. Each day seems to last a week. John and Sherlock are going through a phase in which, without of course realizing it, they can't avoid being in the same room for more than half an hour at a time. They even glance at each other from time to time, as if to control each other. When they catch each other in the act, they make a sort of strange nod of agreement accompanied by a half-smile. John sometimes catches himself looking at his left hand, opening and closing it. Then he checks to see if it's shaking, then shakes his head with a sort of grin and picks up the phone again. There, Sherlock would gladly put that phone into Mrs. Hudson's blender, then crank it up to full speed, just to see what happens.

One evening when Rosie is asleep early, on the couch, in front of yet another cartoon, Sherlock gets up from his chair where he was unwrapping a huge chemistry tome and walks over to the big window behind it. He opens it wide, and props himself up with his arms on the sill to look out and breathe in some of the summer breeze, which in return shakes his curls and creeps under his worn gray t-shirt, making him shiver.

He's got his blue robe on tonight, open, falling over his broad shoulders like some kind of funny cape, puffed up by the cool evening breeze that creeps into the apartment and seems to charge everything with a sense of anticipation, as if anything could happen at any moment.

John lifts his eyes from the mystery novel of the lowest quality that he was reading in his armchair and stares for a moment at the figure he knows so well, standing out with his back to him against the London sky illuminated by the promise of an almost full moon that has not yet risen. He puts the book down on the small wooden table and stands up. She stretches a little, then approaches him. He wears a plaid shirt, blue, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Sherlock feels him coming next to him but doesn't turn his head.

"Are you about to howl?" John asks him in that irreverent tone of his when he doesn't know what to say. "I wouldn't rule it out," Sherlock replies in a benign accent. Then he finally turns to look at him. "Then again, I'm an expert on scary dogs, aren't I?" he raises, and gives him that all-tooth smile that always makes John think of the Cheshire Cat.

"Don't bring that up again, please. You used me as a test animal. Twice!" replies John, raising his voice a bit, but still with a joking tone. "Yeah, that's right," Sherlock shakes his head and laughs. The little girl says something in her sleep. The two immediately lower their tone.

"So what's on your mind? You're not the type to usually be contemplating the starry sky, I guess," John resumes. "Don't you ever think about how damn infamous is time, John?", he asks him in remonstrance, swinging himself up on his arms still pinned to the windowsill, his hands both open on it, his long fingers spread out on the cold marble. "He's the one enemy you can't beat. You always think you've had enough, and meanwhile he wears out and finishes."

John is silent for a while, struck by this confession. Certainly not the sort of thing his roommate usually says, and certainly not in that wistful tone.

"But even if one phase ends, there's always a new one, isn't there?" the doctor replies shyly, hoping he's figured out where he's going with this, as he lowers his gaze and begins to trace with the index finger of his left hand the veins in the marble of the windowsill, two inches from Sherlock's hand. "A better, easier stage perhaps for everyone," he adds.

"Of course," Sherlock does in a tired voice. "We don't even know what simplicity is anymore." "And when did we ever know that," John comments. And then after a pause, he continues, "Anyway, I'm telling you now that you can't disappear like the last time I tried to give you this speech but you went after a royal guard while I was talking." Sherlock smiles nodding at the memory as he continues to stare at the velvet sky. "You, along with Mary, changed my life. And you in a way are all I have left of her, of that crazy world we lived in that time. You and Rosie, of course. We will always be there. Even if things change, we'll still be there, she and I, for you, always."

Here it is, the preparatory speech. Sherlock had managed to get away from it the last time, disappearing from that bench, but this time he had to sit through it all. He feels his body tingling with pain and adrenaline. He clenches his fists, without realizing it. Then he regains his self-control and finally turns to John. "What, are you thinking of joining the Foreign Legion?" he asks him with ill-concealed sarcasm. "I'd certainly like a vacation abroad, but no thanks, as a soldier I've already given up" laughs John raising his hands; "I think we'll be around for quite a while yet". And so saying, he leaves and goes towards Rosie, to pick her up and take her to bed.

Sherlock distinctly feels the instinct to grab him by the arm, make him turn around and maybe start punching him. He can already feel his arm coming off the windowsill and reaching toward his elbow. Fortunately, at the last moment he manages to restrain himself. Instead, he stays for a moment staring at the moon, which, anticipated by the glow, is now slowly rising over the roof of the building across the street.

"Fuck the solar system," Sherlock declares in a half-hearted voice, addressing the indifferent satellite, before retreating through the window and disappearing into his room.

Chapter Text

Time slips slowly by. Another week has passed. John and Sherlock go about their routine. Sherlock solves a couple of 5 cases by himself and with John an 8 case, which includes another good run through the city streets. Adrenaline rush, thrill of the chase, the two of them against the rest of the world. That, at least, still works. The rest of the time he spends with Rosie, as if he has a recondite feeling that any day now she might not be in his life anymore. He wants to enjoy her while he can.

In the meantime, he also tries to get back to focusing on the homeless junkie case, which if he keeps going at this rate could become one of the ones that has taken him the longest to solve in his entire career.

Unfortunately, there's no way he can get his hands on a fix that turns out to be the right one. Besides, it's not the same as going down to the supermarket to buy milk. He needs clues, leads, traces, phone calls with his contacts, and he can only work on it when Rosie isn't home, of course.

But finally, all of a sudden, something concrete moves.

One morning Sherlock picks up the phone and says three or four words to Wiggins. That same afternoon, one of Sherlock's homeless friends crosses paths with John on his way out of work and shoves a tiny foil wrapper into his hand. "You know, who it's for," he whispers very quickly before disappearing into the crowd.

John looks at the contents of his hand, widening his eyes, and then looks around alarmed and hunts for the dose in the back of his trousers’ pocket.

By the time he gets home, he's had time to get a giant anger in his head. He doesn't even stop by to say hello to Rosie at Mrs. Hudson's, but goes straight up the seventeen steps, climbing them two at a time, and bursts into the flat like a tornado.

"Good afternoon, John," Sherlock says in a seraphic tone without looking up from the microscope. Only now does John notice that some experiment has returned to repopulate the kitchen. All stuff that pops up only when Rosie is not in the apartment and magically disappears when she returns. Another one of this asshole's magic spells, John thinks as he walks over to the kitchen table, sticks a hand in his pocket, and then slams the dose down on the table with full force, making every object laid on it vibrate and clink.

"Bad day?" asks Sherlock, still not taking his eyes off the device. "Very bad, and it's about to get bad for you too," the doctor retorts, immediately assuming the most furious tone of voice in his entire range, the one whispered between his teeth. "Now explain to me why your homeless friends mistook me for your personal courier. What, you didn't feel like picking it up yourself? How long has it been since you started using it again, Sherlock?" The volume of the speech has been steadily increasing, and the last sentence is likely to be heard by the entire building.

Sherlock finally takes his eyes off the microscope and stares at him with an expression of most perfect innocence, blinking repeatedly. Then he attacks one of his famous terse soliloquies. "What are you talking about, John? I haven't started anything again. It's because of the case. I asked Wiggins to tell Joey to give it to you to keep safe the boy who managed to buy it. There's definitely an organization behind it, well structured judging by the kind of business cards they leave around," he pauses to touch his now fully healed wound with a grimace. "They know I'm on their trail, and there was a risk they'd recognize me and the whole thing would fall apart. They put very little drug on the market, but at bargain prices. It really seems like their goal is to discreetly take out a few more than average addicts without getting caught. So they can go on for a long time undisturbed with the job of cleaning up the city."

When the explanation is over, Sherlock simply reaches out his hand, as to ask the dotctor to pass him the foil. But John, instead of passing it to him, lets out a broken sigh and places his fists on the table. "So," he begins, "I'm supposed to believe that this stuff isn't for you. That you just want to analyze it?" "Of course, I'm sure at ninety-nine percent that it's cut with some poison... do you think my plans for the immediate future include killing myself before dinner?"

John stifles a laugh. "Sure, yours is a noble purpose, let's save some junkies from certain death," he says with a tugged smile before suddenly grabbing his wrist still outstretched towards him with his left hand, in a feline move. "And I'm the most colossal jerk on earth, aren't I?" he adds raising his voice as he grabs his shirt sleeve with his right hand, trying to unbutton his cuff.

Sherlock immediately stands up and tries to free his arm, but John's grip is firm. "Let go of me right now before this ends badly," he whispers to him through gritted teeth. "I won't let go of you at all, if you don't let me see this arm first," John snaps, suddenly and painfully mindful of the fact that, despite the weather is far warmer than last month, he hasn't seen him running around the house in short sleeves in recent times. Sherlock continues to struggle, but John makes one of his sudden moves that leaves no escape: he twists his arm, making him let out a cry of pain, and locks it under his armpit so he can pin him down and finally unbutton that damn cuff. Then all it takes is a single fluid gesture, like the one he'd already made months and months ago, to uncover his forearm up to the elbow.

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling and then collapses his head forward.

"You're an asshole." John only comments, before dropping his arm with a violent yank, as if it had suddenly turned into a poisonous snake. "A lying asshole," he retorts, while Sherlock pulls down his sleeve covering the tiny scarred spot that, unfortunately, is still clearly visible on his white skin, just below the crook of his elbow, just above the cephalic vein.

Sherlock remains motionless, with his head down. That’s only his fault. Just when he thought he had gotten away with it.

Besides, it was old news for him now. It dated back to a week before, some time after Rosie's illness. After the period of her recovery, John had taken the baby for a couple of days at Harriet's, in the country, and Sherlock rested alone on Baker Street, with the only company of that lump in his throat and that deafening noise in his ears that never stopped, but rather increased every time he saw the image of John giggling while reading the stupid messages of that Maggie. Of John flanking him at the window to give him the talk about how he'd be there for him forever, no matter what happened in the future. No cases on the horizon. Mrs. Hudson was caught up in some business of her own and suddenly seemed to have disappeared from sight. Mary's silent ghost occasionally appeared before him with that sad smile of hers. A couple of times he had even reached out to pat her cheek before calling himself an idiot for the umpteenth time.

In the end it had seemed to him that it was part of the natural order of things to go out on that humid evening, just after dark, to get a fix. It was for the homeless junkie case, of course.

Then he'd hurried back home and analyzed it first. Maybe, by a sudden stroke of luck, it could be one of those incriminating doses. But instead, predictably, it was perfect.

Still, he'd spent a good amount of time circling the kitchen table with itchy hands. He's not here, Sherlock. He'll be gone sooner or later. What are you waiting for? It's your life. It would be such a waste to throw it away. Go ahead, take this dose, take it now. Again the bad advice, always conveyed in his mind by a surprisingly realistic replica of Moriarty's serpentine voice. Sherlock had shaken his head hard, to shoo it away.

Then finally he had picked up the silver wrapper with the utmost care and headed for the toilet, to make it disappear into the London sewers. Too bad that right on the last meter he had deviated towards his room, as if dragged by an invisible thread. The continuation of events was all too predictable and involved him sitting cross-legged on his bed, inside the room locked from the inside, preparing a small but glorious syringe. On the other side of the bed he almost seemed to sense Mary's critical presence watching the quick, expert movements of his hands, with the same pained, understanding face as when John had confessed the texting story to her. Too bad that in both cases she hadn't been able to do anything, since she was only a shadow, a memory.

Maybe it was just to chase away, even for a short time, that shadow and the constant sense of guilt that it caused him, that without many qualms he had given a couple of flicks to the thin glass body of the syringe and then he had stuck it in his arm as deep as he could, shooting it all inside with a sort of sense of revenge towards the whole world.

The flash had been instantaneous. There had followed at least four or five hours of absolute bliss, the lump in his throat gone and with it the background noise that had lately accompanied his life.

By the time he had come back to himself, it was the middle of the night, and he was cold and nauseated, lying sideways with his head hanging over the edge of the bed. Alone. The first thought he had formulated was about John's absence, an absence so wrong that it almost made a noise. He had pulled himself laboriously on, sitting on the bed. He had carefully slipped the needle from his bloodstained arm, panting a little, and then the guilt, perhaps annoyed for being artificially put on hold, had descended on him like a container falling from a crane. He rested breathless.

A frenzy followed, to make all traces disappear as soon as possible. He had thrown away the foil and the syringe, frantically cleaned up the spoon, meticulously checked the sheets for a single drop of blood, and had even gone down to the street to throw away the garbage to make sure that the evidence didn't stay in the house another minute.

Then he had holed up in the bathroom, turned on all the lights and looked at the fix. Impossible to erase, it was small but there it was, screaming its misdeed to the world. An expert eye like John's could spot it two meters away. He had looked at himself in the mirror and for a moment had been tempted to spit on his reflection. Then he had leaned with both hands against the sink, hunching over, his gaze fixed on the drain going down into the darkness. Come on, Moriarty's voice had hissed in his ears, don't tell me you can't hide a fix for a few days. It'll be like it never happened. Don't think about it anymore.

He'd raised his head again and made a firm expression and even a nod to his reflection. It was simple. He had solved far more complicated situations than this. Too bad that this time too he had neglected the power of feelings, which evidently proved to be the weak side of the losing side. And this time too, needless to say, the losing side was him. 

He has bad luck, indeed. Out of two arms, John got the one with the fix in it. There was a 50-50 chance. No, you idiot, he corrects himself: you were the one who stretched out the very incriminating arm. Maybe deep down you wanted him to find out? Anyway, this is not the time to get into psychology. John is looking at him with a really scary face. He's hyperventilating, even panting, almost, from the effort of holding back the anger that anyway, Sherlock knows, will explode at any moment and will surely be devastating.

So he tries to stall, and he can think of nothing better than to adopt the nonchalant approach: "Come on John, can't you see it? It's only one, and it's old. It was a moment of weakness. Do you think if I wanted to start drugging myself every day again I'd be stupid enough to have you bring it to me? I know how to set up a lab just fine..."

"Of course you do!!!" erupts John at last, at a volume that rattles the glass of the windows. "Isn't that what you do best? Shooting you up and commiserating. You've fooled me too many times already with this. I'm not falling for it anymore. I'm going to get our things and leave now, because if I lay my hands on you now, I'll go to jail for murder."

"John..." says Sherlock, in the most humanly wounded tone he has. His voice even shakes a little. John, who had already made his way to his room, freezes and turns back to him. "What??" he yells at him. "John what? Now you're going to start apologizing to me again like a spoiled child, aren't you? I'm out of it. From now on, you're going to have to take care of the consequences of what you do by yourself!"

This is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Sherlock's despair and guilt are immediately converted into an additional dose of rage, which adds to the rage that has been brewing inside him for weeks. And so, finally, he explodes.

"And what are you thinking about instead, eh John?" he shouts at him. "Because it's a mystery to me now! Do you want to put a happy little family back together for Rosie? Do you really think that's what Mary wanted?" He's said too much, but by now he can't hold back any longer.

The reaction is instantaneous. John pounces on him like a fury and gives him a huge shove that knocks him back against the kitchen doorframe. "Don't you dare mention Mary, Sherlock!" he yells in his face, feeling somehow violated to the core. And the detective just can't help but react this time. He pounces on him in turn, and returns the shove, knocking him off balance a bit. "I name her as I want, instead," he hisses back at him. "Because maybe I understood her better than you did. And she certainly didn't want her daughter to be mothered by a ball-buster obsessed with infant massage classes."

"Ah, that's it!" replies John with that smile of his when he's about to smash everything. "I see you've already done your investigating. What, are you spying on me now?"

"There's no need to spy on you, John, you're the most predictable person in the world." Sherlock this time spoke in his harshest, most insulting tone, the one he usually uses to insult Anderson.

They were facing each other now, one in front of the other, both their chests rising and falling rapidly in anger.

"Sure. That's right," John replies after a few seconds, his tone suddenly and dangerously controlled, and his wicked smile deepening to distort his features. "I'm just Sherlock Holmes' stupid friend, aren't I? I don't know what the fuck I expected from you again. But don't you dare explain to me what Mary wanted! Don't you dare! - the tone definitely goes up, as he gets dangerously close to his face – You don’t know anything about feelings. I was right that night at Barts, after all, you only think for yourself, you're just a damn machine and you always will be!"

Sherlock recoils as if he's been shot again. In fact, he brings his hand right up to the scar from Mary's bullet. For a moment he feels it burning inside just as it did when it entered his body. Then he lowers his head, inhales deeply, and then exhales.

When he raises it again and stares into John's eyes, his have turned to pure ice. He has an expression that is even worse than the night he freaked out in that pub over the story of the Hound of Baskerville. He raises his arm, yes, the one with the fix in it, and points to the door. "Go away, now" he tells him only, in a tone that is both angry and extraordinarily cold.

John for a moment, but only for a moment, makes a hurt expression. Then the disappointment, the anger, the sense of emptiness take over again. "I'm leaving, yes!" he echoes him as he makes his way to his stairs and begins to climb them. "I'm going up to get two things for the baby and I'm leaving! And I'll be back in a couple of days to get the rest. Take care not to be found at home, or I'll give you all the punches I didn't give you today," he roars at him from above the last few steps.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world!" shouts Sherlock after him from the bottom of the stairs, and then he slips into his room slamming the door with all his might. He is surprised not to see the plaster fall off the wall, but the rumble can be heard throughout the building.

And there he is again lying on his bed on his back, his hands covering his face. But this time he also feels a tear roll down from the corner of one eye and go to settle on the bedspread. He presses his eyes with the base of his palms and makes a kind of roar, a cry like an animal wounded to death. He doesn't even have anything good to shoot himself in the vein, he realizes disconsolately. And to think that right now, maybe he'd even shoot to himself the poisoned one that's left abandoned on the kitchen table.

A few minutes later, he hears John's furious footsteps coming down the stairs, across the apartment and out, slamming the door. Sherlock realizes that he hasn't even said goodbye to Rosie, and who knows when he'll see her again. Right now, he'd just want oblivion.

John arrives downstairs, with his duffel bag on his shoulder in which he has haphazardly stuffed just the most necessary things, just in time to hear Rosie's desperate sobs and Mrs. Hudson's sweet voice trying to calm her down. John does not have time to approach the door of the apartment when it opens wide and he finds himself face to face with the expression of profound disapproval, almost disgust, of the old woman. She doesn't say anything to him, instead she turns to the little girl who is still crying disconsolately in her arms. "Here's daddy, sweetheart, everything will be all right," she whispers, before giving her a kiss on the temple and extending her to John. "At least, I hope so," she concludes, looking at him with all the blame she's capable of. Then she slams the door in his face.

John pauses for a moment to look at his little girl's tear-covered face and feels himself being pierced by ten swords. He hugs her to his chest and whispers only "I'm so sorry"; then he puts his bag on his shoulder and goes out, pulling the door behind him as if he had to seal it forever.

Chapter Text

"It's not fair!" the little girl shrieks, shaking in his arms and punching him while he tries to open the door of the old apartment, the one where he lived with Mary, which has been on sale for a century but nobody wants to buy it.

Clumsy with his duffle bag, his little girl's backpack, his phone, his wallet, it takes him forever before he manages to put the keys in the keyhole and finally open the door. He feels all the eyes of the neighborhood on him. He dumps the baby and all the stuff he had in his hands on the floor of the hall, then closes the door behind him and leans back against it, looking up and then squinting. A tear drops down from his left eye. He softly bangs the back of his head on the solid white wood, making it resonate. Silence envelops him, but it's short-lived.

Rosie plants herself in front of him and yells all her disappointment. "I don't want to stay here, I want to go back home!". John sighs remaining in the same position, his eyes tight, his arms abandoned on his sides. "We're already at your home" he replies to her, gritting his teeth. "No we're not! I want my cubes! I want grandma Martha! I want daddy!" the little girl cries out, grabbing the first thing that comes in front of her, which is a hideous glass ornament vase, and smashing it to the ground in a thousand pieces. She has the same determined expression her mother had when she was pointing her gun at people, with her million-dollar aim.

John squints harder at the sound of the shattered glass and another tear rolls down his cheek, this time from his right eye. "You're a bad daddy," the little girl sentences relentlessly before throwing herself down on the floor long stretched out, face down, forehead on her intertwined arms. John finally opens his eyes and looks at her, full of commiseration for himself, for her, and perhaps for the entire universe. "You're absolutely right," he tells her, before pulling her up and holding her in a desperate hug.

It's not until the third day that John decides to send Sherlock a text message in which he tells him only that he'll be by the next afternoon, and reminds him not too gently not to be found at home, obviously without receiving a response.

When he receives the message, Sherlock is still sitting at the microscope. He hasn't eaten or slept in three days. He's alone in the house because Mrs. Hudson had to go and assist an elderly, lonely friend of her who broke her foot. She left with a thousand grief-stricken excuses and a thousand recommendations, chief among them to do nothing stupid. Amazingly, he listened to her. He didn't go out and get something good to get in his veins, he didn't smash anything, he didn't do anything that could be potentially dangerous. He just worked like a slave to solve the case of the junkie deaths. Now he's standing there with his cell phone in his hand, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall and smash it to smithereens. Instead, he takes it to his ear and calls Lestrade.

It's been a hellish three days for John, spent between work and trying to contain Rosie's rage, which is unleashed in every possible way and time, including nightly crying, spitefulness and tantrums of all sorts. He asked the moving van to be at 221B at 5pm. He took Rosie to Molly's. By the time he gets out of the Baker Street subway station it's about 4 o'clock and he feels himself burning inside with anger and adrenaline. Knowing him, he's pretty sure Sherlock will do the opposite of what he's asked him.

When he's almost to the front door, a police car pulls up beside him at the curb. Greg's head sticks out of the passenger window. "He's in great shape, huh?" he says to him. "Who? What?" replies John, surprised. "Sherlock, obviously! He did it, he solved the junkie killer case, without moving from the apartment" he says laughing. "Really?" asks John, stopping and frowning as he twists his head, as he always does when he can't believe something. "Of course, haha!" exclaims Lestrade in the height of contentment and waves the driving policeman to stop the car.

"There was a fix, how funny, cut with strychnine mixed with a particular marble powder that is only extracted from a quarry near Dorchester; and he found out that this quarry is owned by the father-in-law of a guy who years ago had found himself sleeping on the streets and getting high, then got a mega inheritance, got married and changed his life.... maybe he wanted to erase the memories of the past... who knows... he had set up a nice network, he even hired four or five unemployed contractors to be his drug dealers! Can you believe it, anyway he set him up big time! From the living room!"

But then he curbs his enthusiasm and looks at him, for a moment interdicted, frowning. "Wait a minute," he asks him, "How come I'm telling you these things? How come you don't already know them?" "Sorry, I've been distracted these days," John answers with a little smile between angelic and devilish. "Ah, I see," the inspector interjects, blinking several times. "And anyway, you know what he said?" he quickly resumes, regaining his enthusiastic tone as he gestures to the driving policeman to leave. "That he doesn't want to take any credit for it! Ahahah! I gotta run, I gotta set up the press conference!" he then concludes as the car begins to pull away. "Hey," he finally shouts to him from a distance, leaning out the window, "one of these days we'll have a drink together!".

The police car disappears into traffic, while John stands impaled for a few seconds on the sidewalk. Then he walks back towards 221B, while looking up at the windows. Behind one of them there is Sherlock, staring at him with an expression that is a concentration of hatred. As soon as John meets his gaze from below, immediately his face also becomes hard as hard as stone. Meanwhile, Sherlock lets go of the window curtain, which suddenly hides him from view like a curtain descending on a stage. John accelerates his pace.

When he arrives near the house he's practically running, and he finds him in front of Sherlock right in the moment he is opening the door of 221B and going out into the street, also almost running; he is impeccably dressed in one of his suits and that purple shirt that always fits perfectly to him, without the jacket, his hair ruffled and his eyes lit up. They both freeze, mantaining safe distance and facing each other, right on the sidewalk in front of Speedy's bar.

"I thought I told you not to be found at home" John tells him in a tone that wants to be reasonable, but his voice is already shaking with anger. "I'm sorry, Captain, but I'm not taking orders today," Sherlock tells him straightening up, putting his hands on his hips and taking his mocking tone. The very one that after the Norbury affair he had sworn to himself never to use again.

"Then let's have you leave now, and save me the trouble of beating you to death. How's that?", John says, stepping a little closer.  Sherlock is just in time to notice that, under one of his usual dusters, he's wearing a black and white plaid shirt that looks just like the one he had on the first day they met, a century ago, when everything was still wonderfully intact. He wonders if it's the same one. It would be too much of a coincidence, or too much of a bad thing. The very thought pisses him off even more.

"You don't get it, John, I'm not going anywhere. You're going to have to give me these beatings you've been promising me all week. At this point I can't wait!" Saying this, he takes a step towards him and gives him his defiant smile, the arrogant one that he usually reserves for the toughest enemies.

John goes blinded by the anger; he throws himself on him and grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Their faces are now at a very short distance. "Well, if I have to, I'll do it, but I'm afraid you don’t remember what I did to you last time," he growls a few inches from his face. At that point Sherlock too grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and replies through clenched teeth "Maybe this time I might even fight back", and tugs at him, spinning them around like that time when he was trying to get them to remember the smugglers' code of the blind banker case. Too bad the situation is a tad more dangerous now.

"Now that would be fun!" shouts John to him, already charging a punch of the momentous kind. "So what are you waiting for?" Sherlock towers over him with his baritone voice, still shaking him vigorously by the lapels as John responds to his tugs with equal energy and prepares to strike.

They look at each other with a furious hatred, and for a moment they're both afraid they might actually get hurt this time. And immediately they realize, in unison, that it is not for themselves that they are afraid.

A second later, without knowing why or how it happened, they have their lips pressed against each other, in a kind of fierce kiss that looks more like a fight to the death. Both of them, at the same time, at that contact make a cry that resembles a desperate sob.

Chapter Text

By the time they pull away, they're out of breath, and there's also the background of a few cheers and a few "finally!" reaching them from the dimly lit interior of the bar, where some regular clients have approached the windows, drawn by the shouting.

"What... the fuck...?" John starts to say, shrilly, as Sherlock looks around frantically, makes a noise of frustration as he does when he can't find a key piece of information in his mental palace, and then grabs him by the arm and starts dragging him home, at a run.

John can't help but follow him; though they aren't handcuffed together this time, Sherlock's grip is just as tenacious. They cross the doorway in a second, and Sherlock even makes sure to kick it shut, and then continues to drag him up the seventeen steps, relentless, while John protests in bewildered monosyllables, "what... where... why...???".

He hasn't finished uttering the last word, that he finds himself inside the detective's room, slammed with little grace against the back of the door, which closes with his weight with a dim slam. Sherlock looks at him with an expression he's never seen on his face before, and it's a mixture of elation, fear, triumph, and who knows what else. He's out of breath, panting like he's run ten kilometers in a row. John is also panting a little.

For a few seconds they just stare at each other, incredulous, at an arm's length, still overflowing with the adrenaline they had built up a few minutes before with that furious argument; John is still leaning against the door, in fact almost pressed against it as if he wanted to merge with the wood, and Sherlock is standing in front of him, his chest heaving up and down frantically, making the buttons of his purple shirt tense.

"What has just happened?" John finally murmurs with a hint of a voice. "I was going to ask you the same thing" the detective replies, in an unsure tone that is very rarely to be heard.

They remain a few more moments in silence, unable to say or do anything but look at each other with a bewildered expression. The anger they unloaded on each other moments before still sizzles in the air, but it quickly turns into something else, and they both notice it distinctly.

"And now, what do we do?" John asks him again; in the most critical moments, he always eventually relies on him, like that time of the bomb on the train. As if deep down he thinks Sherlock has the answer to every riddle. But this time he doesn't have the answer. Yeah, now what? He wonders too, thoughts swirling frantically. He looks at him again, even tries to deduce him, if that would do any good. Pupils dilated, shortness of breath, nothing that can't be traced back to the furious argument. If they start talking now, they're sure to end up insulting each other again soon. A plan B is needed, now that the cards have been revealed so unexpectedly and suddenly.

"Okay," the detective says at one point, lowering his raven head and bringing his hands to his hips, as if he had surrendered to confess the ultimate secret of the cosmos.

Only he doesn't say anything else after that; instead, he takes a couple of steps until he's standing in front of John, stopping so close to him that their chests brush against each other. While he leans down to look him in the eyes with that gaze of his that can penetrate walls, he slowly reaches his right hand out to the doctor's side. John holds his breath and looks at him with the same look on his face as when he thought they were going to blow up, in the subway car; but Sherlock's hand overtakes him and stops on the key to the door. Then he turns it in the keyhole.

The click, amplified by the silence, seems deafening, after all the screaming they exchanged moments before.

As if he's already said and done too much with this one gesture, Sherlock immediately takes a step back and continues to stare at the doctor without saying a word, his expression absolutely indecipherable.

It's at that point that John recovers, as if emerging from some sort of spell or a massive malt whiskey hangover. "I think there's something you're trying to tell me, but I'm not grasping," he informs him in an all too vague tone, looking every which way but at him. He can feel himself blushing, moreover, and he hates himself. He'd slap himself in the face.

"Too bad," Sherlock whispers in reply, frowning a bit, and looking up at him, "I was convinced you were the expert on this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" says John in a choked voice, all the while feeling the unmistakable sensation of an erection beginning to swell in his trousers.

Everything finally come to a head. He's definitely not gay, and he repeats it to himself for the umpteenth time; but the tenacious attraction that he has unconsciously felt for this incredible man ever since he met him, now that, with that fierce clash and that involuntary kiss they have crossed a sort of invisible border, presents itself to him in all its concreteness. 

Sherlock in response takes a step forward, again, and without looking at him grabs his belt trying to unhook it. He doesn't even know what he's doing, maybe it's just the adrenaline; maybe it's just the first step of his plan B that basically has no rhyme or reason; but the reality is that, for the first time in his life, he's completely abandoned to an ungovernable instinct.

"Nonononono," gasps John raising his arms with a forced laugh and sliding sideways to escape his grasp. "I don't think this is the right time! We're both upset... and besides... you're married to your work, aren't you? These things don't matter to you, you've told me and told me over and over again in every possible way... after all these years, you can't now..." the string of nonsense he's been blurting out is suddenly muffled as he sees that Sherlock is starting to unbutton the cuffs of his purple shirt, and then moving on to the buttons on his chest. Meanwhile, he continues to stare at him steadily, without even blinking, with an expression that is a mixture of fear and courage.

"Fuck," John says, his mouth gaping in astonishment as his lower body begins to reclaim control of the situation. He feels like he's inside a lucid dream. Maybe he actually is. Maybe they really did beat the crap out of each other, and he's now in a medically induced coma and dreaming this whole scene.

But Sherlock's hand reaching out to him and resting on his heart feels all too realistic. "I'm sorry, John," he says in a broken voice. His eyes glaze over. The doctor's arms move on their own and hold him in an enveloping embrace. There he is again, whimpering into his chest.

"You're an asshole," John sobs into his shirt one more time, "You're an asshole but I'm sorry too... I don't mean what I said the other day...I don't," and then he sneaks his mouth in between the unbuttoned flaps, inhales deeply and kisses him on the parts of his heart.

Sherlock jerks at the contact, bewildered. He makes a sound that almost sounds like pain. John immediately decides it's the most horny sound he's ever heard in his life. A second later he pounces on his mouth, simultaneously spinning him around and pushing him onto the bed. Sherlock lands on it, sideways, with a slight bounce and watches with two huge eyes as John unceremoniously climbs on top of him. "I've been wanting to do this from ages, you have no idea," he confesses, firstly to himself, in a rough voice, as he fumbles somewhere between his neck and ear with his tongue.

Sherlock meanwhile is in his mind palace and all the alarms are on. He wonders what he was thinking when he had this insane idea and, more importantly, what he hopes to accomplish. "There are a lot of animal species that form an unbreakable bond after mating," Mycroft's voice goes in his head. Sherlock squints with full force. Mycroft's voice right now no, please, he pleads himself.

In the meantime John stopped what he was doing to his neck and lifted himself up on his arms. He's still lying on top of him, fully clothed except for his jacket, which was dropped to the floor at an undetermined moment.

"Are you all right?" he asks him, dubious. Sherlock nods with closed eyes and clenched teeth, hoping to come across as convincing. "No, it's not all right, I can see" John snaps, coming down from above him and kneeling beside him. "You've never done this, have you? None of this?" he whispers to him, neutral. Sherlock can't help but shake his head, not opening his eyes, rather covering them with his hands. " I told you this is not the right time. It takes time for these things and... maybe we should talk about it first, because... well..." John says again, starting to move away from him and composing himself with that tone of his when he wants to be reasonable and posed.

Sherlock removes his hands from his eyes and looks up to the ceiling with an exasperated expression. Then he grabs him by the shirt with a lightning move and, pulling him back on top of him, whispers in a firm voice: "Please. Please. John. Now. Stop. Talking." John can't help but smile and kiss him again. This time it's a real kiss, neither a fight nor a frenzied assault. They melt into each other as if that's all they've been doing for the last ten years.

After what seems like an eternity, Sherlock's long fingers move to the buttons on John's shirt; the doctor is now lying of on his right side next to the detective who is on his back and begins to pull them out of their loops, one by one. "Isn't this the shirt from the day you first came to Barts?", he asks him in a tone that would like to sound disinterested. John, who has lowered his gaze to his chest and is entranced contemplating the all-too-unbelievable sequence of Sherlock undressing him, replies only, "Huh? Maybe. I don't remember. You're the one who never forgets anything..." he looks up to smile at him. "Instead, unfortunately, I forget far too many things," Sherlock retorts, speaking slowly, under his breath, always focused on his buttons. "For example, the fact that I always wanted to make it clearer how flattered I was by your interest" "It wasn't interest!" John says outraged. Then he corrects himself. "Or rather, I wasn't hitting on you, I wouldn't have allowed myself on the first night, I'm a gentleman," and so saying he sinks his nose back into his neck finally getting tickled by those curls he's been contemplating for years without ever daring to touch them. "Well, I'd say enough time has passed now," Sherlock says finishing opening his shirt and passing it over his shoulder. "Definitely," John echoes him, slipping it off completely and then finishing taking it off as well. The purple shirt. He still can't believe it. In front of the detective walking around gesticulating with that purple shirt on, it would make anyone wonder if he could be at least a little bit gay deep down, he thinks to himself for the umpteenth time among others, shaking his head with an amused smile.

"What is it?" quips Sherlock seeing him smile. "There's that I don't think I've ever told you how great that shirt looks on you," John replies, and the detective lowers his gaze smiling as well, a little embarrassed by the unexpected compliment.

At this point they are both shirtless, and take their time to look at each other calmly. Sherlock doesn't seem to show any particular modesty, at least for now; after all, he's the one who was brought naked to Buckingham Palace, wrapped only in a sheet. John smiles at the memory that suddenly appears in front of him. Then he draws the arm marked by the small trace of the fix towards himself, and looks Sherlock in the eye again with a hard expression, which the detective instantly returns to him, guilty. Then the doctor brings his mouth closer to the skin and lays a kiss on it, right on the tiny scab. "Swear to me that you'll never stick anything in these beautiful arms again," he asks him, all the while running his cheek down the length of the crook of his arm, scratching it lightly with his newly trimmed beard. Sherlock takes a sharp breath; right now he would be willing to swear anything to him, and nods decisively, three, four, five times in a row.

He is naturally drawn to the scar that marks John's shoulder. He reaches out and touches it reverently. In the meantime, the doctor is running his left hand right over his side, next to his belly button. "I noticed that night that you were about to collapse to the ground when I touched you here," he whispers. "I could tear up on the floor right now," Sherlock replies with his eyes closed, grateful to finally repeat the experience. "In that case, I'd hold you up, rest assured," the doctor replies to him, acting a little smug. Sherlock would like to answer him with a critical look, but suddenly he feels liquefied as if he were immersed in a huge pool of warm honey, and is just beginning to enjoy the situation, when he feels an unexpected sensation down, between his legs, while involuntarily a kind of mooing comes out of his mouth.

Now, this is something he had not rationally accounted for. Only his scientific knowledge can suggest to him what it is, since it has never happened to him at least since he can remember. John, on the other hand, certainly knows what it is, in fact his hand quickly slips from his hip to the front of his trousers. This time Sherlock lets out a real choked cry, accompanied by a gasp and a squirm. "Are you all right?" asks John with an amused grin; "I wouldn't know what to answer, it's never happened to me before," Sherlock quips, again practically breathless.

"What?" asks the doctor, baffled. "I can't believe that you, not once, before..." he continues, dumbfounded. Of course, it had been well understood, over the years, that the man who worships rationality and repudiates instinct was neither an expert nor particularly interested in this aspect of human life. But this is too much...

"There's nothing before," Sherlock interrupts him through gritted teeth, omitting a part of the sentence that John can guess quite easily anyway: there's nothing before you.

And so the doctor learns that his roommate has probably never been consciously aroused, which is far beyond any traditional concept of virginity. His brain goes haywire; he's never touched a man, him, in his life, he likes women, he's absolutely and adamantly heterosexual; and yet, his hand starts moving on its own, unstoppable, to begin unbuckling the waistband of the detective’s elegant trousers. He can't wait a second longer.

It took them getting to the point of risking beating each other to death and separating forever, to make this thing happen; a thing that, no one knows how, seems both terribly natural and terribly unbelievable, Sherlock has just the time to consider in his last glimmers of lucidity.

Chapter Text

When finally, after a few tries, the black leather belt slips out of the loop, Sherlock is already looking at John with a face that is somewhere between pleading and terrified. When the doctor's left hand then begins to unfasten his trousers as well and slips into them, his eyes get even bigger. "What...?" he tries to ask practically breathlessly, but John, still long lying on his side, clinging to him as he looks down at him, his head resting on his right hand supported by his bent elbow, only answers him with a smile and a "shhh" that penetrates directly into the innermost recesses of his brain, the ones where usually only cocaine flashes arrive.

Sherlock makes to bite his lips, but then he feels the same hand lifting even the elastic band of his underwear and creeping under it to touch him directly; and then a real cry comes out of his mouth. "It's okay, it's all right," John whispers to him.

"It doesn't seem all right to me at all," the detective mutters, staring at the ceiling, his voice choked, his cheeks purple, his long hands that he doesn't know where to put and that he has involuntarily intertwined on his stomach. Sherlock finally realizes that something huge is about to happen. That at last, after a lifetime of convinced and absolute disinterest in all physical things, his senses are waking up. He feels a mixture of fright, shame and exaltation. 

"You don't know how to relax," the doctor points out, in a very low voice and with that half-smile of his, while, with very slow movements, he slowly wraps him in his fist, "that's why you always end up pissing me off." "And I bet you're going to explain me how to do it now, aren't you?" squeaks Sherlock, speaking at lightning speed and narrowing his eyes as he distinctly feels, for the first time in his life, the sensation of having an erection, of being aroused, of being touched there, and by another person, who moreover is John. It's enough to freak him out; for a moment he worries stupidly about the integrity of his mental palace. "No," John replies, "I'll show you," and with that for the first time he moves his hand, up and down, very slow.

It's too much for Sherlock. He feels a wave of hellish heat, and wonders if it is emanating from John's hand. A wave that rises from his belly, crosses his heart and goes straight to his brain, wiping the slate clean. "John," he says in an alarmed voice, as if asking for help. And John moves his hand one more time, more decisively. And then another and another. "What do you feel?" he can't help but ask. Then again, it's not every day you get to witness someone's first orgasm, especially if he's going on forty years and until a few minutes earlier had hardly ever considered the subject. "I don't..." goes Sherlock, out of breath, "I can't... I don't know... I feel hot... I feel you”; and so telling, his voice cracks.

It's an experience on the edge of the metaphysical. John can’t manage the intensity of what he's doing, and he feels himself flaming inside. It seems impossible to him that only half an hour before they were spewing all that hate at each other. It seems impossible to him that they could have lived all this time in such close contact without ever having done anything like this. But at the same time it all comes together perfectly in his head. Everything they experienced, all the laughter, all the adventures, all the pain, all the betrayals, all the losses, all the recriminations, were all trajectories leading to one destination, it suddenly seems to him; and the destination is this.

The only thing he can't get over, is that the honor of making such an exceptional creature experience this for the first time fell to him. To a short, easy-tempered doctor, with an obvious unresolved post-traumatic disorder and perhaps irretrievably damaged psychologically, but who right now feels like the luckiest person on earth, as Sherlock Holmes finally loosens the hands hitherto knotted on his stomach, and grabs his head, one hand on each side, and pulls him closer, looking at him with an indescribable expression of astonishment and despair. "What...what's going on?" he asks him breathlessly. "What's going on is that I'm going to make you come now, Sherlock," John says, going beside himself at the incredible spectacle, "Me, for the first time, do you believe it? Because I don't believe it... Come on... for me..." Sherlock thinks he's going to die; he takes his hands away from his face intertwining them again until he's crushing them on his own, clenches his eyes hard and lets out a sob that seems to go on forever.

"There, there, do you feel it? It's coming," John almost roars as he takes him over the crest of the wave, frantically quickening the pace of his hand, squeezing him tightly as he drowns in his moans.

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes narrowed, breathless. "Let go," John urges him in a shaky voice. "I can't," Sherlock groans breathlessly, still doing no with his head and squinting harder than ever. John realizes he's stuck and needs a little incentive. He quickly bows his head and kisses him on the right nipple, barely running the tip of his tongue over it, like a kitten. Sherlock cries out meanwhile as the sensation he's never felt overwhelms him, exhilarating and scaring the hell out of him at the same time. "There you are, wonderful..." comments John as he slips his free arm under his head and lifts it up, presses his forehead against his forehead, and gasps loudly, eyes narrowed, along with him, who is squirming as if he wants to run away.

And then Sherlock shouts his name loudly and shakes like a leaf, arching and finally giving himself up with all his weight down on the mattress, and his head falls back onto John's arm. He looks at him unseeing, his features distorted with astonishment. It is not an understatement to say that he sees stars. Stars, planets, galaxies, and then chemical particles, atomic structures and so on and so forth, and everything comes together to form a single image which is that of John, who is everywhere and inside, where he has always been since the day he met him, only now he feels it, he feels it in everything, in every fiber, in every capillary. He's no longer in the eye of the storm, it's the whole sky that spreads out over him and wraps around him and shelters him.

John stops his hand, and leaves it there for a few more seconds, still shocked, pausing to look at Sherlock's face, contorted into an indescribable expression that looks like a mixture of ecstasy and pain, and which now slowly relaxes; and then he slowly pulls it out of his open trousers, and the detective makes a soft moan.

The doctor withdraws his fingers, feels the wetness on his skin, and smiles as if he had just won the most coveted trophy in the world, and then collapses beside him. He is as hard as marble, as a matter of course, but at the same time, curiously enough, he feels as if he has come too.

After a few seconds, without moving or opening his eyes, he asks to him "Are you still alive?". "I'm not really sure," groans Sherlock after a few more moments, still completely out of breath, his heart galloping causing his ribcage to rumble louder than a perfectly mixed speedball fix.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock, with immense effort, lifts his head and looks down at the taut, perfect skin of his lower abdomen, just below the navel, where a few spots of whitish liquid glisten. He brings his right hand up to it, and dips two fingers in it, and then rubs them together as if to assay the texture. And then he looks at him, with an almost questioning expression and a hint of a smile.

John, who has been following the whole operation with a stunned face, finally manages to blurt out, hoarsely, "Don't tell me I have to explain you what this is". "Up to there I can get it, thanks, John," Sherlock says, laying his head back on the bed and letting out a long sigh. The doctor remains puzzled for a moment, then shakes his head with an impatient snort, rummages in his jeans pockets and pulls out a handkerchief; he always has got a packet of them for Rosie. "You're your usual mess, aren't you?" he sweetly says to him, wiping him off in a few moves, holding his breath. He touched another man's semen. He made him come. He still can't believe it. "Lucky then there's you who always knows what to do," the detective answers him in a whisper, unmoving.

A few minutes of absolute silence pass. Sherlock feels the waves of pure lava that have swept over him slowly calming down and withdrawing from his limbs, leaving them soft as if they had taken on the consistency of cotton. He lets out a very long sigh. Disconcerting, really. However, no regrets come to him that he has never done anything like this in his past. Simply, this only makes sense when tied to the thought of John. Forever.

John is wildly aroused, but the idea of trying to get reciprocated doesn't even remotely touch him. He would never allow himself with Sherlock being so inexperienced; somehow he'll get over it, and anyway thinking back on what just happened will suffice for years as material to fantasize on his own, he considers.

"But really, you'd never come before?" he can't help but ask. It still seems impossible to him, despite Sherlock's utterly incredulous expression leaves little room for doubt. "I don't know what to tell you, it probably happened to me, subconsciously, but never... on purpose. Never like that," whispers the detective, sincere. John shakes his head again, beguiled. He can't wrap his head around everything that just happened. It was just too much. Then, unexpectedly, he begins to laugh softly, in his typical way of relieving tension.

"What's the matter with you now?" goes Sherlock in a plaintive tone. "Now I feel like some kind of depraved man who stole your virtue," John says, his voice shaken by the soft laughter. "Don't exaggerate," Sherlock replies, "as you yourself have pointed out several times, I'm not exactly a paragon of virtue." John gives him another smile, and then shakes his head and starts laughing again, softly. "What's wrong with you now?" goes Sherlock, in a faux-exasperated tone. "It was definitely better than the beating," the doctor replies. "Yeah, I'll tell you, even a lot better than morphine," the detective does in a slowed-down voice. "Can you avoid talking about drugs at least right now?" retorts John a little shrilly. They're both contemplating the ceiling now, lying close together, shoulder to shoulder, like two kids telling each other secrets. "Sorry. It was for comparison," Sherlock replies. "It was sterile anyway, the syringe," he then adds just like that, out of nowhere. "I know, asshole, that you're clean," John replies with a sigh of exasperation. "And anyway, since I never got high, the comparison is completely unnecessary," he points out immediately afterwards. "Well, if we do this from now on, I truly believe that I too will never need to get high again".

There. This one really got away from him badly. Sherlock only realizes it when he has already said it. When it is too late. Talking about the future in a moment like this. A beginner's mistake... but then again, in this field he's the most inexperienced person on earth, one might say. The fact remains that the damage is done.

John, in fact, suddenly seems to become aware of reality again. He pulls up and attempts to get out of bed. "It's getting late, I have to go pick up Rosie at Molly's," he says in an evasive tone. No. Don't leave now. Sherlock's head, still groggy from the endorphins, struggles to get going again. "Unbreakable bond, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice comes to his aid again, booming through the floating fragments of his mental palace, currently completely unserviceable.

Sherlock's hand somehow moves, despite feeling heavy as if it had become made of stone, and he manages to grab his arm as he sits up and is already about to tuck in his shirt. "Don't leave now," he tells him. "I have to, Sherlock," John sighs. "No you don't. You don't have to. Rosie's with Molly. She's safe. If there was a need, she'd keep her for a week straight, too."

John looks at him with a conflicted look. It's true, Molly doesn't have plans for the evening and they had agreed that John would call her before dinner to tell her if he would pick the baby up by the evening or the next morning.

He is actually afraid. A crazy fear that, if they spend any more time together in that room, then there will be no return. What happened just now is so unbelievable that it will take him ten sessions with the psychologist to figure out how to fit it into his shaky psychological balance. That's why he'd like to indulge the somewhat cowardly escape instinct that's seizing him.

