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Chapter Text

John is nursing his fourth beer.

This is his first time at Mary's flat and the pair have just managed to hobble out of a cab and up the stairs of her building. After a moment of fumbling, John had taken the keys from her and opened the door, commenced snogging her through the threshold until they landed messily in her kitchenette, where Mary offered a nightcap. John can't think of a reason to decline and now watches her hands as she gets down two glasses from the cabinet, then splays her neat fingers out as she sits across from him at the rickety dining table in the center of the room.

Everything seems more ethereal during the twilight hours, even inside modest flats like this one.

The paintings displayed on the mantel, for instance, would not look out of place in a second-hand shop, but now, with the faint light coming from outside the window and the gentle buzzing of old appliances in the air, John can't help but find them remarkably beautiful. 

He tells this to Mary.

"They were in the closet when I moved in," She says. "Guess no one is missing them."

It is not until Mary sighs and leans close that John realizes he must be staring.

"You're doing it again."

"What would that be?" John asks, tries his best to smile at her.

She sees through him so easily, even after a night of imbibing.

"That look," She explains. "Sometimes you look off into nothing with the saddest puppy-dog face."

John opens his mouth to protest, but Mary halts him.

"It's very mysterious, which I do like in a man, but sometimes you worry me."

Her smile, gentle and sincere, tells John that she is willing to drop the conversation there and simply laugh it off like just another instance of their playful banter for the sake of keeping their love-drunk buzz from turning into something more serious.

John can't help but feel taken with Mary for that. For all the things she lets slide under the rug. For never being angry with him for clamming up when the topics of family or childhood come up. For never prying to know more, but not for a lack of caring. It is clear that she does care. Very much, in fact. She is patient when things grow quiet between them, when John retreats into his own head. She never fusses when he cancels plans or takes longer than what is considered polite to answer a call or a text.

Mary respects the boundaries that John is not even aware he has set for himself. 

It is because of this, her understanding, that John feels the undeniable urge to confide in her something to show how much he cares, too.

He takes a drink. "This is the first time I've been to another person's flat in a long time."

Mary blinks several times, visibly unsure of the significance of this revelation. John continues.

"Our first date was actually my first in over a year."

The gears are slowly turning behind Mary's eyes as she begins slipping puzzle pieces, seemingly unmatched just before, together.

"That seems like a long time," She says, though it comes as more of a question. Mary has no way of knowing that year without dating might as well be a millennium for Three Continents Watson.

John nods. "Yeah. Someone died."

Comprehension washes over Mary and she reaches forward to hold John's hand between both of hers. In her warm hands, his own feels limp and cold. "I'm so sorry, John."

For a reason he can't quite decipher, John chuckles. 

It feels almost... like relief. To open up to another person outside his therapy sessions, where there are no expectations, no one taking notes as he stares at the clock for an hour while refusing to expand on all his 'yes'/'no' answers. This simple confession feels like an answer for all the concerns Mary never voices, for all the undesirable qualities about him.

Because being in mourning has a way of excusing one's undesirable qualities, one's actions.

Once John gives Mary this breadcrumb, she is emboldened to ask questions. They are delicate at first. Innocent. Who? When?

Then, the indelicate.

"How did it happen?" Mary asks.

They have moved to the sofa. She has her arms wrapped around his middle and is leaning on him in a way that speaks of greater levels of intimacy than they actually share. They haven't even slept together, yet.

John swallows and looks ahead, speaks to the cheaply framed artwork on the mantle.

"He killed himself."

Mary, in her generosity, continues to hold him tight. She doesn't flinch or gasp or, thankfully, ask him to elaborate.

After that, there is really no going back.

John talks for another hour without pause. Their drinks are long forgotten on her coffee table and the rings of condensation stay behind as a reminder for as long as the table is in Mary's possession.

He realizes he is talking, talking far too much, even, and how rude it must be, but he can't stop himself. Talking about Sherlock eases the tension between his shoulders and makes his cheeks ache in the most wonderful way. In a way he hasn't felt in a long time. It's like discovering the madman all over again, but all the more sweet with Mary there to share it with him.

The hour is growing late (or early, rather), and John concludes his final musing with a small smile, which Mary reciprocates. 

They had both prepared for the evening with the intention they would finally have sex. John had shaved just before leaving to meet her at the pub. Wore his best shoes, tried to style his hair. 

Mary is still smiling up at him and crosses one of her bare legs over his lap. The hem of her dress is rucked up past her thighs and John doesn't feel improper in the slightest when he spreads his hand, palm just above her knee, over her smooth skin. The sofa dips under their combined weight, creaks when they adjust. 

Now is the moment, John thinks. Now she will either kiss me and ask me to stay, or say she's tired and offer to let me sleep on this ancient sofa for a few hours before walking to the tube station and going home with my head hung low. 

Instead, Mary says, "You talk about him like a lost love."

And what is he supposed to say to that? 

Sherlock wasn't a lost love. Isn't a lost love. They were never together, not even casually, and nothing close to lovers, but John did feel strongly for him. Still does. Sherlock was the brother in arms that he had only found before when out on the battlefield. They were friends. More than average friends, sure, but never in the romantic sense. Just friends.

On days without sufficient stimulation, when John would walk around the flat on egg shells lest he provoke his flatmate into a lecture on the ranks of criminals that selfishly are failing to provide even halfway decent casework, he would settle into his chair, busy his hands with either his laptop or a book, and wonder what Sherlock Holmes was like before they met.

Sherlock didn't have friends. Not then, not ever. Childishly, John wondered if Sherlock even considered him to be his friend. 

Sherlock had acquaintances, if they could be called that; Lestrade, Molly. They helped with the work and were friendly enough that John would venture to call them mutual friends of theirs, but did Sherlock think of them as such, or just as colleagues? 

Then there was Mrs Hudson, who was certainly more than a landlady (and certainly not a housekeeper), and very much a motherly figure, but could a mother be considered a friend?

Who else...? They didn't have friends.

They didn't have friends.

The revelation hits John like a train. 

He had always thought Sherlock was the antisocial one, the one who didn't care to understand social norms or bonding, while he was the genial one. He had always thought he helped Sherlock navigate the finer intricacies of human interactions. He had always thought that, at least in this area, he and Sherlock could not be any more different.

Yet, here John was, friendless. The friend he thought he had had in Sherlock is gone, possibly never existed.