"Don't leave now," Sherlock repeats more softly, though, barely pulling himself up onto his knees despite the room spinning around him a bit, and grabbing him again by the head, by the shoulders, dragging him over, this time to the right side of the bed, beginning to kiss him for the first time of his own accord. John offers but a second's resistance and then follows. To hell with it, says his brain while he feels his heart melting as he reciprocates that inexperienced kiss, in which it's clear Sherlock is putting his all pledge.

It's a very long kiss, which is only broken when John notices Sherlock fumbling with his belt. He opens his eyes and sees him, beneath him, his head sunk into the pillow, his curls scattered, as he looks down and finally achieves his goal of unbuttoning everything. Then he slides his jeans down his hips, as far as he can. John understands the intent and lifts up for a moment to slip them off completely, while his inner voice asks in bewilderment what the fuck are you doing?

At that moment, Sherlock takes the opportunity to get rid of his trousers as well, at lightning speed, and then surrounds his hips with his very long legs and pulls him towards himself, making their bodies adhere; the contact makes them gasp. Now they're both only in their underwear.

Then, John suddenly senses that something is wrong; he looks at him seriously, frowning. "Would you kindly explain to me what you're going to do?" he asks him in a somewhat rough tone.

"The right question is what I'm going to make you do, John", the detective murmurs in response, lowering his gaze and smoothing with his fingertips the biceps that stick out on his arms from the effort of being lifted above him.

"Oh, nonononono," John says again with the same forced chuckle as before, starting to pull back and kneeling between his legs. "You're crazy," he says him a shake of his head. "We... we can't... look, up until half an hour ago we were going to punch each other, then... uhm... then this happened, but we can't, now... right away... so... I've never... and you're... " he notices that he's getting shrill again.

Sherlock lifts himself up on his elbows, his glabrous, snow-white chest almost glowing in the cool half-light of the late summer afternoon, and looks him straight in the face, questioningly. "I'm what?" he asks him, genuinely intrigued.

"I mean, this is your first time, it's important, we need to take it slow, okay?", John raps in an even more excited tone.

Sherlock shakes his head and laughs, ruffled, wonderful. "So it's true you're a gentleman, then," he says to him. John stands mesmerized for a moment, watching him. Then he recovers. "Of course it's true! Look Sherlock, why don't we go in the kitchen, have a cup of tea and talk about…"

But the speech dies in his mouth instantly, because Sherlock has replicated what he learned just a few minutes ago, leaning over him, slipping a hand into his underpants and grabbing him without too much grace. "What... ah!", John let out a sort of choked scream and looks at him with a face full of something that looks like desperation.

He was just beginning to come down with unfulfilled arousal, and now he's exactly at the point where he was before. Or in fact, much worse. Sherlock's hand is hot on him like it's burning.

Chapter Text

John returns to lie on top of him like a piece of iron drawn to a magnet; he can't help himself; Sherlock welcomes him into his arms, terribly serious. Somehow they have ended up under the cool white sheets of his bed, that contrast beautifully with their overheated bodies. Sherlock doesn't take his hand away from him, rather he barely tries to move it, snatching a noisy, endless inhale from him. He looks at him as if he is entrusting him with his entire existence, and only murmurs, "Now, John." "Why now?" the doctor asks with a sigh, barely bowing his head and losing eye contact. "Because then I don't know what happens next," Sherlock only admits, in a tone that suddenly sounds like a desert of desolation.

John snaps his head up, looking at him again. "What are you talking about..." he whispers to him. "The truth," Sherlock says, turning his head to the right so he can't see the pained expression that's warping his features. "And you know it very well," he adds.

"Nothing happens after that," John says, gritting his teeth, unable to resist the urge to move a couple of times in his hand. "Except that we still remain the same couple of perfect idiots."

He said it. He actually said couple. Sherlock feels a tiny thrill of hope. This is the time. This is the right way. He turns again and searches his eyes with that expression that pierces the walls. He leaves him, but only to stick both index fingers into the elastic of his underwear to finish undressing him. "Good. Prove it to me," he tells him, managing to keep a firm stance despite the fact that he's shaking inside from the tension.

John's brain short-circuits again. He gets himself undressed, and then he lifts himself up and with a firm movement undresses him as well. The underwear ends up in some mysterious crevice between the sheets, down at the end of the bed.

Sherlock feels the tingling again from before, down there in his nether regions, but most of all he feels his heart clench as if it wants to become the size of a raisin. John looks at him in disbelief, as if he suddenly can't get over the fact that they've come this far. This isn't jerking off half-dressed like two scared kids on the sly.

This immediately looks like something tremendously serious.

John lies back down on top of him, and finally their bodies make full contact. Sherlock gasps and makes that sound that almost sounds like pain again. The doctor lets out a strangled groan, and surrounds his shoulders with his arms, very close, losing himself in his eyes that now look dark and show all the fear he has, and the self-denial, and the suffering, and the misunderstood and hidden desire. It's too much.

John rests his forehead on his forehead and sighs, holding him close, closing his eyes. Then he whispers to him, like a prayer, "Don't make me do this, Sherlock." "Please," he replies, from underneath, in an almost broken voice. "I can't," the doctor sighs again, motionless, even though his body is sending him other directions, and the accumulated excitement threatens to make him lose his proverbial self-control. "Of course you can," the detective retorts in a more assertive tone. "Then I don't want to." "What do you mean, you don't want to?" quips Sherlock, hurt, pulling his face up in his hands and making him pull back a few inches so he can look him in the eye again. "I don't want to hurt you," John finally confesses with his voice cracking and melting. "I never wanted to. You're the most precious thing I have. Ever since..." now he's almost starting to sob. "Hey," Sherlock softly, stroking his cheek. He lose himself in the contemplation of his doctor, his conductor of light, solid, strong, beautiful, always knowing what to do and how to clean up his messes.

John suddenly, like an accelerated flashback, relives every punch, every kick he's given him all these years, every drop of blood he's let out of him. "I'm sorry," he says again in a broken voice and gives him a violent, tight-lipped kiss, and then goes back to resting his forehead on his, beginning to speak in a surrendered tone. "I'm sorry. I was angry, Sherlock. And disappointed. And the truth is, I don't know what to do..."

Sherlock confusingly senses it's time to change the subject. Some dissimulation is needed, though he's so tense he doesn't know where to begin. Quickly he decides to rely on his little but precise knowledge of the subject. He lifts his head again and looks at him with a smirk that some might judge almost malicious. "I guess you exactly know, instead" he tells him, and moves beneath him, making their bodies rub against each millimeter of skin.

"I've told you before, haven't I, that you're an asshole?", John asks him with a gasp. "As a matter of fact, yes, several times," Sherlock replies in a choked voice, and takes him in his hand again, and moves it gently, again trying to apply the new information he learned from the experience just before. John looks at him one more time and growls "You're driving me crazy. Look, if I start then I can't stop." "Then start," Sherlock quips with an air of defiance that he doesn't even know where he can get out of. John shakes his head in disbelief and then throws himself back on his lips and starts kissing him wildly. And Sherlock goes breathless again.

John broke away and caressed his cheek and then brought the fingers of his right hand to his mouth, and then began to caress his lips, looking at him fixedly, with an expression at once serious and of infinite contemplation. And Sherlock almost involuntarily parted his lips, welcoming those fingers, and began to suck them slowly, closing his eyes. After a few minutes, the fingers withdrew, replaced again by John's mouth, and his hand slipped down somewhere.

Sherlock obviously has a theoretical knowledge of what he's asked him to do, but finding himself living it is a whole other matter. And when he feels where those fingers have gone he can't help but open his eyes wide again, writhing with a furious sob. John has rested his forehead on his left shoulder now, and he lets out long, measured sighs as he begins to press into him slowly. "You see you know what to do," Sherlock gasps breathlessly, his body taut as a violin string.

"Please be quiet for a moment and try to relax," the doctor replies with his eyes closed and his mouth pressed to his pec. Then he opens them for a moment and sees Sherlock's small, rosy nipple just inches from his reach. As if drawn by a magnetic force, his mouth goes over it, and he runs his tongue over it with all the dedication in the world. Sherlock squirms again, with that incredible cry he's heard him make a few times before, and the doctor realizes he wants to hear it again, and again. And so he does it again, tearing another moan out of him as his fingers very slowly begin to work their way inside him.

And then John lifts up again to look at him, resting his head on his left hand propped on his elbow. He's lying on top of him, a little to the side, and he's lost in contemplation of that incredible sight of Sherlock coming to terms with his body and his desire for the first time, wondering again if it's real or if he's just dreaming about it.

Now Sherlock is silent and still, his eyes tight, focused to the max on the hallucinatory sensation he's feeling as he feels John's fingers working their way into him; he has his hands intertwined on his chest again, and it feels like his mind has fled light years away.

"Are you still with me?" the doctor can't help but ask him, a little concerned. He doesn't want to hurt him, first of all, but he also doesn't want the experience to be too much for him; going from a kiss to sex in such a short amount of time isn't exactly the typical path for a normal couple. But then again, they certainly aren't a normal couple. He himself can't understand how it's coming naturally to him to do this thing he's never done in his life. It has nothing to do with sex with a woman. But it's exciting as hell.

"You told me to relax, didn't you?" the detective replies between his teeth after a few seconds, without opening his eyes. "Sherlock, this isn't a crime scene... please, can you get your wonderful brain to stop grinding out data for a few minutes?", John says sweetly to break the tension for a moment. Sherlock, in spite of everything, starts to respond piqued, eyes wide, "Does it seem easy to you, John? My brain can't be put on standby by comman..." but then he has to stop abruptly, because he feels like an electric shock going through his whole body at lightning speed and making him make a desperate cry.

"You were saying?" goes John with an almost triumphant smile. "Wha... what..." tries to ask Sherlock panting. "It's a little trick of the males, Sherlock," John gives him seraphically. "I'm a doctor, I know how to do it," he whispers in his ear, unmercifully. Sherlock on this one definitely loses control and drags John back on top of him, clamping his hips with his legs in a fierce grip. "Not yet," John says. "Yes," he replies.

"You're so damn stubborn," John declares; and then takes a moment to consider the situation. It's not his first anal intercourse, but it’s his first time with a man, so he's afraid he can't handle it well, he’s afraid to hurt him; and Sherlock, despite his caresses, is tight with tension. John is wet with excitement, but it is certainly not enough. He quickly brings his right hand to his mouth to collect some saliva, and with the same hand he touches himself a couple of times. Then he finally aligns himself with Sherlock's tense body and leaning on his elbows begins to thrust into him. The sensation definitely sends him over the edge. He is making love to Sherlock Holmes. It's not possible, he repeats to himself. You're dreaming it.

Sherlock screams at the intrusion and his eyes glaze with tears, not so much from the physical pain as from the enormous intensity of what he's feeling, from the commotion he's sinking into now that he finally understands, as he feels their bodies coming together. He has trapped himself in his own web. He can't do without it, ever again. He can't do without John's. If John goes out of his life, nothing will make sense anymore.

You see I was right, Sherlock... you do have a heart after all... you're vulnerable... you're in love... you just have to admit it, you're almost there now... Moriarty's sing-song voice thins whispering in his brain and makes him shake his head again, to shake it away.

A tear slides down his right eye. He never wanted to let it out but he has no way of stopping it or hiding it, not under the steady gaze of John who doesn't miss a detail of his face as he slowly, perhaps an inch at a time, moves forward.

"I'm hurting you, aren't I?" he asks him in a choked voice, trying to keep his wits about him and not get lost in the indescribable pleasure he's feeling, his hips slowly thrusting forward, his arms encircling his shoulders, his eyes fixed on him. "No," Sherlock replies all too soon. The doctor pauses. "At least now, don't lie to me," he begs him. "It's okay John, really," Sherlock replies between his teeth, all the while feeling himself split in two and wondering again what the heck did he think of when he took this decision. At one point he can't help but let out a groan that is distinctly one of pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" John says, trying hard to control himself. Then he finally gets to the bottom and stops, giving him time. He enchants himself by watching his expression that is simultaneously stubborn, happy, and pained, and doing almost violence to himself whispers "Maybe we should stop here...." "No!" the detective exclaims, and then repeats it more softly, giving him a soft smile. "No...."

Sherlock begins to feel his body adjust to the intrusion. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. John, as he loses himself in the incredible sensation of being immersed inside him, is enchanted to look at him, at his face, his curls, his chest almost the same color as the sheets on which some small reddened marks stand out. When did he do those to him?

"You could always do the trick from before, to make it up to me," Sherlock blows from under him, between his teeth, with a slightly bald smile.

John understands and smiles, too, and then moves for the first time, slowly. The pleasure takes his breath away. "Fuck," he curses, his voice hoarse; he lifts himself up on his arms again, and feels them shake. Sherlock groans, and he notices it too. "You're shaking," he points out. "Must be the emotion," John jokes. Sherlock gives a sort of amused snort, but then he clams up again, because the doctor has started very slowly to move.

Sherlock feels it, and he feels again the feeling from before, of excitement and pleasure, slowly building up inside him, and then suddenly a stronger movement from John that causes him again like an electric shock that makes him scream and contract, making the doctor moan loudly as well.

John can feel their souls slowly intertwining with their bodies as well, he can feel it physically, even though it may be impossible, and he gets scared, and he clings to his last shreds of denial.

"We're screwing up," he says, lowering himself back onto his elbows, resting his forehead on his shoulder again and starting to move faster. "Probably," Sherlock growls, clinging to his shoulders, torn between the pain he feels when John pulls back and the bursts of pleasure from when he thrusts into him until he hits who knows what magical spot that makes him gasp without restraint.

John lifts himself up once more on his now firm arms, his biceps standing out against his skin again, tense, and arching his back he sinks into him with wide, deep movements, the sheet covering them down to their hips swelling following them like an animated marble drape; their bodies fused together resembling a work of art. They moan in unison, loudly.

Sherlock thinks that this is probably the best moment of his life. It's such an enormous thought that he struggles to formulate it. Please, he asks to he doesn't know who, don't make it stop, make it last forever.

John, for his part, is completely lost in that incredible feeling of being completely enveloped, very thight, almost fused together with the person around whom his whole world revolves. He wonders how he could even remotely think of rebuilding his life somewhere else, with another woman. Everything is here. His whole universe concentrated in this messy apartment, which they have put back together piece by piece, and which also seems almost alive, a crucial part of them. There is his family. There is Mary, even, like a benevolent presence, protecting them. The half-light of Sherlock's room, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the ajar shutters in a few darts of light full of atmospheric dust, suddenly seems like pure poetry to him.

The doorbell is broken, again. Mrs. Hudson still hasn't returned. The guy with the moving van, after a wait of at least twenty minutes, tries knocking on the door again, down the street, but gets no response. He leaves, pissed as hell for all the time wasted.

John feels that he's coming to the limit, and Sherlock feels it underneath him, too, from the way his breaths become more and more frequent and labored, and from the way his movements rapidly become drier and deeper.  John finally loses control. "Can you feel me?" he growls, almost, "can you feel me inside you? Christ, you're driving me crazy," and as he says this he grabs him and starts to touch him fast to be taken along on this wonderful milestone.

"I feel you, John," Sherlock sobs and as he tries with all his might to maintain a shred of lucidity, he takes his face in his hands and stares into his eyes with an expression that is a mixture of happiness, hope, prayer and despair; "Tell me you're not leaving," he begs him. "Huh? What?", John says, confused and unable at that moment to coordinate his thoughts. "Tell me you're staying, with me, always," Sherlock says again, out of breath.

John closes his eyes, gives a couple of last thrusts, strong, making him cry out, and feeling that he's about to climax he tries to pull out, but Sherlock grabs him by the hips with all the strength he has and holds him, with a look that communicates in an instant all his desperate desire to never let him go again. "No...", John exclaims between his teeth, returning him a look of shock at the intensity of the moment, but he can't fight it; he comes inside him, growling his name and collapsing with his head on his chest. He stops for only a few seconds and then starts moving again, still resting his left cheek on his protruding collarbone, still in spasms, because he wants it all to the last, even though he already feels a bit of pain; and then he lifts himself up on one elbow again to look him in the eye and while he touches him frantically he replies between his teeth, emphasizing what he's saying with one last couple of thrusts and strokes of his hand, "I'm not fucking going anywhere, can't you see that? I'm in love with you."

Sherlock comes for the second time in his life, at least from what he remembers, lifting himself up with a desperate cry, and then collapsing back down onto the bed and dragging John behind him, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck, his sperm spilling hot on his belly; for this moment, he feels himself enveloped in a thick sentiment that is probably the pure and original state of joy.

Chapter Text

Coming back to reality seems impossible. A return from a journey of ten thousand light years into sidereal space. For a few minutes, there is only a muffled silence, accompanied by the dull and continuous sound of their hearts pounding in unison. They are still lying on top of each other, wrapped in the tangled sheet, sweaty, clammy, exhausted and with their eyes closed. Sherlock is concentrating on the tenuous pain he feels; he senses it, studies it, lets himself be lulled by it: it is the concrete proof that he is no longer a virgin. Incredible as it may have seemed, it finally happened to him too.

John has his head resting on the pillow, just slightly lower than Sherlock's. He's the first to barely recover himself, and with a long moan he moves his hips to get out. Sherlock revives slightly at the sensation that urges on his hypersensitized body. He makes a sort of dim moan.

"I'm sorry," John murmurs again. "Please stop apologizing," the detective groans in response in a slightly choked voice. "Are you okay?", John asks him again, doubtful. "Don't worry about me, John. It's probably been the best afternoon of my life," Sherlock replies to him in a slightly tired tone, emptying himself of that oh-so huge thought he formulated moments before. John barely smiles.

A few more seconds of silence pass. "What are you thinking about?" he then asks him.

"About Mary," Sherlock replies, sincere. Now he feels a little like he's betrayed her.

John smiles. "Mary was always rooting for you," he tells him. "She adored you. Well, she shot you, but she adored you. She'd be happy. Don't you remember the dvd? Don't feel bad." "Yeah, the dvd," Sherlock does, opening his eyes. "What you could become, she said, right?"

John slips from on top of him and snuggles into his side, resuming that position with his head resting on his bent arm while he looks down at him. He lets out a sigh, and then just replies, "Right," with a barely-there smile.

"And what can we become, John? Because we've been at our worst lately, I think." "Right too," agrees the doctor, bowing his head with a sigh.

"Maybe we could try to do something good now, though," Sherlock speculates, half-heartedly, looking up at the ceiling again. John is silent for what seems like forever. And then he begins to speak.

"You're already good, Sherlock. Sometimes you piss me off to no end, but deep down I know you're good. It's me who's an asshole," he tells him with another long, rough breath.

"Now don't start doing yourself a disservice again, though," the detective replies, as sincere as he was when John first started confiding him about the text messages to the girl on the bus.

"No, it's true," the doctor interrupts him. "I made a mistake. Again. But I was scared... Rosie's growing up so fast, and I thought..." John pauses and inhales sharply, as if he's about to start crying, and then shakes his head hard. "I don't know what I thought. But I was wrong. Her world is here. Our world, I mean. I just didn't think it could ever happen..." he pauses for a moment, searching for words. But then all he has to do is mention the two of them, now, naked in a bed, and he just says "...happen this." And he smiles. And Sherlock smiles with him, without looking at him. He could never have believed it either, until a few hours before.

"Were you really going to hit me? Before, I mean," the detective can't help but ask him. John lowers his gaze. "It wouldn't have been the first time, anyway," he answers him with a pained smile. "And you forgive me every time anyway. I don't know how you do it." "Maybe this time I would have punched you too, just to get even," Sherlock gives him that Cheshire Cat smile of his. John looks at him raising an eyebrow, with a skeptical expression.

And Sherlock gives a short laugh, shaking his head, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to accept the risk of your roommate periodically beating the crap out of you. Probably, indeed surely, he is damaged in some way, deep down in that head of his that on some things works like the most perfect of mechanisms, but on others is completely useless, except to give himself bad advice.

And John feels flooded with guilt. Sherlock has put his life on the line, twice, in such a short time, gotten himself stabbed and then gone back to getting high, albeit once. He's still his usual irresponsible self. But definitely some of the blame in his reckless actions of late is also his own. His own and his unshakable mental cages. It's only now that he really realizes how much it must have hurt him, with the whole “looking for a new mother figure for Rosie” thing. He shakes his head, hard.

"I know I'm hard to deal with," he resumes. "And I know there are things about you that I know will never change. But you swore to me that you wouldn't go back on that drugs, though, didn't you?" and on that he shakes him, almost, with an implacable look. And Sherlock can't help but nod again, convinced and convincing. "And maybe, on the rest, we could try to work together," John continues, and then finally falls silent. He has said an incredible number of words compared to how reluctant he usually is to talk about feelings.

Sherlock, who has been listening to the whole speech while continuing to contemplate the ceiling of the room, also raises himself up on one elbow and stands to the side. They are now at the same height and look into each other's eyes, lying, without touching, about twenty inches apart. They play their usual game of glance, the one they've been doing all their lives, without even noticing.

"Is it true what you said before?", Sherlock asks him shyly, in a low voice. "Before when?", John answers him purposely making a big smile a little mischievous.

Sherlock blushes and flops back down on the pillow, covering his eyes with his hands. "Come on, you know," he tells him in a whiny tone. "You should never ask someone to repeat what they said during sex, Sherlock," John replies. And Sherlock is silent. He doesn't understand, and he hates not understanding. Then he feels John's hands remove his own from his eyes. He opens them and sees the doctor leaning over him. "The truth is, I can't not have you in my life anymore," he replies, with a small but sincere smile.

Sherlock takes his right hand and brings it to his chest. "I do have a heart, John," he tells him. John glares at him for a moment, and then replies, changing his tone, because this is getting way too intense. "I know, you idiot. Maybe I could try to steal it from you, what do you say? Like I stole your virginity," he adds, suddenly swaggering over and laughing. It's his way of breaking the tension, when things get too complicated.

Sherlock blushes again and pushes him away, letting him fall back on his back on the pillow. "Fuck you, John, I'm not one of your conquests!" he blurts out in outrage, turning to the ceiling again. "And besides, it was me that started this thing" he points out, putting his arms folded, offended. But after a few seconds, he looks at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling. And John laughs too, then leans over him again and whispers, "And I'm infinitely grateful for that." And then he kisses him. "I may be a jerk, but you don't know how happy I am that I was the first," he tells him pulling away, in the most sincere tone he can manage without sounding cheesy. "In fact, you're such a jerk," Sherlock replies, serious. "You're not the first, you're the only one. Forever." He says this in such a definitive tone that John feels something liquefy inside.

Other brief moments of silence follow, in which they familiarize themselves with the absurd novelty of being allowed to touch each other, of being able to exchange affection, without the thousands of mental obstacles that have always dotted their path.

John sticks his nose in his hair and inhales and his smell envelops him, and he is reminded of that afternoon when the detective dragged him and threw him right there, in his bed, to sober up that hangover. And he feels right at home.

Then his eye falls on the alarm clock that sits on Sherlock's nightstand. "Shit," he raps, "It's seven o'clock. We have to at least call Molly, and tell that poor girl we didn't kill each other." And he suddenly realizes he forgot something. And he laughs to himself, warmed by a kind of relief. "What is it now?" asks him Sherlock curiously. "I wonder how long that guy of the moving company waited down here. He must have been furious. I don't think we'll ever see him again," the doctor replies, still laughing and shaking his head. Sherlock smiles again, hopeful.

Chapter Text

"Hold still, you're making it go down more," John is saying, on the verge of losing his patience. "It. Does. Hurt!" protests Sherlock squirming. "It’s not possible that a guy who's taken bullets and stab wounds is making this much of a scene over something so small!" "Small my foot, John, you're not empathetic at all this morning!" "Maybe it's because I'm late for work and I have to stay here and listen to your tantrums." "I'm not throwing a tantrum!" snarls Sherlock in outrage.

This is the dialogue that Greg and Stella from Interpol intercept as they arrive at the top of the stairs. They look at each other perplexed, and the woman lets out a half laugh. The door of the apartment is open and Greg sticks his head in. "Are you all right? Are we disturbing?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes up with a cry of exasperation, and exclaims, "Is this day ever going to end?" "You know what," John tells him now furious, "Just keep your damn splinter and fend for yourself!" and so he ungently gives up his right hand and plants him in the middle of the living room. "Good morning Greg," he says as he walks past him, giving him no time to respond, before striding briskly up his stairs to go finish getting dressed. "Your father's an idiot," Sherlock quips to the little girl who, sitting on the red carpet, is finishing a huge tower of cubes. She laughs it off.

Sherlock looks down at his palm with a comically disconsolate expression. Stuck in it, there is a small but annoying splinter of oak from the night before, the result of his new fixation on cataloging the way different types of lumber flake, because it could always be useful at a crime scene.

"Never a dull moment here, eh?" says Greg as he enters, followed by the Interpol investigator, putting his hands on his hips with a big good-natured smile. Sherlock looks at him with an expression as if he wanted to electrocute him on the spot. Then, resuming his disconsolate expression, he looks toward the upstairs stairs, where John has just disappeared.

It has been exactly thirty-eight hours since their last kiss.

Sherlock, to keep his breath from hitching and his head from emptying, has been trying ever since to avoid dwelling too much on the memory of that incredible afternoon two days before, when after managing to get out of bed they had ended up making out shamelessly, in their underwear, like two teenagers, against the still locked door to Sherlock's room.

"Someone has to make up his mind to open this door, or we'll never get out of here again," John had said already out of breath. "I closed it, you can open it," Sherlock answered, breathing down his neck.

In the end, with all their willpower, they had detached themselves. And John had turned the key and stepped out of the door.

The world had looked to him as if it had been freshly painted.

"I'm going to take a shower," he'd told him with a half-smile, "make sure you don't do any damage before I get back." And Sherlock had smiled, too. Then he'd turned back to his unmade bed, paused to look at it, and almost felt like crying.

What the fuck did you do, Sherlock? Moriarty's sibylline voice, silenced for a while by the storm of endorphins, had already resumed whispering in his ear. Now what? Now you think you're going to start a happy little family? Have you seen yourself in in a mirror?

Sherlock had shaken his head, hard. Then he had bent down to pick up his clothes scattered around, and he had almost fainted - after all, he hadn't eaten for days and had slept pratically nothing - while slowly his brain rebooted and he began to become really aware of the enormity of what had happened; and so he had ended up on his knees, on the floor, yes, right on the floor of his room, his head bowed and staring at the grooves between the tiles as if he were doing some kind of penance.

Down under the bed, towards the wall, practically unreachable, in the floor there was a bumpy tile and under it was a neat wrapper containing at least a couple of brand new syringes because yes, he was clean now and had stopped, but still, who ever knows?

The wrapper had been there since his brother had meticulously had the apartment cleaned up after his toxic frenzy over Mary's death. He'd saved those and hided them down there, where they'd remained, untouched, until he'd taken one the week before.

Now you're making them disappear, his reasonable voice had said.

No, you idiot, not now, there's John in the house, you can't just throw them in the garbage can, he'll notice and won't understand. Just leave them there, then throw them away when the time comes, right? What's the big deal? They are well hided... And Sherlock had naturally opted for the second hypothesis, feeling his conscience vaguely clear anyway.

He'd barely made it to his feet before John appeared in the room, in his bathrobe, to tell him that he'd called Molly and was going to pick up the girl after dinner in the evening. "Maybe you could come with me," he had suggested in a dubious tone. Sherlock had smiled.

Yes, it was worth getting out of the house, if only to make sure the world hadn't stopped spinning while he was making love to John Watson. Right now it seemed a somewhat plausible assumption to him.

Sherlock had gone into the shower and stayed there until the water turned cold. He felt gently sore. It was a pleasant, somehow comforting feeling. He had to be happy. John had told him he was in love. To mean, then immediately afterwards he'd almost taken it back, but still, he'd said he couldn't be without him. It was a big deal, right? A real, shiny, precious thing. What about him? Right now he didn't feel so sure he deserved it. The truth was, he was scared shitless. He had fear that he'd screw up again and ruin everything. He was afraid that John would change his mind. He had fear that it was all an illusion.

Then, somehow he had redeemed himself. He'd dried himself off, dressed himself in his usual impeccable way. And then he'd gone into the living room, and there he'd found himself in front of John, all dressed up too, coming out of the kitchen. And they had stopped and looked at each other, at least two feet apart. And they had given each other an almost shy smile. And then embarrassment had set in. They had both started looking around not knowing what to say.

John had called himself an asshole and an idiot. These are the things that happen when you do everything backwards. There must be a reason why there is a natural and socially accepted order that involves courtship, increasingly assiduous dating, cohabitation and offspring, right? What they had was the exact opposite. They had burned all the steps, upset all the balances, destroyed any glimmer of reason from their lives. And these were the results.

Having had half an hour before some incredible sex and now not even being able to speak to each other.

Then an idea had come to him. It may have been trite and obvious, but it was the only card he had thought to try and play.

"Look, Sherlock, not that I expected anything different but there's nothing in this house that looks like food," he had told him scratching the back of his head. "Any chance you'd like to go out to dinner with me?" Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply that of course he would, what was the big deal, they'd eaten out together a million times since they'd known each other. But then he had sensed that something was different. Only after much deliberation did he realize that it was Saturday night. The evening that John usually reserved for his dates.

"But no Chinese", he had only replied. And then he had added "let's go to Angelo's". This was to let him know he understood. And John had understood too. They had finally exchanged a big, sincere smile and felt better.

Angelo sat them down at their usual table and as always brought them a candle. Sherlock and John had both stared at the candle for a few moments, silently, watching the flame dancing, then they had looked around, and then finally their eyes had met again. And they had burst out laughing at the same time, shaking their heads, and had continued for quite a while.

They hadn't talked about what had happened that very afternoon. In fact, it almost seemed as if they had tacitly agreed to pretend that nothing had happened, or that it was in no way necessary to bring up the subject again. Or that, in any case, it was perfectly normal to have gone, in little more than four hours, from hurling insults and threats at each other, to bed, to dinner by candlelight.

John felt as if he had spent the entire afternoon on a roller coaster. However, despite the slight feeling of nausea and disorientation he felt, he had eaten anyway, with his usual appetite. Sherlock, for his part, had only nibbled on something, glancing at him every now and then. They hadn't touched each other all through dinner, not even by accident.

When they had arrived at Molly's house, John had rung the doorbell and then, as if having second thoughts, had moved behind Sherlock, leaving him in front of the door. The detective had only had a second to look at him questioningly before the door opened and behind Molly's legs the little girl made her appearance. "Daddy!" she had cried in the happiest voice in the world, reaching out to him. And he had promptly grabbed her, taking her in his arms, smelling her familiar scent, reveling in the small arms wrapped around his neck. Sherlock had turned to John and given him a smile of gratitude. And John had bowed his head condescendingly.

They had come home and all three of them had fallen asleep on the couch in front of a cartoon, exhausted from the day. John had awakened only after quite a while to pick up the little girl and carry her to bed. But she slept clinging to the detective and when he had tried to pull her away she had protested in her sleep. So he had wrapped them both in a light blanket and let them stay there.

It wasn't until late at night that Sherlock had woken up and carried her upstairs to her crib. He had stopped to watch John sleeping on his bed, on top of the sheets, on his stomach, wearing nothing but boxers and a short-sleeved white T-shirt. He had immediately felt all the saliva evaporate from his mouth, seeing him like that, sleeping, abandoned, serene, without fidgeting. He had had to fight the urge to lie down next to him and slip into his arms.

Silently, he had gone back downstairs, and looked out into his room. His bed was still unmade. Sherlock was assailed by a feeling that was still too unfamiliar, but which had all the semblance of the one he had felt for the first time that very afternoon, when John had put that hot hand of his on his stomach.

His breath had suddenly caught in his throat as, in record time, all the highlights of those crazy hours flashed before his eyes. John staring at him. John's hand slipping down his pants. John's gravelly voice telling him, "I'm going to make you come now." John working his way inside him, filling him up.

Sherlock had immediately closed the door to his room and leaned back against it with his shoulders, his gaze toward the ceiling, gasping. Okay, that's enough, he told himself.

He had run straight to the kitchen and once there had realized that he had no case, no experiment in progress, nothing at all to occupy his mind with. He had sat down and smoothed the edge of the table like any idiot, with all the lights on in the darkest hour of the night, until he realized that his index finger was lingering on a rough groove. It was there that he had been inspired to set about investigating the various potentially criminal properties of wood. Eventually he'd turned on an old rolling pin, the first kitchen tool he'd come across, and spent the rest of the night raging over it. Then, with the same inquisitive fury, he had attacked at least four or five other objects of various different types of wood he had found in the house. As the sun rose, he was still there, dead tired, with a mountain of notes and a lot of shavings scattered on the table overrun with the microscope and various reagents.

But at least that suffocating feeling of no longer being in control of his body was gone.

He had fallen asleep on the couch, still fully clothed, while the morning light was already filtering through the large ajar windows of 221b, together with the fresh air that swelled the curtains, making them resemble large sails of pirate ships.

He woke up with a start to the sound of Rosie's voice screaming directly in his ear, at full volume, "Daddy, will you take me on the big wheel today?”.

It was Sunday morning. A beautiful summer Sunday. They had gone on the big wheel, all three of them. And then they had eaten fish & chips in a kiosk nearby. It was as perfect a day as they had seen in a while.

In the afternoon Mrs. Hudson came back. John and Sherlock had rushed in together to help her with her bags as she got out of the cab.

"I'm sorry about... um... the other day," John had told her a moment they were alone. She'd given him another one of her hard looks, but then had melted and hugged him. "Behave yourselves now, though, eh?" she had only said, in a voice that was both soft and stern. And John had only nodded, looking down at the floor.

Rosie had definitely wanted to go downstairs and spend some time with Grandma Martha. And Sherlock and John had found themselves home together and alone again for the first time.

Sherlock was back in his home version, now, in his ratty pajamas and equally ratty T-shirt, and since it was hot he didn't even have one of his fluttering robes on; in the reddish light of the London sunset that colored the windows and the whole room, his whole outfit left little to the imagination.

John, having arrived at the top of the steps after bringing the baby downstairs, had found him wandering around the living room with some tiny unidentified object in his hand and a magnifying glass, the old kind though, not that folding thing he always carried around. His arms bare. His neck clearly visible through the torn collar of that worn blue T-shirt. He had stood in the doorway following him with his eyes, mesmerized. He had distinctly felt his brain about to short-circuit again.

"Did you forget how to walk through a door, John?", Sherlock had quipped without taking his eyes off that blessed magnifying glass.

John's first instinct had been to reach over and snatch up those vain rags he was wearing without even asking his permission.

Instead, he had cleared his throat and, coming up behind him, had asked him what he was working on, hoping that his tone of voice would sound normal enough. As if it hadn't been said, Sherlock had turned around and given him one of those looks that could pierce a wall. And John had stood there pinned to the spot as if petrified. And Sherlock had quickly begun to deduce it. You didn't have to take his pulse to know he was in the throes of a hormonal storm. As he himself, moreover, he had immediately realized with indulgent resignation, feeling his heartbeat accelerate into a raging peak. It was glaringly obvious that any second they would pick up where they left off the day before. It was the moment. It was life itself calling to them. They hadn't even realized they were inching closer to each other, not taking their eyes off each other, when the ringing of the doctor's work cell phone shattered the silence.

They had both jolted as if they had just emerged from a hundred-year sleep filled with dirty dreams.

Emergency with a patient. "Fuck," John had done in the height of frustration. "I have to go... I'm sorry..." "Sure," Sherlock had agreed incredibly, instead of rambling on about how boring his Sunday on-call shift was. "Don't worry about Rosie, we're here," he had added with a small smile. John had smiled at him too and replied "I know... thanks..." then picked up his briefcase and was about to walk through the door when he turned around again. Sherlock was standing there in the middle of the living room, barefoot and shaggy, turning that damn magnifying glass over in his hands and meanwhile smiling at him with one of his rare excited and understanding smiles.

"Tonight..." John had managed to articulate, despite the fact that his throat had dried up like he'd walked five kilometers in the desert. "Tonight, we talk," he had added. "Tonight," Sherlock had nodded.

Evening had turned to night. John had returned at one-thirty in the morning, devastated, after that call had been followed by another and then another. Maybe the whole city was plotting against him and his wild desire to get home as soon as possible to finish that talk with his roommate.

When he had arrived, Sherlock and Rosie were sleeping the deepest of sleeps in the detective's room, cuddled on the freshly changed bed, with the dim light from the nightstand illuminating them and a book about pirates abandoned beside.

Sherlock had a gauze around his right hand. John had wondered what the hell he had been up to. However, aside from several other tortured wooden objects abandoned on the kitchen table, there were no pools of blood or other evidence of potential tragedy in the house. John had turned off the light and went up to his room with his back completely broken, sighing all his frustration.

That was all that had happened in the thirty-eight hours that separated them from the last moments they had spent together on that Saturday of no ordinary madness.

It's now Monday morning, and they still haven't been able to address everything that happened that afternoon, and what's more, they still haven't even accidentally touched each other, if you make an exception for the little splinter discussion. Both of them are as frustrated and tense as violin strings.

John comes down again after a few minutes, with his leather briefcase, in time to hear Greg and Stella almost begging Sherlock to help them with an international case that has to do with art trafficking. Sherlock is watching them with a bored expression as if they are reciting the phone book to him.

As soon as he sees him appear in the living room again, Sherlock calls out to him with the puppy dog expression he used to get Janine to open one of the most impenetrable offices in the city in less than a minute.

John looks at him with a face of simultaneous impatience and amusement. "Later," he tells him, again, with an indeductible expression, glaring at him.

Later what? Sherlock wonders with an ill-concealed quiver. Later we fight? Later do we make love again? Later you confirm that you're in love with me and it wasn't just the fucking endorphins talking?

"And put some disinfectant on that hand," the doctor adds in a stern tone. Then he turns to the little girl who has approached to greet him: he leans over her, gives her a kiss on the forehead and instructs her, very clearly, "Take care, Rosie, I'm counting on you. Don't let that idiot daddy destroy all the wooden things we have in the house." "Ooookay," she does, mangling the word just as John does when he wants to concentrate. And John nods a collective goodbye and disappears down the stairs without adding anything else.

Rosie runs back to Sherlock, who picks her up again in a now customary fluid motion. "Well, let me see the photos of these precious paintings," he sighs to the two policemen in a melodramatic tone, while making a funny face to the little girl who throws her arms around his neck in response: "Let's look at the paintings!" she exclaims in the height of contentment, as if she had been offered a trip to the most beautiful amusement park in the world.

Greg and Stella exchange a look that is worth a thousand words. Sherlock being a dad is still a spectacle that would be worthy of being filmed and screened over and over again at a press conference with every journalist in the UK.

Chapter Text

A few hours later, Rosie is at Mrs. Hudson's and Sherlock is walking around in circles in Mycroft's asphyxiating office, perhaps one of the creepiest rooms in England, while he talks and talks in his tireless tone about how, with just a few searches, he has found a trail that leads back to the trafficking of works of art in a diplomatic bag; since the matter would involve an important politician of a European nation, he thought it wise to go and warn him: something that was not his responsibility anyway, and for which he expects, as a kind thanksgiving, that the British Government will relieve him of the burden of continuing to follow this useless and boring case on which he has already invested too much of his precious time.

Mycroft, seated at his desk, just follows him with his eyes as he fiddles with a pen. Incredibly, he has nothing to say in reply; in fact, maybe he's not even listening to him. He's busy observing something else, but he wants to be sure before saying anything about it. Not that it is particularly difficult to deduce; when it comes about feelings, Sherlock becomes as transparent as pure crystal at his eyes.

Only after a few more minutes, he interrupts him and says, in his clear and somewhat fatalist tone of voice: "So, brother mine, in the end it happened to you too”.

Sherlock remains petrified on the spot halfway through the speech and turns sharply to face him, staring at him with a faintly stunned expression; "What are you talking about?" he asks him a little shrilly, although in reality he knows very well. He had no doubt that he would notice it at the first glance or so; for him, it's probably as if it were written on his forehead.

"Are you really going to make me say that, Sherlock? I might blush," Mycroft replies with one of his wicked smiles. "Fine," Sherlock sighs impatiently. "Congratulations on the deduction. Now is it too much to ask you to return to the subject I'm here for?" "You're here because you have fear, Sherlock," he replies, putting his arms folded and stretching in his chair, crossing his legs and taking the wise tone. "And you're probably right to be. Fear is a natural reaction when the mind senses it's getting into a no-win situation," he continues mercilessly.

"Please, Mycroft," Sherlock only tells him, instantly giving himself up for defeat in a duel that he doesn't feel the strength to face anyway. He just looks at him with the same pleading expression as when, in those hallucinating moments in Eurus' bunker, he had to point a gun at him. "You know I worry about you. Always," the elder Holmes points out. "I know," only Sherlock replies, bowing his head.

The subway car swings packed with its usual din. It smells of sweat and burnt rubber. John, sitting squeezed between a portly lady and a teenager who keeps playing tetris on his smartphone, continuously elbowing him in the ribs, is staring into blank space. His mind is light years away. He's so lost in musings that he's in danger of skipping the Baker Street stop. But when he finally gets off the train to go home, at least he's managed to take stock for a moment.

Okay, he had sex with his best friend. Okay, he's wanted it for years, after all. Okay, now it's just a matter of figuring out what to do with the future.

There's no point in continuing to persevere with the story that Rosie needs another mother figure. Rosie adores Sherlock, and he adores her. The two of them have a bond so deep that sometimes John wonders if it's even stronger than the one he has with him. No one, unless they were completely heartless, could want to separate them, want to take away that daily routine made up of a thousand little rituals most of which he's not even aware of, since most of the time he's at work. And in the end she is not the first child in history to be raised by two men. There are at least two hundred thousand rainbow families in England.

Of course, Sherlock is Sherlock, a sociopathic ex-junkie who tends to relapse whenever he has an insecurity, clearly self-harming and with scary family turmoil. Not exactly the prototypical dad of the year. But in a way John still continues to think of him, despite all the times he's let him down, as one of the most reliable and brave and wise people on the planet, as he told him just as he was convinced they were about to blow up together.

Now it's a matter of figuring out what to do with the two of them. Two boyfriends? The very idea makes him smile. No, they are certainly not the kind of people for roses and chocolates. But their lives are now intertwined in such a complex way that John would have a hard time distinguishing between what, by now, in his mind is the stuff of his own bag and what is the product of influence and unbreakable connection with his pyrotechnic roommate. They can manage to build a daily routine, if not exactly normal, at least vaguely serene, if not actually happy. To build "something good," as Sherlock said the other day. Then again, they already have. Before the last turbulent period, the six months they lived together and raised the child together went basically fine.

John remembers being pissed off at Sherlock for how, in that period, he treated him with that resigned and condescending attitude, as if he was afraid to contradict him, as if he always wanted to please him. Thinking about it now, however, he smiles again. In the end, he did it for him, to pull him out of the darkness, out of the deaf anger in which he was wrapped up after Mary’s death. And just when things were starting to get better, he had met that Maggie and had thought it a good idea to try telling himself the fairy tale of the traditional family all over again. An idiotic illusion, which had led them to the sort of black abyss into which they had fallen with that furious argument. He was right about that too, Sherlock. No other woman could replace Mary.

And then it had happened... that thing. Something incredible, rationally inexplicable, probably wrong beforehand, at least in its manner and timing, but which had radically transformed his view of his relationship with Sherlock. He had even told him that he was in love with him.

Shit and shit again. He didn't even know if he was sure now, in his cold mind, but that had definitely been one of the most intense moments of his life. Now what?

It takes calm. It takes time. There, that's what he would tell him. Sherlock, you know I can't do without you in my life now, but we need to take it slow so we don't blow it. Let's get our lives back on track and then we'll figure out what's going on. Yes, it works.

Then he tries to imagine the detective's face as he gives him this speech. And he's not so sure anymore that it can work. Not to mention how the afternoon before they were about to jump each other just for spending five minutes alone in the same room. Yes, this is definitely going to take a lot of cold blood.

When (after looking over at Mrs. Hudson's only to learn that Rosie is taking a blissful afternoon nap after spending over an hour kneading scones), John makes his entrance into the living room of 221B, Sherlock is standing behind his armchair flipping through books. He's stacked at least twenty of them, resting them precariously on the shelves of the bookcase; some he hasn't even closed so as not to miss the mark.

"Hey," John just says to him, setting down his briefcase from work and the duffel bag with the stuff he's been picking up in the old house, and then stuffing his hands in his trousers’ pockets as if he doesn't know where to put them; he also swings on his legs a little.

Sherlock turns his head; "John!" he says to him in a vaguely surprised tone, as if he no longer remembers that he lives there too. And so saying, he immediately sets down the book in his hand on top of the precarious pile he had created. The books begin to fall one after the other, inexorably, methodically, with a resounding crescendo of thuds, while Sherlock tries to catch a few of them and then gives up and turns back to the doctor with a resigned face that seems to say I know I’ve become so ridicolous.

John is enchanted by the spectacle of the detective making a wrong move for once, and starts laughing like a madman, bending over his knees.

Sherlock remembers that not so long ago he had thought that he would even play the clown to make him laugh. There, goal achieved, it seems.

Once the rush of books is over, Sherlock stands looking at the pile on the ground, scratching his right elbow with the long fingers of his left hand while the palm of his right hand is once again wrapped in a light gauze. All he has on is one of his usual torn T-shirts and some sort of saggy old tracksuit trousers, barely held up by the protruding bones of his pelvis.

All the talk John had prepared on the subway evaporates from his brain instantly. "Let me see that hand," he only says in a soft voice in the meantime as he grabs the briefcase back and sits down in the center of the couch, and pats the cushion to his left, as if to say sit here. Sherlock blinks for a few seconds and then walks over with a slightly shy, slightly wary face, rounds the coffee table and sits down next to him, taking care to maintain a distance that allows no contact between them.

John stretches out his left hand into the void, palm up, as if he expected some gift to fall on it from the sky; and Sherlock, after a few seconds, while his gaze remains stubbornly fixed on the ground, leans his injured one over his. John quickly unwinds the light bandage, then takes his hand and moves it closer to get a better look. In the meantime he peeks again at his bare and perfectly smooth forearms. Even the small fix from the week before is almost disappeared; all that remains of it is a tiny speck barely darker than his roommate's milky skin.

"Look, it's all red, it could get infected," he tells him softly, in a tone that seems to lull him; "If you behave, now I'll take it off". And he smiles at him. And Sherlock just smiles too and bows his head. John, with quick and expert movements and with the help of a pair of tweezers taken from his bag, finally manages to extract the fragment of wood stuck in his palm. He presses on it another piece of gauze soaked in disinfectant and watches it become stained with just a drop of Sherlock's bright red blood.

The detective, for his part, has not missed a move of the doctor's hands and is still staring at the spectacle of seeing him at work, which has always had an effect like hypnosis on him. His breath is a little short, it seems to John.

For a few seconds they stand there, motionless, staring at Sherlock's hand wrapped in John's two hands; he can clearly feel how sharply his pulse is increasing. Sherlock feels it too, as he perceives John's slightly rough fingers of his left hand moving from the point where he was pressing to clasp around his wrist and then tracing with his thumb the path of the blue veins that disappear as they plunge down into the tender flesh of his forearm, until they reach the hollow of his elbow.

Sherlock feels that Saturday afternoon sensation again, but this time like a rush that concentrates in his lower abdomen like a sudden jolt. And he gasps, and even the doctor can't help but inhale loudly while he's still staring at the path of his hand. Maybe he's getting a kink out of Sherlock's arms. Which says a lot about his mental confusion. At the same time, they make the mistake of looking at each other's faces and remain chained for a moment by their usual war of looks; and they simultaneously realize that, as a power struggle, it no longer works.

Chapter Text

"Don't look at me like that, please," John says, lowering his eyes for first and letting go of his arm. Then he stands up to try and put some distance between them before his reasoning skills are completely exhausted. He props himself up on the cluttered living room table with his fists, huffing. Sherlock remains seated, following all his movements, and then musses his hair with a cry of exasperation. "What is it that you can't manage to tell me?" he asks him in a broken voice. "Because this is getting worse than the torture chamber in Serbia," he adds half-heartedly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay?", John replies to him raising his voice a bit, in a really sorry tone. "It's just that these days have been a frenzy. How about we try to calm down now? Let's spend a few quiet days, eh, like we used to until recently... and then see what happens?", John turns to him again and looks at him with a vaguely hopeful expression.

"I already know what happens, John," Sherlock murmurs dejectedly, his voice a hoarse whisper, returning to stare at the floor.

"No!" says John, and he finally moves back to him, fast. He kneels in front of him, even, and leans on his knee with one hand, just like that crazy stag night. The other hand goes to his cheek alone and makes him look up. "No," he repeats. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise. Okay?"

Sherlock looks up at him and gives him a small smile. John runs a hand behind his head, threading his fingers through his curls, and presses their foreheads together. "It was beautiful for me too the other day, Sherlock," he whispers to him, squinting. "Really, really beautiful. But I think we skipped some steps." "If it helped make you decide to stay it was the right thing to do," the detective overlaps him, finally confessing, earnestly. "Really?" John quits, pulling back a little to look him in the eyes, "It’s really this the reason for you wanted to do it?" His expression is a little pained now. He finally realizes that Sherlock has gone to great lengths to keep him from leaving, really. He crossed his deepest boundary. He didn't hesitate to uncover himself, in the truest sense of the word, and give him everything that was still intact in his body and mind. And he achieved his goal. Sherlock shrugs and nods, looking miserable. John lowers his gaze, feeling guilty.

"Besides..." the dectective resumes after a few moments, changing his tone completely, "it's the only alternative I could think of... otherwise we would have really started fighting, and frankly I was worried about my bedroom furniture." He finishes the sentence with a smirk that would almost seem mischievous, while simultaneously letting himself lean back on the back of the couch, looking up at him.

"You're such a jerk," John quips and, unable to restrain himself any further, pounces on him, slipping between his legs, still on his knees, and stretching over him. And then he kisses him.

It's been exactly forty-five hours since their last kiss. The counter in Sherlock's brain resets itself to zero as his arms encircle John's back and hold him close.

"I want to cuddle too!!!" shrieks Rosie as she hurries up the last few steps and bursts into the living room. John and Sherlock break away at lightning speed with bewildered expressions. John gives a sort of growl of exasperation and hurries to get up, then sits down next to him. And Sherlock laughs in embarrassment. Rosie climbs determinedly onto the couch and looks at them with the same serious expression as her mother did when she was making some of her irreparable decisions, flicking her blonde curls behind her ears. "'Sasha's parents got married last Sunday”, she informs them. Sasha is her favourite little playground friend. "When are you getting married? I want a giant cake too!"

John and Sherlock make an absolutely shocked expression and then look at each other silently for a few seconds, blushing, and then burst out laughing again, in unison, glaring at each other. Sherlock grabs the baby and throws her down on their laps and tickles her. "You're a glutton," he tells her, "how can you think of giant pies with all the scones you ate earlier?" The little girl laughs and laughs, kicking.

It all bears a striking resemblance to happiness.

John has gone to take a shower while Sherlock, lying on his stomach on the carpet, facing Rosie, is showing her all the adorable miniature Cluedo weapons. She is naturally mesmerised. Sherlock's eye falls on John's phone, abandoned on the coffee table. He looks around furtively, then pulls himself up, sits cross-legged and strains his ear. He can still hear the water roaring in the bathroom. Sherlock grabs John's phone with frantic movements and checks his messages.

Maggie. After a couple of messages in which John texted her that he couldn't be there for dinner Saturday night due to a snag at work and she understood and amiably forgave him, the latest exchange is from this very afternoon, probably around the time John was on the underground, coming back home from work. Sherlock quickly locates the start of the conversation, a "Hello, are you okay?" from the woman, and scrolls down, devouring every word in record time.

"Yeah, sorry I disappeared suddenly. I've had a busy weekend. I'm sorry about Saturday night."

"That's all right, we'll make up for it this Saturday won't we? Olivia told me about a fabulous vegan restaurant in Soho - what do you think? Shall I make a reservation? :)"

"Listen Maggie, I need to talk to you... can I call you now?"

"Ok, sure."

The conversation breaks off to resume about twenty minutes later, with another message from Maggie.

"Still, I didn't expect someone like you to end a story over the phone."

Sherlock parts his lips in amazement. He glances at Rosie, who is still fiddling with the Cluedo pieces, and then starts reading again.

"I'm really sorry, but I told you, I realised I'm not ready for a new story yet. I thought it best to tell you right away."

"I understand that, but I'm still disappointed. So that's why you never wanted to come up after dinner, isn't it?"

"In fact I wasn't really feeling it."

"Well, you're quite the gentleman :) Maybe we'll get in touch again sometime, shall we?"

"Sure, gladly. I send you a hug. And sorry again."

Sherlock puts down the phone exactly where he had taken it and stares into blank space, blinking. It does not occur to him that looking at another person's phone without their knowledge, especially if you have an intimate relationship with that person, is a very disrespectful gesture. There is only one concept on which his mind focuses. John has dumped his ball-breaking girlfriend. That surely must mean something. Sherlock feels his heart beat faster and gives the little girl a triumphant smile. “So, now I'll explain what the candlestick is for,” he tells her, and she claps her hands contentedly.

They ordered Chinese. At the table they laughed and joked. They even washed the dishes together. Then Sherlock picked up his violin and played Bach's Minuet in G, wandering around the living room, with Rosie hopping on his heels. And then the three of them sank back down onto the sofa, John and Sherlock sitting on either side and Rosie lying in the middle; she shortly after fell asleep with her little blonde head resting on John's leg.

Now the doctor is absent-mindedly fiddling with her curls while he watches the TV and peeks at the detective who's back to torturing that electronic contraption of his with a screwdriver. "Finished with the wood, huh?" he says at one point. "Hmm," Sherlock replies as he continues to turn the object over in his hands, "turned out to be less fun than expected." "I've been watching you tinker with that thing at night for months," John resumes. "At this point I'm wondering if it's not your very own version of Penelope's web..." "Penelope who?" asks Sherlock, biting his lip as he pokes the screwdriver deeper into the half-dismembered plastic body. A couple of transistors can be seen jumping away. "Never mind..." laughs the doctor, shaking his head.

A few seconds of silence pass. "You were right, you know, about Mary," John then says suddenly, out of nowhere. Sherlock freezes, puts the device down and turns to him with a surprised expression. "She never would have wanted me to look for another mum for Rosie on the basis of how good she is with kids..." he is silent for a second and then adds, starting to laugh softly to himself, "and then she was really a pain in the ass...". Sherlock nods, smiling. "And can you imagine Rosie with a chick like that?" the doctor continues to laugh, "she probably would have tried to set her house on fire on the second day of living with her." Sherlock laughs under his breath as well. "Yeah," he agrees, "I can see that."

A few more moments of silence fall. And then John whispers, without looking at him, "It was a rough few days when we left. She... was... really out of it." He bows his head and strokes Rosie’s curls again. Then he adds, "Mary knew who the only person was who could replace her if she was gone... and so do I." Only then does he turn to meet his gaze. Sherlock is shocked by the statement. He opens his mouth to answer, but realizes he can't say a word. And then he closes it again. Maybe it's a trick of the dim light in the living room, but for a moment it looks like they're both bright-eyed.

Rosie stirs in her sleep. John clears his throat and then gets up and picks her up to carry her to bed. Sherlock remains alone in the living room. He brings his knees to his chest and bends his head back until he slams it softly against the wall, closing his eyes with a great sigh. For the first time he feels the enormous weight of the concept of responsibility. He wonders if he will ever be able to live up to it. Then he gets up and goes to put the kettle on.

John faces the kitchen door. "Tea?" the detective asks, fumbling around the cooker. "I can't get over how much tea we drink in this house," the doctor says with a smile. Then he walks up to him and watches from behind his back as he precisely warms the teapot, empties it and pours in three perfectly measured teaspoons of scented leaves. While he is pouring the water over it, John's arms, as if they had a life of their own, start moving and slowly encircle his chest and his hands intertwine just below his sternum, while he rests his forehead between his shoulder blades and lets out a long sigh. Sherlock stiffens and makes a kind of choked sob; then he puts down the kettle and brings his right hand to his, knotted close to his heart. Strangely, he still doesn't have a word to say. They spend an indefinite amount of time in that position, while the tea infuses and colours the water. They just listen to each other breathe.

Then Sherlock turns, while John is still holding him. They stare into each other's eyes for at least another thirty seconds before they decide to eliminate the remaining distance between them. And then finally, again in unison, they decide. They move slowly closer this time, enjoying every inch that is covered by their advancing, until they finally reach each other. And then they start kissing, slowly, as if they are tasting each other. As if it were the first kiss all over again.

After a few moments, they find that holding back becomes more and more difficult. But Sherlock suddenly has a thought. "Rosie's in the house," he blurts out, mortified. John looks up at him and smiles amused and softened by his being so wonderfully naive. "If in every house where a child lives, people would have stopped doing things like that, we'd all be only children," he says as he runs his fingers through his hair, drawing him back in, while Sherlock grabs the fabric of his plaid shirt, across his chest, as if he's considering ripping it off. By the time they pull away they're already gasping for breath, and John finally and confusingly realises that he's doing just the opposite of what he'd planned to do, which was to take it slowly and see what happens.

"The tea's getting cold," he says, trying to regain a reasonable tone of voice. "To hell with the tea," Sherlock replies, throwing himself at him again. John recoils, clutching him and starting to kiss him again, leaning back against the table which barely moves, making a bit of noise; they both freeze listening for a few seconds. No call from upstairs.

"My room?" asks Sherlock, increasingly out of breath. John lets out an exasperated sigh as the detective starts kissing his neck. "Your room," he relents after a few seconds. "But I thought we said we were going to go slow?" "We'll take it incredibly slow," Sherlock promises, nuzzling into his skin, "I for one would be happy if you took all night," he adds, smiling at him with that new kind of slightly mischievous smile of his. "I'm going to kill you," John threatens him, surrendering as he feels the arousal tense his trousers. "Okay, but just do it after we’ve finished" Sherlock replies to him, smiling even more wickedly. John grabs him by one of his bare arms. This time he's the one dragging him into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible, turning on the dim light on Sherlock's bedside table and closing the door behind him. Sherlock has sat on the bed and is looking at him as if he were an apparition.

"What's the matter?" smiles John at him, remaining at a distance for a moment. "The matter is that I still can't believe it," Sherlock confesses, in a choked voice. "Well, neither do I," the doctor replies, approaching him and kneeling down in front of him, on the floor, and running his hands over his skinny thighs covered by the frayed suit.

Chapter Text

It's been at least a couple of minutes since John has been on his knees, just caressing the taut muscles of his thighs and scanning with his eyes every inch of skin left bare by Sherlock’s old, too-big T-shirt. Then he touches the smooth skin of his arms again, as if enchanted by that hypnotic gesture. Sherlock, sitting motionless on the edge of the bed, begins to feel embarrassed. "What are you doing?" he asks him after a few more moments, in a whisper. "I'm watching you," John replies in a gravelly voice. "Why?" the detective asks him back, genuinely astonished.

John rolls his eyes. "Because you're... fuck... you're..."

"What?" Sherlock frowns.

"So beautiful," the doctor finally admits in the same tone in which he'd said you to him when he didn't want to understand that he was asking him to be his best man.

Sherlock smiles and blushes. John can feel all his blood circulation concentrating dangerously towards his groin. He realises that he has rarely been so aroused in the past. In fact, maybe only when he was making love to Mary after learning she was a super secret assassin agent. And he also notices, with some surprise, that it doesn't make him sad or guilty to think of Mary while he's with Sherlock. In fact, he almost feels a kind of comfort. All the pieces seem to fit together perfectly.

"You're beautiful, yes," he repeats to him, "and the fact you pretend not to know it, is driving me crazy," he adds, finally getting up and pushing him down on the bed, lying on top of him. Sherlock gasps in surprise and passes his arms behind his shoulders and pulls him close. They start kissing again, furiously, rolling several times over the wide surface of the bedspread, rubbing each other as hard as they can.

At one point John slips both hands under his shirt, placing them wide open on his lean chest. Sherlock jerks, squirming. And John loses control, and rises up on top of him, grabbing the flaps of that old rag to finally crown his dream of unceremoniously pulling it off, possibly even ripping it off.

"Tell the truth, you're doing it on purpose to walk around the house with this stuff on," John snarls at him as Sherlock raises his arms and the doctor manages to violently pull his shirt off the top of his head, while the detective lifts himself up to facilitate the operation and his curls fall softly on his forehead.

"Two days ago you freaked out over a two hundred pound shirt," Sherlock gasps in his already laboured breathing, falling back onto the mattress, "and now you're getting excited over a shirt caught from a Salvation Army basket... that's beyond any logic...ha!" he exclaims, as the doctor's tongue has gone direct to retrace an area he's already experienced the last time, namely that of his right nipple.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but this has nothing to do with logic," John points out hoarsely as his mouth closes to that small patch of pink skin that hardens in an instant, and without even realising it, he begins to suck on it gently. Sherlock lets out an overly loud sob, squirming; and the doctor whispers under his breath, in a warm and somewhat mischievous tone, "If you don't want us to end up interrupted in the best moment, you must try to be very quiet."

Sherlock nods, squinting, as John's hand quickly moves down across his abdomen with every intention of getting into his trousers. The detective inhales sharply and brings his long hands to his chest again, grabbing the fabric of his shirt. "Can you take it off?" he asks breathlessly, "for me," he adds blushing once more.

"Wha...? What? Do you want me to..." says John, also flushed. He's really never been asked that. And Sherlock nods, fixing him with a small, shy smile. John stifles a laugh of embarrassment. And then he says, "All right," and sits astride his pelvis and begins to unbutton his cuffs, shaking his head with a half-impish, half-amused smile.

"Look what you make me do..." he whispers to him as he slowly unbuttons all the buttons on the front, one after the other, starting with the first one on his throat. When he gets to the last one down at the bottom, he almost feels a sense of nausea from the force of the excitement that has assailed him and he stares back at Sherlock, who is looking at him with two eyes as big as two saucers and is completely breathless.

John slides his shirt behind his shoulders and finally pulls it off and throws it away. "There you go, happy? Now start breathing again, otherwise I'm going to have to give you a cardiopulmonary manoeuvre and that wouldn't be very sexy right now..." he tells him in a joking tone. And Sherlock's hands rest on his bare chest and they both gasp. He caresses every inch of his solid, still-sculpted chest, and then grabs him and pulls him back down, onto himself. They both freak out at the feeling of their naked chests adhering together. "God," John confesses, "I've been looking forward to doing this again."

"I want us to make love again," Sherlock murmurs in the vicinity of his ear. John barely lifts up to look into his eyes. "Oh, Sherlock," he replies softly, regretfully, "let's do it another way, okay? I don't want you to feel pain again because of me." "Drawer," says Sherlock, unexpectedly taking in his enigmatic manner and pulling himself up a little with his torso. "Huh?" says John pulling himself up as well. "Drawer, of the bedside table, behind you," the detective says, his voice strained with excitement, and he leans back on his elbows as John looks at him questioningly. Then the doctor snorts and climbs off the top of him to trudge over to the bedside table. No use contradicting Sherlock, he'll never tell him what's on his mind anyway, and he won't stop insisting until he does what he wants.

John opens the drawer and a tube of intimate lubricant comes in front of his eyes. His jaw drops, literally. And he closes it again. And then he opens it again and finally decides to pull it out, holding it between two fingers as if it were some mysterious, alien object. "What about this?" he asks him bewildered. "Well," Sherlock shrugs, "I was walking past the pharmacy this morning...". And John turns burgundy imagining the face of Mrs Sloane, who already every time they go to buy vitamins for Rosie apostrophises them in her big ten-decibel voice "here are the lovely dads!" putting on a forty-five-tooth smile.

"So you had it all planned out, did you? You bloody idiot," John tugs the dark tube at him without much conviction, with a stifled, incredulous laugh. It bounces off Sherlock's chest and lands next to him. "Ouch!" the detective complains, massaging the stricken spot. "Let's just say I assessed that there was a 20% chance you'd be willing to repeat the experience, and for the rest I relied on hope..." he then continues with a surrendered smile.

"Fuck," John growls, lying back down beside him, getting as close to him as he can as he slips his fingers through his hair and turns his face to kiss him. "You're going to kill me," he adds, and then pounces on his lips and simultaneously, in one decisive gesture, pulls down his trousers and underwear. Sherlock gasps at the sensation of suddenly feeling exposed, and squirms a little. "John..." he groans in shame. "Shhh," he replies, "I want to look at you, okay? I hardly saw anything the other day. I want to watch you, I want to learn you by heart," he whispers hoarsely as his right hand descends quickly across his abdomen to reach his groin and wrap his fist around him again.

Sherlock feels his insides burn and he lets out a broken gasp, squinting hard. Then he opens his eyes again and raises his neck just in time to see that John has risen and is staring at him right there, with an expression of wild excitement, while his right hand begins to move.

By now, John has gone completely out of control, but he is still in time to marvel at how, after forty years of convinced and unshakable heterosexuality, the idea of touching a man seems so natural to him. And that is the moment when the inspiration comes to him. He hesitates only for a moment, not so much for himself as because he fears it will be too much for Sherlock. He turns his head for a moment to look at him, and his utterly desperate expression blows away his last qualms. A second later, he's taking him in his mouth.

"Joooohn!" the detective almost shouts, and he plugs his mouth with both hands, arching and shaking his head hard to tamp down the obscene noises that come up directly from his heart. This can't be happening. This isn't really happening. This is beyond anything in his imagination. "What... no... why...," he can only articulate in incoherent, choked sounds, and it really does sound like he's on the verge of tears as the doctor goes even lower, as far as he can.

He doesn't really understand what he's doing either. The taste of Sherlock in his mouth instantly clears away any last doubts, crumbles inside him every last grain of buried anger, erases for a wonderful instant all the terrifying images his brain has accumulated over the last few years. Now he knows that he is in love with him, finally every uncertainty dissolves from his mind like snowflakes on a dirty pavement.

The realisation unleashes a feral lust within him that makes him want to experience whatever filth it is possible to conceive by combining two male bodies. And he roars, gripping him with his mouth, wrapping his tongue around him. He's never given a blow job in his life, of course, so he has to rely on instinct and experience of the ones he's received. Which, truth be told, are not a few. But, judging by Sherlock's reaction, he's not doing too badly. The detective gasps so deeply and is so breathless that John fears for a moment that he is on the point of fainting. Then, suddenly, the detective twists with impetuous movements and tries to escape his grasp. "John, no, please, you'll make me come," he gasps desperately.

John lets go him and looks into his eyes with a completely stunned expression. Hearing that term come from the detective's lips sends the last still-functioning areas of his brain into a tailspin.

Sherlock reaches up to grab him by the arms and drags him back on top of him. "Why are you still wearing trousers?" he asks him in an exasperated tone. And John hurries to shed them at lightning speed, jeans and underwear.

They slip under the white sheets and John lies back down between his legs and rubs against his skin, trying to make them fit as tightly as possible. He drops his head back down onto his chest and rests his cheek on it, his cheek which stings a little from the shaving that needs to be done, his right ear pressed to the pale skin of his sternum, listening for the furious beat of his heart. If there is a heaven, it must be like this.

Chapter Text

Sherlock runs his hands through John’s short hair, barely scratching his scalp with his nails. Then he takes hold of his face and turn it toward himself. He runs his thumbs slowly over both of his rough cheeks, holding his head up to see him. John smiles at him with his chin resting just below his right collarbone. "Is everything okay?" the detective asks him in a whisper. "Actually, it's incredibly fine," John raises himself up on his arms. Then he leans over him and gives him a very long, dreamy kiss. Sherlock closes his eyes responding to his lips and tongue, and he feels wonderfully soft and abandoned between his grip and the cool sheets. 

His right hand leaves on its own to touch him. He couldn't wait to do it again, to be able to move his fingertips over that smooth, delicate skin, mapping all the protruding veins, all the contours, assaying him millimeter by millimeter.

John feels that exploratory, almost scientific touch of his, and it excites him more than any hand job he had ever been given before. He can't hold back a long moan. "Stop..." he growls after a few seconds, "stop or I won't last a minute longer." He rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder again, his breathing labored as if he's been running at breakneck speed all over the city.

It's from there that he hears Sherlock's voice reduced to an uncontrolled gasp, almost pleading, "I want you, I want you inside, please, one more time." John feels himself dying. He lifts himself up onto his arms again and looks down at him. "Are you sure?" he can't help but ask. Sherlock would want to give him a sarcastic quip of his own, God how he wishes he could, but he can't. His caustic phrasebook is currently unavailable. He can only limit himself to repeating, like a mantra, "Now, John, now, please."

John lowers his eyes inhaling an enormous amount of air. "Ooookay”, he then exhales, dragging the locution out of proportion for the umpteenth time. "Where did you put that thing?" he asks him, looking around. Sherlock instantly spots the tube amidst the rumpled sheets and grabs it with a lightning move. Then he puts it in his hand. John looks at him as if he has handed him the weapon of a closed door murder. He drops to his knees between his legs and rounds his lips into a long puff as if for courage, and then uncorks it.

The click resounds in the perfectly silent room.

John squeezes some lube onto his right hand and then brings it closer to Sherlock’s taut body. The detective is looking at him with incredible intensity. He feels himself transfixed by his eyes.

This time it's not a chaotic, hasty fight, carried on without seeing practically anything and almost without having a clear idea of what they were doing. This time it's not just an act carried out on the wave of inexperience and the adrenaline of a furious fight, seasoned only with a little saliva and a lot of pain. This time they are both uncovered, exposed, well aware of the situation, excited to the extreme, lacking the dramatic charge that the first time had led them to do it as if it were a matter of life and death.

This time the cards are now well laid. This time they will do it to love each other. And to enjoy. For real.

John, still remaining in the same position, and after having made him spread his legs to get there better, without saying anything else and without waiting any longer slips into him two fingers of his right hand, trembling with the desire to see him go crazy, finally uncontrolled and prey of the only instinct. The lube does its job to perfection. Sherlock feels the fingers violating him for the second time in a few days, but this time he doesn't feel the pain given by the dry rubbing, only the discomfort of the cold, slimy feel of the substance. The soft skin of that part of his body, never touched by a living soul before the last week, is so receptive that it leaves him completely breathless and obediently yields to the pressure. He'd scream if he could, but having to restrain himself only causes him to emit a long, broken moan as his eyes roll back almost.

"Fuck, yeah," John lets out as he begins to slowly move back and forth his hand that's shaking with arousal, as he's still kneeling between his legs and brings his left hand down on his lower belly, just below his belly button, and presses a little on his milky skin. He slides his fingers in and out of him in small, already experienced motions and he's entranced watching him while he squirms breathlessly.

"Better?" he can't help but ask him with a slightly teasing smile. "Great," Sherlock replies only, his voice coming out reduced to a hiss. John adds his ring finger and continues to poke at his flesh, biting his lip in concentration.

After a few seconds, he finds it again, that hidden spot that can send him into ecstasy with a few moves, and he lifts his eyes from what he's doing to move them back to the detective's face with a triumphant grin. Sherlock can't hold back a long, trembling groan, his eyes wide as he recognizes the sensation of last time, an electric shock that goes through him from top to bottom. This time it's even stronger, if that's possible.

"That's it, that's it, I'm going to make you faint, Sherlock, I fucking swear," John snarls between his teeth while he doesn't stop hitting him with his fingers there, repeatedly. His other hand stops pressing on his abdomen and moves to add more lube, even on himself, then leaves the tube again and grabs him firmly, squeezing him but without jerking him. He doesn't stop sinking his fingers into him, not even when Sherlock seems completely unable to articulate any sound and is merely making uncontrolled moans while clenching the pillowcases with his fists so hard that he feels pain.

John, with amazement, notices himself becoming fierce.

He is not usually fierce in bed, neither foul-mouthed nor violent. In fact, he's quite ordinary. Only Mary could bring out that extra edge in him with her ability to turn him on by saying unrepeatable things to him while they were doing it in every position possible. And suddenly, like a flash, he's reminded of one.

One he had absolutely written off. It had happened some time before their wedding, one night they'd been out to dinner and had gone a little overboard on the wine, and then as soon as they got home they'd ended up fucking standing against the hall wall without even taking off their coats, and she'd been whispering a delicious torrent of filth to him, and at one point she'd come out and said she'd pay gold to see him do something with Sherlock Holmes. The image had crossed his brain with a meteor. Not that he hadn't fantasized about it in the secret of his subconscious… But hearing it from an outside voice, especially if it was your girlfriend's voice, was something else entirely, and it had turned him on in an unprecedented way, and he had slammed her against the wall putting his whole soul into it and sent her completely into ecstasy. Too bad that the next morning they both had their memories a little fuzzy and that incredible moment had sunk into the recesses of his memory. Until now.

"Oh fuck," he comes to say as he shakes his head suddenly out of breath as he pulls his fingers out and leaves him. Sherlock immediately rises up on his elbows, trying to moderate his breathlessness. "What is it?" he asks him making a worried expression. John looks at him and feels like smiling and crying at the same time. "Something occurred to me," he raps incredulously, "something I'd forgotten...". Sherlock looks at him narrowing his eyes as if to deduce it, which he couldn't at this moment anyway. His head resembles a clean slate. "Mary..." resumes John. "Mary once told me she would like to see us... like this."

Sherlock looks at him in disbelief as well, and feels choked up. It's too intense a feeling. He knew Mary loved their relationship, of course, but he would never have thought to this extent. Mary who protected him with her warm, living body, her strong, fragile heart. Mary and her sweet blood on his black gloves. It is because of her, that he has not taken that bullet in his body and now is here, alive, and can do this with John. For a moment, he wishes he could hold her and tell her I so like you too.

Sherlock lets out a kind of sob and lifts himself up to hug the doctor and drag him down on top of him. Then he takes his face in his hands and stares down at him, looking in his eyes with his gaze that pierce the walls. "J-John… I think I love you," he tells him.

He hasn't really thought about it. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he expressed a concept without first running it through the complicated processing and verification mechanisms of his mind. It just came out of him. And only as he said it, he realized how frighteningly true it is.

John gasps and feels his heart lose several beats.

"Oh, I love you too, Sherlock," he finally confesses, and captures him in an intense, endless kiss, putting his whole self into it as he helps himself to his body with his hand. They are by now completely unable to stop holding their chained gazes. "I love you”, he repeats to him, "and I never thought I'd say it again." "And I never thought I'd say it," Sherlock replies to him with a soft smile; "Apparently I've gone right over to the losing side." "Then we lose together," the doctor lets out with a long sigh, pressing his forehead to his forehead again.

"I don't care, anything goes, as long as we do it together from now on," Sherlock confesses. The man we both love, Mary's voice from the first dvd comes to him. At the time, he didn't know it yet. He felt, sure, an enormous sense of loyalty, and protection, and devotion, and dependence, and fascination and so much more for his irreplaceable blogger. But he did not know, yet, rationally, that he was in love. He never tought it possible. Now he knows. Unequivocally.

"Together, yes," John confirms. "From now on, you and I are together," he points out, growling almost, in a delightfully definitive tone. Sherlock looks at him surprised and excited. "Just the two of us against the rest of the world?"; he asks him in a choked voice. "against the world," John replies with the same irrevocable expression as when he shot the cab driver. And then "here I am," he merely adds. "Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock repeats nodding several times, unable to say anything else as he feels him begin to lean against his warm, lubricated skin and then with a long inhale he takes him in.

John would like to take it slow, to go in small steps, but he feels he can't control himself this time, and then there's Sherlock who draws him in, taking him stubbornly by the hips, and then he just gives in, and penetrates him with a single fluid movement that clouds his brain and makes him make a sound that really sounds like an animalistic roar.  Sherlock inevitably feels the pain assaulting him at that sudden intrusion, and he receives it with a kind of gratitude, with a sense of atonement.

They stand motionless for a few moments, entwined, staring at each other in shock, both breathless. Then John collapses his head onto his left collarbone. "Christ," he says, "I want to die like that." This time he has plenty of time to clearly feel the muscles of Sherlock's body wrapping around him and squeezing him and holding him as if he never wants to let him go again. Crazy.

Sherlock is getting teary again from the intensity of the sensations he's feeling. The only solution he can think of to redeem himself is to urge John to start moving. He slowly moves his hips and wraps his legs behind his back, drawing him in more. John groans and then becomes prey to pure instinct and begins to sink into him, hard, without warning. Sherlock gasps and wheezes as his body quickly adjusts and begins to turn pain into pleasure.

Fuck, he was born for this. It's only the second time he's done this, and already he's perfectly capable of deriving maximum stimulation from the intrusion.

The first time, perhaps, or indeed certainly, it had only been a means. A means for making John to stay. The last means at his disposal, his last card, and he played it without hesitation, even with the fear, embarrassment, shyness and all the rest.

Not now. Now he is there, with his body and mind, learning from every little movement, drinking in every tiny detail and storing it in his memory to think about it later on. And finally an obvious and incredible fact comes to his mind. He likes to have sex. He likes to use his body like that. And most of all, he loves it that John is the first and only one with whom he has discovered all this. He will never get enough of him. And that's exactly what he tells him, in a desperate tone. " I'll never get enough of this… of you" he confesses to yet another violent thrust from John, who has now lifted himself up on his arms again and slams him against the mattress in furious motions.

"Do you feel me? Did you want it? So take it, take me, fuck, you drive me mad," John recites over and over, trying to get as far inside him as he can, now that he sees him so relaxed, enjoying the experience to the fullest without that deep restlessness in his eyes that accompanied him all along the first time. He gives him another stroke, moaning, and sees him smile, parting his lips, his eyes closed. And that's when he understands. He feels like he's won the top prize in the national lottery. "You like that, don't you?" he growls through his teeth at him. "I fucking knew you'd go for it. Come, now, christ, I want to see you come for me..." John's last words are lost in a garbled gibberish as he grabs him tightly and starts to move his hand.

"No, no, no," gasps Sherlock reaching for his hand. "What???" the doctor exclaims instantly freezing, concerned. "Did I hurt you?" he asks him, already on the verge of pulling himself out. But the detective grabs him back by the hips and pulls him back on, all the way down. "No, no, I'm fine, I swear, just...don't touch me, I want to come like this... just... with you...," he confesses breathlessly. He looks up at him from down at the bottom of the pillow, his eyes bright and huge, his lips parted and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and excitement.

John definitely freaks out. "All right, christ," he finally roars, "I'll make you come like this, also if it really takes all the night." It's quite a gamble with himself, as he's actually almost at his limit.

And yet, he leans back on his elbows and, desperately trying to keep a shred of lucidity, starts thrusting into him with deep, controlled movements, trying to touch the same spot every time, with the same force, grinding his teeth and biting his lips raw to distract himself. Then, at some point, he lifts Sherlock’s pelvis, making him curve a little, and grabs his wrists with an unpredictable snap, locking them on either side of his head.

Sherlock no longer speaks. He only squints loudly with his mouth wide open in a soundless cry. By now the electricity that John's fierce movements light up inside him is continuous and gives him no respite. It's a wave that grows and grows, and then finally crashes down, shocking him with its power.

Sherlock's eyes go wide and he says only a very long "Joooohn," and the doctor realizes the moment is coming and lets go of his wrists and runs a hand behind his neck, bringing their foreheads together and planting his eyes in his. He doesn't want to miss a second of the incredible sight of the orgasm about to warp his features.

"I love you," Sherlock manages to say one more time, his voice broken, clawing at his shoulders. And then he lets go. John is unable to contain himself and looks down to make sure it's all true, and sees him squirt long streaks of semen across his abdomen without even being touched. The most incredible thing he's ever seen. It only takes him one or two more thrust, hard, and finally the orgasm blinds him. He comes inside him, again, this time without any hesitation. Just as he's doing it, he thinks he wants to feel it too, wants to be fucked, pierced, filled as well as he's doing to Sherlock. With this very tempting idea in his head, he rides the last waves of pleasure while his arms give out and he almost falls on top of him, abandoning himself on his chest with his heart pumping as if he wanted to burst. "God," he manages to say breathlessly, whispering into his sternum, "I'm not young enough for this anymore."

Sherlock brings his hands around his head and pulls him close over his heart, which is slowly slowing its beats. He takes very long, silent breaths. He doesn't want to be looked at in the face right now, because his eyes are full of tears. Some of them even roll down onto his pillowcase. You're a sentimental idiot, Moriarty's serpentine voice tries to say. But it is instantly silenced by the sense of enormity that envelops him. They're together, whatever the hell that means.

The two of them are together.

The pink dawn filter through the slats of the shutters and catch them in pratically the same position as they collapsed. The only movement John made after sex was to carefully get out of him and settle his head better on the crook of his shoulder. He reached out to stroke his face and felt his wet cheek. "I love you, Sherlock," he reiterated to him without moving from there. "It'll be okay from now on," he added, and he felt his arms hold him tighter. And then he slipped into a leaden, blissful sleep. And Sherlock, too, eventually drifted slowly into slumber, entranced by the wonder he'd never experienced of having him close, even now that they're placated and content and don't have to go anywhere, there's no tragedy or danger going on, it's just the two of them, there, suspended, falling asleep together. Perfection.

Sherlock wakes up first. Despite being all sore, he still manages to lie still under the doctor's thorny cheek, that is pressing abandoned on his right pectoral. He strokes his hair again with his fingertips. John makes a sound of contentment, followed by a sort of grunt as he barely recovers. He manages to pull himself up and they finally look into each other's eyes again.

"Good morning," Sherlock gives him with the warmest smile on his face. John frowns, momentarily bewildered. "Woooof," he groans, pressing his forehead to his shoulder and then pulling himself up to sit with an ostentatious effort. Then he's entranced looking at him. His curls all ruffled, his face relaxed, the perfect pale skin on his body, a little more shiny where his cum has dried on him. "There you are, all smiles like you just stepped off the cover of Forbes," the doctor mutters. "I feel like I've been run over by a truck." "Well, if I remember correctly you're the one who did most of the work, after all," Sherlock whispers putting his hands behind his head and intertwining his fingers. "You're such a cock. I'm regretting it already," John laughs shaking his head. "Mmmm, I don't think so," he replies giving him the sly smile of when he wants to convince him to do something for him. "Don't look at me like that," John sternly retorts. "Why?" the detective asks. "Because Rosie's going to wake up soon," the doctor points out. Then he reaches down and gives him a very long, soft, wet kiss.

"I'm going to take a shower," the doctor whispers on his lips. "I'd tell you to join me but then we'd never get out of that bathroom again..." and he suddenly abandons him, laughing defiantly. He reaches down to at least pick up his underwear and slip them on, and makes to leave the room. Sherlock throws a pillow at him, but fails to hit him.

The pillow falls to the floor with a soft pof.

Sherlock looks at himself, and sees all the traces of this incredible night on his body, and blushes again; and then brings his hands over his eyes shaking his head with a smile of pure happiness.

It's a beautiful sunny morning and all the windows in 221B are wide open. The living room is as crowded as King's Cross station at rush hour.

There's Mrs. Hudson, busying herself around with a rag and furniture spray, trying to get rid of at least the most superficial layers of the tons of dust lurking on the bookshelf, while giving everyone in the room a specific report on the condition of her hip after her last visit to the orthopedist.

There's Rosie, who has scattered her cubes all over the place and is happily banging them around while she watches a cartoon full of irritating songs at full volume.

There's Greg, who is trying to talk to Sherlock, over the din coming out of the TV and over Mrs. Hudson's carpet of chatter, about the latest interesting developments in the art trafficking case.

There is Mycroft, standing next to John's armchair, leaning on his umbrella and with his coat over his arm, watching that human chaos in bewilderment while he waits patiently for someone to pay attention to him.

John and Sherlock are in a bubble of bliss. Or maybe they're just both reeling from the oxytocin and vasopressin circulating in alarming amounts in their pleasantly muffled heads. They're both in the kitchen setting the breakfast table, John frying bacon and eggs while Sherlock prepares the teapot with his usual precision, although at the moment it seems to him almost a miracle that he remembers how to use a spoon. Every movement he makes brings back memories of one of the previous night's delicious frames. By now, he has realized that this same soft and delicate pain that he feels and that will accompany him all day, he already loves it. Already he is completely addicted to it.

They are strangely silent, but they can't resist letting more than thirty seconds go by without looking at each other. And every time they meet eyes, they give each other a smile that someone with little poetic vein would not hesitate to call decidedly a dumb smile.

Greg, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, finally realizes that Sherlock probably hasn't heard a single word he's said to him so far.

"Sherlock..." he says to him. "Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?" "Sure I am, Gavin, you know I hang on your every word whenever you brief me on the latest developments in your investigations," the detective replies to him as he continues to dose his tea leaves, and then, for the umpteenth time, he searches John's eyes, doing his Cheshire cat smile. John, who is now standing in front of the sink, chuckles, crumples up the dishcloth he was holding and throws it at him. "Behave yourself, Sherlock," he tells him in a ridiculously stern tone. "Why, what are you going to do otherwise?" the detective replies to him, catching the dishcloth on the fly with a graceful gesture and pulling it back to him. John grabs it, and puffs out shaking his head, still with a slightly dumbfounded smile, unable to take his eyes off him.

"What's wrong with these two this morning?", Greg says, turning exasperatedly towards the living room. "What do you want me to say," warbles Mrs. Hudson in her most dreamy tone, "it must be spring..." "But if it's August!" protests Lestrade turning to Mycroft, who shakes his head slightly disgusted and looks up at the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Maggie is sitting at a small table in a trendy bar in South Kensington with her friend Olivia. They've known each other for a little over a year, since Maggie came to London and started her new job, a widow with a little child. They became friends at the gym. Maggie is a not-too-skinny woman with ordinary features, a big hair of henna-colored curls. They're drinking a soy cappuccino and nibbling on their two vegan whole wheat brioche.

"…And so he told me that he realized he didn't feel ready for another story yet. That he'd wanted to try to let himself go into this, because he liked me so much, but he just can’t manage it”. Maggie rolls around her finger one of her curls from the hundred-pound perm she just had redone. “He's a very sensitive man," she adds, while Olivia, taller, blonde and skinny, wearing a pair of triangular-rimmed glasses, arches an eyebrow skeptically.

"What reason would he have to lie? We never even fucked. He never wanted to come up at home, not once, in the two months we've been dating. Not that I pushed that, heh, I didn't want him to get the wrong idea about me. But that obviously wasn't his purpose... no, he's worried about the baby, you should see her, she's a real delight, a blonde angel, she looks like a doll!", Maggie raves describing Rosie.

"What do you mean?", Olivia asks almost baffled, "do you think he got involved with you just to find another mom for his daughter?".

"No, what are you saying! We got along great, we had some good laughs when we went out to dinner... but let's face it, at our age we have responsibilities, we are both parents, we also have to think about the good of our little ones... my Alfie would need a father figure so much too...", she sighs, a bit melodramatic.

"Anyway," Olivia says with a sigh after a few moments of silence, " maybe it's better this way, you know?"

"What do you mean?" asks Maggie immediately, piqued.

"I mean," the other woman explains in an insufferably reasonable tone, "that maybe he wasn't really the right person for you after all... and that maybe you should read some tabloids once in a while instead of all those books about parenting!"

 "What are you talking about?" now Maggie's attitude is decidedly strained.

"I mean... come on, I can't believe he didn't tell you about that. He's not just a doctor, he's like a private investigator, right? Or rather, he's the sidekick to that Sherlock Holmes guy who's always in the papers..."

"Sure, I know, he's mentioned him to me a few times," Maggie shrugs.

"Just a few times?" laughs Olivia a little mischievously. "I mean, those two are inseparable... after his wife was murdered, they even moved back in together... come on... haven't you ever read the Kitty Riley pieces? I bet they fuck each other!" Olivia has now started the gossip and has no intention of holding back. "And by the way, that Holmes guy is a junkie, they even hospitalized him last year because while he was high he attacked Culverton Smith."

"But that was a serial killer!" retorts Maggie. Even she, who doesn't indulge in more than twenty minutes of TV a day and wastes no time on social media, has heard that story.

"Yes, a real monster, but that doesn't take away from the fact that Holmes was high on the stuff, and it wasn't even the first time he'd been on the press for it! I mean, Maggie, would you really want a guy who spends all his time with a junkie as your partner? In fact, if I were you, I would worry about that little girl, rather...". Olivia rests silent and goes back to focusing on her cappuccino. Maggie finds nothing to reply. They finish breakfast in silence, then make arrangements for the gym and say goodbye with two kisses on the cheeks.

As soon as she arrives home, Maggie furiously starts researching on the internet and finds confirmation of everything Olivia told her, plus several more puzzling things. And eventually she even starts reading John's blog, which he had vaguely mentioned to her over some dinner. She hadn't paid too much attention to it, she had thought he was telling her about some innocent hobby like publishing rebuses in a puzzle magazine. Even the fact that, after the tragic death of his wife, he had moved back in with his former roommate and colleague, she hadn't given it too much thought. Until now.

She wonders how she could have been so shortsighted. A man living that life, let alone what he could bring into her home. She feels stupid for not delving deeper into the whole question of John's double life, and then she also feels angry that he's let absolutely nothing of that life leak out, made it seem like a thing of the past, instead he's still up to his neck in it. Even though he has a small child. He's irresponsible. Maggie thinks about that wonderful little doll. Poor love. She's definitely in an unsuitable situation for a creature of that age, maybe even potentially dangerous. And to think that she would have loved to have a little girl child to keep Alfie company, too, if only her husband...

Maggie picks up her little child and takes him to the playground in Marylebone, because she knows that John's landlady, who often keeps Rosie in the afternoon, sometimes takes her to play there. Maybe she can meet her and have a word with her, just to get a better sense of the situation. She's disappointed not to find her there. But, when she's about to leave, on the long, wide sidewalk that runs along the park on the Ulster Terrace side, she sees John walking by, instead.

He's holding Rosie’s hand. And the little girl's other hand is held by a tall, elegant man. She can see them from a distance, but you can tell even from there that they're laughing their asses off, all three of them.

Maggie feels a kind of offended rage mounting up inside of her, which simmers with her all the way home. Once she arrives, she picks up the phone and looks in the address book for the number of her friend Alison, who she met at the babywearing class and has been keeping in touch with because someone who does her kind of work can always be useful. She thinks about it for a few more moments, and then calls her.

When she hangs up, she quickly files away the thread of guilt she feels. After all, she did it for the sake of John’s little girl.

°°°

For the past few days, John and Sherlock have been emanating an aura of electric happiness that can't help but be felt by everyone who has anything to do with them.

They've gone to see a curious case of a fellow they found in a rooftop garden near Canary Wharf, dead inside a delightful faux-Victorian greenhouse with a poisoned dart in his neck that is for all intents and purposes Amazonian-made. "Probably yanomami," Sherlock points out indeed, then takes his phone from his pocket and approaches John, who is leaning over the railing of the tall skyscraper, lost in contemplation of the metropolis skyline.

"So, what do you think?" the doctor asks to him as he hears him come up beside him. "I think we're a twenty minute cab ride from home and Rosie's out all day with Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replies with an all too innocent smile as he too leans against the railing, pressing his left shoulder against John’s right one. "I can't believe you're thinking about these things instead of the case... that's an eight at the very least!" goes John shaking his head, a little shrill and faux scandalized. "But no, look at this," Sherlock answers, pulling up the phone and showing him something on the screen while explaining in his usual talkativeness. And that's how Greg finds them as he comes out of the greenhouse followed by Donovan: leaning against the railing, shoulder to shoulder, confabulating while looking at the phone with their heads practically touching.

"Hello???" he quips exasperatedly. "Are you still with us???". Donovan bursts out laughing. Sherlock turns sharply, walks up to him, and pours out the solution to the case in less than thirty seconds. "Now if you'll excuse me, we have another engagement," he then declares and turns around with his usual elegance, immediately followed by John who shrugs and smiles as if to apologize. "Well...okay...," Lestrade quips. "John, shall we go out for a beer one of these nights?" he shouts after him as he's already walking away, taking a few running steps to catch up with Sherlock who has already started. "How about I call you huh?" the doctor shouts back at him, practically walking backwards. "Sorry, Greg, I'm just a little busy these days...", he waves him off and disappears behind the detective.

"So?" goes Donovan flanking the inspector. "John refusing to come and have a beer with me, now that never happened," he replies almost apologetically, shaking his head. "You're hopeless," the officer points out to him with another incredulous laugh, and she sets off as well. "Wha... what...?", Greg recoils and follows her. "I'm not telling you anything, I want to see how long it takes you to get there on your own!" she answers, walking away inside the building. "What are you talking about?" the last echo of the inspector's voice is heard, pressing her without getting a response.

°°°

John gets up from his study chair and stretches his back. He's been sitting in the same position for two hours, filling prescriptions. Finally, it's time for his lunch break. He opens the study door to dismiss the last patient of the morning, the 70-year-old Mrs. Sackville, and the first thing he sees are two all-too-familiar sapphire eyes.

Sherlock is sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that stand in the small waiting room across from his door; he stands a little reclined on the back, legs crossed, hands entwined in his lap, and head abandoned against the wall. Staring at him. Wearing a pair of his usual sleek black pants and his purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

John's jaw drops, almost. "What are you doing here?" he asks him in a husky voice. "I don't think I've told you yet how much I like you with that white coat and that stethoscope," Sherlock says in response, looking him straight in the face, not moving an inch, not caring about Mrs. Sackville who is still there beside him.

"Have a nice day ma'am, I recommend the treatment I prescribed you!" exclaims John in a squeaky voice almost pushing her towards the exit. For a moment, scratching the top of his head, he stands watching the stout figure of the old woman walk away, and then turns back to him.

"So?" he then tells him exasperatedly. "Well, I wanted to take you to lunch, but if you've got better things to do, I think I'll come back home...", Sherlock replies, shrugging his shoulders with mock nonchalance. A second later, John is sitting in the chair next to his and is kissing him a little too boldly, with his fingers stuck in his hair.

Half an hour later, John comes, standing afoot against the locked door of the men's bathroom of a nice coffee shop near the clinic, Sherlock's right hand sunk into his pants and his left arm wrapping him, while the detective moans shamelessly and licks into the doctor’s neck and his fingers go wet of his sweet cum.

When John returns to work, he still feels his legs are shaky and his brain is so stuffed with endorphins that he struggles to even remember how to turn the computer on.

°°°

"And where is my princess???" exclaims Mrs. Holmes noisily abandoning her large purse on the living room floor and spreading her arms wide. Rosie runs up to her with a few squeals of delight. She is actually wearing a Princess Peach dress from Super Mario, in which she has been strutting around the house all morning. When grandparents Holmes come to London it's always a party, they go to see beautiful museums and at lunch she always gets to be taken somewhere nice where they serve her favorite treats. "And how are my boys?" she quips with her usual energy, while her husband patiently picks up his bag and loads it over his shoulder. "Your boys are positively ecstatic," Mycroft struts with his usual mock impatience, leaning over the living room table. "And they're doing just fine!" she exclaims back giving him a couple of pats on his right shoulder. And then she walks over to Sherlock who is standing nearby, gives him a big smile and then grabs him pulling him down to give him a smothering hug. Sherlock resists a few seconds impaled with a seraphic smile and then tries to wiggle out of it, but she won't let go of him. "I haven't seen those happy eyes on you since you were four," she tells him in a low voice. And Sherlock stops wriggling and hugs her too.