"Let me come through, please. He's my friend."

Well, it existed on his end. A lot of things between himself and Sherlock were really just between John and himself. He refuses to think that everything Sherlock ever told him was a lie, knows without a doubt that his genius was not a lie, but perhaps, maybe, the friendship John thought they shared was more one-sided than he had cared to examine while Sherlock had still been alive. 

Even so, nothing ever was, nor ever could be, placed in the same category as his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. Not even his companionship with Mary. 

She is looking at him still, but her gaze has turned from curious to concerned in the span of time John has silently taken to contemplate.

She is just starting to untangle herself from him when John finally slips back into the present. He places a hand over hers, not forcefully, but in a way he hopes is reassuring. Mary smiles as if it is.

And John says to her something he hasn't even allowed himself to think privately, "I did love him," softly. "I think."

Almost two years later, when they are just beginning the orchestrations of their wedding after the initially botched engagement is rectified, John finds himself questioning if Mary remembers that conversation. 

They had been fairly tipsy at the beginning of the night, which encourages forgetfulness. And aside from John’s personal admission, they had also admitted, if only in the physical sense, their own feelings towards each other. The next morning when they woke together slowly, Mary did not ask about his sexuality, nor did she the next morning or the morning after that. 

John and Mary continue their relationship on the up and the fact that John may or may not have harbored (might still harbor) something more than strictly platonic feelings towards his flatmate does not rest heavy on either of their minds. 

At least, it doesn’t until Mary, striving to sound casual, asks John if he has spoken to Sherlock about being his best man one night over supper preparations. 

Her hands are busy on the counter in front of her, back turned to John who is grabbing plates from the cabinet. He turns towards her, expecting to see anything other than the small blonde curls at the back of her head. 

When she doesn’t turn towards him, he clears his throat and takes the plates over to the table. The space this creates between them makes it easier to speak about him, somehow. 

“I haven’t said anything about Sherlock being the best man.”

“Well, who else would it be?”

The tone of this irks John; he has other friends. Why is it such a given that Sherlock Holmes should be his best man?

“There’s Mike-”

“Oh, John.”

He grits his teeth to keep from rattling the utensils he is placing on the table. “Or Greg.”

“Who?”

“Greg Lestrade. Does nobody–?”

He is cut short when Mary does finally turn to him with a devilish smirk, hands steadying the pan of food she’s delivering to the table. 

He huffs and sits down opposite her. Mary begins serving them both a hefty portion of fragrant seasoned chicken and vegetables. “What, you nervous he’ll turn you down?”

Her choice of words, turn you down, raises his shackles and he starts shoveling food into his mouth to keep from reacting in a way he would regret later. Or worse, give her the satisfaction of knowing she is right. 

Mary’s silence does eventually draw an answer out of John.

“I just don’t think he is the best person for that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” John can’t keep from smiling a bit. “He isn’t exactly good with people, is he? And there will be loads of them there. And he’ll be standing up there with us, you know, with the minister, and his views on marriage aren’t exactly romantic. He might say something uncouth.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m banking on.”

“Mary, this is our wedding.”

Mary pushes her elbows onto the table with a (distinctly Sherlockian) flourish and eyes her fiance. “Exactly.”

The forkful of green beans John had been about to pop into his mouth hangs in the air as he eyes her right back. “What? What do you mean?”

“We’re getting married, John. Is there anyone else you’d have up there with us? You see already the work he’s put into all the planning- more than my own bridal party! He has been here with us every step of the way, and uncouth or not, I think you’ll regret it if you don’t let him know what he means to you.”

John is taken aback for a moment before realizing what it is Mary is really trying to convey to him. “You think that if I ask anyone else, even if it's only because he isn't the safest option, he’ll take that to mean he isn’t my friend.”

“Your best friend.”

“What are we, seven?”

Mary settles her chin on her wrists and sighs. “You’ve said yourself that he doesn’t have friends. He obviously doesn’t expect you to ask him.”

The green beans are finally lowered back onto the plate. In Mary’s eyes John sees sincerity. She has campaigned for this friendship more than either of them have, surely. The morning after Sherlock’s return (and John’s abysmal attempt at proposing), she had put any sore feelings about their engagement aside and began reading John’s blog. The blog is possibly the best way to get to know Sherlock Holmes other than living and working with the man as John had. A virtual record of their friendship. The closest thing John had ever gotten to admitting that Sherlock meant something to him, even if only as friends.

“He doesn’t know. He deserves to know.”

Sherlock’s reaction, once John does make the trip to Baker Street to ask, is more than enough to make him believe Mary was right all along, and question whether a wedding is the right decision at all. The answer, John finds, is heartbreaking from every angle. 

Chapter Text

Sherlock wonders if John realizes that this task is inherently intimate. More so than is deemed socially acceptable for two gentlemen, certainly. Especially when one of them is engaged to be married.

The wedding is less than six months away. All the major details are finalized, save for this: the first dance.

The idea must be John's, his small contribution that wasn't coerced by either his bride or his own need to stick to social norms. Everything aside from this has been almost exclusively arranged by Mary, with assistance from her bridal party or Sherlock. Perhaps John was feeling guilty for not having more to say during the cake tasting and the venue tours and the visit to the florists. 

John approaches Sherlock with the idea and insists on a waltz, a homage to his own parents' wedding, which seems a contrived thought. John has no particular fondness towards them or the wedding that he has only ever seen a couple old photographs of, but seeing as he and Mary have so little family elements (and none of the family members will be in attendance), Sherlock does not question him.

Sherlock does know how to waltz. It is one of the many different styles of ballroom dancing he had learned as a youth. It can be argued, too, that the waltz is the simplest of ballroom dances to learn. The 3/4 time signature allows for few beats to be accompanied by few steps per measure.

This is lucky for John, as he seems to have been born with two left feet.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath to keep from cursing. This is the fourth time John has stomped on his foot.

"Let's take our shoes off," Sherlock says before John can mutter another apology. "My toes can't take much more."

Clad in socks, they continue. 

Sherlock dances the part of the bride and leads John in the role of the groom. Their heights and John's obvious discomfort and lack of experience hinders the process of teaching more than Sherlock had anticipated. They aren't even dancing to music yet, per Sherlock's suggestion they practice the steps first, unhurried. 