"John," she says only, she finally leaves her son's neck to look at him and hold out her hands. And the doctor extends his. And she squeezes it between his. And they smile. They don't need to say anything else to each other.

"So, the princess still has to put on her shoes, I guess!" the woman smiles at the little girl who runs to retrieve them and in two seconds is back, ready to go out. Always dressed as a princess. "See you later!" the woman chants as she exits with the bouncing baby girl in hand, always followed by Mr. Holmes who nods at everyone.

"They really are adorable," John repeats, shaking his head with his fascinated smile. Mycroft rolls his eyes again and then picks up his umbrella and overcoat. "I'll leave you," he does in his official tone. "I suppose you have occupations to attend to that do not require my presence." John winces as Sherlock begins to push him toward the door and practically shuts him out of the apartment with a hasty, "See you soon!"

He then leans against the closed door and looks at John with an expression as sweet as honey. "Do you have plans for the afternoon, doctor?" he asks him defiantly. John covers the distance between them in a few strides and pounces on his lips.

°°°

A few more days of absolute perfection pass.

John and Sherlock are lying on the detective's bed, in their underwear, munching on potato chips, Sherlock leaning against the headboard and John with his head on his stomach. It's not exactly the healthiest breakfast in the world, but they're happy like this, contemplating the ceiling, silent, listening to each other breathe. It's nine in the morning, John has a wonderful whole day off, the baby absolutely wanted to go sleep over at Molly's because it's been too long since they've had one of their "girls' nights," as the coroner calls them. They would pick her up later in the evening.

They've reached a stage where at least they can be alone in the same room without jumping on each other to the point of complete exhaustion, like they need to make up for all the lost time. They have more of a cuddle period now. They're constantly touching each other, patting and shoving each other, holding each other's fingers when they pass things around. And they look at each other. They would look at each other for hours on end. Even now, every few seconds they look at each other and smile.

"Come on, on your feet, soldier," John says to him at one point, putting away the tray of chips and standing up. "Nooo, please," Sherlock complains in the most languid tone he has. "Cheer up, we need to change the sheets and to tide up the kitchen," the doctor puts on his military tone. "You're crazy, you want to use your day off to clean?" the detective complains, hiding his head under his pillow. "Sherlock, if you don't want me to throw you out of the door, get up out of that bed and come give me a hand," the doctor smiles wickedly at him from the doorframe of the room, before disappearing into the bathroom.

If he had known what was coming, he would have burned his tongue with a hot coal before saying such a thing.

Chapter Text

John is just finishing mopping up in the kitchen when he hears the doorbell ring. It's not a client; by now, even he has learned to recognize the sound of the bell that he has repaired for the umpteenth time with his holy patience.

He opens the door of the apartment and goes down to see. On the doorstep there is already Mrs. Hudson, talking to an unknown policeman. "Ah, Mr...Watson? John Watson?" the officer asks him as he sees him coming downstairs.

"Yes, it’s me," he replies as he quickly descends the last few steps and approaches. "Here, this envelope is for you, you have to sign the delivery notice", the policeman says, taking out a paper, a pen and a big yellow envelope with the seal of the Juvenile Court. John signs, and the cop says “thank you”, and “have a nice day”, and walks away. "What's that?" does Mrs. Hudson as she approaches. John shakes his head, frowns, and then tears off the top flap of the envelope and pulls out a bundle of papers. From the first one he understands perfectly what it is all about.

His breath catches and he backs up to the wall, leaning his shoulders against it. "Oh, John, what's the matter?" the landlady says, wringing her hands. John recoils. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson, it's nothing," he says in a somber voice, and then starts up the stairs at a heavy pace.

When, after a good while, Sherlock comes out of his room where he has just finished changing the sheets and dressing, he finds him in his armchair, with the abandoned envelope on his lap, staring into space. Immediately he knows something bad’s happened.

"What's wrong?" he asks him almost running up to him. John looks at him with a grieved and hard expression. Then he hands him the paper without saying a word. Sherlock reads quickly.

We hereby inform you that an observation procedure has been opened for an at-risk situation concerning a minor living in the area under the control of the Westminster Local Authority, following an anonymous report for suspected exposure to drugs... The social assistance will proceed with the necessary checks... In case of non-cooperation or positive outcome of the checks, the competent judicial authority will intervene to transfer the minor to a protected place...

The text dances in front of his eyes for a moment, and he feels first a wave of panic, followed by one of fierce anger and a third of unbearable guilt.

John distinctly recognizes all that storm of emotions succeeding one another on his face, and despite the anguish he feels, he tries to keep calm. "Okay, look," he says as he stands up, "it's okay, nothing's going to happen, okay? This house is clean, you're clean, the baby couldn't be better off...". "No, John," Sherlock interrupts him, almost shouting, his voice on the verge of breaking, "don't pretend you don't know how these things turn out!" He almost feels as if the walls of the living room have suddenly moved to tighten around him.

How could he have been so naive, so stupid, so selfish to believe that this could all work. It's a flash that lasts a few moments but makes him look back on the last ten years of his life like a bad drug trip.

Everyone around him ends up in danger sooner or later. Or they get hurt. Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and even his brother, who he almost had to shoot, and then especially John, chained at the bottom of a well. And Mary with her heart that no longer beats.

Not Rosie. Not Rosie, damn it.

Don't say I didn't warn you, Sherlooock...are you satisfied now? The result is the same, only it's going to hurt a hundred times more... you could have left things the way they were... you could have let John live his own life... but no, you always want to do your way...  Moriarty's distorted voice booms in his brain, complete with verses and grimaces.

"Now listen to me," John says, imagining that the whole thing is plunging him back into the black abyss of his family tragedies; but Sherlock raises his voice again. "No, shut up, I have to think," he says, pressing his palms to his eyes.

Surely on a urine test it would come back negative, it's been too long, but with other types of tests they could clearly see he got high less than a month ago. Right now, there's really nothing he can do about that.

He needs to disappear as soon as possible and take all his messes with him. Away from John, away from Rosie, away from everyone he loves and whose lives he always manages to unintentionally ruin. At least until this story is resolved.

That's the only viable solution anytime soon.

Who made the report? Who did it? The question may not be the most important one at the moment, but solving this first riddle will silence his blind rage and desire for revenge for as long as it takes, leaving his mind freer to think about everything else. It's an all too easy deduction, after all, in fact he solves the dilemma in a moment and quickly discards it. He moves on to the second question. What to do. Here again, the answer is rather simple, though decidedly repulsive. Mycroft's name opens all doors, as John said years ago. Let alone failing to resolve a matter of this nature. Still, it might take time, though, and Sherlock isn't sure how much time they have left. And hence the third question follows. The house is clean, isn't it? Hell no. This is not the same thing as when his brother used to send those forensic idiots frisk his flat to keep him quiet in his worst moments. He can't afford to risk it. This needs to be resolved immediately, because who knows, an audit could come at any moment, too.

And anyway, by the time he's no longer here, the house has to be clean. And there are things that only he knows and only he can make disappear. Even if it's too late now to do it without John knowing.

John is still standing there staring at him impaled, when he opens his eyes again and without even returning a glance he strides briskly towards his room.

"Sherlock... what...," John asks, following him. By the time he gets to the door, Sherlock has already moved the bed with a furious shove. Their bed, he has time to consider as he feels his heart already beginning to crumble.

He bends down, picks up the envelope hidden under the tile and passes near John again, without looking at him, and then heads towards the kitchen at a steady pace. He grabs a chair, climbs on it and pulls down all the vaguely dangerous or illegally held substances that still survive under lock and key in the highest compartment of the dark wood cabinet. Then he finds the first available box and starts cramming the stuff he's gathered around into it. He's doing everything with methodical, frantic movements, as if guided by invisible wires, with John following him step by step and watching everything he does. In the meantime that Sherlock clears away the last things, the doctor leans over the box and unwinds the fabric of the package. Then he bows his head, broken, and throws it back down with an angry gesture, and then stands up. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at him. There is desolation in his eyes.

"I should have thrown them away sooner, I know," Sherlock only whispers.

"You didn't, though," John points out with a muted anger that makes his voice tremble. "I wonder why," he adds rhetorically.

Sherlock lowers his eyes, defeated.

"You'll never change, will you?", John shakes his head. "Not even after all this." His voice cracks.

Sherlock would give anything for him to start yelling at him, calling him names, pushing him against the wall at full force and maybe even beating him up. Anything but that expression of disappointment and utter sadness with which he's staring at him now.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and is unable to say anything else.

And then he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out his phone; he brings it to his ear and says in as clear and cold a tone as possible, "Mycroft, your presence is requested here at home, as soon as you can."

And he hangs up, putting the phone back in his jacket and then heads towards the living room, always with that decisive step as if he was following a plan that had been studied long ago and not improvised in the last five minutes. John remains a few more moments in the kitchen, staring at that box with a broken heart. And then he looks toward the living room and realizes that Sherlock is getting ready to leave.

"Now can I know where the fuck you're going?" he raises his voice to him, finally giving vent to his disappointment and anguish.

"I'm sorry, John, I told you. I'm sorry. I have to do something urgent. Don't wait for me and make that box disappear as soon as possible," Sherlock replies to him without finding the courage to turn around and look him in the eye, while he fiddles with something undefined on the living room table.

He is always amazed at how bastard life is, in its ability to make you go from the brightest happiness to the darkest despair in a matter of moments. Yet, he knew that love was a dangerous disadvantage. And he fell on it anyway.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" the doctor growls. "At least turn around and look at me, you asshole," he then yells at him. He's been far too calm until this moment. Now, he feels the rage mounting furiously in his chest with a force he has rarely experienced before.

And Sherlock turns and stares at him, hoping his icy expression comes across as believable. "John, it is clear to me that my presence in your life is a source of completely unacceptable risk. And especially in Rosie's life. Then again, you know I'm not built for that kind of connection. We both knew. Afterwards, you can tell me how much I disgust you. But now please let me go, I'm already late." He says it all in one breath, in the firmest, coldest voice he can muster, as he walks to the door of the apartment and feels a million needles piercing his chest.

"Liar," John growls at him. "You, you don't believe what you're saying, either. You can't lie to me about this," he continues and stands in front of the door to stop him from leaving. "Let me through, John," Sherlock says, trying to keep his tone as harsh and controlled as possible. "Not a chance," John replies squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists.

Sherlock tries to get past him, but the doctor grabs him by the jacket and pushes him back. "Don't do that," Sherlock hisses at him. "No, you don't do that! What are you up to? Fucking tell me!", John shouts without taking his eyes off him.

Sherlock thinks quickly, assessing the situation. If he tries to force his way through, they'll get into a fight, and he doesn't want that. It would be a waste of valuable time, and then, in the devastated condition he's in now, he probably wouldn't even be able to stand up to them. He needs to get out at all costs now and with as little damage as possible.

He lets out a broken sigh and then brings his right arm behind his back and then extends it forward again in a lightning move.

John sees his own gun pointed at him and feels he's about to lose the last glimmer of reason. Sherlock probably took it in those few seconds that he was still in the kitchen.

"Can you tell me what you're going to do? Do you think this is something that can be solved like this? Are you completely insane?" he yells at him again, his voice breaking as he replays before his eyes for the umpteenth time the scene of how he cold-bloodedly murdered one of England's most important businessmen just to keep Mary safe.

"Move yourself from there, John," Sherlock repeats in a voice that barely trembles. "Why, what are you going to do otherwise? Shoot me?", John steps forward challenging him in a tone of desperate derision, almost laughing. In the meantime he feels himself falling apart, literally, and wonders how it's possible that in the space of fifteen minutes they've been reduced to this.

It's a nightmare.

No, he corrects himself, that's what the two of them are in the end. They've tried to play the lovers and the happy family, but in the end they're just two guys ruined by their past who haven't solved anything; they've just tried to bury all their problems under the carpet hoping that they would magically disappear. And now reality presents them with a bill. The magic is gone again.

Sherlock grits his teeth, takes aim, and then pulls the trigger.

John jerks from the deafening sound of the shot that sticks in the wall next to the door, and Sherlock takes advantage of his distraction to pounce on him and hit him with precision just above the cheekbone, sending him crashing against the jamb. As he predicted, John loses consciousness from the precise blow, and he promptly grabs him and lays him down on his side, gently checking that he's breathing well and putting him in a safe position to avoid any risk of suffocation. He runs a hand over the small cut on his face, staining it with his blood. His eyes glaze with tears but he pushes them back with all the strength he has.

He pauses for a few moments to look at the gun he still has in his hand, and then decides he doesn't need it after all. It's not his style. He sets it down next to him and then rushes down the stairs. He knocks on Mrs. Hudson's door, but she's not there. His phone receives a message. It’s Mycroft that warns him that he is arriving, as he asked.

Sherlock quickly types another message, waits for it to be sent, then deletes it from memory; and then he puts the phone on the last step of 221B, walks out of the door and disappears in a few seconds without leaving a trace; he’s very good at doing it.

Chapter Text

"Dr. Watson... Dr. Watson... John!" it is Mycroft's voice that brings him back to consciousness. He's kneeling beside him on the red carpet, giving him light slaps, the gold watch chain hanging from one of his impeccable vests swinging in front of his eyes as if to hypnotize him. John blinks several times and then the pain in his temple attacks him, dry and implacable. He groans, and lifts himself up to sit on the floor with a kind of grunt.

"I'll kill him, your brother, I tell you. I'll kill him this time," he snarls, bringing his hand to his cut and withdrawing it smeared with congealed blood. "In that case I will personally guarantee that you are given all the extenuating circumstances, Dr. Watson... now would you mind explaining to me what happened?" the elder Holmes replies, staring at him with a tremendously serious and vaguely accusatory look. John shakes his head and points at the papers scattered around. Mycroft sighs, stands up and picks one up. One look is all he needs to understand it all.

"Guilt," he does, as if he's working out a diagnosis. "Sherlock's worst enemy since childhood," he sighs in that fatalistic tone of his.

John looks down and sees his gun abandoned on the floor beside him. He reaches out and grips it. There is something comforting about the weight and coldness of the iron. "What's on your mind, huh?" he whispers as if he's talking to Sherlock. As if he can hear him. But he's not there, and god knows what he's up to. John feels a mixture of anger, anguish, and despair that almost physically hurts. Much more than the punch, anyway.

°°°

Sherlock furiously knocks on the front door of the cottage. When Craig finally comes to open it, he pushes him aside and unceremoniously shoves his way into the house. "Sherlock... what's going on?" the hacker baffles.

"I need to do some research," the detective tells him, sitting down in Craig’s seat in the middle of the screens, and starting closing the windows of the current programs. "Oh no, please, I was on an FBI server, it will take me three days to redo everything," the hacker complains. "Go easy on the Americans, Craig, the next time I won't exonerate you", hisses the detective starting to type with his usual speed on the keyboard. Within minutes he finds what he was looking for.

°°°

 "You don't have to worry about this story, Dr. Watson," declares Mycroft straightening up strutting in his usual pompous pose and setting about tearing the paper in his hand into strips. "Wha...?", John does, getting up, still a bit wobbly, and widening his eyes as he watches the gesture, reminding himself that ignoring court notices is itself a crime.

"That's really the least of the problems at the moment, believe me..." sighs the eldest of the Holmes as he bows his head. "We need to track down my brother before he commits something irreparable, as we know full well he's very capable of doing," he adds.

John shakes his head with his expression hardening and his eyes darkening. "Don't tell me, Mycroft. I don't want to know. I can't take it anymore." His initially furious voice breaks on the last words. Mycroft stares at him with an icy gaze for a few moments, and then suddenly approaches him, towering over him. "You can't take it anymore, John, really?" he says, in a hissing tone. "Then why did you start all this? You could have gone your own way when you had the chance, couldn't you? Instead, here you are." He clears his throat and straightens, adjusting his tie.

"He doesn't give you a choice," John whispers. "He sucks the life out of you, and there's nothing you can do about it. All you can do is let him drag you down," he confesses, shaking his head and lowering his eyes.

"You're wrong, doctor came back from the war," Mycroft murmurs. "There's never been anyone before in his life. No one. Maybe you're the one who sucked up his ife, did you ever think of that?" he continues, grabbing his umbrella and studying its handle again. John looks up suddenly and looks at him with a pained expression.

"You know, Dr. Watson," Mycroft resumes, as he grabs his overcoat from the chair where he had set it down, and prepares to leave. "A few hours after I met you, I told Anthea that you could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. And I still think so, with everything that has happened in the meantime. But in the end it's only your choice, isn’t it? Think about it," and so saying, he turns his back on him and walks towards the door.

John looks at the tips of his shoes, taking two or three long breaths. "Wait!" he exclaims at the last moment, a second before he leaves. "What do we do?"

"We find him," Mycroft replies, pausing for a moment in the doorway, not turning to look at him. "Squeeze your brains out and keep me posted. I have to go make a phone call now. Excuse me," he concludes, and disappears into the door frame.

°°°

Maggie has finished giving the babysitter her final instructions for the day. She slips on her dress shoes and overcoat, gives Alfie a kiss, and exits her tidy apartment. She is slightly late for work, and walks down the stairs quickly, hoping to catch the first useful subway ride. She walks through the doorway at a fast pace.

"Good morning... Maggie?" she is addressed by a deep male voice that pronounces her nickname in a tone at once friendly and vaguely disgusted.

She turns around sharply.

Leaning with his back to the doorframe of her house, there is a tall man dressed in a dark suit and a magenta shirt, who does not even look at her, but rather shows great interest in a paper he keeps in his hands.

It's only after a few more moments, that he finally flashes his ice-cold eyes at her. His stony expression melts into a big fake smile.

Maggie recognizes him and feels a vague uneasiness.

"Excuse me, but I'm on my way to work," she says, turning her back on him and making to walk away.

"I won't take more than a few minutes of your time, I promise," he replies, still with that seraphic smile. "I just want to do you a favor."

The woman freezes and turns to look at him again. "What favor?" she asks him in a slightly shrill voice. "I don't need any favors. I don't even know you!" and turns around again.

"Don't be in such a hurry, it's just not appropriate, you know?" he declares straightening up. Maggie returns to look at him, bewildered. "What does you want from me, I may ask?" she finally says to him, her tone already slightly hysterical.

"Oh, I finally have your attention, I see. I don't want to take up your precious time, so I'll explain as simply as I can. You now take out your nice, late model phone, dial your friend's number... Alison, if I'm not mistaken?" he checks on the paper in his hand, "and tell her that you intend to immediately retract the anonymous tip you made a week ago. And I, in return, will do you the favor of not telling anyone that your husband did not die of a heart attack but ran away to Salvador de Bahia with your beautician... who, by the way, if I'm not mistaken, before being called Lola...", he looks at the paper again, "…was Felipe", he concludes, folding the paper with theatrical gestures and slipping it into his jacket pocket, and also giving it a couple of taps with his left fingers.

Maggie winces and gasps. "What???... What???...", she only manages to squeak out, horrified.

"Of course, I can see how that must have been quite a trauma, for someone with your beliefs... I had a chance to read some of your old posts in the Nationalist Party's online forum, very disappointing as rhetoric I must say...", Sherlock contiunes, shaking his head and curling his lips. "But, you’re a a resourceful woman though, aren’t you?" he quickly recovers, returning to a smile. "That's why you moved here to London, changed jobs and made all these new friends... new life, starting from scratch! Right?" he looks at her, seeking her approval while she continues to stare at him, completely dazed.

"It would be such a shame," the detective resumes, changing his tone again, "if people found out that your sad story of being a brave widow was all a lie..." now he's wearing a pained expression, nodding his head, his curls falling back on his forehead.

Maggie still can't get a word in edgewise.

"And just think if little Alfie will find out, that his beloved daddy wasn't in a grave but frolicking on a South American beach!" he adds again, implacable, and theatrically bewildered, covering his mouth with one hand.

"That's enough!" the woman finally explodes, looking at him with all the hatred of which she is capable.

"Sure, sorry, I got a little carried away, you're right," he nods, raising his hands and pretending to be sorry. "Now be a good girl, make this phone call and then we can say goodbye cordially and go our separate ways," he smiles at her then, wickedly. Maggie looks at him for a few moments, angry, and then rummages in her bag for her phone.

°°°

The line only makes a couple of rings off the hook, and then there is the sound of the switchboard routing the call to the right office. "Westminster City Hall, Children at Risk Sector," a young, female voice answers.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I'm speaking to you from the Cabinet Office."

°°°

Sherlock takes the folded paper out of his breast pocket again, unfolds it, takes one last look at it, and then crumples it up and drops it at Maggie's feet, looking at her again with another big fake smile; and then quickly makes it disappear, returning to his stony expression. "It was a real pleasure doing business with you, have a nice day," he declares to her in a tone of sass, flaunting all his superiority and turning his back on her to start down the sidewalk.

Maggie picks up the waste paper furiously. "Fuck you!" she yells at him.

Sherlock turns from a distance and gives her a big bow. Then he turns again and walks away, disappearing into the passersby.

°°°

"Rosamund Mary Watson, resident of 221B Baker Street, yes," goes the slavish voice of the clerk girl on the phone. "We are indeed aware of an anonymous report, but it was retracted this morning, Mr. Holmes." "Good," Mycroft replies in his unmistakable tone that is both prissy and threatening. "I'm sure it's a regrettable misunderstanding, and that you'll want to make a note never to accept reports on this call sign again, even if they came from the Queen herself. That is, unless you prefer a thorough investigation of the browser histories of all the computers in your office." "Of course, Mr. Holmes," squeaks the voice in the handset. "Very well, I see we understand each other. Good work," Mycroft concludes and hangs up.

Then he slumps for a moment on the back of his office chair and runs a hand over his face, an imperceptible gesture of weariness that he would never show to anyone.

°°°

Sherlock gets out of the cab and quickly slips into a dark alley. He locates a small door to some sort of boiler room and disappears into it. On the floor, in a plastic bag, are a few old, shapeless clothes. Just as he had asked for with that message sent to the right person at the right time, before he abandoned his phone. His last connection to his lifelong world, suddenly become unreachable. He slips into a pair of pants that fall down very large, a tattered shirt and an ugly black hoodie at least two or three sizes larger than his thin body. Then he picks up his nice suit from the floor and walks out of the cramped little room. Directly across the street is a trash can. He tosses everything into it, last of all his purple shirt. Then he punches, hard, on the lid of the bin, growling, and leans on it for a few moments, his forehead on his intertwined arms. And then he recoils and quickly disappears again, hood pulled over his head, unrecognizable, like a ghost.

Chapter Text

"Molly, I'm sorry, please, you have to hold Rosie for a little while longer," John says over the phone, with his forehead pressed to the glass of the living room window, the one behind Sherlock's chair.

"John, what's going on?" she immediately asks, alarmed.

"Another one of the usual screw-ups," he replies despondently, closing his eyes. "I'll explain later. Does it bother you?"

"Not at all, you know I can keep her as long as it's needed. I'll take a couple of days off, okay? But you let me know what’s happening as soon as you can," she replies in her usual serviceable and sweet tone.

"Thanks, Molly," he replies with a big sigh, and then hangs up. He turns to Sherlock's chair and runs his hand over the back, holding back an expletive. Then he goes to the fireplace. On the mantlepiece, he has placed the phone that the detective had abandoned at the bottom of the stairs. He picks it up and scans it for the umpteenth time, even though he knows he won't find any clues in it, and then puts it down again.

A few seconds later, his own cell phone rings. John rushes to answer it.

"The report was retracted two hours ago," Mycroft's metallic voice informs him. "Do I have to waste additional public resources figuring out who it came from, or did you manage to get there on your own?"

John takes a loud breath. Mycroft pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment with a disgusted expression and then returns to the conversation. "We don't have all week, Dr. Watson," he urges him.

John's brain finally manages to get the response. "I'll call you back, Mycroft," he only replies, and then hangs the phone in his face.

The shrill voice answers after four or five rings. "Fuck you, John, what the fuck do you want?"

John raises his eyebrows, making one of his comically surprised expressions. He'd never heard her utter a swear word before in as long as he's known her. "Look, Maggie, is that possible that you did meet, this morning..."

"You want to know if I have met your fucking roommate this morning? Of course I have met him! I found him out of my home, can you believe it? Don't ever call me again."

John immediately lose the little patience with which he had started the call. "No, you, don't you ever dare to meddle with my family again, do you understand? You don't know who you're dealing with," he growls at her.

"I know perfectly well who I'm dealing with," the woman shrieks, "you're two irresponsible fools. And you're a liar, an asshole, a..."

"A what? Say it, go ahead, let's see if you have the guts," he says with a fierce hiss. She lets out a big, trembling sigh and then just says, again, "Go fuck yourself, John"

"No, you go”, he tells her, "and possibly, stay there." And then he hangs the phone in her face.

And he scratches his head. If he's been to Maggie's, it means that a few hours ago he was in the zone of Fulham, which doesn't mean anything anyway, because he can be arrived anywhere in the meantime. It's useless to say how many and how varied Sherlock's hiding places are in London, not to mention that he, who is usually so flashy, can make himself completely invisible if he wants to. It won't be at all easy to find him, not even if Mycroft unleashes his drones and cameras all over the city.

It's late in the evening and Sherlock has been walking for hours along a narrow street near Stratford, with his hands sunk in the pockets of his sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head, feeling as lost as not even in the worst moments of his youth, when Mycroft would come to retrieve him in the most sordid hovels and start reading the list of all the drugs he had taken.

He has just arrived here, after having spent the previous two nights in a cardboard shack near the Thames Barrier with Fred, a crazy guy in his seventies with a past as a particle physicist, who is now a homeless person by choice and knows Janis Joplin's discography by heart.

It's only been two days, but it feels like two months. Sherlock has spent most of them sitting on a half-collapsed dock, legs dangling over the edge of it, watching the oily water flow, wondering if you can die of grief and homesickness.

It's actually not that bad, he tried in vain to convince himself. At least this time you're in London. At least this time there are no Serbs hounding you to attach you at a chain and put out cigarettes on your skin. At least this time, the people you care about don't think you're dead. Not yet, at least.

The truth is, he is suffering like an animal. At least, when he disappeared last time, he had a clear goal and was driven by the intent to keep his friends safe. At least, the other time he hadn't yet caused the death of someone he loved. At least, the other time he hadn't abandoned a wonderful little girl who calls him daddy. At least, the other time he hadn't made love with John.

J0hn will not forgive him this time, that's for sure. He's lost him forever, and right after he succeeded, against all odds, in his intent to tie him to himself for real. But maybe, it's much better if John ends up hating him, so it will be easier to separate their paths. Sooner or later, he'll have to come home, to tell him. Sooner or later he'll have to go back to his life. But not yet. He's still not able to.

While he was lost in these reflections, Fred had reached behind him and had handed him a cheeseburger. Sherlock had shaken his head.

"Eat," the elderly homeless man had said, "and then tell me what the hell you've been up to”. Sherlock had turned to look at him, and Fred had given him a smile without a pair of teeth. Sherlock had smiled at him, too. He'd known him for a few years because he'd once given him some useful information to solve a case of a guy they'd found dead in a nearby cement plant wearing a centurion's outfit and keeping a copy of De bello gallico. And from there they had made friends. He was a nice guy, Fred. He looked a little like his father.

Sherlock had taken a couple of bites of the almost stale cheeseburger and then had started talking without being able to stop. He had told him everything, down to the events of the previous days, his latest trouble with drugs and the conclusion he had come to, that his presence posed a threat to everyone he loved.

"Nice mess," the clochard only had commented, nodding to the river.

Sherlock really likes those who don't lecture you or give you unsolicited advice.

After a while, Sherlock got up, greeted him and thanked him for his hospitality and for the cheeseburger, and then resumed his pilgrimage through the slums of the city.

He moved on foot, through side streets and alleys, always careful to avoid cameras and main streets.

He stopped by the Salvation Army shelter in Stratford to wash up, obviously giving a fake name. Not that the folks at the shelter ask many questions, though, thankfully.

It's been a while since he's been living on the streets. Since after John's wedding, to be exact. He tossed the wrinkled t-shirt in the bucket and grabbed another, equally worn but clean, from the basket of clothes available to the homeless. Of course, he was reminded of John and his passion for ripping off from his body those rags he often wears when he's at home all day. Home.

It's been almost three days since Sherlock has been missing from home and hasn't given news. John has slept no more than six hours in all, and wanders around the empty rooms like a ghost. He's taken sick because he's not in the condition to work and, above all, because he wants to be ready for anything new; he oscillates between blind rage and growing worry that rumbles in his brain without giving him a break. Rosie is still at Molly's, but tonight he'll have to pick her up and explain to her why her dickhead daddy isn't with them. He has no idea what he'll come up with, and just thinking about it brings a lump to his throat.

The last time he spoke to Mycroft was a little over two hours ago. The elder Holmes told him that, as was obvious, Sherlock had left no recent traces in any of his old regular dens. John perceived that even he had a worried voice, which helped send the doctor even more into paranoia.

Sherlock didn't stop to sleep at the shelter, but instead set out again toward Hackney, passing along the tracks bordering Bridge Road, under the orange lights of the tree-lined avenue, amidst a motley inventory of women, boys, and even very young girls, all of them waiting for a few customers to make ends meet or pay for their fix.

And now he's stopped, bummed a cigarette from an overly made-up woman in a vinyl skirt, and he started smoking it, letting himself fall back against an electricity box covered with sex ads, under a streetlight. Not a single star is visible in the sky, and the dense clouds reflect the lights of the headlights.

A few minutes later, a car pulls up in front of him; at the drive spot there is a blond man with short hair, a clean face, not too thin, about his age or maybe a few years younger. The boy rolls down the car window, but can't get a word in edgewise.

First time, Sherlock understands right away. Recently single, good job, decent person, he still lives with his parents to whom he doesn't have the courage to come out, especially now that he broke up with his long-time boyfriend.

"Downtown, that way," Sherlock points to him in a bored voice, without even looking at him, blowing smoke towards the gloomy sky. The boy clears his throat, searching for the words.

Sherlock looks at him again. And then he finally realizes what it was that was bothering him: that his aspect vaguely reminds him of John.

"Listen, can you give me a lift to Hackney?" he asks him, taking him off from his embarrassment, as he tosses the cigarette butt away with a schtick.

The boy only nods, looking at him with two slightly uneasy eyes. Sherlock opens the door of the blue Polo and scrambles weightily into the seat.

"Thank you," he motions to him, slamming the door and looking straight ahead.

"Well, you're welcome," the boy replies in a low voice, starting the car.

They travel in absolute silence, while Sherlock, just looking at the interior of the car, gets a detailed picture of this young man's life. A quiet, and normal, and orderly life, but with a precipice of pain and unresolved things in between.

Sherlock notices that he himself is becoming more empathetic. Before, even when he poured out the worst news to his clients, leaving them bewildered and dismayed, it was difficult for him to empathize with their existential vicissitudes.

Now, he's even doing it with a guy who charged him on Bridge Road because he thinks he wants to fuck a stranger to forget his lost love and to make his obtuse parents pay for all their lack of empathy. Definitely troubling.

"My name's James," the boy says at one point. Sherlock makes a sound that resembles a bitter laugh.

"What's the matter?" the boy immediately asks.

"Nothing, let's just say I had a close friend who went by that name. He called himself Jim, though."

James nods. And then, after a few more moments of silence, he says "And you, you don't have a name?". "No," Sherlock replies looking at him.

The boy raises his eyebrows in a puzzled expression. "Okay," he then says, "which side of Hackney do you need to go to?"

"Chapman Road will be fine," Sherlock sighs, abandoning his head on the headrest and closing his eyes.

There's no traffic and it only takes them about ten minutes to make the short drive.

The car stops in a side street that ends in a patch of bushes. It is now night. There isn't a soul around there. Sherlock is still in the same position, his eyes closed.

James clears his throat again. "Well, so..." he begins to say in an uncertain voice.

"Yeah, so!" goes Sherlock, opening his eyes wide and suddenly reviving himself to give one of his terse monologues. "Why does a guy whose highest habitual transgression is watching some porn on the internet, overnight decide to go looking for a hooker man in a suburb? Let's see... It didn't cross your mind to go looking for a fling in some bar because the idea of courting someone repulses you, you're still too hurt from the breakup with your boyfriend, and you didn't look for someone for a fee online because you're ashamed and afraid for your privacy, so this was the easiest solution, yet at the same time it scared you, and you finally saw me and jumped in, maybe because I don't look like a typical man-whore, I guess, and now you're here wondering how it works and how much money I get. Did I leave anything out?" he concludes, and then closes his eyes again and leans back on the headrest, making himself more comfortable in the passenger seat.

James looks at him wide-eyed. "What the...?" he asks him incredulously.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I being indiscreet?" chants Sherlock.

"Well, I knew I was predictable, but I didn't think it would go this far," the boy finally says, with a dull laugh.

Sherlock turns in his seat and looks at him. In the half-light, he really resembles John back in the days that he had just met him. A lifetime ago.

The man fidgets under his steady gaze. "You have strange eyes..." he murmurs, shy, and he gives him a sort of impish smile.

You might as well, Sherlock. You're not even a virgin now, what do you care. If you keep your eyes tightly closed all the time, maybe you'll even feel like you're with him. Nothing will ever happen with him again anyway. You'll never have him inside you again. He'll never say those things to you again that melt your heart and your brain. And then you'll also get some money to have a little party, which we deserve. Better than that...

"No fucking way," Sherlock growls, looking away and covering his eyes with his hands. "That never!" And Moriarty's hissing voice retreats back into the recesses of his mind.

"What's going on?" jerks James, a little startled.

Sherlock lets out a long, loud sigh, and then recoils and pulls himself up in his seat.

"What’s going on is that you go get a good night's sleep now, and in the morning you phone... Matthew, right?" the detective says, pulling out a greeting card hidden almost invisibly in the pocket of the sun visor, "and you tell him that you're going to live with him, and you tell your parents too, that you two have been together for three years."

"Eeeeh? Who the fuck are you anyway? How do you know these things about me?" gasps James, starting to worry.

"I didn't know anything about you, I just figured it out by looking at you," the detective quiets him down.

"But how is that possible?"

"Who knows, it's my curse, maybe," Sherlock laughs with no mirth at all.

"I don't understand...," James quips.

"It's completely normal," the detective replies with a weary breath.

"But what exactly happened to you? In fact, you don't really strike me as the kind of person who prostitutes himself on the street " the boy does in a suddenly empathetic tone, after a few moments of silence.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," Sherlock only replies, looking up at the sky through the windshield glass.

"Okay... well... thank you... for... the advice" the boy says, smoothing the steering wheel.

"It was my pleasure" sighs the detective without moving an inch.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" smiles James. Sherlock shrugs.

"But do you have money to eat?" the boy asks him, with a sincerely apprehensive look. "Come on, I want to help you out, take twenty pounds, to buy the breakfast in the morning, okay?"

"No," Sherlock answers in a definitive tone.

"Please... for helping me," the boy insists.

"I didn't do it for the money," Sherlock says.

"I know, but I want to return the help, please...".

Sherlock realizes that, if he doesn’t accept the money, this guy won't ever end it. Besides, just in case, twenty pounds will be enough tho get something good.

"All right," he does, and holds out his hand, then stuffs the bill into his trousers pocket.

"Good luck!" James tells him as he gets out of the car.

"You too," the detective answers, leaning against the car's pillar for a moment and giving him a single small and sincere smile.

And then he turns around and walks away, disappearing into the darkness, among the gray buildings.

Chapter Text

The sky is overcast. Sherlock is sitting on the roof ledge of a large abandoned industrial building, made of red bricks and covered with brightly colored murals. In fact, they are the only garish thing about these days. The clouds are dark gray, as is the water of the River Lee Navigation on which the buildings and barges of Hackney Wick are reflected. It is one of the most infamous areas of London. Lately, several of his homeless drug-addicted friends have been moving around here, they say because there are more soup kitchens and dormitories but really it's because the best and cheapest dope runs there.

Not that that's why he got brought here last night by that guy.

Maybe he just wanted to see some familiar faces. Or maybe he just needed to spend the night in a place where no one, when the dope arrives, gives a shit anymore if you live or die before dawn.

Not that he actually slept. More than anything else, he spent the night wandering around the huge empty rooms of the big abandoned building, among the piles of garbage and scrap metal and used syringes, listening to the echo of his footsteps while he was getting off the effect of the small line of cocaine he had been offered by the manager of one of the most famous and worst frequented pubs in the area, an old acquaintance of his that he had helped a few years before with a little problem of illegal betting.

Now it's morning and he's sitting there, on that roof, contemplating the vastness of the chasm he feels inside.

He wonders what Rosie must be doing. He misses her so much that thinking about her feels like a nail being driven into his ribs. If he ever thought for a moment that he was vaguely capable of parenting, he has been comprehensively and blatantly proven wrong. Not only has he put her at risk of being separated from John, Mrs. Hudson, and everyone she loves, but now he's disappeared from her life without even saying goodbye, to escape his responsibilities by taking refuge in a junkies’ shelter.

John will be furious on unprecedented levels. He had punched him up and pulled his own gun on him. Slowly, he begins to clearly realize the enormity of what he has done. Panic is such a bad counselor.

And then, just to put the final load on, he thought it best to disappear and lose track of him. He knows that every additional hour he lets pass without contacting him will only increase his fury. But the guilt continues to overwhelm him and prevent him from thinking in a vaguely rational way. And then, deep down, he's also afraid to face him again. Of seeing that infinitely disappointed expression on his face again, that expression he gave him the other day, and that was a thousand times worse to bear than all the screaming, beating and nastiness he'd received over the years.

He had never been a coward before. All the fault of feelings, the specks of dust that made the whole thing hopelessly jammed.

The days begin to shorten rapidly. Sherlock snuggles into his sweatshirt and watches the reddish glow of the sun as it begins to rise behind the leaden clouds. From below, comes to him muffled the sound of the city waking up.

"You are a mess, huh, I didn't even recognize you," comes to his ears in a sarcastic tone. Raz mounts onto the roof ledge and sits down next to him. "Thank you," Sherlock answers sarcastically, without looking at him.

“What do you think about it? do you like it?" the graffiti artist asks him, pointing to a large mural on the wall of the building across the street, also falling down and abandoned.

It depicts a giant blue cat with a huge smile and all teeth. Right next to it is lettering in big letters that reads All this decadence is wasting my time.

"Very appropriate, I'd say," Sherlock quips, bowing his head.

"So," Raz asks him, "can you tell me what you're doing here among us royal highnesses, instead of hanging out in your nice house in central London with that guy you're always carrying around? Did you miss us?"

Sherlock rests silent for quite a while.

"You know, when you smile like that, you always remind me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland."

"I don't know if I should be offended or flattered."

"Both, I'd say... come here."

"Are we doing it again?"

"No, unless you want to watch me die of a heart attack. Hug me."

"But we're doing it again tomorrow morning?"

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"I love you."

"I know. Sleep."

"Don't you?"

"Of course I love you, you idiot. Now sleep or I swear I'll smother you with my pillow."

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Cheshire Cat".

Damn his Mind Palace and all the bright memories he's crammed into it over the last while. Sherlock inhales sharply and looks up at the gloomy sky.

"I just need to not think for a while," he finally replies to Raz. "Have you seen Wiggins, by any chance?" he then asks him.

"He's downstairs," the boy replies, stretching and pulling one of his canisters out of his duster pocket. It's yellow.

Don't draw a smiley, Sherlock thinks.

Instead, Raz does draw a smiley, leaning over the little wall where they are sitting. Sherlock gets up and goes downstairs without saying a word. They'll come in handy in the end, that twenty pounds.

John hardly slept a wink last night either, and even this morning he barely had anything to eat. The smell of food makes him nauseous. He can't stand being cooped up in the house waiting for phone calls that don't come, with the anguished look on Mrs. Hudson's face wringing her hands. So he calls Greg and asks if they can go out together to take a look.

"Take a look at what, John? This city has nine million people. You think we're going to run into him for a lucky shot while we're driving around randomly in the police car?"

"You're right, that's a stupid idea," the doctor replies in such a despondent tone that Greg immediately moves to compassion.

"No, I'll pick you up in a half hour, okay? And we'll go take a look."

"Thanks, Greg."

The little girl was told that her daddy had to leave suddenly to go catch a bad guy. They're not so sure she believed it.

The big room is huge and cold even though it's still summer. The windows are all broken. There are about ten old mattresses thrown on the floor, but they are all empty at the moment. All but two.

Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on the least dirty one he could find, checks that the packaging is intact and then unwraps the thin insulin syringe with precise, measured movements. Wiggins, crouched on the mattress next to his, follows his every movement with his eyes.

"It's Chinese white," he says in his drawling voice.

"Thanks Bill, I assure you I can recognize it myself," he replies sharply, while wiping the spoon with disinfectant.

"The guy downstairs says it arrived only a few days ago, it’s really pure" Bill resumes with his dazed eyes, clutching his legs to his chest. "Oh, that's lucky!" exclaims Sherlock with a painfully sarcastic grin, as he doses it into the spoon.

"Why are you taking heroin now, by the way? I thought you liked cocaine more..." comments Wiggins. Sherlock rolls his eyes and shakes his head. I'm taking heroin because I don't want to think anymore, he wants to reply, but he stays quiet.

"Be careful not to put too much in, it's been a while since you've taken it..." the boy gives him again, scrambling his vowels.

Sherlock lets out a gasp of exasperation. "Look, don't you have anything better to do?" he snarls, glaring at him.

"Excuse me for caring! I'd just hate to find you drooling on the mattress," Bill chants in an even more plaintive tone.

Sherlock lets out another loud sigh and cracks the cap on the vial of distilled water. "You seem to be underestimating me today," he comments, as he carefully pours it onto the spoon and then lights it under the high flame of the lighter. The heroin begins to sizzle merrily, taking on a nice caramel color. The smell alone makes all the saliva in his mouth dry up. He feels his pulse quicken with anticipation.

Sherlock holds out the spoon to him. "Do you mind?" he says to him. Bill shakes his head and reaches out to hold it for him, while he sticks the needle in and sucks out all the contents. Then he looks at the syringe against the light to see if there are any air bubbles or lumps, gives it a couple of squeezes and puts it between his teeth, while he pulls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt uncovering his left forearm up to the elbow.

Wiggins lays the empty, crusty spoon on the ground, goes silent for a few more seconds, and then just can't help himself and blurts out, kneading a bit, "Look, it doesn't sound like a good idea to me anyway. You're clean, why don't you just let it go?".

That's too much for Sherlock. "I'm not clean at all, all right?" he rants at him in response. He then continues slower, "and now do me a favor, leave and don't let anyone in this room for the next half hour at least."

"But..." tries to protest Bill.

"Get out!" shouts Sherlock at him again with angry eyes. 

And Bill quickly gets up and leaves. He turns at the last moment on the door of the big room, just to see that he is tying a tourniquet on his bicep. He lowers his gaze and vanishes, feeling helpless and even vaguely empathetic, a feeling he rarely gets.

Sherlock ties the tourniquet but does not tighten it yet. He pauses for a few moments, still with the syringe between his teeth, to look at the smooth white skin of his forearm. He runs the index finger of his right hand over it, from the wrist to the crook of the elbow, and instantly relives the feeling of when John ran his shaggy cheek over it, from top to bottom. He closes his eyes and squeezes them hard. He can feel himself shaking. "Fuck everything off," he growls under his breath, still holding the syringe between his teeth, and then he opens his eyes again and squeezes the lace until it hurts, and slaps himself repeatedly on the forearm with the fingers of his right hand. The cephalic vein appears after a few seconds, blue and clearly visible on his pale skin. He removes the syringe from his mouth and pulls the thin needle closer to the vein.

"Don't do it, Sherlock." The voice rings out remarkably present and crisp. It is neither Mycroft's authoritative one nor Moriarty's serpentine one. Sherlock shakes his head and realigns the needle. "Sorry, I'm busy at the moment," he replies softly.

"I can see that. Have you taken into consideration that you may be overreacting?"

"Overreacting?" he laughs a bitter laugh. "Be thankful I'm not getting the full dose."

"I thank you."

"There, so now leave me alone, please."

"I can't. You're wasting my noble and brave gesture." Her tone is now sweet and sarcastic at the same time.

Sherlock looks up and sees her. She's sitting on the mattress next to his, where Wiggins was until a few moments ago. With her wry smile and legs gathered to her chest, in the very same position as when she was reading John's blog on the bed.

"Unfortunately, you're just in my head," he tells her, still in a low voice.

"Exactly," she replies. "I'm here."

"No."

"Yes."

"Shall we continue this all day?" he replies with a sigh of exasperation.

"They need you. You can't do this every time something goes wrong, Sherlock."

"They need to not have me around to stay safe. The sooner we all realize that, the better," he hisses through his teeth.

"You're wrong. Nothing has happened. You got everything right this time too, didn't you? In record time. And then, there was Mycroft."

"Sometimes I won't get everything right. Sometimes there won't be Mycroft to fix things from his damn Cabinet Office. And I don't want to live through that, don't you see?" he confesses to her with his eyes filling with tears. "In fact, I don't even want to think about it. That's all I've been thinking about for two days, that's enough." Sherlock rubs his right cheek with his shoulder to collect a tear and pulls up with his nose, like a child.

"Yet you once told me that to be safe I needed to be near you..."

"I was clearly wrong."

"You can't slay all the dragons in this world, Sherlock. But you can still protect the people you love."

"I couldn't do it with you, though."

"Yes, you did."

"If I had made it, I wouldn't be talking to a ghost in my head right now."

He sees her make that pained, understanding smile again.

He shakes his head, feeling empty and dead tired and almost indifferent to everything.

And then he sticks the syringe two or three inches lower than the crook of his elbow. The taut skin hollows out, offering just the slightest resistance, and then obediently gives way and breaks, welcoming him in.

Sherlock gasps as always at the sensation of the puncture and the needle penetrating the vein, taking a shuddering, excited breath. He sucks in a little to check that he's well into the vein. The blood rushes back into his syringe, mixing with the wonderful white doope just arrived from the Silk Road. A few more seconds and then finally it will be complete oblivion, at least for a few hours. Just a few hours of respite, his brain begs.

"I was right, you know? We really should have danced the three of us, on our wedding night. Then, maybe, you would have known right away that you're in this family as much as we are."

Sherlock holds his breath and looks up. And he sees her again, clearly, sharply. She has a hard expression on her face.

"You can't be three in a family," he replies, shaking his head at her.

"We could have been," she replies.

Sherlock again makes that cry of despair of his that resembles that of a wounded beast; instead of pressing the plunger, he pulls off the lace and pulls the needle out of his skin; then he throws the syringe to the ground and then begins to cry. He really cries, this time, hard, with sobs and tears and everything. He wraps himself in the too-broad sweatshirt and collapses on the filthy mattress, in a fetal position. He stays there for what seems like hours, wracked with sobs so loud they hurt his chest.

At one point, Mary lies down beside him and holds him. He can almost feel her small, warm hand pressing on his back shaken by the sobs. And to think he's not even high.

Slowly, he slips into a dreamless sleep.

He wakes up a couple of hours later, wide awake. The beautiful, perfect syringe he had so devotedly prepared is gone, of course, but someone has thrown a blanket over him.

He still lies there, motionless, for a few seconds, until he realizes that it was muffled screams from downstairs in the collapsing building that woke him up.

Chapter Text

Sherlock struggles to pull himself up, his chest still aching from the convulsive crying he's been doing. He's also a little dizzy. Then again, the only thing he's eaten since the morning of potato chips, which is now three days ago, was that stale half-cheeseburger from Fred's. He feels worse than if he were recovering from the effects of drug.

His arm is all crusted with dried blood because he didn't dab the hole of the undid fix and it kept dripping for quite a while. He pulls down his sleeve, which he still had rolled up around his elbow, to cover that disaster. He has to go find at least a fountain to rinse off.

There is still no one in the big room. The voices from below become more excited. Sherlock looks up at the ceiling. "See, Mary, this is why I always get bored soon of being a street junkie. There's too much smashing," he says loudly, not caring that he's talking alone. And he makes a soft smile, shaking his head. Even though physically he's not in the best shape, at least in terms of mood he's feeling vaguely better. At least he's finally been able to let out all the pain an guilt that he's kept buried inside until now.

He gets up a little shakily from the mattress and goes downstairs, pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt.

The screams come from two or three stoned, terrified junkie girls who are watching something. Deaf thuds are also heard. A few other older and more wasted junkies are watching the scene from an appropriate distance, showing indifference, lest they get in the way.

Sherlock gets closer to understand what's going on and sees that there are two or three pushers who are beating up a boy who is not even sixteen years old for a question of doses and accounts that do not add up. Classic.

He lets out a resigned sigh, meets the gaze of Wiggins who shakes his head no across the hall, and then gets in the way between the boy and the pushers, even though he already knows he's going to be beaten to a pulp. Three against one, and he can barely stand up. Just a great idea.

When he vaguely regains consciousness, he's still curled up on the dirty concrete floor of the abandoned building, and there's the sobbing kid snuggled a short distance away. Raz and Wiggins are hunched over him.

"So, do you have a phone or not?" Bill is asking Raz in his usual sing-songy tone. "I’ve got one, be patient" the writer replies, searching his pockets.

"Don't call John," Sherlock gasps before passing out again.

"John is his..." asks Raz. Wiggins nods.

"And he's a doctor, right?" He nods again.

"And you have the number?" the graffiti artist asks again.

"He made me memorize it, a while back," Bill replies in a whiny tone, "but you heard him, he said not to call him...."

Raz raises an eyebrow critically.

"He's gonna be pissed," Wiggins says in a slightly frightened tone, mindful of when he freaked out last time at 221B, making him run away in terror.

"We'll get over it," the writer says, pulling out of his duster pocket a cell phone that is antique as a museum piece.

John is the first to get out of the police car and rushes towards the crumbling entrance of the building, followed a few steps away by Greg.

He enters the derelict place looking around, and finally in a corner he spots the group of people surrounding what looks like an abandoned sack on the ground. John hears the panic ringing in his ears and rushes over.

"Sherlock!" he shouts as he recognizes him, loud almost when he saw him throw himself off the roof of Bart's. Andshe catches up to him in an instant and kneels beside him, leaning over him and pushing the other people away to get room, and feeling the pulse on his neck first. Then he immediately notices the streak of dried blood poking out of the left sleeve of his sweatshirt, down onto his wrist, and frantically uncovers his arm. When he sees the still-fresh hole on his dirty forearm he literally feels himself gasping for breath.

"Oh Christ, is he overdosing?", Greg asks him from behind in an almost desperate voice, running a hand through his hair.

John moves quickly to check his vitals. He takes the small flashlight he always carries out of his pocket and opens one eye to quickly pass it in front of his pupil.

Then he falls back to his knees. "Well?", Lestrade urges him.

"No, he's not high, I don't understand," John murmurs.

"What do you mean, he's not high? He's got a hole in one arm!" protests Greg.

"I can fucking see it, but I'm telling you he didn't take anything. You want to explain to me what happened?" he finally asks to Wiggins, who is hovering around there like an ectoplasm.

"He was beaten up," interjects the kid Sherlock defended; he is still crouched nearby, pulling up with his nose. "There were three pushers, they were mad at me, he got in the way... he resisted for a while, but then he passed out and they left him there," he says, starting to sob again.

The detective has no injuries on his face. John unzips his sweatshirt and pulls up his shirt, and he sees two bruises forming on his ribs, on the right side of his chest. "Shit," he says, immediately touching them to check for any broken ones. But thankfully they all seem to be in place.

"What about the hole?" he asks Wiggins again. “I dunno!" he complains, stretching the o out of proportion. "He had prepared this spectacular fix, but then he must have changed his mind… a chick found it on the floor, intact… she was happier than if she had won the lottery..."

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it!" cuts John short; he can't stand to hear him talk in that goofy tone of his. "Better call an ambulance, Greg," he then says turning to the inspector. "He might have a head injury, better not move him around too much..." and then his voice breaks into a sob He clasps his hand. He runs his thumb over the dried blood crusted on his wrist and feels a tear come down his left eye.

"John," Sherlock whispers, vaguely regaining consciousness.

"Shut up," the doctor growls at him.

"I told them not to call you," the detective mumbles, gritting his teeth, his eyes closed.

"Do me a favor, shut your mouth or I return you your punch right now," John replies in his most furious tone, the hissing one, letting go of his hand. "You selfish prick. Now you're playing the slumming hero? What the fuck do you have in your head?"

Sherlock barely squints his eyes to look at him. His beard is a little long, something that hasn't happened since Culverton Smith. Surely he's dehydrated and has at least one sugar crash from prolonged fasting, John considers.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer him, but John quickly interrupts him, "No, don't you dare answer" he roars at him.

Sherlock nods and then slips back into a kind of unconscious slumber.

As the ambulance loads him up, John turns to look at the boy still crouched on the ground, there, a short distance from him. He looks like little more than a child now, a child who played a game that was too dangerous and scared himself to death.

For the first time, John feels a slight pang of compassion for someone who lives that life, who lives that world that for Sherlock is somehow another kind of home and that for him is just something to be deprecated, condemned and scorned as the worst scum of the earth.

He approaches him. "Are you all right?" he asks him in a reasonable enough tone. The boy keeps his eyes stubbornly on the floor. "I'm a doctor, if you don't feel well you can tell me, I'll help you," he does again, surprising himself.m The little boy looks at him with two huge, frightened eyes and doesn't say a word. John, curiously, feels the need to take an interest in his immediate future, and calls Greg, who in the meantime is finishing his phone call with Mycroft, to ask him for help.

"Don't worry," the inspector answers him with a wave of his hand as he gets into the ambulance that's leaving, "I'll take care of this boy." And then he leans over him and extends his hand. The last thing John sees before the ambulance starts up, is that the boy has taken the hand and is getting help pulling himself to his feet.

John, despite yet another dramatic situation, gets a small sad smile.

John pulls the medical file out of the container attached to the end of the bed, flips through it quickly and then slams it down on the blanket. Sherlock, who is curled up on his left side, jumps up, lifts his head for a moment to look at him and then turns his back stubbornly, staring at the window of the hospital room again. The IV needle pricks the back of his hand. His is the only occupied bed in the room. Mycroft's hand is probably on it.

"So, we're back here again huh? It hasn't even been four months since the last time," the doctor notes, with a vaguely philosophical bent.

Sherlock continues to remain turned away. The fact that he's talking to him in that quiet, measured tone, worries him even more.

John, usually, when he's pissed off at him, lashes out, yells, maybe beats him up, and then eventually forgives him. This new attitude means only one thing: that he's about to tell him to get out of his life. As, by the way, he predicted. Better, so it will be easier. He feels her eyes sting and inhales noisily.

"For the last three days," John continues in the same tone, "you've pointed a gun at me, knocked me out, and disappeared without a word." He brings a hand to the small cut on his cheekbone, now healed. "You're dehydrated, you have two almost cracked ribs, and you even did a line of cocaine. Shall I continue?"

Sherlock shakes his head no. If it weren't dramatic, the list of his latest misdeeds would even have something funny.

"Now, there's only one thing left to figure out," the doctor goes on, straining to keep that tone firm and posed, "why didn't you shoot that dose up your vein? What made you change your mind at the last minute?"

And John goes silent, closing his medical file with a snap and putting it back.

Better be honest, Sherlock assesses: he has nothing to lose now anyway.

"It was Mary," he says, turning to him but not looking him in the eye.

John's eyes go wide with an expression of disbelief and grief and one step away from becoming furious.

"What are you talking about?" he huffs at him.

"I don't know, John, look, it's like... I felt her. I really did. She asked me not to take the fix, and then she told me that I've been part of your family to her since you got married, and then..." his voice breaks and he takes a broken breath, "and then she told me that you needed me, that I had to protect you. Me, who couldn't even protect her... who put even Rosie at risk..." Sherlock shakes his head and looks at the doctor, who returns a helpless, dumbfounded look. Now he finally understands that Sherlock loved her, Mary; he hadn't accepted her just because John had chosen her. He was sincere. And he suffered terribly from her loss, too. He remembers the intensity with which he said his vow to them, I'll always be there for the three of you, and remembers that he was the first one who noticed that Mary was pregnant.

Sherlock shakes his head again and resumes, "I can't do this anymore, John. We made a mistake. I put you in danger. We have to end it here. Split up our ways."

And on this desolate realization, he pulls up his nose again, hard, and turns back to the window because his eyes are moist again.

John is silent. Sherlock turns to look at him out of the corner of his eye and sees that he has a quietly furious expression. He's also hyperventilating a bit.

It's getting bad.

"You'd like that, huh?" the doctor finally lets out in a low, dangerous growl, stepping up to him and leaning over him, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around without much care for his cracked ribs. "You'd like to back off and go your own way with this pitiful excuse that you're doing this to keep us safe. I'm sorry, but that's too easy, Sherlock."

"It's not an excuse at all, why would I lie about that, I..."

"Because you're scared, Sherlock, admit it!", John interrupts him in a low but furious voice. "You're terrified of the commitment, the responsibility, of not being alone anymore..."

Sherlock bows his head.

You're here because you have fear, Mycroft had told him.

John lets out a very long sigh, clenches his fists, opens them again, collapses his head forward and finally straightens up and then goes to sit on the edge of the bed, next to him, forcing him to make room for him. Sherlock, who's now on his stomach, barely flinches with a bellow of pain, touching his ribs.

"You have to deal with it," John resumes. "You have to forgive yourself, and you have to believe in yourself more. Otherwise, you'll never stop committing foolishness and betraying the trust of those who love you."

Sherlock lifts his gaze and looks at him surprised.

"Why aren't you mad at me?" he asks him, confused.

"Of course I'm mad at you, Sherlock. I'm pissed as hell at you. I'd throttle you. But I told you that you and I are together now, and I'm not going to change my mind." He gives a sort of mournful laugh. "I'm so screwed," he adds.

Sherlock slowly reaches out with his dripless hand and weaves it into his, like he did that night when Rosie was sick.

And that's when John leans in to kiss him, because he needs to mark him, to feel him close to himself again; and Sherlock at first reciprocates, but John senses that he's not there with his head, that he's somehow retreating.

He pulls away and looks at him with a dismayed expression. "What's the matter with you?" he asks him, under his breath.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't, John," he whispers, looking down at his hands.

"What do you mean..." starts to ask John, but then he freezes. And he gets a terrible suspicion.

"What did you do?" he asks him with his voice trembling imperceptibly, though he's not at all sure he wants to know.

Sherlock looks up and stares at him with a pained look.

John stands up and backs away a step, his expression completely shocked, indeed almost horrified.

"Christ, tell me you didn't go fucking around, Sherlock, I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands," he hisses breathlessly.

"No, John, this never, never!" the detective almost shouts, repeating what he said in that car. "Though... for a moment... I thought about it," he adds, lowering his gaze with his voice dropping to a guilty whisper. Why is he telling him this? He's such a masochist.

And he tells him all about it, about the Bridge Road thing, and the guy who picked him up and looked a little like him, and what they said to each other.

John has never been a particularly jealous or possessive guy. But now, at the thought of him in the dark inside a car, with another man who even remotely considered the idea of fucking with him, he feels himself burning. He feels the anger roar in crescendo in his ears and shakes his head. He feels like he's going to explode. He'd be capable of turning all of London upside down to find this asshole and smash his car with his bare hands.

And maybe even his face.

Obviously after beating the shit out of this bastard he had the unfortunate idea of moving in with, that day so many years ago.

"Fuck," he growls, huffing and turning his back on him. Sherlock can't say any more. John stays silent for a few more seconds, and then he lowers his contracted shoulders and turns to look at him again.

And then, against all odds, he gives him a mocking laugh. "I know why you're doing this, Sherlock. I've seen it done before. By your brother," he tells him.

The detective gives him a surprised and questioning look, pulling himself higher on the bed with a small grimace of pain.

"Yeah, you got that right," John continues. "It must be a Holmes trademark. I saw him, in Sherrinford, trying every which way to piss you off to save me. And now, you're doing the same. You're trying to make me hate you, aren't you? Well, I’m not happy to tell you this, but you won't succeed. There's hardly anything left now that you haven't done to me. And I'm still here."

Sherlock doesn't know what to answer. He stares at him with an indecipherable expression.

"You're getting discharged tomorrow in the morning, by the way. You know where to find us. Think about what you really want," John concludes, bowing his head.

Then he turns and walks out of the room.

Chapter Text

Did I disappoint you or let you down?

Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?

Cause I saw the end, before we'd begun...

Yes, I saw you were blind and I knew I had won.

So I took what's mine by eternal right,

Took your soul out into the night.

Sherlock is alone in the dark hospital room. The only light that illuminates it is that of the television set on mute, broadcasting nonsense. They bring him his dinner tray, but he doesn't even consider it. He stares at the white wall and thinks.

I disappointed you, John. I've let you down. And I feel like I'm in that courtroom again, only this time it's not Jim Moriarty in the defendant's seat, it's me, and I'm unable to deduce anything about any of the jurors looking at me with all their contempt, as the judge in his white wig condemns me. Because I knew from the beginning, from the moment I locked the key of my room, that this is how it would end. All I saw were your eyes darkening with desire, and that's when I knew that my plan would work, that I had won, that I had the chance to bind you to me forever. And I took it, that chance, and I used my body, and my soul, to have you, because it was destiny itself that said so, since that first day at Bart's when you lent me your phone without the slightest hesitation, without even knowing me, and you looked at me with that amazed look while I deduced you, instead of telling me to fuck off as everyone usually does. I took your soul, that night I said I love you, not long ago, and now there's no turning back, because you're wise and faithful, and you've decided that we're together now, and there will be no way, no matter what other shit I do to you, to change your mind.

I've been so selfish and so stupid.

Mycroft makes his entrance in silence, turns on the room light and holds out the laptop he brought him, then pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down. Sherlock opens the laptop and starts typing quickly on the keyboard.

"I never thought it possible to say this," enunciates the elder Holmes, "but you're doing it wrong, Sherlock."

The detective pretends not to hear this and continues typing.

"You've gone too far, you can't run away now. And you don't want to, either. You're just forcing yourself. You think you're still the character you built to defend yourself from the world, but you're not, anymore," Mycroft continues, turning his umbrella over in his hands.

Sherlock makes a self-pitying noise. "And who am I, then?"

"That, you have to figure out for yourself. You can take this plane and run away, but you'll lose him, Sherlock. When you come back, you won't find him waiting for you. Then you'll continue with your toxic habits, with your reckless living, with your showing off, the world's only investigative consultant, and you'll even tell yourself you did it for their benefit. But at some point you'll stop believing it. And it will be too late. Like I said, a no-win situation. Unless you decide to build an escape."

"Since when have you been into this stuff, Mycroft?" quips Sherlock looking him in the eye for the first time.

"Since my brother fell in love," he replies with a strangely human sigh, pulling out his watch and shifting his eyes to the dial; and then he stands up.

"Eat your dinner, Sherlock,"he tells him, before leaving the room.

The nurse comes in to change his IV. Sherlock closes the laptop and looks at her. She's the same one as last time. She gives him a big, good-natured smile and asks, "You don't want the morphine this time, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock smiles too, and shakes his head. "I think I'll go without from now on." Without every kind of drugs, he omits, but the nurse seems to understand him anyway. "Wise decision," she tells him. "Get a good night's sleep, and you'll be fine in the morning. The radiologist says you'll be fine in a few days. Don't exert yourself for some time. And take better care of yourself from now on..."

"I'm not sure I know how to do that," Sherlock whispers, bowing his head.

"Oh, you'll learn," the burly nurse tells him again in a warm, motherly tone. "Everyone learns, at some point."

It may be over but it won't stop there,

I am here for you if you'd only care...

You touched my heart, you touched my soul,

Changed my life and all my goals.

And love is blind, and that I knew when

My heart was blinded by you.

John is cooking dinner for Rosie with automatic movements, while he is staring at the white and green tiles above the stove. The little girl is already sitting at the table, playing with plastic animals while she waits to eat. "When is Daddy coming back?" she asks him at one point. John feels his heart skip a beat and shakes his head. "I don't know, honey, I'm sorry," he tells her as he turns to look at her, "your daddy is doing such a hard job right now." Rosie bows her head pouting. "But I want him, I miss him so much," she says in a low voice. "I know, princess," John says, turning off the stove, putting down the ladle and going to hug her. "I miss him, too. And he really, really misses you too." "And he doesn’t miss you, too?" the little girl asks him. "Me?" goes John. "Yeah, I think he misses me too," he whispers with a sad smile.

It's probably already over, isn't it, Sherlock? You made me live the most joyous moments of my life, these last few weeks, after those of Mary's pregnancy and Rosie's birth, when all four of us were together, and it all seemed incredibly complete, even though no one understood how it was possible. No one but us, walking around solving mysteries with a big dog and a newborn baby girl, and this big city seemed all ours.

And then we got this abyss of despair, but you gave your all to get me out of it.

And then you showed me how wrong my beliefs were, and how wrong the choices I was about to take. You managed to turn everything upside down again, and you blinded my heart with those crazy eyes of yours. You made me believe again that it was possible to be happy. You made me say “I love you” again.

And now you're leaving, aren't you? Obvious. It would have been too much, to imagine that it could last. I got over my anger, maybe, but you didn't get over your fear.

John watches the little girl eataing the dinner listlessly. He doesn't swallow a single bite. His stomach is completely clenched.

I've kissed your lips and held your head,

Shared your dreams and shared your bed,

I know you well, I know your smell,

I've been addicted to you...

 It's the middle of the night. Sherlock forced himself to eat some of the bland dinner, and then continued his online research. Upon confirming his airline ticket reservation, he feels like he's betraying everyone he loves all over again.

He is reminded of John and Mary waving at him when he was about to board that plane for the potentially suicidal mission. He remembers how filled himself with drugs in a few minutes and then dove into his Mind Palace to reconstruct a case from a century and a half earlier. Anything to keep from thinking.

Not now. Now staying sane is a choice. This abandonment is so painful that the only way to bear it would be to get the ultimate fix. But this time, instead of escaping, he chooses to immerse himself in this pain until it takes his breath away. And then more.

The smell of John. His mouth closing around him. His insides burning as John worked his way into him. The definitive tone with which he had tell him "from now on you and I are together," as if he was carving it into the rock instead of directly into his flesh with those furious thrusts of his.

Sherlock gasps as the whole room swirls around him.

The only one. You were the only one. You will be forever.

The clock reads 3:34. Rosie finally fell asleep in her crib. She was terribly restless for missing her daddy and couldn't get to sleep.

John is exhausted. He has wandered around the house so far, running into an object every couple of seconds that reminded him of one of the millions of details of his life with Sherlock. He has touched the skull on the mantelpiece, the stacked books, he has even made the strings of his violin barely vibrate, brushing them with the tips of his fingertips.

In his head he has an unstoppable vortex of smiles, screams, caresses, words, mysteries, adrenaline, excitement, anger, happiness, despair.

If he keeps this up, he will go crazy.

He turns off all the lights in the house and flops down on the couch. Immediately he is reminded of how those faux leather pillows curved under the weight of his roommate's long body. How he would curl up wrapping himself in those damn robes of his when he was offended. When he stretched languidly and unconsciously over that brown surface.

He feels himself miss his breath as, regardless of his mind, his nether regions revive at the tight chain of memories of the last few weeks that relentlessly invade him.

His hand moves almost against his will. He slips it into his pants and moves it a few times, his thoughts fixed on Sherlock's body stretched out beneath his, contracting rhythmically around him as he came. He barely has time to pull up his shirt when a sudden, bland orgasm hits him. He curses, feeling like the last desperate asshole on this earth, and lies there in the dark for a while, the few drops of cum cooling on the skin below his belly button.

Then he recovers, quickly wipes himself clean by rubbing himself hard as if to erase all traces of what he has done, and goes up to his room. He throws himself on the bed fully clothed and falls into an agitated sleep, so much agitated that, as the sun rises, he is awakened by Rosie who claps her hand on his cheek asking “Daddy why are you screaming?”. John wakes up with a start.

I'm screaming because I've lost my best friend, John would like to tell her. Who incidentally is also the person I love, as well as your daddy.

He wonders if the pristine love he feels for this wonderful little girl of his will be enough to keep him afloat. He's not so sure of the answer.

Goodbye my lover,

Goodbye my friend...

You have been the one,

You have been the one for me.

 Sherlock gets out of the cab and slowly opens the door, as if he was burglarizing his own house. Mrs. Hudson's door is ajar. Sherlock looks through the crack, but his landlady and the little girl are not there. Surely, she has taken her to the playground.

He quietly goes upstairs and into his room.

When John returns from work, walking slow and absent like a zombie, he already knows he's there. He feels him as if he has developed a sixth sense. He stops in front of the ajar door of his room, but doesn't open it. He doesn't need to see him, he already knows: he's packing. He turns around squaring his shoulders and with his military-like stride walks back into the living room.

 "You were never any good at making tea, John," comes his voice from behind him as he stands in the kitchen pouring the leaves into the teapot, getting the doses wrong as always.

Sherlock has stopped in the doorway, at arm's length.

John still doesn't turn to look at him. "Yeah," he replies, "anyway, I'll survive." He is silent for a few seconds. "So where are you going, if I may ask?" he adds. The effort he is making to maintain an indifferent tone of voice is enormous.

Sherlock lays the duffel bag on the ground. "United States. International intrigue. Arms trafficking stuff, numbered accounts. I'm going to be a while, I think."

"Good for you," John sighs, continuing his interest in the teapot.

"And you... what..." whispers Sherlock uncertainly, but unable to hold back the question.

"We're going back to the other apartment, I think. Clearly this house has served its purpose." He is silent for a moment, dropping his shoulders, and immediately resumes, "If you're then asking if I'm going to spend the rest of my days cursing the moment I met you, the answer is still no."

Only now does he turn to look at him. He stares at him with that honest and sincere look of his, tremendously serious and deep. The same one he gave him the first time they spoke to each other.

Sherlock gives a small, sad smile. He has exactly the same expression as when they were saying goodbye in front of that plane.

"And what should I tell Rosie?" adds John as he goes back to looking at the tiles. "I don't think she's going to appreciate this whole thing very much"; and saying this, he's almost losing it. He grits his teeth, but doesn't raise his voice.

Sherlock bows his head in the meantime as the pain crashes down on him furiously. "Tell her she's safe now," he only murmurs. The same words he told him for Mary the night of Magnussen's murder.

John turns around again and puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. "You're really good at lying and deceiving, you. Especially to yourself."

Sherlock shakes his head several times. "You're wrong..." he insists.

But John interrupts him. "The thing that angers me the most, is that you saw how it could be, and you're running away anyway. Maybe you think you don't deserve it, but you’re wrong. And anyway, I did deserve it." His voice shakes, and he inhales sharply.

"John...", Sherlock begins as he looks up to meet his eyes, with the same desperate expression he gave him on the subway, when he made him believe that they were on the point of blowing up. Only this time it's real.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," John interrupts him again, straightening up and taking a military pose, clenching his fists. This time they won't shake hands in greeting. He turns his back on him with a definitive attitude.

Sherlock picks up his duffel bag, lets out a desolate sigh, and starts toward the door. "Goodbye, John," he whispers before walking through it. Then he disappears down the stairs.

I am a dreamer and when I wake

You can't break my spirit, it's my dreams you take.

And as you move on, remember me,

Remember us and all we used to be...

John's eyes flash back to an accelerated version of everything they did together. Of the most important episodes of these crazy, dramatic and wonderful years. All that they have been, other than a blog, the whole Internet would not be enough to contain it, to tell it. Dozens of books would not be enough.

And now it's ending like this. Without screams, without fists, without blood and tragedies.

Only with a goodbye that looks much more like a farewell.

John squints hard and gives a desperate growl, leaning his hands on the table. Then he grabs the full teapot and smashes it to the floor in a thousand pieces. The kitchen floods with a lake of definitely too strong tea.

Sherlock, from the bottom of the stairs, hears that cry of utter despair and looks up at the floor above, feeling his body torn apart inside. He won't call Mrs. Hudson, he won't go say hello to Rosie. He doesn't have the courage. He's just become a coward.

It hurts so badly in the parts of his heart. He convinces himself that it's because he's running out of painkillers they gave him at the hospital for his cracked ribs.

And he walks through the doorway like a dark shadow.

Chapter Text

I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile,

I've watched you sleeping for a while,

I'd be the father of your child,

I'd spend a lifetime with you...

John leaves the kitchen disaster behind, and heads into the living room. He approaches the first window and pulls back the curtain. He sees him standing on the sidewalk, impassive, waiting for a cab. He lets go of the fabric of the curtain and it closes again, hiding him from view. He feels so drained that it seems to him he will never be able to feel any emotion again.

"Don't tell me you give up like that," Mary tells him.

John turns and sees her as if she were really there, leaning against the kitchen doorframe.

"I've done enough, I think," he only replies in a defeated tone.

"No, John Watson" only she replies, looking at him with that bright, enlightening smile of hers, "get the hell on with it”.

Sherlock is motionless on the sidewalk. Inside his head is chaos. If he ever had a Mind Palace, if he ever knew what and how to remember, it's all shattered now.

God, how could I have gotten to this point. I was going to spend my whole fucking life with you, I was going to be your daughter's father, forever... but instead I'm leaving now. To give you the normalcy that I can't conceive of, deep down, no matter how hard I tried, and that you could never have with me.

It'll be all right, Sherlock, you'll see, Moriarty's black voice murmurs in his head. All this was softening you up, after all. You'll regain control now, finally. We'll blow the dust off the gear. Everything will be as it was before. They'll be all right. They'll be better. You don't have to worry about it anymore. Don't you feel lighter already? Maybe not yet, but you'll soon see. Overseas, without having to account to anyone for what you do. Doesn't that sound like Christmas?

No, not at all, answers his reasonable voice. No drugs, ever again; let's do this job, and then when I come back I'll be clean. And maybe I'll go see him. And maybe we'll slowly become friends again. After all, I already succeeded once.

He tells himself this pitiful lie with the sole purpose of not collapsing right now on the sidewalk while he knows that John is watching him from the window.

He sees a cab coming and raises his arm while feeling as if it were made of stone. The black car pulls up to the curb and he opens the trunk and puts his duffel bag inside. Then he climbs in, sinking into the seat. "Heatrow," he says only to the taxi driver.

John doesn't even realized it yet, by the time he himself is rushing off and is already hurrying down the stairs. He opens the door at full force and it slams against the wall, making the whole building shake.

He reaches the street just in time to see the cab leaving.

Sherlock has been stubbornly staring at his hands so far, but now he looks up to take one last look at Baker Street and sees John standing just outside the front door, watching him go.

I didn't have any need to burn your heart out after all. You did it all by yourself, didn't you? And that's so much better. Feelings...all useless ballast. Go back to being who you were, Sherlock, Moriarty’s voice whispers in his head, lulling him into complacency.

But I'm not who I was anymore. The concept suddenly hits him with the force of a revelation. When Mycroft told him, last night, he didn't give it enough weight, didn't think about it enough.

But now he understands.

Screw you, Moriarty, he thinks as he finally lets go of all the happy feelings and memories he tried to suppress in these three days of hell, with the escape, with the danger, with the drugs and with everything else. Now they rewind him all at once, violently, almost taking his breath away.

There is no more room for the hissing voice of his eternal nemesis in his mind.

It is not walking away, the atonement that is required of him. It is much greater, and more difficult, and more terrible, and more beautiful.

"Stop the cab," he exclaims without even realizing it. The driver, caught off guard, almost nails it. "What's going on?" he asks irritated.

I know your fears and you know mine,

We've had our doubts but now we're fine

And I love you, I swear that's true,

I cannot live without you.

Sherlock opens the cab door with a violent fury and gets out in record time, heedless of the twinge he feels in his chest due to the sudden movement. John is still standing on the sidewalk in front of Speedy's, and when he sees the cab pull up and stop fifty meters down the road, and Sherlock getting out, he starts running with his determined pace and determined expression.

In a few moments, he catches up to him, but does not approach him. He stops at a safe distance and just stares at him. As if expecting something. He is panting.

Sherlock looks away for a few seconds, looking a bit indifferent. And then, finally, he meets his eyes.

They stand there staring at each other, as if they were looking at each other for the first time, for an infinite time. They both feel that they have reached the bottom. And that, they can't go down any further. From there, they can only go up again.

Sherlock straightens up, entwining his hands behind his back as he does every time he wants to show off his pride. "I've remembered that I actually find the money and arms deals terribly boring," he enunciates with all the indolence of which he is capable. And then he attempts a microscopic smile, already expecting to receive at the very least a head butt to his nasal septum.

John shakes his head, breathing harder, with his most furious air.

And then, instead of approaching him, instead of insulting him, pushing him, beating him, hugging him or kissing him, instead of doing anything to him, he walks around him and heads for the boot of the cab, opens it, grabs his duffel bag and loads it on his shoulder. And then he walks off.

Sherlock remains motionless, watching him, so taken aback that his lips part in astonishment.

John turns for a moment. "'Get a move on, you prick, before I change my mind,' he says, starting to walk home again; “and you're paying for the taxi driver”.

And I still hold your hand in mine,

In mine when I'm asleep...

And I will bear my soul in time,

When I'm kneeling at your feet.

Sherlock finally comes to his senses and follows him at a safe distance. When he crosses the doorway, John is already upstairs. He climbs each step, absorbing the creaking sound in his head, as if it were the first time he had heard it. He inhales the familiar smell of that lovely old house, and it feels like he's been gone ten years instead of just a few minutes.

He feels as euphoric as if he were high.

He's home, and just a few feet away from him is John, and now they're going to put everything back in place, and the dazzling happiness he experienced until a few days ago is within reach again. It's all right. Everything will be all right.

He will never touch even a tenth of an ounce of drug again; he will be clean, perfect, tidy, reasonable. From now on, no one will ever again be able to question the fact that he is completely in control of everything. John will never again have any reason not to trust him.

Anything, he'll do anything. Without the slightest regret.

When he enters the flat, he sees his duffle bag abandoned in the middle of the living room, on the red carpet. And then he sees John. He's in the kitchen, having already grabbed his broom, dustpan and mop to clear away the devastation of the shattered teapot.

Sherlock pauses in the doorway to watch him fiddle with his methodical movements. "Forgive me, John," he just tells him, all in one breath. John pretends not to hear him and continues to clean. Sherlock realises that now is not the right moment to effort the argument. He exhales, bowing his head, and then picks up the duffle bag and goes to his room to unpack it.

When he re-emerges from his room, John is sitting in his armchair scrambling through the newspaper, trying to focus on the black lines that cross in front of his eyes.

Sherlock steps in front of him, but he remains hidden behind the newspaper. "Forgive me, John," he repeats, this time putting as much intensity into it as he can. John lowers the newspaper and stares at him for a few moments. Then he folds up the newspaper and throws it on the small wooden table, sighing. Sherlock continues to stand in front of him, motionless, were it not for the grey shirt that is barely hanging over his chest because he is breathing fast. He looks at him with a mixture of sadness and hope.

John continues to stare at him with that hard, indecipherable expression of his, his eyebrows furrowed, and says nothing.

Sherlock kneels in front of him with a lightning move. He places his hands on his knees, while he continues looking at him, making the most hypnotic expression in his repertoire. "Forgive me, John," he barely whispers to him.

John's eyes are lost for just a moment. He can already feel his whole body scrambling to reach out and hold him as tightly as he can. and never let him go.

"Get up from there and go lie down, you idiot, you've got two cracked ribs," he tells him instead, lowering his gaze and reaching out to pick up the newspaper again.

Sherlock bows his head, feeling like the world's most colossal idiot, and walks away from him.

A few minutes later, the 221B door opens and Rosie's silvery voice rings out in the hall. Sherlock can't contain himself for a second, he's already descending the stairs as fast as his aching chest will allow. "Daddy!" the little girl shrieks as she sees him coming. and holds out her little hands to him. He drops to the floor and she wraps her arms around his neck. They remain in that position for several minutes, telling each other how much they have missed each other, under the emotional gaze of Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock turns towards the stairs and sees that, up on the first landing, there is John, still with that neutral expression of his. He nods a couple of times, staring into his eyes, and then goes back up to the flat.

Sherlock and Rosie go to Mrs Hudson's for a snack and stay in her flat until nearly dinner time.

The three of them are back at the table, eating the dinner in silence, trying not to even make any noise with the cutlery. Rosie senses the tense atmosphere, with the typical sensitivity of all children in these situations, and disguises it by humming and chatting to herself as she plays with her food.

As soon as he has finished washing the dishes, John takes Rosie to his room to read her a story and then put her to bed.

Sherlock waits in vain for him to come downstairs again. After a while, he plucks up the courage and decides to come up himself.

He finds him dozing with the little girl asleep on one shoulder and an abandoned storybook open on his stomach.

He kneels by the side of the bed and, with exasperated slowness, reaches out a hand and intertwines it with his.

John, in his sleep, softly returns the grip. And then he barely wakes up. He looks at him with half-closed eyes, and withdraws his hand from his grasp. "Go to sleep, Sherlock," he only mutters to him, turning away and clutching the little girl who is murmuring something in her sleep.

Sherlock bows his head and leaves the room.

After everything that's happened in the last few months, they're right back where they started.

He doesn't care. He's decided not to beat himself up this time; he'll hold on, no matter what, no matter how long it takes, but eventually he'll manage to chip away at the wall of defence John has now built around himself, for protecting from his insanity, selfishness and inability to be empathetic.

The doctor squints his eyes again and watches him leave the room, again with that resigned and sad attitude he had at the time when they just had moved back in together. He resists the almost uncontrollable urge to call him back and have him lie down beside him to sleep in his arms.

He is not doing it on purpose; it is neither malice, nor revenge. They are both suffering, and he knows that the thing they would both like most is just to get back to their honeymoon made of sex, cuddles and pheromones as soon as possible.

But it is precisely their inability to act with any rationality, giving in only to instinct and desire, that has led to their recent disasters.

Yet, he had made it clear to himself that he had to take things slowly.

This time he won't get it wrong again. And, if at some point, everything they have left undone will start again, it will be on a solid foundation.

It's almost lunchtime. Mycroft is sitting in John's chair (he’s at work), opposite Sherlock who is sitting in his, all busy cleaning his violin bow.

"So, no United States after all." The major of the Holmes asks him.

"Please," Sherlock replies, curling his lips. "Months chasing financiers and arms dealers without a decent cup of tea. I would have died of starvation."

"But you agreed to it, at first though," Mycroft points out, leaning towards him with an enquiring expression.

Sherlock reclines in his chair. "Once in a lifetime, even I can change my mind," he replies, with an air of defiance.

Mycroft looks at him a little annoyed and straightens up again "Now what?" he only asks him, omitting the rest of the question. Now how are you going to win back John's trust?

Sherlock suddenly loses all his bravado.

"Yeah, now what?" he almost sighs. This is a conundrum that doesn't seem possible to solve at the moment.

In the same time, Rosie's footsteps come to his ears as she leaves Mrs Hudson's flat and rushes up the stairs, claiming his attention. She bursts into the living room and freezes. Her sly little face lights up.

"Uncle Mycroft!!!" she exclaims, running up to him. She adores him.

Mycroft looks, almost terrified, at her chocolate-stained little fingers reaching for his impeccable suit.

"Little Watson!" he answers her with a tugged smile, raising his hands as if to say please don't come any closer.

Rosie instantly understands and stops, standing between the two armchairs, between the two siblings.

"And... how's... hum...", Mycroft looks at Sherlock as if to ask for help, but he smiles and shakes his head, going back to his bow. Mycroft almost fumbles, looking for a topic of conversation, while the little girl stares at him with an expression of stubborn anticipation.

"How's it going... childhood?" he finally manages to spit out.

Sherlock lets out a half laugh.

Rosie straightens up and intertwines her hands behind her back, just as Sherlock does when he wants to appear confident.

"It's hard, but I'm managing," she tells him earnestly. And then she gives him a smile that could almost seem mocking, and runs upstairs.

"Daddyyyy," she is heard two seconds later, "I can't reach it, will you get me the Peppa Pig album?"

"Duty calls," Sherlock says with a sweetly resigned expression, and whistles the bow through the air with a sudden snap, before putting it down.

Then, he gets up and hurries upstairs.

Mycroft shakes his head and gives what, for all intents and purposes, might look like a real, tiny, smile.

Chapter Text

The days have begun to pass slowly again. John and Sherlock rarely meet because the doctor is working a lot of overtime and is adopting various other stratagems to spend as little time as possible with him. In the evenings he is tired and falls asleep early. But almost every night, he wakes up and strides downstairs with the excuse of getting a glass of water. He looks through the ajar door of his room and stops for a few moments to watch him sleep. Sherlock Holmes sleeping composedly in his bed at night, instead of making who knows what kind of mess in the kitchen. It seems like a parallel world.

When John leaves to go back to his room, Sherlock invariably opens his eyes wide and almost starts praying in his head. Come here, John, I know you want to. Come back, John, please. But every night he hears him walk up the stairs and back to his room. Maybe tomorrow night will be better, the detective consoles himself each time.

Now it's almost a week since Sherlock returned, and they still haven't talked about everything that happened and especially about how to deal with the future.

Sherlock does not work. He spends most of his time with Rosie and Mrs Hudson, trying to get used, he who has always lived in a rush, to the slow, suspended time of waiting.

Summer is coming to an end. London in September always has a special charm, John thinks as he walks out of the tube station with his briefcase and looks at the street, the passers-by, the cars, the sky, sniffs the air, loses himself in contemplating the quality of the sunlight that brings out the contours of the city breaking through rags of white clouds.

He has left early from work today because a couple of appointments have been cancelled. He feels a strange agitation in his body, and quickly realises that it is because he wants to spend some time with his flatmate. He immediately decides that today he will not look for excuses or tricks to keep his at distance. And he picks up the pace a little.

When he opens the front door of 221B, he first knocks at Mrs Hudson’s flat, convinced that Rosie is there. The landlady is vacuuming while listening to loud rock on her headphones.

"Mrs Hudson!" the doctor shouts to be heard, and she finally notices his presence.

"Oh, dear!" she answers him, turning off the device and removing her headphones. "You’re back early today!"

"Yeah," the doctor does and looks around. "Rosie?" he then asks her.

"Oh, Sherlock took her to the park," the old woman replies with a big smile.

"Ah," John does, scratching his ear and heading upstairs. Then he freezes, as if he has only just realised, and turns back.

"What, to the park? Sherlock? Are you sure?" he asks her with a slightly incredulous and vaguely worried look.

"Of course," Mrs Hudson replies, starting to rewind the hoover cord.

"I mean... Sherlock... to the park? Not that perhaps he did take my daughter to some crime scene, instead?" the doctor continues, frowning.

"What are you thinking?" she replies in her reproachful tone. "Besides, if you don't believe it, go and see, won't you? It's such a nice day, a bit of air will do you good," she concludes with one of her wise smiles, disappearing into the back of the flat.

John thinks about it for a few seconds. Then he squares his shoulders, puts his briefcase down in the hall and goes out again. After about ten minutes he has already arrived at Marylebone playground. He walks through the gate and starts looking around. It takes him a couple of minutes to spot him from a distance.

He is sitting on one side of a wooden bench, his arms resting on the backrest of it and his long legs crossed, in his impeccable suit. His skin is so fair that the late afternoon sun shining on him almost makes him glow.

He is talking to a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, while he doesn't lose sight of Rosie, who is climbing the wooden slide with a swarm of other children.

A beautiful girl with long curly hair, with a book abandoned on her lap, also intent on controlling a child but occasionally turning to look at him with a smile that leaves little doubt.

John sees from a distance that Rosie and the unknown child are approaching the bench and asking for something. Sherlock and the girl answer, then they all laugh. The children walk away again. Sherlock resumes his composed pose, intertwining his hands in his lap.

John feels as if he is looking at him for the first time. The girl keeps talking and he laughs and nods.

Who knows what the fuck they're saying to each other.

Imagine a guy like that in a playground being the perfect dad to a little girl who is the eighth wonder of creation. In five minutes there's gonna be a line for his phone number, John reckons.

Yes, there have been countless occasions in the past years when he has looked at him, or rather contemplated him, without being able to take his eyes off him. There have been times when he has been instinctively jealous. He clearly remembers the shivers of annoyance that went down his spine at seeing him play boyfriend to Janine. Not to mention the Irene Adler thing. Every time he heard his phone make that noise, he would have gladly smashed it with a hammer.

And then there was the story of the man on the Bridge Road, but he doesn't even want to dwell on that one anymore: he's just thankful it went the way Sherlock said it did. Despite everything, he feels that he would never lie to him about something like that.

But now it is different; John feels unmistakably, suddenly and strongly, the sense of possession, and wonders again how it is possible that such a special creature has given himself to him, to him alone.

Mine, does the irrational side of his brain, finding itself immediately agreeing with his nether regions. His legs start up on their own and after a few steps he is already running.

"Daddy!" Rosie yells seeing him coming and reaching out to him from the top of the slide. Then she slides down and ends up directly in his arms. John picks her up and laughs.

And he turns to look at Sherlock who is staring at him mesmerized.

John’s ash-blond hair is shining in the sun that's starting to lower on the horizon, and he's wearing that thin black-and-white striped shirt that he hasn't seen him wear in ages, with the sleeves pulled up a little on his strong forearms.

John gives him a surrendered, bright smile. Sherlock has to concentrate on remembering how to breathe. "Out early today?" he finally manages to articulate, getting up from the bench and approaching him. "Yeah," John quips, "Sherlock Holmes on the playground, I asked for a permit specifically so I wouldn't miss it," he jokingly tells him.

Sherlock smiles at him again. "Chinese?" he then questions. John turns to Rosie, who is still holding him. "What do you think?" he asks her. "Chinese!" cries the little girl in the height of excitement.

John sets her down and all three of them walk off together. "Hello Paul!", Rosie says to her new little friend. And Sherlock nods to the girl who sits there waving goodbye. Damn, if he was an handsome piece of bloke, she thinks as she watches him walk away. Not that she had cultivated any hope whatsoever. In half an hour of conversation, he had mentioned this John at least twenty times, finding a way to fit him into the conversation even while talking about molecular orbitals and ionic solids.

"What were you two talking about, by the way?", John makes in a tone that would like to sound indifferent. Sherlock gives a sly smile. "About chemistry," he then replies to him, vague. "Huh?" the doctor goes wide-eyed. "She's babysitting to pay for her studies. She has an inorganic chemistry exam next week, I was giving her some tips," he explains patiently. The doctor laughs and shakes his head. It must be quite a parallel universe.

"I'm no expert on this stuff, John, but you're not jealous, are you?", Sherlock suddenly asks him in a doubtful tone, stopping after a few more steps.

"What? No!" the doctor immediately exclaims, indignant.

"Ah, too bad," Sherlock retorts without hiding his disappointment. "I would have been."

The doctor feels himself liquefy. "Well... maybe a little, yes," he admits, giving him a gentle shove. And then he starts walking again with Rosie trotting behind him. Sherlock smiles to himself and hurries after them.

They return from the Chinese restaurant with Rosie asleep on Sherlock's shoulder. He silently carries her upstairs, lays her on the cot and begins to put on her pyjamas with confident movements. She smiles in her sleep.

John leans against the door frame to look at him, crossing his arms and leaning his head against the doorframe. He finally allows himself to thank the heavens that he hasn't left. No matter how could he be strong, in fact he would have collapsed after a week without him. He feels that resentment, mistrust, jealousy, anger and all the rest are slowly fading away inside him. Don't be rash, he tells himself.

And he turns to go back down to the kitchen.

When Sherlock comes downstairs too, he finds him in his armchair reading one of his terrible detective stories. They look at each other for a few seconds. "Erm... so I'll... go...", Sherlock does, scratching his head and starting towards his room. "Wait," John says getting up. "Let me see how those bruises are doing," he adds in the most professional tone he has.

Sherlock blushes almost instantly and begins a strategic retreat. "No need, they're almost gone," he squeaks looking every which way but at him. "Sherlock, may I remind you that I'm a doctor," John quips. "I bet I'm perfectly capable of controlling a hematoma without embarrassing you."

Sherlock blushes even more, but sets off resignedly towards the bathroom, while he follows at an appropriate distance.

And there they are again, the detective standing in front of the sink and John on his usual stool. Sherlock stands as still as a statue, staring stubbornly at the floor tiles.

"Pull up that shirt, come on," John lets out with an exasperated sigh. And Sherlock takes off his jacket, hangs it up and then pulls his shirt out of his trousers and lifts it up only on the right side, uncovering the bare essentials. He still has two spots about the size of a fist at the end of his ribcage, but they are turning yellowish. They'll be completely reabsorbed soon.

"Does it still hurt when you breathe?" the doctor asks him in a low voice, rubbing his hands together to warm them up and then resting them lightly on his skin as he is invested by his smell, so familiar and yet so far away, and it almost makes him dizzy with the desire to rest his nose and then his mouth on that skin.

Sherlock inhales and shakes his head.

"Oookay," John murmurs, removing his hands and standing up. "Looks all right to me. If you can go another week without screwing up, we can file this one away too," he adds tiredly, heading for the door.

Sherlock pulls down his grey shirt and takes a step towards him. "John..." he calls after him, looking at him with two eyes that resemble two deep ponds.

The doctor raises his hands as if to say stop. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he says to him, and leaves the bathroom to go upstairs. He flops onto the bed fully clothed and inhales sharply. Then he closes his eyes.

Sherlock remains a good while longer planted in the middle of the bathroom, out of breath. He tries to make a rough count of how many hours have passed since their last kiss, but gives up almost immediately. There's no need to quantify it. There are simply too many.

He finds himself wandering around the house like a lost soul, not knowing what to do. He opens and closes the refrigerator a couple of times. He tunes the violin that was already tuned. He takes a couple of large books off the shelves, flips through them listlessly and then leaves them lying around. He turns to look at the smiley who smiles mockingly at him. "Don't worry," he says with an irritated grimace, "I'm not going to shoot you tonight”. And then he gives in to the idea of simply going to bed, again tonight.

After about twenty minutes of lying on his stomach in the dark, staring at the ceiling, he surrenders to the fact that sleep is a mirage, and that the feeling of restlessness that he got from spending those five minutes in the bathroom with John has no intention of leaving him. He inhales, exhales and then inhales again.