Their hands grow sweaty where they lay on each others' bodies after the first twenty minutes, and what started as self-deprecating chuckles has morphed into frustrated huffs and now are blossoming into the first shreds of confidence from John. 

"Let's try adding music," Sherlock suggests, and the two separate. 

John can feel prickles of perspiration at his hairline and goes to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and throws some back before offering the glass to Sherlock, which he takes.

The light exertion mixed with the lingering sensation of their arms wrapped around one another is pleasant, but only adds to the heat flooding John's body from head to toes. 

Sherlock leans against the desk and appraises John in that way he thinks John doesn't realize. The heat becomes almost unbearable under those scrupulous eyes. 

Before, when they had lived together, John had mastered the art of appearing unfazed under Sherlock’s ever-present observation. Sometimes he even welcomed it, daring Sherlock to see that which he keeps tucked deep, deep down, and would stare straight back into Sherlock’s icy gaze until the other man looked his fill. 

Things have certainly changed since then…

"Do you have a song picked?"

John looks pained for a moment, brushes some hair from the back of his neck. "Mary likes 'Can't Help Falling In Love."

He anticipates Sherlock's eye-roll and quickly begins to defend his bride's song choice. "An instrumental version. You know, something nice, like a small band composition."

"A first dance?"

John nods emphatically. 

Mary sets her mobile down on her chest and looks over to her fiance, nestled close to her in their bed. "We don't dance, darling."

"Well, no, we haven't before, but-"

"What's brought this about?"

John sees that playful twinkle in her eye and grins at her. "Good excuse to fondle your bum a bit before the honeymoon."

Mary chuckles and bumps her shoulder against his. "Pig."

John chuckles into her shoulder. She's just about to pick her mobile up again when John gently reaches over and stops her from doing so. 

She turns her face to him fully and John speaks before she can ask any questions.

"I know I haven't had much to add when it comes to the wedding planning, so I just thought-"

"Been bloody useless."

"And, you know, everyone always likes to see the couple dance-"

"When they can actually dance well."

"Yeah, and I know how you like it when I embarrass myself. Consider it my gift to you."

Mary can hardly contain her grin and throws her arms around John, kisses up his neck and the sides of his face. Her coquettish giggles make John feel like a young man again, like he just walked out with the woman every other man wanted. 

Mary has a way about her that makes him feel so free. 

When asked their opinion, others might say Mary is a bit of a plain-Jane. Unassuming, quiet. Perhaps it is just the way she presents herself: Mary is not one to demand attention. She is not one to place herself in positions of control or authority. Her approach to life is simple and her aims are modest. 

She is nice.

This is what had attracted John to her initially. She was safe and he felt safe allowing himself to fall for her. 

Now, just over a year into their relationship, he is happy to discover just how wrong he had been about her.

Mary is humble in her stance in life, but confident in herself. She is witty without being pretentious. She is composed and practical in the face of trouble, but not so serious that she could not laugh about it later. She is kind and forgiving and, yes, nice, but would never allow herself to be taken advantage of. 

Mary is stable and sure. And John, surprisingly, does not find this dull in the slightest. He loves it, actually.

He wants to show her just how much he adores all the facets of her, and knows that his interest in all things dealing with the wedding has been... lacking. He should really make it up to her. She deserves that.

He enjoyed dancing when he was young. No, he hadn't been good at it, but it had brought him joy. And wouldn't it be nice to share that with the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with?

Sherlock sets the glass down. "Very well," He sighs.

John reviews his footwork in the middle of the living room while Sherlock pulls up an instrumental version of the ballad on his laptop. 

He keeps the volume low so as not to overpower any questions or comments they might have for one another. The tendrils of strings and gentle percussion begin and the pair draw close to each other.

John looks down at his feet for a moment before remembering he should not. His eyes move to look at Sherlock's shoulder instead, reasoning that this is where Mary's eyes would meet his. He is certainly not trying to avoid sustained eye contact with Sherlock. 

The song is short, which they are both grateful for; John because it allows less time for him to make a fool of himself, and Sherlock because it means less time he will have to stand by and plaster on a happy face once the big day arrives, which seems to be hurtling towards him at a breakneck speed.

Though, to be honest, most days he wishes to fast forward, for the entire ordeal to be over and done with so he can get back to more important matters and stop suffering through Molly’s concerned glances whenever they are alone in the lab, and Mrs Hudson’s tsk-tsking, and Lestrade’s insistence that they get together for a pint, seeing as they are the two last bachelors of their ‘friend group’ he calls the half dozen people they share a mutual acquaintance of.

Then, other days, he wishes to bottle the date of May 18th and send it adrift into the Thames. It is a pretty scene, watching the date he is to lose John floating towards the mouth of the North Sea, and Sherlock imagines it often, mostly on the nights when he forces himself to lay in bed in a futile attempt at falling asleep.

Most days John, usually in the company of Mary, will stop by the flat after his shift at the clinic. 

When Mary joins them, they talk about flowers, centerpieces, seating charts, linens and serviettes, the guest list, the catering, and most recently, the music list.

This song hadn't been mentioned.

Sherlock allows John to take over more of the lead while he thinks over what this might mean.

Mary, though she has exceptional attention to detail, is not what one might call a bridezilla. 

She has no immediate family or particularly close friends that she feels obligated to impress, and is a woman of a certain age and maturity that understands that things such as the details of a wedding tend to either go according to plan or terribly wrong, both of which she is able to accept with poise.

No, Mary hadn't picked the song. The dance is John's idea, so of course he must have picked the song, too. 

Sherlock has always mocked John's romanticism, especially in his blog posts and the cheap poetry he wrote for the never-ending string of girlfriends that came in and out of the flat they once shared, but this is far worse than any of that.

This, the song, is sickeningly cliched. 

He should really say something, suggest something more sophisticated to spare his friend the embarrassment of dancing to this, but John is holding himself with a self-assurance he lacked when they first started and any comment Sherlock thought of making dies in his throat.

Adding the music does help. John is moving fluidly, no longer worried about smashing his partner's toes.

Sherlock loosens his grip until his hand is merely resting atop John's shoulder and allows himself the pleasure of being led.

The song repeats for a fifth time.

"Only took me an age, but I think I've got it," John beams.

Something stirs in Sherlock. John doesn't take notice and pulls their chests nearly flush. 

This isn't the first time Sherlock has been given the chance to admire the strong muscles of John's arms, John's chest.

They both went to be fitted for their tuxes just the week prior.

As Sherlock is (obviously) more fashionably inclined, he had the most say in the matters of style, cut, and color.

The top hat and tuxedo tails had been a horrible suggestion from their fitting attendant and one John ruled absolutely necessary, despite all of Sherlock's protests.

Then it was John's turn to step onto the pedestal to be measured and the attendant asked him to remove his jumper and jacket (the ever favorite combo).

What had originally felt like a formal affair turned profoundly personal when the bulk of layers was stripped and hung against the back of a nearby chair, leaving John clad in a thin, single layer of white from the waist up.

Despite John's best efforts to seem as if he were not uncomfortable, the laser-like attention John kept on the attendant, as if Sherlock were no longer in the room, and the tension in his jaw gave him away.

John did not like feeling exposed.

Here, in the middle of the flat, missing only his shoes, Sherlock sympathizes with the feeling.

For all his earlier self-consciousness, John is none the wiser.

Now, with a fair amount of practice together, the pair can be silent; no instructions from Sherlock, no curses from John. Sherlock appreciates the music as it swells and crests beautifully, though the composition itself is simple.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

Try as he might to keep it from happening, Sherlock feels his breath quicken.

Really, though, at this point, does he even need to worry about it? As they have gone this long without his feelings being exposed, he doubts John will ever suspect.

Mary must, Sherlock thinks.

She is everything Sherlock is not and even more clever; the quiet sort of clever, the kind no one can ever accuse her of being as it so rarely is brought in front of the spotlight, like Sherlock.

"I'll talk him round," She had said.

Disbelief. "You will?"

"Oh, yeah."

Her smile.

Sherlock should have known then, should have known that she would do exactly that.

Later that night, he imagined, after a tense cab ride back to their (originally Mary's) flat and going through the routine of preparing for bed, they would lay down together, both expecting the other to speak first.

It would be John.

Clever Mary would smile back and make good on her promise. Clever and inconspicuous, she would guide John back to Sherlock. 

She had heard stories about him before, of course.

(Even if she had been living under a rock, which is unlikely, and had no particular interest in pseudo-celebrities like Sherlock Holmes, sometime between meeting John and being [nearly] engaged to John, he would have brought up his previous flat mate.)

She knew that John, despite his current anger and mistrust towards Sherlock, would eventually forgive him and allow him back into his (their) life. She would be supportive, as any good partner should be, and John's fondness towards her would grow all the more because of it. 

Clever. Very clever.

Sherlock can appreciate it, Mary’s systematic pursuit to secure John Watson’s heart completely. If the outcome were in his favor, Sherlock would do the exact same. 

It would be so much simpler to hate her, but he can’t. In fact, he enjoys Mary. She, in many ways, is like John, and if not for the lack of physical attraction, he might have loved her in another life. He might have been the one that got down on a knee and asked for her hand table-side at the Landmark. He might have been the one seeking dancing help from his best friend cum best man.  

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

For I can't help falling in love with you

The strings pull together in one last peal.

They stand together, waiting for the other to decide what should happen next, whether they should pull apart.

John is worrying the satin material of Sherlock's shirt between his fingers.

Sherlock is too overcome with the fire slowly engulfing every inch of his body to squirm away from what should be a ticklish sensation; John's hand is still on his waist, easily the most ticklish part of one's anatomy, yet all he feels is fire. 

John's ears are tinted a beautiful shade of pink. He can’t look away.

Sherlock raises his hand, the one resting on his friend's shoulder, and strokes the heated skin. He traces his thumb over the helix and across the lobe, all the way to the sensitive area where the neck curves into the jaw. His eyes follow the path his thumb makes from there, all the way down John’s mandible, until stopping at his chin. Even with the barest touch, Sherlock can feel the muscles beneath contract and expand as John fights to speak, to not speak. 

John licks his lips and, without realizing, Sherlock mirrors the action.

A million microscopic insects are buzzing back and forth between Sherlock's ears. It should be alarming, the complete loss of control creeping over him, but... 

Sherlock can’t seem to find it in himself to mind at the moment. 

The slow, Dionysian movements of John's lips as they form words is hypnotizing. Their breaths are in tandem, sweet and wet, lingering in the mere inches between their mouths. The buzzing in Sherlock’s head is deafening, now.

Wait.

Words. Focus.

"What?"

As the buzz dims, so does the sparkle in John's eyes.

Sherlock's fingers twitch and he realizes that John is stepping away from him, gently removing Sherlock's hand.

John clears his throat. A clear sign of exasperation.

"The song, I said," Clears his throat again. "You're right. It's not right, it's cliche."

Sherlock clenches his jaw. He doesn't remember having said that out loud. Even if he had, he would take it back instantly if it meant John was back in his embrace. 

While fumbling with his shoes, John lists all the reasons to scrap the idea of a first dance completely. He leaves the flat quietly and that, that more than anything, drives Sherlock to lash out. He watches from the window as John trudges through the night, opting not to hail a cab, but to head towards Baker Street station to take the tube, like he knows Sherlock is watching him from the window and can’t stand to have the man’s eyes on his body for another moment. Only then does he approach the door, rip it open, and slam it shut with all his strength, the way he wishes John had done. 

He can handle anger. He understands anger. 

Whatever this feeling is, like sinking and drowning inside the ink pot of his mind, engulfed in dark, no way out, he can not make sense of. 

Sherlock's shoes are left abandoned in a corner of the living room for two days while he mopes around the flat, refusing cases and clients and yelling at Mrs Hudson far more than she should tolerate. Her quiet acceptance of his random outbursts just make him all the more angry. That woman knows far too much...

John texts and asks if Sherlock might like to play the violin for his and Mary's first dance, instead. It’s Mary's idea. 

He wonders if John realizes that this task is inherently more intimate. He wonders how Mary could be so unintentionally cruel. 

Sherlock doesn't bother to change out of his pajamas and robe, but does finally retrieve his shoes from the corner. 

He forces them on. The laces are too tight, but Sherlock tamps down the discomfort as he makes his way to the last corner store in London that will sell him a pack of cigarettes. 

Chapter Text

“Last one, I should think.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to this.

John knows better than to take it personally and begins pulling gauze from an impressive medical kit after settling himself in a chair across from Sherlock. 