Like the other time, he puts his hand on the spot where John touched him with his fingertips, slightly rough at the tips but at the same time as soft as a painter's brush.

Yes, the other time. The other time had never even occurred to him to have consciously aroused himself, yet. It seems like a lifetime ago. Now, at least, he knows how to name it, that indefinable sensation that enveloped him and that now returns to take hold of him, insistent. Only this time it's accompanied by the unmistakable sensation of an erection starting to rise, completely independent of his will, while in his mind all the delicious dirty things they had done together in those wonderful days, before everything collapsed again, are projected in whirling succession.

Okay, touching is absolutely out of the question, he points out to himself. It's not like he's a hormonal teenager. He'll get over it.

The last time it happened, he destroyed half the wooden objects in the kitchen to distract himself, but come on, it's all under control, he just have to think of something else. Too bad he can't think of anything.

Oh, there, there's the periodic table. Alkaline metals. Alkaline earth metals. Lanthanides, actinides.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, I just didn't think I'd ever had sex in a room with a giant periodic table hanging on the wall."

"If it's distracting, I'll take it down."

"No, no, not at all! It reminds me of when you're handling those slides of yours under the microscope."

"So what?"

"So nothing, all right? I'm not going to start telling you about my sexual fantasies."

"Now you've got me curious, though!"

"Shut up."

"No."

"Oh, and that's fine... it's just that you get a look in your eye... that I wish I was in the place of those damned slides to have you look at me the same way."

"…Like this?"

"Oh God, what are you doing?"

"I'm looking at you."

"Aaah!, you're crazy, you're making me collapse like that..."

"Not right now, please"

"We never did it with you on top..."

"In fact... consider yourself in the slide's place, and I'll watch you all the time you want"

"Wait, go slowly, I'll hurt you like this..."

"No"

"Aaaah!!! Christ... You're gonna kill me one of these days, you know that?"

"If you don't start moving, I'm more likely to die."

“Oh, here I am, take me, look at me and take me”

“You’re such a romantic git, John… I love you.”

Shit. Sherlock turns on his stomach and stifles a desperate moan into the pillow. His hips move on their own, seeking friction against the mattress. He barely has time to slip his right hand into his pajama trousers and wrap his fist around himself before he comes. He recovers after interminable moments of blackout and awkwardly cleans himself. Usually, John would take care of that.

He falls asleep thinking about him so hard that he almost feels like he's really there with him.

The next morning, as they are eating breakfast in silence, Sherlock's mobile phone rings. "Tell me, Lestrade," the detective answers promptly, and then listens intently. "Okay, I'll see you there in a bit," he concludes with his eyes twinkling.

John looks up. "Case?" he only asks him, his mouth full.

"Murder," the detective says happily, getting up from the table and slipping off his burgundy dressing gown to slip on his jacket. And then he freezes and stares at him, narrowing his eyes inquiringly.

“You're free this morning, if I'm not mistaken,” he notes.

The doctor nods, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

"I don't suppose... you'd like to come?" attempts Sherlock hopefully.

John stares at his plate for a moment, then lifts his head, smiling sincerely.

"God, yes," he tells him.

"I want to come too!" declares Rosie looking up from her bowl of milk and cereal. "No," her dads reply in unison.

"Uff," retorts the little girl, snorting.

Chapter Text

For at least ten minutes John, in the blue forensic suit, has been circling the corpse of a middle-aged man they found in a basement near Earl's Court; he is making his observations with his usual slow, methodical pace. Nose, eyes, mouth, fingers, neck.

Sherlock, who, as always, has not bothered to put on a suit either, but rather wanders around with his usual elegance, does not miss a movement of the doctor, as he does every time he sees him in action around a corpse, ever since that first time with the lady in pink. He loves seeing him do that. Today more than all the other times combined.

"Well?", Lestrade asks him.

Sherlock barely shakes his head as if to awaken from a vision, and then clears his throat two or three times, entwining his hands behind his back.

"Well, it was an allergic reaction, I think it's obvious," John says. "You can tell by the tongue, it's swollen. Probably anaphylactic shock." He concludes by standing up.

He feels Sherlock's gaze planted on him, and makes an embarrassed grimace.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asks the detective. "At least seven," he replies, narrowing his eyes. "But I obviously need the autopsy results. Let me know when they're ready," he concludes, turning on his heel and setting off at his stiff pace. John, on the other hand, lingers a few seconds.

Greg looks at him doubtfully. "Is everything okay?" he asks him, tilting his head and frowning.

"No," John only replies, sincere.

Lestrade nods, not knowing what to answer.

"Are you coming tonight, having that beer with me?" he asks him finally.

"I'll come, yeah, I think I really need to," John answers before finally leaving and disappearing up the stairs of the basement.

"So? What did the weirdo say?", Donovan asks him as she enters the basement. "He actually wasn't particularly chatty this time," Greg replies, raising his eyebrows and scratching his temple as he looks down at the stone-cold dead man on the dirty floor.

"Ouch," the agent says holding back a half laugh.

"What's going on?" Lestrade finally explodes, shrilly.

"What's going on is that they're in love, dummy. And they can't come to terms with it. I'm afraid that if they don't make up, it will be a mess for you too" the woman giggles again, not caring too much about her tone. They have been working together for so many years now, that she can afford to respond to her boss like that. She pats him on the back and heads back upstairs.

Lestrade stands there blinking, still staring at the corpse with a comically focused expression. "I knew it, christ," he finally concludes, almost brightening up, and exits the dark basement as well, motioning for the forensic people to get on with their work.

John joins Sherlock and they wait together for a cab. They get in silently, and sit down taking care to maintain an ostentatious interpersonal distance.

John is brooding.

Sherlock looks at him for a while and then rolls his eyes and declares "no, you don't need to call Molly to see if she's keeping Rosie tonight. I'm home and don't have anything urgent to do. Besides, we have to watch Alice in Wonderland for the fourteenth time. I promised her yesterday." And with that said, he crosses his arms and turns toward the window.

"What the...?" goes John. And then shakes his head with a half smile. It's comfortable, too, in the end. It's like driving around with a person who reads your mind.

When Greg walks into the pub, John is already sitting at a table, staring blankly at the two pints of beer he ordered.

"Hey, so?" the inspector quips with one of his big good-natured smiles, taking off his gray overcoat.

John raises his eyebrows and doesn't respond, continuing to contemplate the mugs.

"Your're doing fine, I see" Lestrade says, sarcastically.

"Yes, indeed," replies the equally sarcastic doctor.

"Can I know what you two are up to?", Greg decides to ask after a few seconds of silence, grabbing one of the two glasses.

"I wish I knew," John sighs, taking the other and holding it out to him. They make a dim toast and take a sip.

"Well, if it helps," Greg continues, "you know I've known him long before you, and you... changed him. He may not have become a saint, but he's become a good man. You can trust him. You should know that by now."

"About ten days ago he pulled a gun on me," John notes in a fatalistic tone, shrugging and taking another sip.

"Yeah, I know," Lestrade grimaces, "well, he tends to go a little overboard sometimes, doesn't he? He always means well, though. And then, well, sometimes you didn't go so easy with him either...".

"Listen Greg, did he send you? Or did Mycroft pay you?", John blurts out, slamming his mug a little too hard. And then, looking at his somewhat hurt expression, he realizes he's gone too far, and immediately changes his tone. "I'm sorry," he resumes, "I'm sorry, okay? I just don't know what to think anymore. Christ, we're raising a little girl... and I... by now I've figured out that..." he interrupts, bowing his head to study the wood grain of the rough pub table.

"That you can't stay away from him," Greg completes the sentence, with a wistful smile, setting himself to stare at the surface of the table as well. John nods slowly.

"You just try to give him another chance”, Lestrade continues. “This Rosie thing has upset the hell out of him, but I think it's also made him think a lot. You two need to talk, John, about what you really want. And then give yourself that. You deserve it."

John finally looks up and gives a small, unconvinced smile. "Thank you, Greg," he replies in a low voice. And they make another toast, and then empty their pints competing to see who finishes first, like two teenagers.

Mrs. Hudson enters the living room with a tray with a teapot and a plate of cookies on it. "Ooh-ooh!," she says, setting it down on the small wooden table, and then stands contemplating them lovingly, as they're both on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, their curls tousled, she’s blonde, he’s black, both of them with their knees bent to their chests and their arms encircling them. They couldn't be more alike even if they were really blood related. Rosie is already in her Frozen pajamas, ecstatically watching the Cheshire Cat scene, repeating every word of the ditty.

But the most incredible thing is that even Sherlock himself, once again in his home version pajama shirt and robe, is watching the cartoon, without in the meantime dismembering electronic devices or making sorties into his Mind Palace.

He gets up to grab the plate of cookies.

He shoves one in his mouth and then falls back on the couch, handing the plate to Rosie, who also takes one and starts nibbling on it with her little white teeth.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourselves," the landlady quips with an indulgent smile.

"Definitely more than John," retorts the sulking detective, chewing on the cookie.

"Oh, come on, don't be flippant," she scolds him.

"Yeah, that's an old cliché, isn't it? When an individual has emotional problems, social conventions dictate that they go out and get drunk with their friends at the pub. It's always a pleasure to see how true to tradition John is," he enunciates under his breath, curling his lips.

"You have to give him time, Sherlock," the elderly woman says in her wise tone, under her breath as well, pouring him a cup of tea. "After all, you've done all sorts of things to him. You can't expect him to suddenly forget everything."

"So what should I do?" he asks her, sincere, after a few seconds of silence.

"Wait," Mrs. Hudson only replies, handing him the cup. And then she stops for a few minutes with them to watch the cartoon.

When John comes back home, it is still early. He's a little tipsy, and almost well disposed from his chat with Greg. After the various confessions, he pretty much spent the rest of their time together being told what Sherlock was like before they met.

Lestrade took care to choose the most interesting and amusing anecdotes, leaving out just as carefully the various messes with drugs, the overdose, the searches, Mycroft's rage, their mother's sobs, the trust that despite everything they gave him when he came out of detoxification and decided to go back to live on his own and look for another apartment in London.

It was there that Sherlock and John's story began. Greg saw it being born, growing up, going through moments of luminous completeness and unspeakable tragedy. It's obvious, to his eyes as well as the rest of the world's, that those two are inextricably linked from the first moment they met.

As he left the pub, Greg found himself praying, almost, that they would finally find their way.

As he's climbing the last few steps, to John's ears come the heartbreakingly sweet notes of Sherlock's waltz. The one he had composed for the wedding.

The doctor opens the door of the apartment very slowly, and sees that it is illuminated by a low and soft light. Sherlock is not playing the violin; he is moving lightly in the middle of the living room in his burgundy robe, with Rosie in his arms, who is dozing off. Music comes softly from the stereo. He is dancing.

John is moved, blaming the two or three beers. He doesn't even try to hinder the tears that abruptly veil his eyes.

Sherlock sees him in the doorway but doesn't stop. He gives him one of his sincere smiles, capable of liquefying a brick. And then he holds out a hand.

John can't help but go towards him, he feels pulled towards him again like a magnet.

Sherlock surrounds his shoulders with one arm, while with the other he continues to support Rosie, who has dropped her head on his shoulder. John surrounds them both with his arms and squeezes, pulling up with his nose, resting his face on his chest and wetting his shirt with tears. Sherlock squeezes them too, his two Watsons. They sway slowly to the tempo of the fading music.

"Do you see that, Mary?" whispers Sherlock, "we can all three dance."

The next afternoon, Sherlock is at Scotland Yard in Lestrade's office, scribbling through the autopsy results of the guy in the basement, as hypotheses run through his mind and he discards them one after another.

Greg is slumped in his desk chair eating a donut. "Still nothing, huh?" he mouths to him with a big smile of satisfaction.

Sherlock glares at him. "I could always ask you what you think, George," he gives him as he goes back to flipping through the folder in his hand, "but it's obvious that your greatest current interest revolves around what John told you last night about me."

"Eh no, it's your interest, that, not mine!" retorts Greg straightening up in his chair. "But, if it will get your brain going again, just know that John isn't going anywhere. Maybe you should tell him that from now on, you won't be doing that either."

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but realizes almost immediately that he has nothing to counter. No caustic quips, no cutting insinuations, no displays of superiority. He simply rests his hands on the inspector's desk, lowers his head and nods two or three times. Then he starts reading the documents again.

John is on the N18, packed with people. Today, as he does every Tuesday afternoon, he has taken the bus instead of the subway, because before going home he always goes to West Kilburn to see an elderly patient at home.

On the way, he thinks back to the night before. How they had carried Rosie to bed together, and then had gone downstairs again. John had gone back to sitting in his chair, picking up his horrid little mystery novel.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had picked up his violin and played something tremendously intense that he had never heard him play before.

When he had finished, the doctor could still feel the air in the room vibrate.

Sherlock had lowered the violin and turned to John, who was staring at him with his mouth wide open. "What was that?" the doctor had asked him. "Mendelssohn, Romance without words, Book 2, Opus 30," the detective had pitted, moving his bow with those usual elegant gestures of his.

"Amazing," had commented John, who was certainly no connoisseur of classical music, but probably those two or three beers had shaken both his artistic sense and his inhibitions. He had looked at him for the umpteenth time. The detective still had the wet halo of his tears on his shirt, and he was staring at him with an indescribable expression of contemplation, and longing, and guilt, and unconditional love.

And John had felt himself being swept away again by the indelible feeling he had for him, that was not mere friendship, and admiration, and nor merely affection, or desire; it was something enormously more complex and profound, potentially infinite.

He had risen from the chair without being able to restrain himself, and had approached him and then held him, tightly, encircling his waist with his arms and leaning his ear against his sternum to hear his heart galloping.

Sherlock had stood there for a few minutes, idle like a statue, and then he had lowered his head onto his and slowly encircled him with his arms as well. They had stayed there, holding each other, indefinitely.

And then John had turned his head slowly and rested his mouth on it, on his sternum, and then reached out to nuzzle his neck to smell his skin.

It was when he had parted his lips to run his tongue over his neck, while his hands slipped securely under his shirt, that Sherlock had gently pushed him away, shaking his head, even though he would have given anything to keep him going.

He knew that, when the euphoric effect of the alcohol was over, he would have regretted it, and that it would have messed things up even more.

John had looked at him as if to ask why, but then he had understood. And he had given him a sad smile.

They'd said goodnight without so much as a kiss, and John had gone upstairs to his room.

Sherlock had enjoyed the feeling of feeling good about his conscience, of having done well, of not having been selfish, of having finally silenced that side of himself that always gave bad advice.

Of course, this did not prevent him from basking in that comforting September melancholy; he had even looked out to watch the moon rise again on the roof opposite, before turning off the lights of the flat and going to bed. At least, this time, that icy satellite had seemed a little less indifferent to all his travails.

And now, John is on this packed bus, going over in his mind all the moments of the night before. He feels almost more bewitched by being rejected than all the times they've done it before, before the latest disasters.

You're really going for it this time, Sherlock, aren't you? He asks himself, smiling to himself. God, he can't take much more of this. They clearly can't live like this. John feels the irrepressible physical and mental need to clear the air with him once and for all, and then, possibly, pick up where they left off. After a few more seconds of reflection, he picks up the phone and begins to write:

What if tonight we go out to dinner, just you and me, at Ang…

He doesn't have time to finish typing the sentence, and he’s distracted by the honking of a horn, followed immediately by the deafening sound of a braking.

When the bus loses its grip and begins to skid, John not only has time to drop the phone and grab the child sitting next to him to tuck him between his legs, bending over him to repair his head while the screams of his mother, sitting in the back seat with her other daughter, pierce his eardrums; but he also has time to wonder what the fuck he must have done wrong in his previous life, for not being able to go more than a week in a row without some tragedy happening to him.

Then all he hears is a big crash, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Chapter Text

Greg is still sitting there at his desk, dusting the crumbs off his tie, when his office phone rings.

Sherlock barely looks up from his clipboard to see his expression darken as he listens in concentration to the communication. "Damn it," he deadpans, "I'll send a couple of patrols right away, I'll be there as soon as I can," he concludes.

"What's going on?" the detective asks him.

"Bus accident on Kilburn Lane, damn, there's quite a few injuries."

"Again?" goes Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, fuck... I gotta go, you staying here?"

"No, I need the corpse, and I need the Bart's lab," the detective straightens up.

"Alright," Greg replies putting on his coat, "keep me posted," and he makes to leave.

Sherlock closes the clipboard with the feeling that he's missing something.

"What bus?" he asks him as he's already at the door.

"N18, damn it, it's packed at this hour," the inspector replies, giving him a curt nod and disappearing through the door.

N18, Sherlock considers. And his eye falls on Lestrade's desk calendar. Today is Tuesday. That's what he was missing.

Better call John and tell him to make other arrangements to get home, unless he wants to spend all afternoon waiting in vain under a bus shelter for service to be restored normally.

John's phone is unreachable.

Sherlock leaves Scotland Yard and takes a cab to Bart's.

On the way, he tries to call him back but it is always disconnected. Strange. Usually John's cell phone is never disconnected, especially since he stopped dating that witch Maggie.

He calls Mrs. Hudson to ask her if he's arrived home yet, and then, out of further scruples, he calls the clinic to see if he's left work yet.

The sense of bewilderment turns to disquiet.

Finally, at the risk of sounding like a complete idiot, he convinces himself to call Lestrade, who answers after a few rings.

"So, did you solve it?" the inspector immediately asks him.

"No, actually... I was calling about the bus thing...", Sherlock decides to admit.

"Huh?", Greg asks him, "and why?".

"BecauseJohnisnotansweringhisphone,andusuallyatthistimebyTuesdayheisonthatbus," shoots the detective all in one breath, finally voicing his concern.

"What?" says Lestrade, without having understood a damn thing.

"Listen, you wouldn't happen to have a list of the wounded, would you?" rephrases Sherock, already on the verge of losing his patience.

"No, by the time I got there they had already started transferring them... most of them were taken to St. Mary's," Lestrade argues. "But why do you want to know?" he adds; but only the silence of the phone hooked in his face answers him.

John is walking down the exit corridor of the emergency room with a nice band-aid and three or four stitches on his right eyebrow, when he gets Sherlock's unmistakable voice from the emergency room desk.

"That tabloid you have up there will contain at least a couple of articles full of inferences about our personal life and now you're telling me that to know what happened to him I need a paper that says we're together?" he's ranting in a voice that makes the entire waiting room shake.

John rolls his eyes and quickens his pace, just in time to find him standing and looking angrily at the nurse behind the desk; she is arguing something about privacy and procedures, under the scandalized eyes of everyone sitting on the uncomfortable little chairs in the large waiting room.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" the doctor scolds him, grabbing him by the arm. "Excuse him," he even finds time to say to the nurse, pulling him to get him away from there, before being grabbed, in a sudden move, by both shoulders by Sherlock, who looks at him with an expression he had only seen on his face the time he ripped off his explosive-packed jacket in that dark pool.

"John...," he merely gives him, his voice breaking into a sob. Before he has time to answer, he pounces on his mouth taking his face in his hands and blatantly kisses him, in front of everyone. John tries to struggle for a moment, but then gives up, unable to resist the wave of emotions that sweep over him. Sherlock pulls away only for a second, still keeping his hands pressed on his cheeks, to plant his eyes in his as if he wanted to dig deep into his soul.

" Not. Ever. Do. This. Kind. Of. Thing. Again”, he declares, punctuating every single syllable with a tone that admits no reply.

And then he kisses him again. Time stands still.

When they pull away, it's as if they have stepped out of that famous parallel world and they are both blushing with emotion and embarrassment. The nurse behind the desk looks at them raising her eyebrows and shaking her head, but after a moment a smile of tenderness appears on her face.

John clears his throat a couple of times, loudly, and then says "Move on, you idiot," pushing him by the shoulder towards the exit of the waiting room; but he's smiling too.

"Oh, there you are, I just wanted to say thank you," a woman with a dressing on her left cheek approaches him as they exit the large sliding doors of the emergency room; she smiles at him as much as she can because of the wound, holding her two children tightly in her arms. John recognizes the child he protected with his body. Fortunately, he and his little sister don't have a single scratch.

"Duty," he replies, smiling at her as well and extending his hand, which she readily shakes, full of sincere gratitude. He then musses the baby's hair. "You're okay, yes?" he asks him. "Were you scared?" The boy shakes his head and gives an uncertain smile, thanking him as well.

And then John and Sherlock set off, walking close together, side by side, indeed shoulder to shoulder, as has been their custom practically from the they they have met.

Sherlock admires him out of the corner of his eye as if he considers him even more than usual his personal hero. Even you, he had told him, when they talked about the condemnation of being all just human. He was never less certain than now that John was just a simple human.

As Sherlock would later read in the report, the bus had had to stop to avoid a car that was making a reckless overtaking move, but due to the slippery road surface the driver had lost control and the large vehicle had slammed the front right corner into a massive sycamore tree at the side of the roadway. Thirty-two minor injuries, two more serious but not life-threatening. No fatalities.

The detective reflects on how bastard the case is, and how everyday life is sometimes far more dangerous than any serial killer or criminal consultant, and how precious every moment is, and how fragile and precarious it all is. All things he already knew, of course, with his brain of a philosopher or a scientist who elected to be a detective; but of which he now found himself having an unprecedented and extraordinarily distressing, also if thankfully brief, experience.

"You weren't answering the phone," he complains, while they are in the cab on their way home, thus condensing in that simple sentence all the great thinking he had been doing until a few seconds before, while looking out the window.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I lost it on the bus," John replies. And then he decides to confess: "I had it in my hand, at the moment of the accident... I was writing a message... to you".

Sherlock turns to look at him questioningly.

John sighs with a half smile. "Yes," he admits, "I was texting you if you happened to want to go out to dinner tonight...".

Sherlock blinks several times. "What, you were in an accident, you're hurt, and you want to go out to dinner?" he asks him back, puzzled.

"Sherlock, it's just a little cut, I'm fine, really," the doctor replies, smiling at him, amused by his thoughtfulness.

"Well, then why not," the detective shrugs, looking out the window again. "Let's change though, we were at the Chinese the other night and Rosie..."

John rolls his eyes. "You and me!" he interrupts him, blushing, in a slightly exasperated tone. When he wants to, the detective can be the dullest person in the world. "I wanted to ask if you'd like to have dinner out tonight, you and I. Just us," he points out, in doubt, though it's obvious to him.

But to Sherlock, it's not obvious at all. He takes a few seconds to consider the meaning behind the proposal. And then, when he realizes it, he turns to look at him again, wide-eyed. "Really?" he asks him a little incredulously, with a tiny smile.

"Really," John replies.

"Of course I do," Sherlock immediately replies.

"What about the basement guy's case?" the doctor asks him, looking at him quizzically.

"That can wait," the detective whispers incredibly and, after a few moments, extends a hand along the seat, into the blank space between them, as if it were a casual gesture.

John makes a comically surprised expression, and then lowers his eyes to look at that hand reaching out to him like a bridge between two warring shores. He holds back for a moment and then finally weaves his own into it. Sherlock barely inhales.

"So," the doctor resumes in a low voice, "are we still together?"

Sherlock's eyes go wide again, his expression bewildered. "Of course we're still together, why do you ask?" he adds, frowning.

"Well, you've been giving me some mixed signals lately," the doctor gives a sad half-smile. "When one plans to abandon you unannounced and indefinitely to fly off to the other side of the world, you tend to think you're not that important after all," he can't help but point out, in a slightly melodramatic tone that's definitely not like him.

Sherlock searches his eyes and looks at him again, fixed, with the most sincere and pained expression he has. "I did not… I not wanted… It was…”, he tries to explain; but then he interrupts himpself, and exhales, and only murmurs “Forgive me, John".

The doctor is silent for a few seconds, turning to look out his window, but not letting go of his hand. Then finally he turns back to him, with a long sigh. "Yes, I forgive you," he tells him, squeezing it tighter. "But we need to talk, though. Quite a lot, actually."

"Even I know that phrase slipped into a conversation dealing with feelings represents a very bad omen," Sherlock saddens, making to withdraw his hand.

"Maybe not for us," John whispers holding it back and reclining his head as he gives him an intense look, with that patch on his eyebrow giving him a hard and tender look at the same time. "Thank you for picking me up at the hospital, by the way," he adds, "despite the scene you made, I appreciated the gesture."

"I was scared," Sherlock admits candidly, staring straight ahead.

"I know," John says. "That's how I feel every time you do any of your nonsense,” he sighs.

Sherlock bows his head, feeling guilty again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"I know that too," the doctor retorts looking at their intertwined hands on the seat and barely smiling.

Sherlock feels warm by the parts of his heart.

Molly is sitting on the red carpet, flipping through the Peppa Pig album with Rosie while she waits for these two idiots to emerge from their rooms, so they can finally say goodbye and she can take that cab to her house with the baby to watch a cartoon and do all the other fun things they do at least once or twice a month on their "girls' night."

After a considerable amount of time, John appears down his stairs. He's wearing a real suit, gray with a white shirt that falls perfectly on his solid chest, and a blue tie. Molly raises her eyebrows. "Wow!" she grins, giving him a big smile.

John brushes aside, smiling too, and then turns to Rosie. "So," he says squatting down next to her, "be good to Molly, huh?"

"Why are you all dressed up daddy? You don't even look like you!" the little girl asks him, looking at him a little suspiciously. The voice of innocence.

"Here we go, I thank you," John laughs and shakes his head.

"How's the bump?", Molly asks him.

"It's nothing," he replies, shrugging and barely huffing.

At that moment Sherlock arrives as well, emerging from his room with his eyes fixed on the phone he's typing on at full speed. He's always well-dressed, so it's not that you notice a big difference from the usual, Molly notes. It must be that aura of electricity that surrounds him, sizzling through the air.

After everything that's happened, she knows that in “that sense”, the detective only works with John. Always has.

When Sherlock looks up from the screen and his eyes fall on the doctor, he remains petrified on the spot, his phone still raised in midair. John pulls himself to his feet and they face each other across the room, their gazes locked together with no chance of unhooking.

Molly clears her throat. "Daddy's all dressed up because he has to go to dinner with daddy," she says to Rosie putting the jacket to the baby girl; "DINNER!" she then reiterates, louder, finally managing to redeem them from the spell before things take a whole other turn. "Yeah, sure," they both answer, looking around as if they don't even know where they are.

Molly rolls her eyes; "Then let's go, the cab has arrived", she says after looking out the window; and then, after a moment of silence, she adds "behave yourselves", getting two critical expressions in return. The girl twists her mouth, gives a half-smile, and says "Bye, everyone!", picking up Rosie, her backpack, and heading for the door. "Bye, everyone!" repeats Rosie, overjoyed to be leaving with her and the evening of games and cartoons ahead.

"Bye, thanks, Molly," the doctor's voice chases her as she leaves the room.

John told her, that tonight they will talk – or try it. And she knows very well that Sherlock, John and talking in the same sentence could have less than desired effects. As she descends the stairs, she finds herself praying, like Greg, that they will finally find their way.

John and Sherlock hear Molly greet Mrs. Hudson and close the door.

They stare at each other for a few more moments, awkwardly.

"After you," Sherlock finally decides to say, pointing to the door with a tiny, embarrassed smile. "Thank you," John replies, shaking his head to himself with a slightly bewildered half-smile, and starts down the stairs.

Sherlock's reassuring footsteps follow him at a close distance.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is fidgeting on the olive green couch, looking around as if he expects the restaurant to go up in flames any minute now.

John glances at him as he flips through the menu. "If you keep doing so, I'm going to get seasick," he points out after a while. Sherlock instantly freezes and rests his elbows on the table, interlocking his fingers and staring at the dark wooden surface of their usual small table. "Sorry," he whispers quickly, embarrassed.

John gives a tiny smile, puts down the menu, and leans back against the back of the settee, silhouetting his figure against the wide glass window and barely loosening his tie as his beautiful white shirt drapes over his chest.

Sherlock raises his eyes for a second and immediately realizes that he's in danger of becoming enchanted looking at him and not hearing a word he's about to say. So he immediately lowers them again and resumes scanning the table.

"Last time we were here, we had just risked to punch ourselves to death," John starts to say, "we had to get to that point, to figure it all out... which says a lot about us, I guess."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John interrupts him. "No, let me finish," he says, "and then we started this... this thing..., sharply, without thinking. And we didn't even have the guts to address the subject in words. We just went for it, like we always do, like everything else," he continues.

"Yeah," the detective only replies, motionless.

John suddenly changes his tone, straightening up. “Look, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff, Sherlock. So I'll get straight to the point. I'm trying to put pride aside, and you don't know what a struggle I'm having," he almost grits his teeth as he says it, huffing. "If I had listened to my instincts, I would have smashed your face in when you got out of that cab." He clenches his fists, in saying it, and then opens them again.

"But you didn't," Sherlock does after a few seconds of silence, looking up at him.

"No, I didn't. Now I want to know if I did right or wrong," the doctor only says, and sits back down, arranging to hear his answer.

Sherlock, however, remains silent.

"Listen," John resumes, after waiting a few seconds, straightening up and deciding to come to his aid, "if you didn't leave anymore, it means you changed your mind about something, doesn't it? Something important."

Sherlock barely nods.

The doctor speaks again. "We've experienced things that no one should ever have to experience. It can destroy us, or it can make us stronger. It is entirely up to us. I have chosen. Now you must choose," he concludes.

Sherlock takes a breath and then begins to speak in bursts.

"I didn't know," he whispers, defeated. "Mycroft told me, more than once, that I was involved... but I didn't know to what extent. You, and then Mary...the two of you...I've never had anything like that in my life. That's why I made that vow. And I broke it." He says this without looking up, his eyes glazing over.

John feels his heart break, again.

"I've told you every way, Sherlock. No more guilt. Mary... she didn't do what she did to see you drown in this desolation. I shouldn't have blamed you, ever, and I can't apologize enough. But you can't have labored so hard to pull me out of the abyss to fall yourself into it. You know she saved you for a reason. She knew it. She loved you. If she was still here, Christ, I'm sure..." he can't bring himself to say it. His voice cracks.

"Fuck," he growls after a few moments of painful silence. "Why does everything always have to be so hard, with you," he notes, in an almost fierce tone, turning his head to the opposite side, as if seeking momentary detachment.

Sherlock looks up sharply. He takes a few seconds to contemplate him again. This man he let into his life as if it were a game, and who has taken it all, now, every last drop. If he had known all along, would he have made him do it?

Yes.

Yes, from the moment he looked at him that night in the middle of that parking lot, alone among the police cars, and realized that he was the one who had shot the cab driver.

Yes, if there was one person on the face of the earth to bring into his life, it was him.

"I will never betray your trust again, John," he declares suddenly, as if he's decided to unlock himself. "I promise I'll never run away again. And... that I will never get high again. And that I won't lie to you from now on, I won't ever put you in danger again, because you two, you and Rosie, are..." he pauses for a moment as if searching for words. "You're all I have," he concludes, looking at him with two huge eyes. "You're my family now," he adds, to make the point more clearly.

John doesn't answer. He just stares at him with his mouth half-closed and his eyes barely glowing. How much he has changed over the years, from when he was just an icy boy who spoke in metal sentences. In his eyes now you can see everything he's been through. He has lowered his defenses.

Sherlock is alarmed that John continues to remain silent, and fears he hasn't been convincing enough. He wonders what else he can add.

"And I promise I'll buy milk and clean out the fridge, and-"

"Hey, hey," John says, collecting himself and reaching across the table to barely touch his arm. "Don't overdo it. As for everything else, we'll see day by day, together. I don’t want you to turn into a hysterical housewife," he says with a little laugh. "I like you just the way you are," he admits then, with a huge effort, blushing.

Sherlock almost gasps in excitement. "I like you too, John," he replies with a tiny smile, just as he had told him when they were out with Rosie and Mary and Toby, looking for tracks around the city.

John inhales deeply, setting his eyes on the table as well. Sherlock looks at him a little apprehensively, and then lowers his head, copying him.

They stand for a few seconds in silence.

"Are you sure about what you said?", John then asks him suddenly, almost making him flinch. Sherlock fixes his eyes in his, with the most intense expression he has. "John, I swear..." he starts to say.

"No, don't swear," the doctor interrupts him.

Sherlock makes a surprised expression.

"Oaths leave a lot to be desired, and we know better. There are things none of us can predict or control," the doctor explains with a suddenly pained expression. He is silent for a few seconds, then resumes. "Just tell me if you're sure, right here, right now," he continues, "if you tell me yes, I trust you. For everything within our power and control, I trust you from now on. Forever." He grabs his wrist, in saying this, and squeezes. Hard. As to leave a mark.

Sherlock's lips part in astonishment. That sense of inescapable enormity from when he had told him they were together, while they were making love, comes over him again. He feels that he's not afraid now, not of responsibility, not of feelings. He wants them.

"I'm sure," he only says; and he says it with the same tone of voice and the same look as when John at the bottom of the stairs told him that he had asked him not to be dead, and he only had replied I heard you.

"And you... are you sure?" he asks him then, shyly, almost stuttering.

John understands what he means. Are you sure, that it's really me you want? That sooner or later you won't go looking for another woman again? Because this time I would die of it.

John takes a deep breath. "Sherlock," he tells him in the most forceful tone he has. "I don't need... anything else. I've come to terms with it. I don't care about what people think anymore, about finding a mother figure for Rosie, about all this nonsense. I care about you. And that's it."

Sherlock's eyes fill with tears. He's gotten used to it by now, he’s not even surprised by it anymore. There's no more black voice in his head telling him he's a sentimental idiot.

One more miracle, John thinks. Suddenly, he reaches out to him and runs a hand down the back of his neck, pulling him against his lips. And then he kisses him. In the middle of the full restaurant.

Sherlock stays rigid for a moment, eyes wide, then closes them and reaches out to him in turn. It's just a peck on the lips, but it says more than twenty thousand make-outs.

"There's the candle!" says Angelo, interrupting them. They pull away like two kids caught in the act. "Thanks," John answers him again, clearing his throat. Sherlock laughs softly, embarrassed. And after a moment, John starts laughing too. And then they stare at each other again and become serious again.

"I love you," Sherlock says, “and it’s not a chemical defect. We’re not the losing side”.

The first he'd been forced to tell it to Molly because of a criminal game. The second one he'd told John, or rather it had escaped him without having planned it at all beforehand, in the wave of emotion and excitement. And then he had told him other times, while having sex, or just waking up, or in various other intimate moments.

This is the first time he's said it thoughtfully, giving the statement all the weight it deserves. He believes it with his whole self. He no longer cares if the lens gets cracked, if the sensitive instrument jams from grit.

"No, we're not," John replies, looking at him steadily and barely shaking his head, feeling his eyes get moist.

Somehow, the most intense moment ended, and left them both filled with an incredible sense of confidence, of wholeness, warming them.

They changed the subject eventually. They even managed to order something to eat, and start talking about everything and nothing, like the millions of couples who populate this vast world are doing at the exact same time, sitting in thousands upon thousands of other restaurants with a candle flame dancing on the table.

And now, they're still eating dinner, when Sherlock's cell phone rings. John had told Molly to call him for anything, since his is lost and he hasn't replaced it yet. He looks at him apprehensively. But it's not Molly, it's Greg.

"Lestrade," Sherlock says, "handle it yourself, I am busy right now," and makes to hang up.

"Wait a minute, it's for the guy in the basement," John hears him say as well from how loudly the inspector speaks. "Or rather, for another similar. In Camden."

Sherlock straightens up and takes his careful posture without even realizing it. It's as if the serial killer alert has turned on on his forehead.

When he looks at John, he sees that he is already getting ready to leave. Sherlock gives an excited smile like a child who has just been promised rides. The time to make the gesture of paying the bill (which Angelo refuses as always) and they are already running in search of a cab.

The dynamics of the death is exactly the same as the other time. Sherlock doesn't let slip a detail of the horrid basement in which lies the body of another middle-aged man, vaguely resembling that of Earl's Court, while John confirms that it is probably another anaphylactic shock.

They are already back on the street, when the detective notices a figure moving stealthily down the alley. Obviously he sets off in pursuit, followed by John, who is cursing through his teeth. They run at least a kilometer before they manage to chase down the short little man with a meager haul of stolen wallets.

John curses again, bending over his knees. "This has anything to do with dead bodies in basements, right?" Sherlock wonders if there is a way to not admit the mistake. Unfortunately, there isn't. He just shakes his head, frustrated, still panting from the ride.

The doctor snickers blatantly as Sherlock calls out to Lestrade.

"You idiot, I didn't even have a gun," he tells him when he hangs up the phone.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment narrowing his eyes. "That's not true," he then sentences, unappealable.

"Oh, okay, that's not true," John answers, pulling it out and putting the pickpocket at gunpoint; the man looks at him startled, raising his hands.

"So, you brought your gun to go out to dinner with me," the detective notes. "I wonder if I should be offended or turned on," he adds, and then gives his witchy grin.

"Maybe both... I know by now that it's not ever boring with you," John snaps back at him, amused as well.

"Who the fuck are you two?" squeals the thief, still flattened on the wall with his hands up.

"We're just two guys on a date," Sherlock says and looks at John out of the corner of his eye. And they both burst out laughing.

"Well, I see you're having fun, at least," Greg exclaims as he gets out of the police car that just joined them.

"Pickpocket, see what to do with him," Sherlock replies to him adopting his haughty tone. "I'll talk to you tomorrow about the case. Let me know the identity of the body as soon as possible, assuming the police are able to ferret it out. Also, I need to see the apartment of the other dead man. Send me the details. Good night, Geoff," he concludes, and struts off.

John nods at the inspector, shrugging his shoulders with a face that seems to say sorry but I can't help it and I'm completely smitten with him, and hurries with a few steps to follow the detective.

Greg smiles and shakes his head as he watches them disappear around the corner, while his officers arrest the baffled robber.

Chapter Text

The door swings open again, but this time John has the foresight to catch it and accompany it slowly before it slams, so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. In the meantime, Sherlock has already taken off his coat and hung it on the staircase knob. He is again leaning with his back to the wall, laughing. John leans next to him, touching his shoulder with his own, just like the first time, and snorts, and then starts laughing too.

"Are we going to be able to have a normal night at some point, the two of us?" he asks him.

"God, I hope not," the detective replies as he still smiles, and turns his head toward him, still keeping it leaning against the wall, though. His long neck offers itself in the dim light of the doorway. John suddenly realizes that he can touch him now. It's like remembering he's won an unexpected prize. The adrenaline of the ride and the oxytocin of the dinner moments mix deliciously and short-circuit his head.

He comes off the wall and stands in front of him.

Sherlock barely bends down and stares at him steadily, narrowing his eyes, as if deducing his every innermost thought.

John does nothing. He just stands there, impaled, while his breath quickens noticeably.

"Are you waiting for written permission?" the detective suddenly taunts him, in a low, hoarse tone that seeps directly into his brain.

John gives a kind of exasperated growl.

A second later, he's smashing him against the wood-colored wallpaper of the hallway, his lips pressed exactly where the neckline of his shirt opens, in what he realizes is called the jugular notch, and seems made to accommodate the shape of his mouth.

The smell of his makes him freak out again, but this time he doesn't have to hold back or be afraid it's all a dream or a bluff. He sticks his tongue out and licks him, right there.

He feels happy, happy like a perfect day, like when problems solve themselves, like when after the darkest moment you realize that there is a future anyway and it still seems full of promise.

Sherlock inhales sharply and groans, trying not to make too much noise, and runs his hands through his short hair, closing his eyes, his head abandoned against the wall.

I'm going to pass out, he thinks for one stupid second.

Before he knows it, they're already climbing the stairs, tugging at each other, in what they can't tell if it's a race or a fight.

They stop every four or five steps to take turns grabbing each other and giving each other very unchaste kisses.

By the time they make it to the detective's room, they are both already ruffled and disheveled, John with his tie now loosened, Sherlock with the flaps of his dark shirt out of his pants, and they stare at each other for a few moments, both panting, still at a distance.

"Christ," John curses hoarsely, meanwhile his throat goes dry with excitement, "I didn't think it could be like this."

Sherlock doesn't last a second longer and pounces on him, kissing him again, furiously. And then he pulls away and grabs his loose tie, and unties it. It hangs there, untied, around his neck, making him look even wilder and more out of control, so different from the usual John always so methodical and orderly. Sherlock can't resist staying a few more seconds to contemplate him. And then he slips his hands under his jacket, behind his shoulders, and slides it down.

The jacket falls to the floor.

"Like what?" he asks him softly, while his gaze capable of piercing the walls focuses on the buttons of the white shirt and, with fingers that barely tremble, he begins to pull them out of the buttonholes one by one, starting with the cuffs and then moving to the ones on the neck and then down to the bottom.

John looks up at him, leaning over him who is doing this in a methodical way, as if his life were going away.

"So... strong. More and more each time," he admits.

He's quivering, waiting for Sherlock to finish undoing all the buttons and finally pass the shirt over his shoulder, to take it off. He accompanies the movement slowly. The detective takes off his jacket as well, with one of his usual elegant movements, and tosses it carelessly on the floor, next to his.

And then it's finally John's turn. He is not so patient. He pounces on him again, lips on his neck, while his hands move frantically to get all the damn buttons out of the buttonholes as quickly as possible.

The dark shirt ends up on the floor as well, and in a second Sherlock is lying in the middle of his large bed with the doctor on top of him, kissing him as violently as if the world was going to end, while the skin of their chests finally comes into contact and reacts by giving them a thousand little shivers.

They pull away after an interminable moment, panting, their eyes fixed on each other.

"I've lost count of how long it's been since you've made love to me," the detective almost sobs, suddenly wrapping his arms around the doctor’s neck. "God, I was afraid it would never happen again," he adds, squinting and holding him tighter.

John looks up at him with a soft smile. He inhales, exhales, places a kiss on his temple. He thinks about it a few more moments, and then decides. "I'm sorry," he tells him in a firm tone, "but you'll have to wait a little longer."

"Huh? Why?", Sherlock's eyes go wide without understanding, but John, with a well-aimed blow of his kidneys, has already reversed their positions, pulling him onto him.

Sherlock lies on top of him and looks at him with a bewildered expression, as if he had just fallen from the Moon, there on top of him.

John squeezes his hips with his legs, bringing their bodies close together.

"Because tonight, you’ll make love to me," he whispers to him, serious.

Sherlock gasps, suddenly looking up at him with two huge, absolutely shocked eyes.

"What? No!" he murmurs, shaking out his curls, "No, I... I can't... I don't know how... I'm afraid of..." he's already starting to try and retreat, pulling himself up with his arms and gasping as he tries to pull his pelvis away from his.

John yanks him harder with his legs, making them rub better through the fabric of their trousers. They're both already hard as hell.

"Don't say bullshit," he says, staring into his eyes, even more serious than before.

Sherlock gasps.

"Why can't we just do it like we always do?" he asks him in a voice broken with desire, because oh, basically how much this idea turns him on, only he feels it's absolutely out of his league.

"Because while we were at dinner I told you that I trust you from now on, about everything," John replies in an absolute tone.

That's what it is. It's proof. He's giving him his trust. He's giving him the control.

Does he deserve it? He's not so sure. He rests his forehead on his right pec, narrowing his eyes and inhaling sharply.

John takes his face in his hands and lifts it. "I trust you," he repeats, piercing him with that definitive look of his, the same look as when he's pointing a gun.

Sherlock gets more excited. Maybe, somehow, he can even succeed, even if he believes it little. He feels his arms tremble.

"Now it's you, shaking," John tells him from underneath, noticing immediately, with an almost mocking smile.

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock decides to admit, with a surrendered sigh, his chest rising and falling fast as the doctor continues to hold him with his legs and arms, making him cling to his body. They both groan.

"For one thing, I think we still have too many clothes on," John points out, raspy, barely pushing him to get him to lift more and then reaching for his belt and unbuckling it, then pulling it off him in a sudden motion that makes it hiss, cutting through the air. "Besides, you've seen me do it several times, if I'm not mistaken," he continues with a barely sarcastic smile to lighten the mood a bit.

Sherlock gives him a nasty look. "It's one thing to see it, it's another to..." he can't continue the sentence, however, because John in the meantime has unbuttoned his pants and lowered them to his hips, pulling them down to his knees to coax him out of them.

The detective finally cooperates and moves to slip them off completely.

He then grabs onto John's, who quickly unbuttons them himself and then lifts himself up as well to get them off.

Sherlock stays there, on his knees, between his legs, for a few moments, watching him with an almost incredulous expression; and then he reaches out his long hands and runs them all over his chest. They are warm.

John, lying there in front of him, gives himself up by spreading his arms on the wide mattress, and enjoys the contact by closing his eyes.

But he has to open them wide again, with a sob, when he feels his mouth close on his left nipple.

All the times they've had sex before, Sherlock has always been fairly submissive, letting John's more experienced ways guide him. But now he feels it's time to try and take some initiative.

Then again, Sherlock does everything methodically, that much is clear by now. And if he decides to lick a nipple, chances are he'll do it in the most perfect way conceivable. So first he takes it between his lips, slowly, waiting for it to harden, and then he nibbles on it with his incisors, careful not to squeeze too hard. And finally he runs his tongue over it, first just the tip, then the whole surface. He pulls away and blows on it. And then he repeats the sequence all over again, reducing the doctor, in a matter of seconds, to a horny idiot who rubs himself against him, cursing.

Sherlock is pleased with the result and, as he continues to replicate the treatment, he quickly slides his right hand down the length of his body, sending it down right there on his marble-hard sex, and beginning to brush it through his underwear. John gasps and looks at him stunned, off the pillow, unable to articulate a word.

Sherlock feels vaguely proud. He's really turned him on this time, no doubt about it. And he decides to take another step. He takes courage and slips his hand inside the fabric, to hold him in his fist. The doctor gasps louder. How long has it been since he last touched him like this? God, it feels like a century to him. He frantically releases him of the linen, and then takes him back in his hand and starts moving it fast, intoxicating himself with him, as if he wants to make up for all the time he's lost.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," John goes wide-eyed and stops him, with his breathing heavy. "If you keep on like that, we'll be done in a minute," he explains to him with that half-smile he loves.

"Sorry," Sherlock whispers, smiling as well, embarrassed, and he reaches out to him, rubbing lasciviously all over his body and putting his arms around his neck again, and then stopping to rest one temple on his, his eyes closed.

"What’s going on?", John asks him after a few moments of perfect silence, broken only by their breaths.

"You. I haven't told you enough how much I've missed you," Sherlock confesses, and he moves his face to sneak it into his neck, inhaling deeply, tickling him with his curls as he holds him tighter, tighter.

"Sherlock, you're strangling me," the doctor chokes out, laughing. And then he makes him lift up and, becoming serious again, he takes his face in his hands, stroking those sharp cheekbones with his thumbs. "Think about how much I've missed you...," he tells him, in a tone that involuntarily comes out more apologetic than he intended.

"I know," Sherlock answers, practically with his heart on his sleeve, "I'll never unstick from you again."

John laughs. "Fine," he tells him, "but then you have to stick yourself to me first." And continuing to stare at him steadily, he leaves his face to run his hands down to his underwear, and finish undressing him. Sherlock quickly cooperates this time.

Finally they are both naked again inside that bed. They could take no more of the waiting.

John has no intention of budging from the supine position he has adopted. He wants Sherlock to lead the whole thing this time.

If only Sherlock was not lying there along his side now, propped up on his left elbow, intertwining the fingers of his long hands and meanwhile staring at him, blinking softly as if he's lost the thread.

This isn't going to be easy. John gives a small, affectionate snort.