The stipulation was that John would accompany Sherlock back to Baker Street and stay to oversee the remainder of Sherlock’s recovery. Of course, this was not a stipulation through the hospital or any sort of out-patient network; Mycroft had asked him, knowing his brother would discharge himself, regardless of any recommendations in opposition to this. 

John wants to believe he would have offered to do this anyway, but the thought hadn’t actually occurred until Mycroft began passionately pointing out how Sherlock’s connection to John, and therefore his connection to Mary and Magnussen, was to blame for his current state, which was indeed grim at the moment and remained that way as Sherlock did manage to leave the hospital without being detected by any of them until much later, when he chose to reveal himself.

The blow about Mary was all the more devastating when coupled with the danger this brought into what John had presumed to be their safe, secure lifestyle. Truly, Sherlock is never wrong; John is abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people. 

What John had not anticipated was how easily he could be without her. More devastating was the thought that… maybe it had always been this way and it only took Sherlock returning to make him realize that she was not as vital to him as he thought. Mary certainly was not as vital as Sherlock in John Watson’s life. 

This is how John comes to find himself dressing Sherlock’s wound several weeks post-op at the kitchen table of their flat. 

Yes, their flat. At least for now. 

He has a large suitcase of clothes and all his essentials back in his old upstairs bedroom. 

Mary messages him infrequently and only ever about the pregnancy. John keeps his responses short and doctorly, treating her more as a patient than as his wife from whom, only months into their marriage, he is more or less separated from. At least for now. 

Sherlock is not shy about disrobing in front of John and has done so almost every day since taking up their old living arrangement. By the same token, John is not shy about watching him disrobe. He had originally made a show of not watching and figured that Sherlock would appreciate the privacy, even if John got an eye full while patching him. Some things, like the way one undresses, are not meant to be seen by just anyone. 

Certainly not by estranged flatmates. Yes, flatmates. At least for now. Friends, once. Now?

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” John mutters. 

The hair of Sherlock’s chest is starting to grow back, save for the scar tissue, and the surgical tape pulls painfully. The area is cavernous and dark, still a long way from fading into a lighter shade of pink or even purple. Yellow bruising highlights the traumatized skin surrounding where the bullet entered and the subsequent incision and stitches from the surgery to remove it. The stitches dissolved shortly after Sherlock no longer needed sponge baths and could bathe properly, leaving behind pin holes. If he knew it wouldn’t bother John so much, Sherlock might call the pattern of craters and seams striking. 

Instead, they both keep quiet until the doctor finishes and gently folds the sides of Sherlock’s dressing gown back over his middle.

“All done.”

“Thank you.”

John’s lips draw into a thin line. He claps his hands over his knees and stands with a grunt. 

“Last one, I should think.”

Today marks 12 weeks since surgery. 6 weeks since the chest tube was removed. Everything is sealed, crudely speaking. Aside from a general fatigue he can not shake and the soreness (which he welcomes after being so doped on the morphine that he would lose track of hours, even days), Sherlock seems healed, though not near his ideal physical performance standards. 

Walking up and down the stairs, which John asks him to do at least once a day for his benefit, takes all his strength and he finds himself spending a fair amount of time recuperating in Mrs Hudson’s kitchenette, laboring to get his breathing under control. She always offers him a glass of water and easy conversation. The trek back up is always worse and leaves his muscles shaking.

More than once John has met him halfway up the staircase to assist him. 

At the beginning, when he first returned home and realized John would be joining him, Sherlock was eager to reach the 6 week mark and have the flat back to himself. John put the brakes on that idea when he left with his suitcase one morning and, much to Sherlock’s surprise, returned with it packed full of clothes again. 

John stayed to oversee the incision from the chest tube healed properly and help Sherlock ween off the remainder of his pain medications. He also assists around the flat, but Sherlock knows that is more for John’s own sanity than to further help Sherlock.

Now, with his dressing gown being the only barrier between his bare chest and the open air, Sherlock wished to rewind. 

Week 7 had been a turning point. Sherlock finds it impossible to pinpoint the exact moment the silence ceased being awkward and John’s gentle reminders to eat, sleep, or medicate turned from stern to friendly. John began joking with him again. Sherlock returned to his usual, demanding self. John allowed him to be with good humor. They laughed and bickered. John pushed Sherlock to exert himself and stay healthy. Sherlock sighed and put on a show of detesting each exercise. John watched him while pretending to read the paper.

They shared their morning tea and each meal. Before retiring each night, John would check that Sherlock did not need anything before turning out all the lights and going upstairs. 

It was nice. Not like it was before Sherlock jumped from Bart’s, but nice. They were comfortable and things were easy in a way Sherlock had not realized he needed since returning to London. 

In a way, he finally got what he wanted. John was at Baker Street with him, safe and sound. Happy, even. He hummed while he cooked in the kitchen and kicked his feet up when watching telly. He smiled often, usually because of something Sherlock said or did. 

Sherlock knew their time together was coming to an end before John had even mentioned anything. The tightness in John’s jaw and left hand were indicator enough, even if he had not noticed John’s toiletries were no longer stored next to his in loo and his dirty clothes were not in a pile with Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock stays seated in his chair as John packs up his kit for the last time. 

He had not hummed while making breakfast this morning. 

Sherlock leans back as much as his muscles will allow without becoming painful and prepares for the blow.

John clears his throat, keeps his eyes resolutely on what his hands are doing. “Since you’ve been doing so well, I don’t think there’s much need for me anymore.” He tries to smile. “Think I’ll head back home tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight?” 

John’s hand falters and a roll of tape bounces across the desktop. “Well, I still need to pack my things.”

“You’ve already packed most everything. What remains wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to look up to see the hurt on John’s face, can feel it like electricity in the space between them. 

With a small shake of his head, John retrieves the tape and replaces it before zipping his kit closed. He makes no move for it after that, however, and it remains there as it has for the last 12 weeks. 

“You must be itching to have the flat back to yourself.”

“No.”

At this, John turns. Sherlock keeps his face neutral and the emotion from his voice as he speaks to the floor.

“It was never my wish for you to leave in the first place, John. Why would I wish for you to leave now?”

In his peripheral Sherlock can see John’s fists clench, unclench. They never speak about this, about Sherlock’s time away, about John vacating Baker Street after Sherlock’s funeral, about Sherlock’s disinterest in another flat share. 

“Yes, well. I couldn’t exactly afford this place on my own, could I.”

Sherlock shrugs, goes to cross his arms over his chest and then thinks better of it.

John scoffs and turns to walk away. 

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson would have–”

“I couldn’t stay. Alright?”

After so long knowing John Watson, Sherlock Holmes knows a dismissal when he hears one. He does not bring up how he knows about the offer from Mycroft that would enable John to continue living at Baker Street, should he have wanted. Let John think that there are some things I don't know about...

Later, after a tense dinner, Sherlock begins clearing their plates, sidestepping around John as he begins storing leftovers in the fridge, knowing they will more than likely end up in the bin or forgotten in the fridge until Mrs Hudson stumbles upon it some day while cleaning. 

The faucet is on just long enough for the water to warm when another hand abruptly shuts it off again. Sherlock looks up at John, sleeves rolled up and hands in the sink, and frowns. 

For a moment, John is still. Sherlock does not know what to make of this and reacts by not reacting at all. The cutlery clinks as it floats to the bottom of the sink, then silence. 

John swallows, inhales. There is a singular twitch under his left eye that alerts Sherlock to how distressed he must be, distressed but determined to speak whatever it is he is working up the nerve to say. 

“I’m not happy about this either,” John says quietly.

Sherlock’s frown deepens. 

“And I know that you won’t ask me to stay. Because I can’t.” John taps the sink with his fingers a few times, repositions his feet. Nervous energy. “Mary is so far along with the pregnancy and there is still so much to do with the nursery… I haven’t been there to help out. I need to be there.”

“I know.”

John finally looks at him. His eyes are wide, as if he just realized something for the first time. Soft sloshing as Sherlock begins pinching his fingers together beneath the water. If he had known John was going to speak more on this, he might have waited to do the cleaning. 

Or not. Perhaps he would have retreated to his room to avoid the conversation entirely. John, surely, knew that was a possibility and chose now for that exact reason. 

Reeling his arms back into himself, John straightens, appraises Sherlock head-on. Sherlock does his best not to fidget under his gaze. He detests that his toes clench of their own accord, as if preparing to flee. 

“I know you won’t ask me to stay,” John says again. “But just know that I wish you would. And I wish that I could.” 

Sherlock is vibrating with the need to turn away, to leave, to go anywhere that is far and away from here, but he can’t make himself, not with John as hollow as he seems now, like a simple breath might knock him down. He needs Sherlock to offer him something. Closure, perhaps. An assurance that his leaving will not ruin all the progress Sherlock has made, all the progress of their previously strained friendship. 

And who is Sherlock to deny John what he needs?

He’s still angry.

Yes. SH

He wants to come back tomorrow.

Yes. SH

Would you do me a favor, Sherlock? Let him come back. 

I’m not keeping him hostage. SH

No, but he won’t be happy about leaving. You both 

understand that he needs to, but neither of you will

 be happy about it. Do me a favor, please, and make 

it as easy for him as you can. 

How am I supposed to do that? SH

“Go be with your family. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

Perhaps, aside from falling to what could have been his very real death in order to keep John safe, this is the most selfless thing Sherlock has ever done. Certainly John appreciates this act more, judging by his smile and the pleased pat on the shoulder he gives Sherlock. His footsteps are steady as they ascend the stairs to his room for the last time.

Sherlock stares at the dishes in the sink until his hands are pruned and freezing.

Chapter Text

See, in the white of the winter air

The day hangs like a rose.

It droops down to the reaching hand

Take it before it goes.

- Horace (Odes I.11)

Tightness over his skin roots him down. Even if he were fit enough to attempt an escape, he has no way of undoing the binds at his wrists and ankles. He is only coherent enough to understand that he is in danger, but not so coherent that he can do anything about it other than lay on his side and stay alert, which is a struggle indeed. 

The bone-deep pain and exhaustion have him quivering. Or is he… vibrating? Surely he must be, because he can hear the pain all around him, projecting from the hard surface he is curled upon and the infinite black all around. Everything is vibrating painfully.

The pain turns the black to blinding white, which then breaks down to the baser colors; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Refractions of agony dispersing out of him. 

He drags his head back and forth, round and up and down, trying to find anything that could help him or give him an indication of where he is or what is happening. There are no clues to be found in the black. So rich is the black that he can even taste it; like soot and blood. 

Slowly, and with much effort, he comes to realize that he has been captured. 

Overhead, across the ocean, there are helicopters and their propellers beat at a deafening tempo. His legs carry him to and over his physical limit. His knees turn to anchors and suddenly he is sinking.

Collapsed on the ground, he pulls his hands against his chest. There are voices telling him to stop. There are more voices telling faceless others to fire. 

Sherlock’s hand trembles as he pulls it away from his chest, raises it to his head. 

More voices. They are giving him one last chance to surrender, to put the gun down before they shoot him themselves, either with tranquilizers or with their own bullets, except these would only further his suffering instead of putting an end to it. 

He yells back at them. In the future, he will realize that yelling is a waste of effort, fighting is a waste of effort. He eventually learns that going peacefully is better. 

Going peacefully is always the better option. Smarter. Going peacefully means rest, even if only for the short time it takes for his captors to transport him from where he is apprehended to where they are going to imprison him. Going peacefully means time to better organize his thoughts, to formulate a plan of attack (sometimes literally) or escape (more often literally). 

Across the ocean with helicopters overhead, Sherlock does not go peacefully. 

This is the first time. He does not know any better, yet. 

Across the ocean there is black and soot and blood and pain. His body is assaulted in ways he had only understood abstractly, before, as a detective. He has witnessed the most horrible acts mankind is capable of; beatings, burns, strangulation, decapitations, bloodletting, mutilation, torture. All of it was easy to comprehend from his place above, looking down at a stranger's dead body. It was easy, even, to comprehend how one could be driven to do such things, things like torutre, things that end with death. 

It is completely different to experience such things firsthand. 

Rope around his throat. Knives over his body. Flames searing flesh. Drowning, dehydration. Starvation. Whips tearing him open until he is freely bleeding down his back, his legs, until he is standing in all the expulsions of his body; excrement, piss, and blood. That should be the worst, but no, worse than that is the continual state of wakefulness, being forced to remain aware all the while he is being mutilated and interrogated because awareness means he has the capacity to think . 