"Come here," he tells him softly, surrounding his shoulders with his arms to drag him above his body again. Sherlock follows, and lays on top of him, tense, as if afraid to weigh down on him.

"I'm not going to break, you know?" John tells him, showing off, while he lets him adhere more to his body by squeezing him with his legs.

Sherlock wants to give a nasty look to him again, but the feel of their erections in contact makes them moan again, both of them, loudly. Sherlock can't help himself and rubs against him, several times, resting on his elbows.

All the while, he bends his long neck over him to start kissing him, putting him whole self into it again. They both let out long moans of pleasure as their tongues entwine and the kiss becomes decidedly messy and wet and interspersed with a few small bites.

"Fuck," John snaps out of it for a few moments, out of breath, already almost out of himself, and reaches for the nightstand, stretching his body until he can reach it even though it's almost pinned under the detective's one, and starts rummaging at random until he finally finds what he was looking for.

Sherlock, who in the meantime was leaving a wet trail of kisses on his neck, pulls his head up when John calls his attention and makes to hand him the tube of lube.

The detective pulls back by getting down on his knees between his legs again, and turns it over in his hands with a tenderly lost expression.

And then he looks up to the doctor, who is looking at him with an expression of absolute desire, and trust, and love.

And so, somehow, he finally gets going. The tube falls out of his hand a couple of times, before he manages to uncork it and squeeze some lube onto his right hand.

And then he holds it out to him like it's going in slow motion. But he withdraws it almost immediately, before he gets to touch him. No, he can't do it like that.

To dampen his performance anxiety, he finds no other solution than to lie down on top of him again, just a little to the side, and hide his head in his neck again; only then does his hand finally decide to move towards the doctor’s most intimate and inviolate spot.

John, lying on his back, stares at the ceiling and spreads his legs a little. When he feels the first contact, he inhales sharply. Sherlock's fingers stop for a moment, and then start moving again, just caressing him, for now, from the outside.

John quivers and inhales again, surprising himself at how much his approach to sex has changed in a short time. He used to be a very traditional guy in this area, and certainly nothing he's done in the past, with the many women he's been with, has ever involved anything like this. Yet, now he's looking forward to it. Finally, to make the detective stop hesitating, he barely moves his hips to push himself toward him. And Sherlock finally makes up his mind, and barely penetrates him with the tip of his index finger, all the while taking a decidedly labored breath, his head still tucked into the doctor’s neck.

John groans. A moan that doesn't sound at all like annoyance, but rather astonishment. At that sound, Sherlock decides to come out of his improvised hiding place in the doctor's neck and pulls his head up, planting his eyes in his own, as he slowly but steadily advances to the knuckle.

John arches up. "Fuck," he says between his teeth, narrowing his eyes.

He feels Sherlock's hand tremble as the detective inhales again, hard. "How is it?" he murmurs to him.

"Unsettling," the doctor replies through clenched teeth.

And Sherlock begins to move his hand, very slowly. John closes his eyes. He thinks of his fingers running over the strings of his violin. He feels himself catch fire, down in his loins. "Christ, yes," he whispers.

Sherlock rises up on his elbow and juts his head out to look at what he's doing to him. He feels his flesh barely yield. He adds his middle finger. John gasps and opens his eyes wide. "So far, so good," he teasingly tells him, though his voice comes out a little broken.

"John, please," Sherlock replies to him in an almost stern tone, incredibly so. He's certainly not usually one to back down when they fool around.

"Okay, okay," the doctor smiles amusedly, out of breath, "I'll shut up."

And then resumes looking at him, from down on the pillow: his perfect golden profile in the dim light of the room, his broad shoulders towering over him, and he's rapt by the absolute dedication with which he's doing it, probably basing it on his experiences with him and all the data he's gleaned from them, to get the best result without causing him even a moment's discomfort. Being the object of the absolute, all-encompassing attention of this one-of-a-kind creature, is beginning to raise an almost reverential sense of unease in him.

"How serious you are," he tells him after a few seconds, still with that amused expression of his, unable to resist the temptation to tease him a little, and perhaps even to dampen that vague sense of unease that enveloped him.

"I'm concentrating," the detective answers him half-heartedly, pushing both fingers into him more. Coincidentally, he touches that secret spot inside him that makes him explode with pleasure. A choked cry comes out of John. "Christ," he curses again. "That's it, again, don't stop," he asks him between his teeth.

And Sherlock doesn't stop, instead he moves his hand faster, and slowly adds his ring finger, and then finally turns to look at him, still leaning on his elbow, the muscles of his torso tense, standing out against his milky skin.

John squirms.

Sherlock has never seen him so forlorn and out of control. He loses himself again in contemplation, looking at every detail of him, from his contracted face to his broad, flushed chest to his erection. Gasping loudly, his doctor reaches for him with his hands, and moves to meet the thrusts of his fingers. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and he frowns, not caring about the small wound still covered by the half-detached plaster under which a couple of small black stitches are just visible; a few drops of transparent liquid have formed on his cock. In a completely automatic way, Sherlock reaches down with his torso to get closer to it, and then bends his neck and rests his mouth on it, running his tongue over the thin, now shiny frenulum, to taste it.

John screams, almost out of his mind, and tenses his body even more, pushing his pelvis toward him. Sherlock takes him in his mouth without hesitating for a second, while the movements of his hand become tighter.

After a few seconds, John's fingers reach into his hair and squeeze, to stop him. "Stop, stop, please," he begs him. "I can't take it anymore."

The detective's mouth leaves him while he slowly pulls his fingers out of him. Mindful of what he's seen John do the other times, he shifts to kneel between his legs again, and then takes another bit of lube in his hand and strokes him again; the residue he applies to himself, his eyes downcast, ashamed at the act of touching himself in front of him. He tosses the tube aside and finally looks up.

John is staring at him with an absolutely wild and even vaguely pleading expression.

"Go," he merely tells him.

Sherlock makes a slightly bewildered face again.

John gives an almost exasperated smile and lifts his torso to tuck his strong arms under his armpits, squeezing and pulling him on top again. Sherlock adheres to him once more, resting on his elbows. They are eye to eye again, chests touching, hearts pounding in unison.

John looks up at him with an expression of incredible confidence. "Now," he urges him, in a vaguely authoritative tone.

Sherlock feels himself catching fire. His experience in this field is so short that he thinks he can safely say he's never been turned on like this. He almost feels a vague ache, down in his nether regions, at how hard he is. And he obeys him.

He tries to line up, but misses at least a couple of times, until John's hand comes to his aid, grabbing him to help him position himself.

He's there now, idle on his soft, ready skin, still lingering.

"Oh, come on," John says, firmly, after a few moments, and grabs him by the hips with his strong hands, all the while pulling his legs against him, spreading them as wide as he can to make room for him and then weaving them behind his back.

Sherlock barely enters. And immediately a sob comes out of him, loudly, as he looks up at him with a bewildered expression, feeling the indescribable sensation of being taken in by his warm, tight body.

John is breathless with the absurdity of the experience of feeling invaded for the first time in his life. The muscle down there dilates and barely burns, catching the tip of Sherlock's cock. A guttural, inarticulate sound, resembling a grunt, comes out of his clenched teeth.

For a few seconds all they can do is stand like this, motionless, barely connected, looking at each other, incredulous, their breaths ragged, their wide eyes lost in each other.

"Sherlock," John says to them after a few seconds, breathless.

"Yes," gasps the detective.

"You're inside me."

"Yes," he replies again, dumbly, unable to formulate any other concept in response, and stands there frozen, not daring to advance.

John inhales deeply, wrapping his arms around his torso, and after a few moments he says in a low voice, "More," looking him straight in the eye.

Sherlock swallows, and then decides to move forward, slowly, in one smooth, slow movement.

John feels himself being filled to the core and doesn't hold back a severe groan, gritting his teeth. It really fucking hurts. Yes, he expected it, of course, but maybe not quite like this. He almost has to laugh as he curses while squinting. Stupid Watson. Are you happy now? He asks himself. Damned if I am, he answers himself, and I don't give a damn if I can't walk straight tomorrow; I just want the two of us to become one, finally, ineluctably, irreparably.

"John...," Sherlock calls softly to him.

The doctor opens his eyes again just in time to see the worried expression he's looking at him with.

"It's okay, just give me a moment," he growls between clenched teeth.

"Okay," the detective replies even softer, resting his lips on his cheek and remaining still, his body stretched over his and taut as a rope, vibrating from the effort. He focuses on the hallucinating sensation of having John's warm, living flesh surrounding him. Of being so close to his heart, his soul.

It's just as all-consuming, but completely different than being penetrated. He's the one now, the one with the responsibility. To not hurt John, to make him enjoy it and make the experience as good as possible for him. He gasps for a moment, losing himself in front of the vastness of that thought. Will he be able to do it?

"Move," John whispers to him from underneath.

"Huh?" asks Sherlock, bewildered.

"Move, now," the doctor repeats.

Sherlock chains his eyes to his. "You sure?" he only asks him.

"Sure, yes, move, I want to feel you move inside," gasps John, red with embarrassment and excitement. He's losing the last of his inhibitions.

Sherlock pulls back very slowly, and then tries to thrust for the first time, taking a shuddering breath.

The doctor cries out, trying to stifle the sound by tightening his lips, with an expression of sudden distress.

"So... sorry" Sherlock stammers mortified, pulling back.

John grabs him back and pulls him against him again, with his arms and legs.

"More, I told you," he tells him again, pulling back his authoritative tone and trying to obliterate the burning that sets his insides on fire.

Sherlock looks at him, unsure, but John just nods, resolute. So he makes up his mind and pushes back into him, slowly, three or four times, taking deep breaths.

"That's it, that's it, come on," John encourages him, moaning and accompanying his tentative movements with his pelvis and his hands on his hips, all the while watching him towering over him, fascinated.

Sherlock lulls slowly into him for a few more moments, watching him and then looking away, overwhelmed by the intensity of what he's feeling.

"Beautiful..." gasps John from below. "Know that I'll be asking you that a lot, from now on," he points out panting.

"What?" goes Sherlock, almost bewildered.

"To fuck me," John replies shamelessly, serious and mischievous at the same time.

How can he be like that? Sherlock feels himself going out of his mind. Suddenly, he is overwhelmed by instinct and takes the control John has offered him.

His eyes seem to grow darker as he jerks up on his outstretched arms on either side of his shoulders, his biceps standing out clearly against the pale skin of his arms, and he starts to really thrust.

Strong.

Without taking his eyes off him for even a second, rather nailing him with that relentless expression he's made at him a thousand times since the first day they met, but so intense, never.

His black curls sway in disarray with each lunge.

John stands there motionless, stunned.

He moves strangely. Not like any man would during intercourse, back and forth in fluid movements. No, he thrusts forward, and then stays still at the bottom for a few long moments, breathing heavily, concentrating on feeling everything he can. And then he steps back very slowly. He stays still a few more moments, on the verge of coming out, and again he suddenly sinks, and again he freezes, and so on.

It's a shocking rhythm.

Sherlock is sex, though he stubbornly pretends not to know it. John thinks for a moment that if he had a woman under him, he'd drive her completely crazy.

Not that it doesn't have a different effect on him. He can feel it reaching to his soul.

Now he's changed angles and is bending him over, almost, sinking into him without holding back in any way.

John growls with mixed pain and pleasure and grabs himself firmly with his right hand, giving himself just a couple of strokes, while he sees himself overpowered by that perfect body, finally expressing all its power.

"I'm coming, Sherlock," he tells him in a voice that sounds more like an animalistic cry. "I'm coming," he repeats, screaming, almost, and suddenly his cum spurts out strong on his abdomen in two or three long and abundant squirts that almost reach his throat. Quite a different thing, compared to his last, miserable orgasm alone on the couch, some time before.

Sherlock watches the spectacle, incredulous, speechless.

"Oh, Christ...I love you," John says in a voice that is practically desperate, and then melts into an expression of absolute bliss as the climax overwhelms him making him arch and clench all his muscles tight, capturing the detective's cock mercilessly; and after the maximum tension he surrenders, releasing them, his body quickly becoming soft and tender as butter.

Sherlock feels the contractions of his bowels compressing him rhythmically, and he loses himself, lowering his eyes from his face to those whitish spots he's splattered all over his chest. He stops.

He rests all his weight on one arm, while his other now free hand runs over his skin, to collect them, still hot, soiling it completely.

He pulls out, for a moment, and touches himself along his entire length, smearing that clear, viscous liquid on himself as if it were some other kind of lubricant.

And then he goes back in, all at once, without warning, enjoying the incredible feeling of finding almost no resistance.

John sobs and squirms, because he's too sensitive now. He's in disbelief at how he's finally let go, getting so wild.

"God... you’ll kill me," he moans, looking at him with a completely undone look as he sees in his eyes that the climax is coming for him too. "Oh, you're there, aren't you?" he asks him, coming to meet his thrusts even as the vaguely painful discomfort of being stimulated on after his orgasm torments him. "Come on, I want to see you," he urges him, gritting his teeth and resisting even as he feels his eyelids getting heavier from the release of endorphins. He doesn't want to miss a second of what's about to happen.

"J... John... I'm going to... I'm going to cum inside you," Sherlock finally gasps in a shaky voice, unable to control himself, shaking all over his body and lowering his head to his shoulder in a rush as he thrusts with deeper and deeper, more erratic movements.

John promptly grabs him by the cheeks and pulls him up, forcing him to regain eye contact.

"Yeah, fuck," he murmurs, "look at me, come and look at me, you're a sight." His voice cracks. Sherlock forces himself to keep his eyes open and stares into his, feeling naked on a level far beyond the normal conception of physical nakedness.

This is me, John. This is me making love. It may well be that someone or some people over time have wondered what I would look like, but only you will see it. Only you, forever.

He thinks it, but he doesn't say it. He couldn't right now, he's running out of air in his lungs. He cries out his name while the waves of orgasm wash over him relentlessly and violently, dazzling him, and he empties inside him, his brain resetting any last remaining capacity for reasoning. There is only John. Around and inside.

Now they are truly part of each other.

Chapter Text

When John opens his eyes in the soft morning light, he finds him leaning over, propped up on one elbow, peering down at him.

"Christ," he jerks, "you're giving me a heart attack," and then covers his face with his hands and laughs.

"How are you?" Sherlock asks him without even giving him time to get his brain back in gear. John stretches, taking his time to assess the extent of the soreness that envelops him as soon as he moves.

"Wonderfully," he smiles at him, somewhere between sincere and playful.

"Tell me the truth," Sherlock answers him seriously.

"Hey," John says, laying a hand on his cheek as the memories overwhelm him, cutting off his breath. "Just relax, uh? It's all okay. It's more than okay. I'm perfectly good. I'm happy. This was one of the best nights of my life."

Sherlock smiles for the first time, beguiled.

"The night Sherlock Holmes took my virginity, in a way," he adds, in a playfully solemn tone.

Sherlock suddenly flushes.

"Haha, you're blushing!", John teases him.

And the detective dips his head into the pillow, next to his, to hide his face.

"I know. I'm an idiot," he replies with his voice muffled by the fabric.

John feel himself melting in love; and then he slips a hand under his cheek, to make him pull up.

"Yes, you are. You're my idiot. Don't ever stop blushing like that. You're a sight," he murmurs tenderly to him. Sherlock smiles his sincere smile.

John is entranced watching him for a few seconds, and then looks away, opening his mouth. Chances are he's about to say something tremendously corny.

It's only at that point that his eyes fall on the alarm clock that sits on the nightstand. "Fuck!" he exclaims, shrilly, jumping up and out of bed in record time, gritting his teeth despite being all sore. "It's so late. I have to go to work. Will you pick Rosie up from Molly's?"

The detective collapses on the bed on his back, spreading his arms wide, melodramatically. "I'll go," he quips, "although it's not fair for you to leave me like this."

“You're such a drama-queen," John tells him before disappearing to the bathroom.

When John arrives in the kitchen, beige sweater and briefcase in hand, Sherlock is waiting for him and extends a cup of coffee.

The house is a little cold, flooded by the September sun that comes in through the large windows, making it look like a Vermeer painting.

John looks around fascinated, as if seeing it for the first time. It's beautiful, this house, with its perfect disorder, its dust dancing in the darts of light, its muffled silence.

Sherlock is also beautiful, disheveled and dressed in rags, his burgundy robe hanging over his shoulders, looking at him with an indescribable expression of total surrender.

John feels his eyes moisten, for the umpteenth time. He walks over to him and takes the cup from his hands, which is barely smoking. He takes a sip.

"How is it?" whispers Sherlock to him.

"Perfect," John replies to him, and then lays the cup on the table and holds him in his arms, resting an ear over his heart.

Sherlock holds him in turn, leaning his head over his once more, his hand on his neck.

"Perfect," John repeats, whispering into his shirt.

They close their eyes, mentally going over everything that happened the amazing night before.

"Ooh-ooh!," goes Mrs. Hudson as she opens the door and enters with the tea. That's how she finds them. She pretends not to notice it, setting the tray on the coffee table next to John's chair and busying herself with pouring it into the cups and putting the milk in.

"Sleep well, my dears?" he says at one point in a nonchalant tone, not turning to them.

They just smile at each other and then reluctantly part.

"Wonderfully, actually," John does, picking up the coffee cup again and blowing on it with that half-smile of his.

It's only at that point that the landlady turns around and looks at them both, standing there in the middle of the kitchen, inches apart, and considers for the umpteenth time the incredible way they have of complementing each other, of making all the space around them fit together, when they are so close and so in peace.

She scrutinizes them for a moment longer with that smile of hers, as to say of someone who knows much more than they do, and then turns around.

"By the way, what happened to my teapot?" she asks as she's already on her way out. "Make it reappear or I’ll put it on your rent, young men!" she threatens not at all menacingly, coming down the stairs with a smile that is the apotheosis of tenderness.

Sherlock and John look at each other with a guilty look and then burst out laughing.

°°°

"And so you really did..."

"Yes, really."

"I can't believe it!" Harriet's voice in the phone is almost choked with astonishment.

"Me neither," John replies with a half laugh.

"Imagine if dad knew," she stifles a sarcastic laugh.

John grunts. "You know, you two would really get along, you and Sherlock. You have the same way of telling people things you shouldn't tell them." He closes his eyes inhaling, as flashes of their difficult adolescence flash through his mind.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." she quickly replies.

"It's okay... he'll never know now anyway, will he?" sighs John.

"In fact, what do we care?" she declares in the same tone as when he made her coming out when he was seventeen and the tragedies began, and she left, and he, who was fifteen, was left alone to hear about bullshit lesbians until he finished high school and was finally able to leave for college.

"The important thing is that we're happy," Harriet adds, and falls silent. "Are you happy?" she then asks him.

John laughs. "Christ, yes, I'm happy. I never would have believed it, to be able to be happy again."

"All your life repeating I'm not gay, I'm not gay, then some lanky guy with ice eyes comes along and..."

"Stop it," laughs John again. "With him you don't have to be gay. You haven't seen him?"

"Hell yes I've seen him," Harriet laughs as well. "You're really gone, huh?"

"Probably all along. It just took me a long time to realize it," John admits, slowly.

"Then you need to make up for lost time," she jokes.

"That's exactly what I plan to do," he smirks over the surface of his smartphone.

"And when are you going to bring me my beautiful niece?" asks Harriet.

"Soon, I promise," he replies.

"Sorry, I have to run now, but you keep in touch!!!" his sister does. "And when you come bring the cool detective too, mind you!" she concludes mischievously.

"Go to hell, Harry," he laughs into his phone and hangs up.

He remains seated at his study desk, fiddling with a pen and counting the minutes until the end of his shift.

°°°

Rosie is in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, fishing fingers of jam out of a large jar while he watches her roll out the dough to make the tart.

"Why are dads fighting?" she asks her at one point.

The elderly woman smiles sweetly and apprehensively at her. "Oh, honey, this happens in every family from time to time. The important thing is not to stop loving each other and make up."

"And did they make up?" asks Rosie again.

Mrs. Hudson feels her heart clench at the thought of how the chaos of the last period may have upset the little girl. "Yes. I think so," she tells her then, with a big smile. "I think they've never been more at peace than now," she adds, winking at her.

"Good thing," Rosie quips, "so when they get back I'll ask them if they'll take me to Legoland."

"To Legoland?" goes Mrs. Hudson, imagining the scene of Sherlock sitting on those rides, at the risk of being seized by an attack of convulsive laughter worse than when she imagined the telegrams’thing for John's wedding.

"Yes, I want to go," Rosie crosses her arms.

"Then I'm sure they'll take you," the landlady replies with a sweet smile, touching her little nose with a finger and dusting it with powdered sugar.

°°°

Sherlock snuggles down on the grimy mattress, heedless of getting his nice coat dirty.

On the mattress opposite is a girl dressed in stuff salvaged from a dumpster, probably, with her hair all engorged with dirt, who is warming up a nice dose on the spoon. She's got a smart look, too bad it's about to be extinguished by yet another flash. Sitting next to her is Wiggins.

"So, what have you got for me?" the detective asks him.

"Hot stuff," Bill says in his usual sing-songy tone. "The other day Joey sold a pill to a guy, a regular customer, swallowed it right in front of him from how badly he was craving it, and after three seconds he collapsed on the floor."

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"What did you cut it with?" he gives him, sternly.

"Hey, it's not like we're murderers, okay? We had nothing to do with it. But Joey had the idea to frisk him just before he called an ambulance... he had these in his pocket, there's even a receipt from the pharmacy," the boy says, holding out a blister pack.

Neomycin, a commonly used antibiotic. The same one that caused the fatal anaphylactic shock to the other two deads in the basements.

"What did this guy look like?" asks Sherlock.

"How should I know, it's not like Joey had described him to me," Wiggins mumbles, looking at his fingernails.

"He was a middle-aged guy, big guy," the girl does, turning off the lighter and pulling out an overused syringe. Same look as the basement deads.

"I was there, I saw him. Joey called the ambulance from a telephone box and then we ran," she adds shaking her dirty hair.

Sherlock shudders as he looks at the encrusted needle. "You shouldn't pierce yourself with used syringes," he can't help but point out.

"What the fuck do you want, I pierce myself with whatever I want," she responds testily. Sherlock rolls his eyes and puts the blister pack and receipt in his pocket.

"Good job," he then says to both of them, and leans in for a moment to smell the pungent odor of the perfectly melted heroin. His pupils instantly widen from the sudden craving.

"And what about that kid from Hackney?" he asks Wiggins meanwhile as he continues to stare fixedly at the girl sucking up the entire contents of the spoon with the syringe, feeling the saliva drying in his mouth.

"Him? Oh," Wiggins mumbles. "Who's seen him anymore... I've been told he's gone home, back to school. I don't know what that doctor of yours told him, but he had saved him, apparently... still better than when he was spraining people's arms, anyway," he concludes, rubbing his elbow at the memory of the pain.

Sherlock smiles at the pride it gives him to hear about this extraordinary man who is now his. Then he looks at the girl uncovering her tortured arm and he feels itchy on his own left forearm, his favorite place to pierce himself.

Not even thirty seconds, and a pusher approaches them offering drug. "Nooo, we need nothing now," Wiggins chants, looking up at Sherlock. "We don’t," he confirms with bated breath, thinking of John.

Sherlock extends the usual bill to Wiggins. "Thanks for your help and... with your share, at least buy a new syringe," he concludes, turning to the girl.

"If the slumming hero says so..." she replies to him, with a crooked, almost lucid smile.

Sherlock looks at Wiggins impatiently. "How many did you tell that one to?" he asks him. "Everyone," the boy replies.

Sherock snorts. Now all we need is for them to start calling him that. Bless John and his romantic soul.

But then, who cares. Everyone knows, in the end, what he's done over the years to help his homeless friendas as often as he could, not least with the junkie death case for which he even took a stab. His network of irregulars. Somehow they genuinely respect him, and not just for the money. And he, in a way, respects them, and cares, almost.

Sherlock stands up with one of his usual elegant movements and dusts off his coat before leaving this yet another drug den he's visited in his life, just in time to miss the girl sticking the needle inside her vein. It's okay to test yourself, but better not to overdo it.

Walking away, he considers that it's already the second time in a row he's walked out of a place like this without being high as well, anyway. It's quite a step up, actually.

On the other hand, it's not a physical addiction, and the mental one, except in the darkest moments, has always managed to keep it under control. But now he knows, that even if there are hard times ahead, he'll never be in complete darkness again. He has his own conductor of light. He smiles to himself again as he walks away, hurrying and thinking quickly.

Now that he has the pharmacy contacts, it will be a breeze to rebuild. And it will only take a few phone calls to track down the guy who got away with it and question him. Who knows if someone is murdering middle-aged, burly, male allergy sufferers by altering the dosages of an over-the-counter antibiotic; and if so, who knows with what criminal intent; or maybe there's something else behind it, some complex and exciting plot to unravel. He'll get to the bottom of it, as always. He can't wait to tell John all about it and hear his opinion; he can't wait to solve the case with him, and maybe hear those compliments of his that every time fill his heart with gratification and joy, ever since the first day he gave them to him inside that cab, even before arriving at their first crime scene.

°°°

When John gets home from work, he smells something suspicious on the stairs.

It smells like food. Now, that's a new one. What's going on? He hurries up the last few steps, looks out into the kitchen, and the most unbelievable of images comes before him: the fireplace lit, the table set, Rosie already sitting in her pajamas playing with her plastic animals, and Sherlock in his home outfit, just closing the oven door, even armed with the oven glove.

"What's going on?" the doctor asks, astonished.

Sherlock instantly straightens up in the flutter of his burgundy robe.

"Well, I made... dinner," he informs him, looking down suddenly embarrassed and scratching his hair with his gloved hand.

"You did what?", John shrills.

"I set the table!", Rosie does, getting out of her chair and running over to him. John promptly picks her up.

"The world is about to end," he declares with a incredulous laugh, holding her.

°°°

When Rosie finally falls asleep on the couch while watching a cartoon with her head left on Sherlock's lap, John smiles and picks her up to carry her to bed. "I'll be right back," he formulates with his lips at the detective's address, who nods at him with a soft smile.

When he returns downstairs, Sherlock is lying on the couch with his eyes closed. The open laptop lies abandoned on the floor. He is thinking.

John makes room beside his legs.

"So, the case of the basement guys?" he asks him.

Sherlock tells him everything in detail, including his consultation in the crack den. John doesn't get upset and doesn’t object. He trusts him.

He overrides him by laying down next to him and rests his right ear on his chest.

"You got much longer?" he asks him in a slightly mischievous whisper.

"Not if you don't distract me too much," Sherlock murmurs, still with his eyes closed and a small smile, relaxing his body under his weight.

"Shall I remove myself?" the doctor whispers indecisively, barely lifting his head. Sherlock doesn't respond, but his left hand moves to encircle his head and bring it back to his chest. John smiles and relaxes, closing his eyes.

°°°

"Ooh-ooh!", Mrs. Hudson's voice breaks the muffled silence of the living room. John pulls his head up from Sherlock's chest, grunting. Daylight hits him. "Wha...what?" he mutters, pulling himself up half-crazed.

Sherlock jerks just as he did when he woke up in the cell after their stag night.

And that's how they find each other, eyes to eyes, barely awake.

"You didn't sleep on the couch, did you?" the landlady aks, pouring the tea in a tone that implies a thousand subtexts. "The inspector is on his way up, by the way, see if you can compose yourselves," she concludes with a maternal and amused air at the same time, slipping into the kitchen to tidy up.

Sherlock and John look at each other for a moment that seems endless, before the doctor decides to pull himself up, cursing for his broken back.

Sherlock looks up at him from below the couch, still lying languid and disheveled, intertwining his hands in his lap. The doctor returns the gaze. "Why didn't you wake me up?" he asks, massaging his neck.

"Because you were sleeping on my heart," Sherlock says only, staring at him with one of his looks that can pierce walls. With shaggy curls and that milky skin in the dim light of the autumn morning.

John chases away the instinct to pounce on him as Lestrade's footsteps are heard running up the stairs.

"Daaaads, " Rosie's newly awakened voice is heard calling from the top of the upstairs stairs.

A new day has indeed begun, there is nothing to be done. Reluctantly, they disconnect their gazes, regretting that they had fallen asleep like two children and had done nothing all night.

But then both of them are simultaneously seized by a thought as simple as it is wonderful at the same time. It's their life as always, but now it's wrapped up in this shining thing that surrounds them and makes everything more precious. More three-dimensional. There is the future, waiting for them. It's all theirs.

They stand up in unison, almost, and stare at each other for a few more seconds, with something surprised in their eyes.

"Good morning, gorgeous," John finally says to him, taking a step toward him with a smile of pure sweetness, and presses a kiss to his lips.

"Good morning, Jawn," Sherlock answers him after the kiss, saying his name for the millionth time and putting in it as always, since the first day he started repeating it without ever stopping, that something special and intimate and absolute, as if it were the only name worth saying; he feels overwhelmed with happiness.

Chapter Text

The days start to go by fast and bright, even when it's raining. But then again, it's always like that when you're happy.

After the case of the guys in the basement, brilliantly solved by leading to the arrest of a delirious pharmacist who had decided to experiment on his customers the tolerance of a body to an allergenic agent before death by anaphylactic shock, there were others, more or less absurd, more or less funny, as always.

It's starting to get cold. Winter is up to arrive. John and Sherlock have been looking at each other oddly for a few days now. As if they are both thinking something they don't dare to say to each other.

By now everyone knows, even the dumbest agents of Scotland Yard, that they are together. They have become, if possible, even more each other's shadow. After the first phase of dumbstruck happiness in which they were immersed uninterruptedly throughout the autumn, they are now settling into a new normality. They're bickering occasionally, cuddling occasionally, having lots of great sex, working, and raising Rosie. Just like the millions of other families in this world. And then there are the mysteries, the crime scenes, the thrill of the chase, some slightly too dangerous situations they get into, sometimes regretting it in retrospect, but not really regretting it.

Everything seems to flow in the right direction. So why do they lately look at each other so strangely?

One evening, Sherlock is curled up in his armchair staring at the dancing flames of the fireplace. His legs are gathered to his chest, and in his lap he has abandoned one of his large chemistry books. The beige robe over one of his impeccable suits.

John comes down from upstairs, stretching.

"She's asleep," he announces, collapsing into his chair and picking up one of his mystery novels, abandoned on the small wooden table.

Sherlock barely smiles at him and then goes back to looking at the fire.

John can't bring himself to read a single page. He keeps peering at him every couple of seconds, trying to figure out what is going on in that wonderful head of his. Finally he puts the book down and decides to try and investigate.

"What's the matter, Sherlock?" he asks him softly, in a tone that betrays a bit of concern.

"Huh? Nothing," the detective quickly recovers, straightening up and pulling up his big book again.

"I may not a top in deduction things, but I can see that you're faking it. You've been on the same page since before I came upstairs," he points out to him.

Sherlock inhales but doesn't move an inch. "It's not true that you're not a top. You're the most amazing person I've ever had the privilege of meeting," he murmurs, continuing to stare into the fire.

John opens his mouth wide at the unexpected compliment. "Where did that come from now?" he asks him, almost baffled.

Sherlock just shrugs with an almost wistful smile.

"Okay," John puts down his novel, standing up and taking the big book of chemistry off his lap to set it on the floor. Sherlock instinctively pulls his legs down. And the doctor kneels in front of him and rests his hands on both armrests, trapping him. He stares at him steadily. "Now you explain to me what's wrong," he orders him in his tone that admits no reply. "Look, if this is about the microwave thing..." he then adds more sweetly, with a small indulgent smile.

The appliance had died two days earlier after having emitted a thick cloud of black smoke due to an experiment gone wrong. John had carried on a tight sequence of expletives that had lasted nearly an hour.

"No, it's not about the microwave thing," Sherlock points out, lowering his gaze. Then he raises his eyes to him again, a little unsure. "You've been looking at me strangely, too, by some time now" he gives him, looking for an escape.

"Eh no, don't try to turn this around. We were just talking about you. Do you enjoy making me worry?"; the question comes out to him perhaps more melodramatic than he intended.

They sound just like two Victorian lovers, huddled in front of a fireplace talking about heartache.

"No, John, I'm not enjoying myself at all," Sherlock finally does, a little hurt. "In fact, quite the opposite. I..."

John frowns, pulling away from him just enough to get a better look into his eyes. They seems lost to him. "You what?" he urges him. He feels a vague dismay rise.

"God," Sherlock finally loosens up. "Don't you feel like this is all going too well? I'm afraid of this all ending. That something will happen, I don't know...are you always sure of...?" he interrupts, as if he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Sure of what?" asks John, in a huff.

"About this... about us," the detective admits.

"Oh, Sherlock," the doctor trails off. "I'm more sure every day on."

Sherlock gives him a small but sincere smile that comes up straight from his heart.

John bows his head and sighs. "I don't know, maybe you can even read minds now, but I've been thinking about it too, these days," he confesses.

"About what?" asks the astonished detective, frowning.

"Yeah, I've been thinking... I mean... you, with that brain of yours running wild, with that way of yours walking around that makes everyone turn to look at you, and with all your mysteries to solve, and with those... cheekbones..." he almost laughs as he says it, embarrassed, "stuck here with a middle-aged doctor and his sweaters and his mystery novels and his mania for cleaning. Won't you eventually get bored of me?". He's surprised he blurted it out to him like that. Until a short time before, a bottle of whiskey drunk from the bottle would not have been enough to make him confess half of what he said now.

"Bored? Me? Of you?" Sherlock looks at him as if he has just said the most enormous absurdity conceivable by a human mind.

John brushes aside, barely smiling.

"I once had to make you think we were going to blow up, to get you to say something nice," Sherlock continues, looking down at his hands and blushing. "If there was a way to make you understand without more doubt that you'll never be boring me, I would, I swear, right now," he concludes, and shuts up.

John's breath catches. He finally removes his hands from the armrests and wraps his arms around his shoulders, holding him, diving his nose into his black curls, smelling him for the umpteenth time. He feels his tense body relax in his grip.

The fire in the fireplace crackles, giving off a few sprays of golden sparks.

After a moment that seems interminable, John slowly loosens the embrace and extends his left hand, offering him his wrist. Sherlock looks at him questioningly. "Here, sense it" John merely utters. And Sherlock understands the intent and surrounds it with the fingers of his right hand. His breath catches and his face melts into one of his expressions of tender surprise as he takes his pulse. It's accelerated. Very accelerated. John smiles, as if to tell him clearer than that... And then he rotates his hand and intertwines his fingers in his, and slowly reaches up without letting go and pulls him slightly. Sherlock gets up as if in a dream and follows him.

The path between their armchairs and the bedroom is always the same, but to walk it that way, hand in hand, without looking at each other and without kissing wildly tugging and banging into all the furniture, it seems a kilometer long.

When they reach their destination, John turns on the dim light on the bedside table and closes the door behind him, pulling it shut quietly.

He stares at him steadily, without saying a word.

Sherlock looks at him, too, for a few seconds, and then makes to bolt at him, as always, grabbing the edges of his sweater.

"No," John whispers, stopping his hands, "let's take it slow."

Sherlock freezes, interdicted. "What do you mean, slow?" he asks him, doubtful.

"Slow, like for the first time. Without the momentous pissing off, though," he smiles, barely wry.

Sherlock makes an almost intimidated expression, incredibly so. As if they haven't done just about everything possible with combining two male bodies in recent times.

He abandons his arms along his sides, as if he suddenly doesn't know what to do with them.

John takes his face in his hands and makes him lean just a little towards him, and then begins to kiss him slowly, savoring him, without a moan. Sherlock starts to respond to the kiss after a few seconds, his eyes still open, blinking his eyebrows fast, as if he were processing data. And then he closes them and lets go. They just kiss, for what seems like hours. Only after it seems like a geological era has passed, John takes his robe by the front flaps and gently slide it over his arms.  Then he picks it up and tosses it onto a chair nearby. And then he begins to undress him slowly, slowly, slowly, putting absolute and exclusive effort into each button of his shirt.

Sherlock's breath quickens as the doctor unveils his skin inch by inch as if uncovering a work of art.

"May I know what you have in mind?" the detective asks him, in a hushed voice.

"I want to make you realize once and for all how much I adore you," John replies in a gravelly voice, lowering his gaze to unbutton his trousers. Sherlock takes a shuddering breath, his now open shirt over his chest rising and falling fast as he gets a little goosebumps.

Before he realizes what's happening, John is already kneeling in front of him, fully clothed, and has taken him in hand, looking at him with one last, definitive look before lowering his head and taking him all in his mouth suddenly.

Sherlock almost feels himself fainting. John notices this and surrounds his sides with his arms as if to support him while he continues, all the way. Sherlock tries for a moment to escape because he feels it's too much, but he can't because the doctor holds him close. He freezes and a few seconds later, completely involuntarily, he thrusts with his hips.

John lets out a muffled moan.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpers, trying again to escape, but John doesn't desist before wrapping his lips, tongue, throat around him a few more times, putting all the effort he's capable of. Then he suddenly lets go, looking down at him.

"What do you say, am I still sure?" he asks him seriously.

"Oh God, John," he barely manages to sigh with his breath, his head spinning.

John stands up and finishes undressing him, taking his every item of clothing, piece by piece, until he leaves him standing there naked, standing next to the bed.

He's still all dressed instead. He just presses a hand on his sternum to gently push him.

Sherlock understands instantly and lies down in the middle of their large bed. He looks up at him with two huge, fascinated and barely frightened eyes as John, without taking his eyes off his, slips off his shoes, unbuttons his cuffs, and then pulls his sweater and shirt off from over his head in one fluid motion.

"I love you," he tells him, from that distance, squaring his shoulders in a tone that sounds like a military oath. Sherlock goes breathless. And John lies down beside him, pulling the blankets over him and then wrapping his arms around him and holding him as tightly as he can. He leaves him after several seconds, finally removing his pants and underwear and tossing them to the side off the bed.

His belt buckle impacts the floor with a resounding ding.

And John finally smiles, and holds him again. "Don't look at me like that, I didn't mean to scare you," he says, stroking his face.

Sherlock, for a change, blushes. "When you bring out the soldier, you make me... you make me..." he fumbles, not knowing how to continue.

"No soldier tonight," John tells him, tenderly. "There's just this idiot who's madly in love with you." Sherlock's eyes light up and he snuggles against him, delighting in his warm, firm, strong flesh.

They haven't said a word so far. They just went on and on, brushing their fingertips together, laying little kisses on each other's skin, lying on their sides, facing each other, naked, excited but at the same time quiet, as if they had all the time in the world.

Only at a certain point do both of them, as if they had had the same thought at the same time, stretch out an arm towards the usual drawer, which is on John's side, so he gets there first, despite Sherlock trying to stretch himself to get there first.

The first one to grab the tube is John, who, lying down on his side in front of Sherlock, is about to pass it to him, who rejects it, passing it back to John. They look at each other for a moment and then they both burst into stifled laughter.

"Are we going to keep this up all night?" laughs John softly.

"I have a better idea," Sherlock whispers, finally taking it in his hand and uncorking it, propping himself up on his right elbow. John is leaning on his left, inches away from him, curiously following his movements.

Sherlock puts the tube down for a moment on the mattress, just enough time to reach John's right hand, the free one, and pulls it towards him, making him open it. Then he squeezes some lube on it. At that point he leaves it, and does the same thing on his left. Then he grabs the still-open tube and throws it behind him, heedless of the disaster he'll make on the sheets. And he moves closer to John, making their warm bodies cling together. They're still lying side by side, facing each other, sticking together, when John finally understands the intent.

Not more than a few moments pass, and they are simultaneously caressing each other's most hidden spots, holding each other as tightly as they can. Their sexes pressed together rejoice at the sensation, instantly getting harder than ever.

They go on for quite a while, sending each other to the limit with their fingers, as if it were a race. It's only after a good while that John pulls his fingers out from inside of him and puts his arms around his neck and barely pulls, sliding underneath him.

Sherlock lets out a shuddering sigh, finding himself trapped between his strong thighs and drowning in that determined expression of his.

"But...," barely escapes his lips, feebly.

"In this way," John replies, and Sherlock knows it's pointless to protest. When John decides he bottoms, there's no flattery or prayer capable of changing his mind.

But that he wants to do it this way just tonight, that he's put on this solemn and almost exhausting atmosphere, makes him shiver inside almost more than the first time they did it this way.

John is ready and warm and soft. He holds his ribs with all the strength in his arms as Sherlock lays his forehead on his with a great sigh and then enters, helping himself with one hand and panting as always.

John exhales only a choked breath as Sherlock gently goes forward.

They don't take their eyes off each other for a second.

"There you are," the doctor finally blurts out in a breathless whisper, as he feels his cock filling him all the way down, "where you belong."

"I love you," Sherlock murmurs in a broken voice.

John smiles. "There you are," he repeats taking his face in his hands, "my love."

"Huh?" gasps Sherlock.

"You heard right," John smiles.

"Oh, god," exhales the short-breathed detective, looking at him steadily, his face two inches away from his, and finally he begins to move slowly, leaning on his elbows. He barely shakes in his shoulders.

John moans a soft "oh" of amazement as their bodies blend together beautifully.

They continue like this a time that seems endless. And then Sherlock begins to thrust faster, gripped by instinct.

"Yes, christ," John curses feeling him slide inside him, perfectly slippery; he felt nothing but mild discomfort, which quickly turns to pleasure. He arches up grabbing his hips to push him deeper, gritting his teeth.

"Oh, John," the detective gasps, and then can't stop his movements from getting tighter. He lifts himself up on his arms, squinting hard. John makes an almost desperate cry, grabbing himself to start touching himself furiously.

Sherlock senses this, opens his eyes and stops, looking down at him, muscles tense on his skinny arms, all ruffled, curls damp with sweat, falling over his burning eyes.

John is sweating too, his eyes tight, his eyebrows furrowed with the scar from his stitches still showing clearly, and lying there beneath him he suddenly seems abandoned, completely, at his mercy.

Sherlock pulls himself out.

John opens his eyes and stops touching himself. "What's going on?" he asks him, bewildered. Sherlock removes himself from on top of him and lies down next to him, and then grabs him by the shoulders and starts pulling him toward him.

"Come, come here, please," he whispers to him.

John was about to come and now he feels disoriented, his heart racing, his head spinning. "What?" he asks him again, looking at him questioningly, blinking.

Sherlock tugs at him again. "You, onto me, now," he almost begs him.

“Huh? You want to...?" he asks him, undecided. Sherlock nods.

"But we were..." begins John again.

"Oh, I don't care, please, I want you to make me come," the detective confesses.

"You're crazy," laughs John. Then he resolves to give him what he wants. "I wonder if there's anyone else in the world who gets ideas like this, besides you," he adds amused, shaking his head. And then he lies on top of him, quickly exploring him to make sure he's ready enough, and penetrates him in one smooth motion. The feeling of being inside him all of a sudden, whereas until a few seconds ago he was the one receiving him, makes him freak out. He's in danger of finishing instantly. He immediately freezes, trying to control himself.

Sherlock almost screams, barely making time to stifle the cry with one hand.

"Christ," John repeats, gritting his teeth, feeling himself catch fire, "you're crazy. I love you to death."

"Jooohn!" is all Sherlock can manage to say, as a prayer.

They stand still for minutes at a time. And then John starts thrusting with his dry, expert movements. He knows how to do it by now. He places his hands on his curls, uncovering his eyes and forehead, holding his head still, staring into his eyes.

"Never, never, never," Sherlock begins to repeat under his breath, closing his eyes.

"What, never?" asks John breathlessly, as he sinks into him.

"You, you couldn't be boring me, never, it's not possible... if there was a way..." he repeats, his voice broken by his strokes, and soon loses his train of thought.

"Oh, there is, a way," growls the doctor, at the edge, "come, for me, now, please."

"Joohn," Sherlock does again alarmed, feeling his insides squirm as that secret spot inside him is on fire.

"Now," John reiterates, desperate, moving faster and faster.

"John!" shouts Sherlock too loudly, arching against him.

John realizes he's on the edge too, and lets go, with one harder thrust, shouting his name. And the orgasm overwhelms them in unison. It had never happened, yet.

They look at each other stunned, incredulous that they are experiencing that feeling of total communion. It never seems to end.

Sherlock's body contracts around him, squeezing out even the last drop of pleasure from his body, while the warm waves of his sperm spread between their crushed abdomens.

They even find the strength to give each other a desperate kiss before they both collapse into a candid limbo of bliss.

"Unbelievable," one of them says.

It's a rainy afternoon. John is in his room, pacing back and forth. Every now and then he stops in front of the dresser, opens the first drawer and then closes it again and restarts pacing in circles. He hasn't been able to figure it out since the incredible sex three nights before. In his head, Sherlock's phrase repeats on a loop, like a broken disk. If there was a way.

"Oh, what are you waiting for, just do it," Mary tells him, sitting on the bed, her legs gathered to her chest, with that bright smile of hers. John looks at her doubtfully.

"He's our monster," she reiterates, with another smile.

A second later, she's gone.

John's eyes glaze over, he pulls up his nose, and barely smiles. And then, he takes a big sigh, squares his shoulders, clenches his fists and finally makes up his mind.

He runs down the stairs, almost, and arrives in the living room, where there is the little girl intent on watching a cartoon sitting on the carpet.

"Mrs. Hudson, I have to go out, can you look after Rosie?"

"Oh, dear, I've got my orthopedist appointment in half an hour," she replies from the kitchen, where she's busily cleaning out the fridge with her usual disgusted air.

John frowns and starts thinking of alternative solutions.

At that moment, Mycroft enters, with his elegant and haughty step. "Since my brother's been ignoring my calls all afternoon, I'm going to have to talk to you about this, John," he says without even saying “good afternoon”, holding out a clipboard to him. "It's a matter of national security, and I'll be grateful if you'll use your, let's call them so, ‘persuasive skills’ to convince him to..."

John looks at him as if providential help has manifested suddenly to him.

"You happen to be right on target," he tells him, putting on his jacket. "You need to keep Rosie for a while, you don't mind, do you?"

"What????," the elder Holmes does, wrinkling his nose, almost horrified.

"Mrs. Hudson is busy, I can't do otherwise, thank you very much," John franticly does, picking up his phone and keys. He leans over the child to kiss her forehead. "Daddy has something important to do, stay with your uncle, okay? Be good," he recites to her quickly and then walks through the door without looking back.

“May I remind you that I run the most important office in England, I don't babysit!" raises Mycroft's voice through the door.

"She's already had her snack, don't give her any more ice cream," John shouts at him from the stairs.

A second later, the door is heard closing.

Mycroft remains impaled in the middle of the room, still with his umbrella and overcoat on his arm and the clipboard outstretched in his hand, and a comically bewildered expression.

Rosie turns off the TV, gets up, and goes running to get the Operation game.

"Yay, Uncle, let's play!" she squeals to him at the height of her contentment.

Mycroft gives her an icy, but at heart vaguely tender smile. "Be careful with the heart this time, though, eh!" suggests the little girl, opening the box.

"Don't worry, little Watson, I'm an expert by now," he replies between his teeth, sarcastically, loosening his tie and resigning himself to sit in John's chair. He takes the phone from his jacket and says in his usual inappellable tone, while looking at his vest watch, "Anthea, cancel all my appointments until 8.00 pm”.

John looks at him from the glass panel inserted in the light wood door; he is there, sitting at the microscope on his usual stool, completely absorbed and oblivious to the world around him.

He stands there, spying on him for a few seconds, feeling himself melt away.