Sherlock thinks about warmth. He thinks about sitting, laying, bending at the knees and elbows. He thinks about light. 

He thinks about the mellifluous singing of a blunt object as it swings through the air just before making contact with his skull. 

He tries to think of nothing at all and thinks instead about the appeal of being born ordinary, about being normal and average and of so little mental capacity that he might not ever suffer such pain as he is right now as a result of his mental prowess. 

Intense light bathes him. He squints up into it.

A woman is speaking somewhere above him. He tries to lift his head, but can not stop shaking long enough to sit up properly. 

“Well?” Mrs. Hudson says to someone that is certainly not him. “On you go! Examine him!”

It is John’s shift. 6:00-10:00. 

Molly wrapped some of Sherlock’s birthday cake from the night before and the two of them are tucking into it now, each hunched over their respective dessert plates in their respective chairs. John does not favor chocolate, and the overly thick frosting coats his mouth in a way that has him chugging water like a parched man, but Sherlock keeps giving him quick, timid looks between bites, so John bares through, even if just to keep from having to talk a little bit longer.

Mary has not made an appearance. Not since last night, when John spoke to her as a vision conjured by his own guilty conscience. He spoke to her and admitted his unfaithfulness to her. 

“It was just texting,” Sherlock says as they prepare to leave 221B for the cake place. “People text. Even I text.”

John blinks.

“Her, I mean,” Sherlock says. He won’t look at John. “ The Woman. Bad idea. I try not to, but you know, sometimes…”

John sighs, trying not to smile. Of course Sherlock texts back. He can never not have the last word, especially when it comes to flirting with the world’s most devious dominatrix. 

Sherlock looks over at John, then. “It’s not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human.”

John barely manages to reel himself in before scoffing. “Even you?”

The extremity of comprehension held in Sherlock’s eyes as he speaks is desolating. “No. Even you.”

John had wanted so badly to be the man Mary thought he was when they married, just as Mary had undoubtedly wanted to be the woman John thought he had married. 

She was supposed to be the safer option. 

He was supposed to be a safe option, too. 

John’s left hand, the one balancing the piece of cake, is shaking. Sherlock is watching him, dessert plate nowhere in sight. The light is softer now. 

This happens often these days. Time passes without John realizing. Last night he drank himself to sleep with his head against his fist, hunched on the floor outside his bedroom. He can’t bring himself to sleep in the same bed he once shared with Mary, the bed they made love in and woke up together countless times in. The bed John would lay in, facing away from his wife as he texted a nameless young stranger from the bus stop. 

John clears his throat and checks his watch. Still an hour to go. 

With little to say to each other since John’s last shift (where he bared it all and allowed himself to cry into Sherlock’s chest) and without Rosie around to act as a mediator or offer some distraction, John looks to the dimming embers of the fireplace and continues to lose track of time.

Someone is humming to him. 

There is also the gentle rolling of water across his arms and back. Fingertips are scrubbing over his scalp. He turns his head and then there are lips kissing his face. He opens his eyes and sees Mary, though her features are greatly out of focus due to her proximity. One of her blonde curls drips down onto his cheek. 

“It’s bad luck to see each other the night before the wedding, you know.”

John's eyes fall closed again as he smiles. “Do you know how that became a custom?”

Quietly, Mary resumes her humming. John answers anyway.

“When families still primarily arranged marriages for their children, there was a big fear on the bride’s side that the groom would see the bride and call the entire thing off, on account of her being unattractive. So families started making the arrangements with the stipulation that the betrothed would not see each other until the ceremony.”

Mary is humming still, but pausing often, as if forgetting her place.

“That’s where the veil comes in, too.” Drops of water splatter this way and that as John begins waving his hands about. “The bride’s family would wait until the last possible second, literally after the vows have been said and all that remains is the big smooch to seal the deal, to unveil the bride’s face. Literally, unveil it. Just out of fear that she may not be to the groom’s liking.”

“Mm. Did Sherlock te–”

“Sherlock was telling me about it.”

John looks down. The water is sloshing about, almost over the lip of the tub. What was intended to be a romantic bubble bath has turned into a murky mess, with thick suds skimming the surface of the water. 

Mary puts her hands on his shoulders. John begins to settle; he was not aware he was so animated. With Mary’s hands guiding him back, John sinks back below the water. The ripples subside. 

Mary’s knees are cradling him. He looks down through the foam and places his hand over one, sighing.

“What is it?” Quiet trepidation. If she were not so close to him, John might not have noticed it. 

He squeezes her leg. “Nothing, love,” He reassures her. 

They exit the tub and help one another dry before tucking into bed, nude. They lay together, side by side. The humidity from their bath and the time of year has turned the flat warm, prompting them to kick the blankets off. 

To the ceiling, “Next time we fall asleep together, we’ll be married.”

“Assuming we ever fall asleep tonight,” John quips. 

Mary does not miss a beat. “Or tomorrow night.”

John chuckles and Mary joins. They turn towards each other and soon their chests are no longer shaking with laughter, but with desire. Afterwards, with damp skin, they stay close together, unashamed of their debauched state and favoring sleep over cleaning themselves up.

Mary falls asleep against him with her fingers tucked into a relaxed fist over the middle of his chest, knuckles just hovering over the outermost bundle of scar tissue from his bullet wound. 

John can always count on Mary when it comes to two things: her forthrightness and her quick wit. He remembers the first time he made himself bare in front of her. Her eyes looked up into his, then down, appraising his chest, before her hands went to unclasp his belt. She looked at his scar only briefly, but John had expected her to say something, at least just to put it behind them, or perhaps some sharp, playful comment to ease the tension. Instead, Mary just pushed his trousers and pants down his thighs and she never spoke or hinted about his scar, never asked about John’s time in the military, only took the rare tidbits of information that he supplied of his own volition. 

John comes back to the present. His plate is gone and at his side is a cup of tea. Sherlock is staring at him, still. 

John wonders what Sherlock would say. Wonders if Sherlock has ever wondered about his scar. He does, after all, have a rather unhealthy attraction to the macabre. Not for the first time, John thinks it rather surprising that Sherlock has never asked to see it, if only to know what lasting damage a long range sniper rifle can cause. Maybe, after examination, Sherlock would want John to recount how grueling the recovery process was, or the procedures and methods used to keep his body alive while he was in a coma. Most of the knowledge John has from that time is based on what his doctors told him, candidly, professional to professional. And Sherlock is more knowledgeable about human anatomy than the average person, so John wouldn’t have to dumb anything down or sugar over the gruesome details. 