There he is, the man he sleeps with every night, the man he loves with a strength he never thought possible; he, who has always been so inconstant in his relationships that he even started texting with a stranger while his wife was breastfeeding their daughter. It's gone, that side of him. He never could do that to Sherlock, betray him.

This is another turning point in his life. He wonders for the umpteenth time if this is the right way to tell tell. And then for the umpteenth time he tells himself that the only way to know is to try.

He straightens up and blows as if to give himself courage, before pushing open the door to the lab.

Sherlock takes his eyes off the microscope with an annoyed look on his face, expecting someone to interrupt him while he's working. When he sees that it's John, however, his expression immediately brightens. Then, he remembers that the doctor was supposed to be home with Rosie this afternoon, and worries.

"Is everithing okay?" he asks him immediately.

"Yes, yes, fine," John replies, smiling and approaching him.

"But Rosie...?" asks Sherlock again.

"There's the British Government looking after her," John tells him, sarcastically.

Sherlock grins with satisfaction, too, at the thought of Mycroft stuck playing Operation with their little girl one more time. And then, he focuses on why the change of plans. "And you, what are you doing here?" he asks him again, with an inquiring look.

"Nothing… I just couldn't wait to hear about the diabolical pastry chef," John quips, looking around indifferently. "I have to finish the blog post, the readers are waiting, I can't disappoint them," he adds.

"The diabolical pastry chef? Please, what kind of title is that?", Sherlock is indignant.

"A title they'll like," John replies. "That's none of your business anyway, hurry up and tell me the details instead."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It was in the fudge," he explains. "A special one, made from a grape sugar that only a wholesaler in Southampton imports."

And then he sets about telling him all the details of the curious case he's working on. A seven, indeed. He talks and talks, enjoying the feeling of being the center of the doctor’s attention. He'll never get used to that. It will never be enough for him, seeing how his eyes widen and his mouth opens as he follows his convoluted but ultimately always perfectly coherent reasoning.

"Fantastic," John admires him as always when he finally falls silent, and Sherlock as always smiles at the compliment, embarrassed. And then, after a few seconds, he folds his arms and stands looking at him absorbed, narrowing his eyes, as if expecting something.

"Well? Aren't you going to call Lestrade?" asks John.

"In a moment," the detective answers, uncrossing his arms and fiddling with the wheels of the microscope. "As soon as you give me what you came to give me." And then he looks at him again, impassive, expectant.

John opens his mouth wide. "What... how... the fuck?" he says, shrilly.

"You've touched your right jacket pocket four times since you walked in, there's obviously something inside that has to do with me, John... okay, you slow me down a little, but all in all, my head still works," he shoots off in his petulant tone, rolling his eyes again as he flaunts impatience.

John fights the instinct to strangle him. Then he slumps his head forward. "Okay," he does, defeated. "You promise you won't treat me like an idiot, though," he adds, searching his gaze with an uncertain smile.

"I'll do my best," Sherlock replies, also smiling.

"Look," John does after inhaling a large amount of air, putting his hand in his pocket. "I don't know, maybe it's not a great idea, if you think it's not... I mean... tell me... though..."

"John, please get to the point, you're making me anxious," Sherlock does, remaining seated on the stool but swiveling it to be exactly in front of him.

"All right," John decides, and pulls his clenched fist out of his pocket, and holds it out to him, and then opens it.

Sherlock gasps, stands up sharply, and backs away, hitting the stool, looking into his hand with two huge, absolutely bewildered eyes.

The stool falls backwards with a thud that makes the entire lab rumble.

"I just want you to keep it," John starts speaking in bursts as soon as the echo of the metallic bang dies down, almost stuttering, and keeping his eyes down. "She'd want it too, I'm sure... I... I had it enlarged, but you don't have to carry it eh, if you don't want to, the important thing is that I know you have it because I don't want it to be locked in a drawer forever and I... we... the three of us... have been... and now you and I...". John cringes and realizes he doesn't know how to continue anymore. The beautiful speech he had prepared has evaporated from his brain irremediably. You are such an idiot, he says to himself. His voice muffles and he raises a helpless look at him.

Sherlock looks a lot more shocked than when he told him he was his best friend. After what seems like an infinite amount of time, he reaches out his right hand, which is shaking like a leaf, and takes the small gold circlet from his palm. He turns it over in his fingers and examinates it as if to deduce who knows what mystery.

JOHN, is written in the inside surface, and the date of the wedding. The day Mary was perfectly happy, in that wedding dress of hers and her eyes beaming. The day Serlock made the vow he would always be there, for his Watsons. The day they found out there was Rosie on the way. And also the day he felt the loneliest of his life, perhaps, as he walked away early convincing himself for the umpteenth time that he was utterly incapable of understanding human nature.

In the end, even after all these countless hardships, he finally thinks he can say he was wrong. He feels his heart quicken. What you can become.

"This is to show you that you will never be boring me," John says, barely squinting and squaring his shoulders, as if he were standing in front of a firing squad.

Sherlock recognizes the words he himself had told him three nights before, and understands.

The writing is barely worn by time and the intervention the goldsmith did to fix it, but it still reads well. It looks exactly the same as the one John wears, and he's never taken it off since Mary's death, and he'll never take it off, even more so from now on.

Sherlock lets out a trembling sigh and plants his eyes in John's, who is watching him without missing a movement of his face. He is silent for what seems like forever. And then "thank you," he tells him only, in a whisper. A tear slides down from his right eye. And he slips it firmly onto his left ring finger. It fits him perfectly. "Thank you, Mary," he adds, even more softly.

John smiles, overcome with emotion.

"I wanted to give it to you here, because this is the exact place we met," he tells him, almost murmuring. "The day you turned my life around," he adds with a small smile, and his voice trembling slightly; he, the very one whose voice never trembles.

Sherlock just nods, going over those distant yet so vivid memories in a flash.

"So, now..." he asks him, barely smiling as well, his tone still a little uncertain.

"Now it's you and me. Forever," John points out. His voice no longer shakes.

"Forever," Sherlock confirms.

And they embrace in unison, holding each other so tight that their ribs crack, so tight that they hurt.

Mike Stanford is about to enter the lab when he sees them through the glass, entwined. He takes his hand off the doorknob and backs away, smiling to himself with that big friendly face of his. No harm done. He will go and get a coffee at Criterion and come back later.

Of course, he could never have rationally predicted it, but in some funny way he sensed it, anyway, deep down, that making them meet would give a start to the greatest story ever told.

Chapter Text

"Is that a ring?" quips Greg in bewilderment.

"Congratulations, inspector, your observational skills are getting better by the day," answers Sherlock, unwrapping some documents, unworried about the fact he is occupying his entire desk.

"What the...?" resumes Lestrade, almost gasping.

"I'm holding it for John, it was Mary's," Sherlock quips as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Greg barely smiles. "Well, that's touching..." he says, "though don't get annoyed if someone will think that you're married," he adds a little wryly.

"I am married," Sherlock replies in a tone at once nonchalant and definitive.

Greg opens his mouth wide.

"With my work, remember?" goes Sherlock still serious, flipping through the papers. And then he looks up at him and gives him one of those smiles that say you know what I mean, right?

"With your work, sure," Greg says with his good-natured smile. "Good thing you don't work alone anymore, then," he retorts, his tone full of subtext.

"Yep," Sherlock straightens up and smacks his lips as he snaps the folder shut.

"Thanks, I've got everything I need, Graham, I'll catch up with you soon," he concludes, turning his back on him and disappearing into the flutter of his coat.

A fond smile escapes Greg and he shakes his head.

°°°

Sherlock and Eurus finish playing and stare at each other through the glass. She gives another of those tremulous, barely-there smiles. "It's been so long since you've come," she whispers to him in that hypnotic, alienating voice of hers.

"I'm sorry, I've been busy," he replies, tuning a violin string.

"I can see that," she quickly does in response, narrowing her eyes. "You actually made sex this time," she adds.

"No," he replies. "I made love."

Eurus bends her head, looking at him sideways, as if he's communicated a completely alien and vaguely fascinating concept to her.

°°°

The courses of this dinner seemed to go on forever.

Mycroft did his usual impatient routine bickering with grandma Holmes. Sherlock disappeared into the living room to play Cluedo with Rosie, who is now able to quietly hold her own throughout the game.

John sat at the table for a while longer, chatting with Sherlock's sweet dad.

And then finally they all went to sleep, Rosie in the detective's old room, Mycroft in his, and John and Sherlock in the guest room.

The little girl protested like never before to stay up late; only with the argument of Santa's imminent arrival did they manage to convince her to finally close her eyes.

Grandparents Holmes' delightful cottage is quiet and peaceful.

Or rather it would be, if it weren't for the fact that someone is still awake.

"We're not going to have sex at your parents' house on Christmas night, Sherlock," John whispers, shirking, scandalized.

"Why not?" asks Sherlock in a low voice, and in a tone of perfect innocence.

"Because on the other side of this wall there are your parents, for Christ's sake," the doctor retorts, gritting his teeth, adamant.

Sherlock bursts out laughing under his breath. "Don't tell me you're ashamed," he tells him.

"Look, I've told you over and over again, I'm a gentleman, okay? I don't do that kind of thing!" the doctor screeches, stifling his tone as much as he can.

Sherlock starts to think.

John sits up better to sleep.

After two minutes, Sherlock comes to his senses. "I get it," he almost exclaims, but still in a whisper.

John makes a sound of exasperation. "Next time we come here, I'll put a sleeping pill in your punch," he complains, turning on his stomach: a not-so-subtle reference to the last time they spent Christmas in this house, when Sherlock put everyone to sleep and escaped with him in a helicopter, with all the consequences.

Sherlock is silent for a few more seconds, and then resumes speaking, in a nonchalant tone as if he's asking him about anything routine. "Will you come to sign some papers at Westminster Town Hall with me, when we return London?" he asks him.

"What papers?" grunts John, almost sleepily, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"I don't know, maybe a civil partnership," whispers the detective, and then pulls the white sheet up over his head.

"What????," John squeals, jumping up, suddenly perfectly awake again.

"If you were afraid of waking up the whole house, you're about to succeed," Sherlock points out to him, blowing on the sheet covering him to make it barely puff up, like the sail of a pirate ship.

John is hyperventilating. "Did you just fucking ask me to marry you?" he asks in bewilderment, grabbing the sheet to uncover his face.

"You look but you don't observe. We are already married, John. All we need is a paper to attest to it," Sherlock proclaims in his most argumentative tone.

"I'm going to kill you," John growls surrendered, and straddles his pelvis, pulling the sheet over his head again until it covers them completely.

And then he begins to kiss him in the bluish half-light created by the cold, white, slightly rough sheets of the old wrought-iron bed, which envelop them completely, taking away what little oxygen they have left. Sherlock groans and melts under his weight.

Only when they are both almost apnea does John decide to pull down the sheet. They both break away and gasp for air. John feels him fumbling under the sheets as he pulls up his shirt and begins kissing every inch of skin on his chest.

"What are you up to?" he asks him suspiciously, pulling his head up.

The click of the tube answers him.

"I can't believe you brought it," John laughs in embarrassment with his forehead pressed to his collarbone.

"Of course I brought it," Sherlock sols his witchy smile, grabbing his hips to make him fit better on him, rubbing against him through the soft fabric of his pajamas.

Then he insinuates both hands into his underwear, squeezing his buttocks unceremoniously.

John moans loudly when the detective's already wet fingers reach down and gently insinuate into him. He stifles the moan in his shoulder.

"I'll never have the courage to leave this room again," he mumbles into his neck, giggling as he begins to move to meet him and the old bed creaks; and then he begins to gasp as he reaches into his underpants and grabs him firmly. Sherlock jerks groaning loudly as well. Then he slips his fingers from inside him and grabs the fabric of his pajamas to undress him. John quickly gets out of his pants and underwear and reaches for him again, lowering his clothes just enough to uncover him and then climbing on top of him again; and then he slowly descends on him, his legs visibly shaking.

They melt into each other's eyes, intertwining their hands, moaning. "So, you'd be my husband," John grits his teeth with a half-smile as his body takes him in. 

"If the idea appeals to you," Sherlock whispers hoarsely, straining to remain still, squeezing his fingers into an iron grip.

John suddenly leans on his hands, leaning forward and nailing them to the mattress, and he leans slowly over him changing angle and making him pant loudly.

"Sure it appeals to me", he murmurs against his lips before stealing him a deep kiss and starting to move slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, and sending him completely into apnea.

°°°

The press conference at Scotland Yard has just ended and the journalists are all getting up from their chairs. Greg pats Sherlock on the back who, as always, stiffens, making an expression of benevolent forbearance.

"You still rock, huh?" he gives him in his good-natured tone. "This was a good case, not really my area, I admit, but for you it was... how would you say...a ten?"

"A ten???" goes Sherlock outraged, widening his eyes. "A guy buys a street artist's work at auction, that magically disappears from a vault and reappears halfway around the world, and you call that a ten? It was trite," he concludes in his impatient dandy tone.

"Okay, okay, whatever," laughs Lestrade, "but in short, all free publicity in the international press, you'll agree."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, wrinkling his nose, vaguely disgusted, and then looks around until his eyes fall on the red-haired journalist who is staring at him with a sarcastic smile, standing in the doorway of the conference room.

"Speaking of publicity...," Greg gives him another pat with a big, satisfied smile and then leaves him there alone.

Kitty rockets off to intercept him as he is already trying to deflect.

"Come on, don't be hasty," she calls to him in that falsely caressing tone of hers, hurrying to catch up with him. Sherlock freezes and decides to face her, turning toward her with a sudden movement.

"Miss Riley!" he apostrophizes her with his false smile. "I'm glad to see you haven't made a career yet. I hope all the gossip you've written about me over the last few years has earned you at least a decent financial return."

"Are you still mad at me, Mr. Holmes? Over that silly little story? Come on, let's make up. Give me a statement on what that ring that has been appearing on your hand means, and I promise I'll leave you alone," she replies, mellifluous.

"Oh, Kitty," he whispers as he approaches and towers over her with his most magnetic expression, "do you really have nothing better to do than take an interest in my private life?"

"Interesting things must be told," she whispers in response with something mischievous, craning her neck toward him with an all too eloquent expression.

The echo of someone sonorously clearing his throat echoes in the now empty room.

"I apologize for the interruption," John enunciates, leaning against the glass doorframe with his arms folded. As soon as the press conference was over, he'd left to take a call from the clinic, but now he's there, looking at them both with his typical expression of when he's pretending to be surprised.

"You want something interesting for your damn paper?" he then asks her from a distance, adopting his resolute tone, the one that always sends a chain of chills down Sherlock's spine. "Write that we're getting married in the spring. And now excuse us but we have to pick up our daughter from dance class," he concludes uncrossing his arms and walking out of the room.

Sherlock looks at her shrugging his shoulders with an expression that seems to say what more do you want?, and then hurries after him. He pauses for just one last moment and turns around again, slipping on his gloves.

"Congratulations on the scoop," he says to her with a wink. Then he gives her a wry nod, before disappearing through the door.

°°°

- So you finally did go to dinner.

- I did. SH

- And I bet you loved it.

- I'd rather keep that detail to myself. SH

- I'm never wrong about these things.

- Happy New Year. SH

- Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.

°°°

It's a beautiful may day, with the sun illuminating everything with a dazzling light.

"Remind me why we're here at lunch, John," Sherlock exasperatedly quips, leaning back in his chair.

"Because you wanted to go and sign those famous papers," John smiles at him under his breath, seraphic.

"But wasn't that enough? What need was there for lunch?" the detective whines.

They are dressed the same, in two beautiful black suits that make them look like they have just stepped out of a film set in the nineteenth century.

John leans toward him passing Rosie, who is sitting between them, and eases a slight elbow into his ribs. "Stop it," he comments between his teeth, continuing to smile at the diners.

"Ouch," Sherlock quips. "Only because you ask," he retorts under his breath, and puts on one of his jovial, almost sincere smiles.

It's not a crowded party. It's just family and close friends. To John's right is Harry, who makes a show of drinking only mineral water, and to Shrlock's left is Mycroft, who glances at his vest watch from time to time, as if he's at the end of his rope.

Rosie has a little dress of antique pink tulle and blonde curls styled to perfection.  She looks like a little precious doll. She is devising a system to make the pyramid of fruit that serves as the centerpiece collapse.

Mrs. Hudson hasn't stopped sobbing since they left City Hall. Molly is sitting next to Tom and they chat thickly. Sherlock is glad they're back together. He always liked the guy after all. And then there's Greg, and the Holmes grandparents, and another dozen or so unidentified people, maybe.

In fact, it’s been a long time since Sherlock has stopped sensing his surroundings. Ever since they put their names next to each other on those sheets of paper, he feels like he's entered another dimension.

One where the whole world knows that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson own each other.

°°°

John is lying sideways on the huge unmade bed in the best room of the manor, naked, propped up on his right elbow. The window opens onto the stone balcony overflowing with flowers. Clusters of wisteria flowers descend from the bower above, swaying in the dawn breeze. Sherlock has his back to him, leaning against the balustrade, while he watches the sun rise from the sea. All he has on is a pair of boxers (John's) that fall down too wide on his hips. John looks at his broad back, his milky skin tinged with the pink of the first light of the morning, and wonders for the umpteenth time if he hasn't taken a blow to the head from some miscreant during a chase and is now in a deep coma and dreaming it all. It's too unbelievable to be true. The two of them on their honeymoon. In Provence. In the summertime.

He laughs to himself. Woe betide the word honeymoon.

He thinks back to that evening, a few days after getting married, when Sherlock had just returned from work and had greeted him with a white envelope. "It's Mycroft's gift," he had told him with a shy smile. John had opened it and frowned in surprise, finding inside two plane tickets to Marseilles.

"What the hell are we going to do in Marseilles?" he had asked him in bewilderment.

"We're not going to Marseilles," Sherlock had replied. "Uncle Rudy has a house in Rayol, I used to go there when I was a child. We go there."

"And where on earth is Rayol?" the doctor had asked, scratching his temple.

"In Provence," the detective had settled on admitting, after reluctantly biting his lip.

John had burst into delighted laughter. "Wait, you're telling me we're going on a honeymoon to Provence? Somebody wake me up," he had commented amidst the laughter.

"We're not going on a honeymoon!!!" had shrieked Sherlock, indignant. "It's for a case. I got a letter from a guy I knew as a kid, he was an ice cream man at the time, now he's retired and enjoys solving enigmas. He said there's someone in the village lately who steals bicycles and returns them the next day painted red. Isn't that intriguing?" he had concluded with a big, hopeful smile.

John had looked at him skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, all right," the detective had surrendered, resigned. "While we're there, we might as well take a little vacation."

And then John had given him his brightest smile. "Now we're talking," he had said.

"But it's not a honeymoon," Sherlock had pointed out.

"Call it whatever you want, however I'm looking forward to it," John had concluded by hugging him, happy.

John would remember that incredible week forever:

- the sandy taste of rock oysters and white wine in a brasserie in the harbor

- the old freak guy who painted his bicycles red as his own personal form of protest against capitalism, and then invited them to drink pastis together with Sherlock's elderly ex-ice-cream man friend. The affair had ended with an absurd dinner on a seaside terrace lit by paper lanterns, with an increasingly confused conversation that continued until four in the morning.

- the smell of saltiness in Sherlock's hair mixed with that of wisteria flowers.

- the discussion about Mendelssohn and German musical pictorialism, undertaken by Sherlock in perfect French with a couple of elderly Dutch tourists in a café on the pier. John hadn't understood a damn thing, but it was there that he discovered that Sherlock spoke French like a native speaker. Of course, he would never have confessed to him the effect the discovery had had on him, but perhaps Sherlock had figured it out anyway, since that very night, as they were rolling around in the sheets with the moon illuminating the room like a beacon, "like this” and “more" he had told him in french.

°°°

"So, children, let's talk a little bit about our families today, shall we? So we can get to know each other better!" the kindergarten teacher exclaims full of enthusiasm to the children sitting in a circle on their little wooden chairs. "So, who wants to start? Sasha?" The brown-haired child stands up and begins to tell. "Mommy works in a bank, and my daddy is a fireman..." all the kids clap their hands excitedly as he continues to tell.

"And now it's Rosie's turn, right? So, Rosie... is it true that yesterday was your birthday?". The little girl nods shyly, playing with a blonde curl. "I turned four," she then says, raising her chin in a serious manner.

"Wonderful! And will you tell us a little about your family?" the young teacher asks again with a bright smile.

"Well..." she does, wondering which way to start. "My daddy John is a doctor," she says first. The teacher nods, smiling. "Grandma Martha makes a lot of cookies," Rosie adds.

"Of course, grandmothers always make exquisite cookies, don't they?" the teacher asks the class. The children nod in agreement. "And then?"

"And then there's my daddy Sherlock, who's a devet.. tedec… detective!" she exclaims at last.

The teacher raises her eyebrows. "Well, that's a very special job, isn't it?" he asks her.

"Really? Like the ones in the movies?" a few kids vocalize.

"Yeah," Rosie nods, "he catches a lot of bad guys. And then there's my mom, who's a nurse but she's really a super secret agent, but she's dead, but she still loves me so much. And Aunt Molly, who's a doctor too, I think, but a weird doctor, not like daddy John... I think he's a doctor of the deads!" she whispers under her breath, as if it's a secret, opening her eyes wide theatrically; "and then there's uncle Mycroft who I haven't figured out exactly what he does, but I think he commands all the secret agents in the world... and then..."

The teacher is looking at her with a dismayed expression, while all the children are staring at her wide-eyed. "Okay, I think that's enough, Rosie," he smiles at her. "It's nice to play with fantasy when..."

"It's not fantasy, it's all true!" protests Rosie as she stands up and crosses her arms over her chest with a defiant expression. "And if you don't believe it, then Google it!" she adds as she sits back down and blatantly snorts.

°°°

Sherlock is marooned on the couch throughout his considerable length, in a semi-catatonic state. He's bored, he, because there have been no clients for three days and Lestrade has strangely not shown up to ask him for help with anything.

Now that Rosie has started going at kindergarten, he has a lot more free time if he doesn't have any cases to work on.

Today, however, is that day of the week. John's day off.

And, as always when they're not on some paradoxical crime scene or having to follow him to the craziest places in London, he's using it to clean up. Outrageous.

Usually, at least, Sherlock has the extenuating circumstance of work or some experiment going on, to not participate in the operation, but this morning he has no excuse to play.

He's mortally bored and will be forced for the next three hours, before Rosie comes home, to helplessly watch John banging pots and pans, emptying drawers, scrubbing everywhere complaining every two seconds about what a complete mess this house is and that if it weren't for him and Mrs. Hudson it would have been eaten by ants by now.

Sherlock snorts.

John is scrubbing the stove with all his energy and doesn't hear him.

Sherlock puffs louder and makes a kind of bored whine.

John hears him, this time, and stops scrubbing.

"Since you're bored, get up and come clean out the fridge," he tells him in a voice loud enough to reach him perfectly in the living room, before getting back to work, producing inches of foam on the white surface of the stovetop.

"Can you bring me a tea?" comes to him in response from the other room, in a languid tone.

John clears his throat and tries to keep his composure.

"No," he replies, "as you know, I'm busy. Get out of there and help me," he tells him in a tone that is all in all still quite calm.

"There's too much light in this room, will you draw the curtains for me?" the detective retorts, unashamedly.

It always works.

John throws the sponge on the stove top, squares his shoulders and bursts into the living room like a fury.

"If I'm not mistaken, there are two of us who have been using this kitchen since immemorial time," he says with a trembling voice, "and I've never seen you pick up a crumb, now I'm really fed up, if you don't do your part I swear that from now on I'll let you starve”.

Sherlock manages to find a way to casually shrug his shoulders while still lying on his stomach on the couch.

"Oh, that is a big deal," he comments, knowing he's dealt the final blow.

John growls, almost, before heading toward him with his martial step.

He grabs him by the right wrist, the one that dangled limply over the edge of the couch brushing against the floor, and pulls with a force that leaves him little chance of resistance.

"Hey... what..." asks Sherlock, feigning a surprised tone as he lets himself be pulled along and follows, putting up only the slightest resistance.

"What?" roars John, pulling him along. "I'm going to fuck you now, that's what. And when I'm done, I bet you'll have a change of heart, about the hunger," he points out in an already strained voice.

That's just the way they are.

There are those honey evenings when they spend almost half an hour inside each other without even moving, just looking almost motionless into each other's eyes and smiling tenderly, barely cradling, and the orgasms come almost by themselves, after a while, as a natural consequence of all that intense and prolonged physical and mental contact.

And then there are these occasional episodes when they both have some endorphins built up and a few hours of home time free, and they'd both be itching to get their instincts out, but neither one of them decides to pounce first, and Sherlock has long since figured out that the best way to get to the bottom of things the way he likes it, without John asking him every two seconds if everything's okay or if he is hurting him, is to let him build up a little piss-off.

Usually failure to cooperate with household chores always turns out to be a great excuse, he considers, while he is dragged into his room, or rather their room, the door is kicked shut and his blue robe is quickly snatched from him; in an instant, he finds himself slammed onto the bed on his stomach with the doctor already behind him gripping his hips with his strong arms to lift him off the mattress and rub against him, already terribly hard.

"I bet in two seconds you're going to regret not helping me clean the kitchen," he sneers quietly as he pulls his pants and underwear down the bare minimum to have it within reach.

"Keep believing that," Sherlock retorts at the height of his petulance, already excited as hell at the idea of how he's going to take him hard, finally. He gets the sound of the drawer opening and closing. He barely licks his lips, at the height of his desire. Instead of John's fingers thrusting into him, he feels her warm hands creep under his shirt and run all over his back in slow, sweeping movements.

"You'd like that huh?" he whispers to him, wicked. "I know that's all you want. I'm afraid you'll have to ask me this time, though. And be convincing," he concludes, speaking in his ear, leaning over his back.

"If you think I'm going to plead, you're sadly mistaken," lies Sherlock who is already trembling under his caresses.

"We'll see about that," John gratefully welcomes the challenge, and runs his index and middle finger all over his spine, pressing down firmly, all the way to his tailbone. Sherlock feels himself catch fire from the inside out, and makes an almost animalistic cry of desire.

"Are you all right?", John teases him.

"Just fine," Sherlock says between his teeth, still convinced not to give in to him.

The doctor begins to caress him without going in, the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing against his skin as he rubs against it with his pelvis. Sherlock begins to pant louder, especially when he feels him uncork the tube and barely get his fingers wet, before returning to touch him. John lets a few more moments pass and then finally slips his index finger in, just barely, while with his other hand he runs to his crotch and grips him firmly in his fist.

Sherlock squirms as the doctor takes an exhausting, slow pace, touching him slowly as he barely moves in and out of him, just with his phalanx. He tries to push against him to increase the clutch, but John holds him down mercilessly. A desperate moan comes out of him. "John..." he makes, unable to hold back.

"Tell me," he replies in an almost mocking tone, not stopping torturing him like that.

Sherlock bites his lip, forcing himself to say no more. "Oh, god," comes out of him after a few more seconds, though.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" the doctor sneers, leaving him for a moment to pull his shirt up, uncovering his back, as he begins to nibble at the pale skin of his shoulders, running his cheek over it. He's used to it by now, seeing those scars on his back, but it still pains him every time. He runs an arm under his chest and squeezes him for a few moments.

"Oh, I...," Sherlock whispers, already almost desperate.

John gets a triumphant grin. "You what?" he asks him hoarsely.

"I want you," he surrenders, with a long groan, "I want you inside."

"Wow, you've lasted longer than usual, today," John says in the height of satisfaction, as he finally slips his fingers fully inside him, making him squirm.

"Go to..." starts to say Sherlock, but he can't complete the insolence he was formulating, because John in the meantime has stripped just enough to press himself against him, tearing a surrendered moan.

"You were saying?" he taunts him again.

"Oh, now, please," the detective surrenders, pressing his forehead onto his own folded forearms.

"Since you ask so nicely, I'll accommodate you," says John while he penetrates him.

Both of them make a blissful noise and then immediately try to moderate their tone because, after all, it's still morning, Mrs. Hudson is downstairs and this house is famous for being like a seaport, with people coming and going at all hours.

"Did you lock the bedroom door?", John asks him, while planted motionless inside him, panting.

"No, I was distracted by you ripping my clothes off," the detective growls through his teeth as he tries to relax his muscles as fast as he can.

"One of these days someone's going to catch us for sure," growls John giving an initial shove that makes the detective sob.

"I know you like it more, doing it with this risk," Sherlock smiles, his eyes closed, his head turned sideways on the mattress, his body barely raised on his knees.

"You really do know me well, don't you?" the doctor replies, stretching over his back once more and letting his chest, covered by the fabric of his plaid shirt, cling to him, while he wraps his arms around his chest and rests his forehead between his shoulder blades, starting to move hard.

"You bet," Sherlock gasps in a voice broken by the blows, drowning in ecstasy.

°°°

"It's snoooooooooooooowing!!!"

Rosie's ten-thousand-decibel shriek simultaneously snatches them from the blissful sleep they were wrapped in, embraced as they've slept every night for the past three years.

They haven't even opened their eyes yet, when the bedroom door opens with a resounding bang and the little girl with an agile jump lands directly between them, emptying both their lungs.

"Your daughter is awake," John grunts with her knee planted in his stomach.

"Thanks, I noticed," Sherlock exhales with her elbow on his carotid artery.

"Let’s make a snoooooooowman!" shouts Rosie, perhaps intending to wake up all of Baker Street. It's 6:30 in the morning. The muffled light of the uniformly white sky filters into the room making it seem drawn in a dream.

"There's still not enough," Sherlock patiently explains to her, moving her with difficulty."Ugh," she complains. "You sleep a little longer and when you wake up there will be enough," he makes, hoping to be persuasive.

"Ooookay," the little girl agrees, settling down between them, and she is back asleep in moments. John, too, has already fallen back asleep.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stays awake for another ten minutes or so, contemplating them in the slowly increasing bright light. And then he slips back into sleep, embracing them with a smile on his face.

°°°

It's afternoon. John is in his chair, typing on his laptop, when the doorbell rings. It's not a customer, he deduces from the sharp trill. John gets up and faces the landing. Mrs. Hudson has already opened the door, and the doctor sees a woman dressed in a blue suit coming up the stairs, followed by a guy in a suit and dark glasses who looks like he almost sorted out from Men in Black.

John recognizes her. He's seen her a lot in recent months. He suddenly feels his stomach twist with anxiety.

The woman enters the living room and looks around. "Good morning, Dr. Watson," she articulates in a professional tone. "The baby?" she then asks. "She's upstairs, doing her homework," he tenses. He stops himself from wringing his hands. "Should I call her?" He asks in a hushed voice.

"Oh no, that's not necessary. You can tell her yourself," the woman does and melts into a first smile, barely nodding.

"Sherlock!!!" shrieks the doctor towards the kitchen.

"What is it?" he hears him reply.

"Sherlock hurry up, get over here," John spaces out.

The detective finally emerges from the other room, in his beige robe, goggles, work gloves and a blowtorch in his hand.

The guy in the suit opens his mouth wide. The woman raises her eyebrows.

John rolls his eyes. "Take that stuff off first!" he shrills at him.

Sherlock recognizes the woman from the Juvenile Court, and disappears back into the kitchen; when he reappears, he's gotten rid of all those contraptions and walks over as well, dusting off his robe. "I beg your pardon. One wouldn't believe it, how fire-resistant optic nerves are," he makes in an argumentative tone.

"Sherlock," John scolds him under his breath, gritting his teeth.

The woman in blue makes a puzzled expression and clears her throat.

The detective shushes and straightens up, putting on an impassive face and entwining his hands behind his back.

"So, here it is," she finally says and holds out a packet that the guy in the suit handed her, pulling it from a black briefcase, toward them. "The paperwork is done. Everything is in order. Here are all the updated documents. Congratulations to both of you," she concludes, finally giving a real smile.

John and Sherlock look at each other. John's eyes sparkle. Sherlock's bottom lip trembles a little. "Don't start crying," John tells him under his breath, between his teeth, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

"Ouch," the detective complains, massaging the stricken spot.

The woman gives a snort accompanied by an indulgent smile. These two are the undoubtedly funniest stepchild adoption practice she's had in her entire career.

"So now..." asks Sherlock with his voice shaking a little.

"Now you are Rosamund's father for all legal purposes. Come on Mr. Holmes, you're so famous for your deductions, don't fall for something so simple," she points out to him, almost amused.

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but then immediately closes it again, bowing his head. He's too excited to start bickering now.

"Thank you so much," John says. "I know we're, like, a bit of an unusual family, but..."

"You're a good family. The child is perfectly serene and balanced. You're doing a great job; keep up," the woman says; now that the file is closed she can tell him, finally.

John and Sherlock approach each other and brush their shoulders, without even noticing.

The woman smiles again. "Goodbye. And all the best for the future," she concludes before turning on her heel and disappearing down the stairs followed by the man in black who hasn't uttered a single word the whole time.

It's only at that point that Sherlock pounces on John and crushes him in a suffocating hug as a sob escapes him.

"Oh, it's okay," John whispers. "You're the best daddy in the world."

"Here you go, this is your new ID card. Until you're older it's best we keep it, but we wanted you to see it."

"What do you need an ID card for?" asks Rosie reflectively, sitting in Sherlock's chair with the two of them around, leaning on the armrests, one on each side of her. She's about to turn six, and has recently started first grade school.

"It's just a system by which states of law enforce social control over citizens," Sherlock is beginning, before John shushes him with an exasperated sigh.

"It's got your name on it, see?" the doctor gives her. "It's to know who you are."

"I do know, who I am," Rosie muses. Sherlock flashes his witchy smile, proud.

John rolls his eyes. They are so stenciled. "Read better," he encourages her.

"Rosamund Mary Watson Holmes," she spurs. "Why do I have this name that never ends?" she then asks.

"Because there's a beautiful story in it," John smiles, stroking her hair. Sherlock sniffles.

"Don't start crying," John tells him again under his breath, but his eyes are glazed over as well.

°°°

It's almost Christmas, and it seems like everyone decided to go out just today and stock up for dinner. Rosie's seventh Christmas.

John looks at his watch in exasperation. The line to get to the cashiers is still long, but he still hasn't disposed of his hatred for automatic checkouts. Rosie standing next to him is immersed in reading Ende's The Neverending Story. John looks around trying to spot Sherlock's figure in the crowded supermarket. God knows what happened to him. He crosses the eyes of the blonde woman in line behind him, who gives him a big smile.

John smiles too, politely.

"What a mess today," the woman comments to engage a discourse with him, fanning herself with an offerings flyer.

"Yeah," the doctor replies. "We'll never get out of here again, I'm afraid," he adds in a joking tone.

The woman laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. "Do you come here often for groceries? I come once a week, but I don't recall ever seeing you," she continues, decidedly expansive.

"Huh? No," John does, "we usually go to Tesco's in Marylebone, but today..."

"Here I am!", Sherlock suddenly materializes next to him, brandishing a packet of vanilla yogurt.

John jerks. "You're such a idiot," he tells him heartily. Rosie bursts out laughing.

"I told you, they had them here," Sherlock resumes. "This brand is the only one you can make a decent breeding ground with," he then does, addressing himself in a scholarly tone to the woman who stares at him in puzzlement.

"It's for the case of the cannibal plant," Rosie quips without looking up from the book.

The woman giggles. "Oh, how sweet," she comments as if she's only just seen her, "it's called carnivorous," she feels compelled to correct her.

"Nono, it's really cannibal," the little girl replies. "It tried to eat Grandma Martha's ficus."

Sherlock quickly squares the woman by zapping her with his eyes as he concocts a quick plan to get back at her for daring to contradict Rosie. He might point out to her how sad it is that a forty-something woman who's just gone through her second divorce is looking for a new relationship by randomly chatting up in a supermarket a few days before Christmas. But then he opts for something more intriguing.

"Yeah, but I suspect it has to do with a bacteria that arrived from the Moluccan Islands in a package of scented wipes,"she interjects. "Let's just hope it's not contagious to humans," he concludes with his most wicked smile.

The woman looks at him with a disgusted expression and backs away with the cart.

Sherlock and Rosie high-five each other, bursting into laughter.

"This is the last time I take you two to the supermarket," John comments shrilly, shaking his head. But then, after a few seconds, he laughs too and brushes his shoulder with his, and then takes his hand as well, to better make arrive the message across to the woman still in line behind them, to all the clients of the supermarket and possibly to the whole world. Sherlock turns to him and smiles, pleased. Rosie plunges back into reading.

°°°

"You have to push, not pull!!!"

"Then say it, right?"

"I can't believe you know every metal alloy in this world by heart and then can't unscrew a bolt."

"Listen John, are you sure this is the system to..." he doesn't make it to the end of the sentence, that the tube of the water heater decides to rebel against the treatment and gives way, ejecting a jet of water that completely drenches him.

"Never mind," Sherlock notes, phlegmatically, with curls dripping down his face. John lets go of the wrench in his hand and starts laughing like a madman. Sherlock looks at him impatiently, while the purple shirt, soaked with water, clings to the skin of his chest.

John notices and stops laughing instantly. And then he stares at him. And licks his lips. "How wrong was I to give you another one?" he asks him with his voice already hoarse.

"I don't know, you tell me," the detective replies with a challenging smile.

Three seconds later Sherlock finds himself slammed against the bathroom tiles with John's tongue in his mouth and his hands running over every inch of wet fabric, under the broken water heater that continues to drip.

"Daaaddies, can you come here?? There's a clown in our living room!"

Sherlock and John reluctantly stop making out like a couple of teens and quickly part their ways.

Rosie faces the bathroom door. She's still wearing her school uniform. Shoulder-length blonde curls, a sprinkling of freckles, and the same laughing eyes as Mary. She's almost nine years old; she recently started fourth grade school and is doing great.

"What are you doing?" she laughs seeing them all wet.

"Your dad broke the water heater," Sherlock reports.

"Whaaaat? Actually I was trying to fix it! He's the one who..."

"Okay, sorry to interrupt but there really is a clown in our living room," the little girl says in a wise tone.

John and Sherlock look at each other and then follow her into the other room, where there is actually a guy dressed as a clown with a laptop in his hand, asking for help with a case that will later turn out to be a full eight.

°°°

John and Sherlock and Rosie are standing in front of Mary's grave. It's not black and gloomy like Sherlock's fake one. It's white, and lit by her smile shining in the picture.

Rosie has a white lily in her hand, and she places it gracefully at the foot of the headstone. It's cold, she's wearing a red coat and her blonde hair braided into two braids that fall over her shoulders, her head covered by a white cap. She is tall for her age, and long. She is already beginning to look more like a little girl than a baby. It has been exactly ten years since Mary left, and she will soon be eleven years old.

She sits on the grass and holds out both hands to her dads, who grab them, and pull them down, and then they sit next to her, John on the left, and Sherlock on the right.

"Tell me one more time about when I was born," she asks.

John smiles and shakes his head. "But you've heard that story a thousand times," he tells her.

"I don't care, I want to hear it again," she replies decisively, her eyes fixed on her mom's picture.

"All right," John sighs with a smile. "Your dad wanted to arrest a jellyfish," he begins.

"Yeah, and your dad missed 59 of your mom's calls," Sherlock replies in that saccharine tone of his, "at which point we immediately realized we were in trouble," he adds with a small smile.

"We rushed to pick her up to take her to the hospital," John resumes, "and your father was always on the phone on the way," he gives him an amused look of reproach.

"Yeah, but then your mom smashed my face into the window... and then within two seconds you were being born... while your dad was driving the car... I was really terrified," laughs the detective.

"And then by the time I stopped the car, he'd already got you," John says with a sweet smile.

"We put you over your mama's heart, and she held you tight and said you were the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen," Sherlock whispers.

"And we covered you with daddy's coat," John adds.

"Which is therefore, for all intents and purposes, the first thing you ever wore," the detective points out with another sweet smile.

Rosie reaches under the flap of his coat, as she does every time she hears this story, and hugs him. And he returns the embrace by wrapping her in that dark, warm fabric. And then they both extend their arms to John, who joins in on the hold.

Mary smiles at all three of them from the picture.

°°°

John and Sherlock are in their armchairs, discussing an old case with Greg, when they hear her open the door and rush up the stairs. Rosie walks through the door and bursts into the living room with a furious step, her eyes red with tears and all the stormy anger of her fifteen years.

She throws her school bag on the floor and crosses the room without a word, to go take refuge upstairs, in what has been her room for years and years now.

"Damn," Sherlock does, bowing his head.

"What's going on?" asks John getting up.

"Now is not the right moment, let her cool off," sighs the detective. "That jerk must have cheated on her. I knew it, that's how it would end."

John makes a murderous expression and heads for the living room table.

"Don't take the gun, John," Sherlock says, scratching behind one ear with his violin bow.

"Hey, come on!" interjects Lestrade laughing good-naturedly, "this is childrens’ stuff, you can't react like that!"

"Indeed," agrees Sherlock. And then he adds, with his most wicked smile, bringing his hands together under his chin, "there are plenty of other, more elegant ways to get back at us. I can think of at least a dozen already."

"Every once in a while I get the feeling that you two don't remember that I'm in the police," Greg shakes his head.

°°°

John and Sherlock haven't spoken in four days. It started with a silly argument for some reason they don't even remember anymore, and then it continued in a crescendo of repartee and sulkings. A war of pride. They've argued before, like all couples in their thirteen years together, but it's never gone this long before.

They're in the kitchen stubbornly ignoring each other, Sherlock at the microscope, John busying himself around the teapot, when Molly bursts into the apartment flanked by Rosie.

"That's enough," the coroner snarls. "Decide which one of you is coming to spend some time with Tom and me. You obviously have nothing more to say to each other, so it's not healthy for you to continue living under the same roof. You need a break."

They both look at her surprised, and then at each other.

"Sounds good to me," John finally comments, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, me too," Sherlock agrees, standing up and crossing his arms as well, in the flutter of his burgundy robe.

"Well, I'll wait downstairs, hurry up and decide," Molly concludes resolutely.

Rosie looks at them shaking her head with a hard and vaguely disappointed expression, and then sets off towards her room at a determined pace.

The two of them follow her with their eyes, disconsolate.

"Fine, I'll go," John finally does.

"No!" exclaims Sherlock in a tone that comes out all too pained. "No," he repeats more softly. "I'm the one who has to go, you stay with Rosie."

John inhales sharply. "No way," he replies. "I can't stay here without..."

"Without what?" asks Sherlock searching his eyes with his.

"Without you. Asshole," John admits, turning his back on him.

After not even ten seconds he feels his chin resting on his shoulder and his arms encircling his chest, as he's still randomly fiddling with the teapot.

"It's been a long time since you called me that," he says into his neck, his voice choked.

"It's been a long time since you've pissed me off like that," John replies in a still harsh tone.

"Come on, it was a contributory fault," Sherlock whispers, sniffing him.

It's been a week since they've brushed against each other, and his scent has the effect on him of the most perfect drug after a decade of abstinence.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop using criminal code language while you're talking about our relationship," the doctor retorts, trying to maintain a colorless voice.

"Turn around."

"No."

"Look at me."

"No!"

"Please."

"If I look at you, we will end up crying and kissing like two teenagers," John quips.

"How do you know if you don't try?" retorts Sherlock with his iron logic.

John turns around. Sherlock looks at him with the abandoned puppy expression that always works.

After two seconds they are kissing each other, wrapped in a smothering embrace.

Rosie, who is peering at them from around the corner, shakes her head, smiles, retrieves her ready-made backpack, and casually walks across the living room.

"Hey, where are you going?" they practically ask her in chorus, breaking away abruptly.

"I'm going to sleep over at Aunt Molly's," she replies. "Tom has the chess tournament finals, it's our girls' night." And she disappears down the stairs, with a sly smile identical to Mary's. Her plan worked to perfection.

For being only 17, she already understands some things much better than the two of them.

°°°

John and Sherlock are at the window in front of the lectern, both of them peering down Baker Street holding up the curtains, one on each side.

The cab pulls away, slowly merging into the traffic.

On board is Rosie, who turned 18 last winter and recently graduated from college with honors. In a few weeks she'll be transferring to the university, where she's already been accepted, but now she's leaving for a nice vacation in Greece with her friends.

As the cab disappears from their sight, Sherlock lets go of the curtain, which falls back down into place, melodramatically.

"Here we are," he gives him, with a smile that is on the verge of becoming wistful. "Just you and me again in this old house."

"Yeah," John nods, letting go of the curtain as well.

The summer afternoon light that illuminates them grows more muffled.

"Now, what do we do?" asks Sherlock, looking around, momentarily lost.

John is silent for a few moments. Then, suddenly, he speaks. "I have an idea," he makes, in a mischievously amused tone.

°°°

"But you do eat, yes?"

"Of course I eat, Dad."

"Don't just eat junk food though... eat vegetables."

"Don't worry, I swear I can handle it."

"I don't doubt that... you're the smartest girl in the whole of the UK." John's smile reaches her across the cool surface of the smartphone. She smiles back.

"Grandma Martha?" she asks him, a little apprehensively.

"She's resting," he replies.

"I'll say hello next time, then... I have to hang up now, I have class in an hour... can you pass me dad for a second?"

"Wait a minute, I'll see if I can get him off his old microscope for a moment... I don't know what he's up to, I won't tell you what condition the kitchen is...".

Rosie laughs heartily, shaking her short-cut blonde curls. She can imagine it perfectly.

She listens to John's breathing into the handset. It's a little fatigued. He, the very one who has never smoked a single cigarette in his life.

"Eternal sunshine," the unmistakably warm voice apostrophizes her.

"Do you know I have it in the programme of my English Literature exam?" she replies to him.

“Then it's going to be the best English Literature exam in King's College history."

Rosie laughs again.

“I love you, daddy. Don't destroy the kitchen."

"I'll do my best, but I can't guarantee anything."

She feels like she can see him, his sly grin still perfectly the same as when she was a child.

"The bees?" she asks him.

"They do their work," Sherlock replies. "We're making the best honey in all of Sussex this year."

"I can't wait to taste it. See you soon."

"See you soon... happy birthday... and best of luck... remember, the game never ends."

Rosie closes the call, puts the phone down on her desk, and reaches for the anthology of modern and contemporary English literature.

She hears a knock on the door to her room. She rolls her eyes, then says, "Come in!"

Her friend Lily sticks her head inside the door. "Happy birthday to you!" she hums. "Come on over to the common room, the Spanish students made sangria!".

Rosie shakes her head. "Let's celebrate tonight when I'm done with the chapter," she replies.

"Come on, Damian's here too, he even asked about you," Lily tempts her.

Rosie bites her lip, barely smiling. No, duty first.

"Then tell him to wait until tonight," she replies.

Lily twists her mouth. "Someday you'll remember that you spent your 21 birthday day studying English Romanticism and you'll regret it bitterly!" she gives her. And then she smiles fondly at her.

"I don't doubt it," Rosie says, smiling as well, with Mary's twinkling eyes, John's adamancy, and Sherlock's methodical posture. Her friend throws her a kiss and closes the door again.

Rosie sighs. The exam is only a few days away and she needs to go over a lot more of the anthology. Despite all the chemistry and medicine she has been immersed in since childhood, she has always known that her one true love is literature.

She decides to indulge herself with just a little gratification before moving on with her study. She opens the large volume to the chapter on Alexander Pope, locates her favorite passage from Heloise to Abelard and for the umpteenth time begins to read:

 How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.

_.(¯`-._.-THE END-._.-´¯)._