Sherlock wouldn’t be squeamish about seeing it. John knows. He wouldn’t shy away from touching the puckered skin from where the bullet entered or the marred ropes of skin where it blew out of him. 

John raises his hand to his shoulder without realizing. 

Sherlock’s eyes are tracking his every movement and even though John tries to cover the action by lifting his hand to scratch at his neck, he is aware that Sherlock is aware of what he was thinking about. About Afghanistan. About the pain that has returned to his leg and shoulder since Mary’s death. 

They both go to speak at the same time. 

“I should–”

“Are you–”

They look at each other apologetically. John motions for Sherlock to go on.

“Are you picking up Rosie on your way home?”

John looks at the time on his mobile. 10:02. Greg is late. “Oh. Yeah, I told Molly I’d be around at 10:30.”

Sherlock nods, looks down at his knees as he speaks. “You could bring her with you. Next time.”

There is pleading, silent, behind his words. Does he miss Rosie? It is possible. They have not been together since the funeral. And Sherlock has not been trusted alone to babysit since months before then. 

“Yeah. Um, maybe,” John says.

John knows this is not likely, and can tell that Sherlock sees right through his lie when their eyes finally meet. Sherlock smiles sadly and nods.

“Or I could come by. If that would be easier for you both.”

Having Sherlock in his home is one of the last things John wants, especially now. He has never bothered to invite Sherlock over, either because he would rather be at Baker Street anyway or because he is afraid of what Sherlock might see in every fold, every stain, every paint fleck or stray sock. To allow Sherlock to come into his home now would be like volunteering for a vivisection. 

“No,” John says quickly. “No, I can bring Rosie by. Maybe in a couple weeks.”

Sherlock seems to perk up at this, at the fake timeline John has just created. A couple weeks and Sherlock might be trusted to be around his friend’s daughter again. A couple weeks and he might be forgiven for his latest relapse, or maybe even trusted to be without a minder. That would be nice, Sherlock thinks. Molly and Greg and Mrs H seem so tired all the time; feeling obligated to keep an eye on him can not be beneficial for each of their personal grieving processes.  

“That’d be nice,” Sherlock says. He means it.

John smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. He is tired, too, Sherlock knows.

They both stand. 10:04. Time to begin saying goodnight and for John to part with his promise to return in the next 24 hours. 

He does exactly that and claps Sherlock on the shoulder in the sort of way one might do when running into an old mate from school (abhorrent) and turns to gather his wallet and keys.

“I find myself in a position I’m not entirely comfortable in.”

John turns, belongings in hand. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock swallows. “One where I’m nearly begging you to come back every night.” 

He hates himself for it. For needing. For being so weak as to need another person as badly as he needs John. For allowing himself to give in. 

But really, after everything else, could another rejection be so bad?

John seems unsure how to proceed for a moment and attempts to steer the conversation into more comfortable territory. “Oh. You don’t need to do that,” John tries to chuckle. “I couldn’t imagine seeing a man like you beg.”

“I am not the man either of us once thought I was,” Sherlock says to the fireplace. “And beg I shall.

“John, I miss you. I miss your presence. I miss having you around in the mornings, or for tea, or when I do something good and you look at me as if I’m the most incredible thing you’ve ever laid eyes on.” 

Without looking up, Sherlock takes a step towards the other man. Then another. He takes John’s free hand into his own, holds it loose enough so John could pull away, if he wanted. “I miss your hands. I envision them often. Making tea or doing the cleaning. Healing me. Protecting me.”

“Sherlock–” John’s voice is lower than a whisper.

“Please, John, allow me to go on.”

There are no other sounds aside from their breathing. John’s lips are parted in shock as he stares down at their hands.

“I am not a good man, but I’d like to be. I’d like to be a good friend, too. And a good godfather to your daughter.” He is looking down, too, and can feel John’s eyes roving over the prominent veins of his hand. 

“I’d like to be good for you . Perhaps because of you.”

John says nothing, but grips Sherlock’s hand, at last. Sherlock is not sure whether it is wishful thinking or if John is intentionally pulling him closer. He takes another step into John’s space. They are nearly toe to toe.

“I’d like the chance to try. To be good. To rectify all the ways I have done wrong by you.”

Sherlock shuffles his feet. Looks up into John’s face.

John’s eyes are unwavering as they stare back. Sherlock catches himself before gasping, but his lips part all the same. He is stricken. In the meek light of the flat the lines of John’s face, so recently etched by grief and heartbreak and stress, are blurred, leaving a John Watson that Sherlock had known long ago. John Watson before Moriarty and the fall. John Watson before Mary and her betrayal. John Watson before Sherlock ripped him apart and attempted to put him back together so many times. 

“You can,” John says. 

Sherlock’s brows draw together.

“You can,” He repeats, more firmly this time. John takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

Sherlock is mesmerized by the embers of orange and yellow dancing over the deep blue of John’s eyes. If he were to just lean forward, he is sure he could lose himself in them. He would gladly stay there, forever lost.

He leans forward.

Chapter Text

“I’d like the chance to try. To be good. To rectify all the ways I have done wrong by you.”

Sherlock shuffles his feet, looks up into John’s face.

John’s eyes are unwavering as they stare back. Sherlock catches himself before gasping, but his lips part all the same. He is stricken. In the meek light of the flat the lines of John’s face, so recently etched by grief and heartbreak and stress, are blurred, leaving a John Watson that Sherlock had known long ago. John Watson before Moriarty and the fall. John Watson before Mary and her betrayal. John Watson before Sherlock ripped him apart and attempted to put him back together so many times. 

“You can,” John says. 

Sherlock’s brows draw together.

“You can,” He repeats, more firmly this time. John takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

Sherlock is mesmerized by the embers of orange and yellow dancing over the deep blue of John’s eyes. If he were to just lean forward, he is sure he could lose himself in them. He would gladly stay there, forever lost.

He leans forward. Realizes  that there is a firm hand over his clavicle; an invitation to move closer and a signal to stay put, simultaneously. 

“That would be Greg,” John says, like a whisper. There is a small, sad smile pulling his face in strange ways.

“What?”

“Greg,” John enunciates with a dramatic eye roll and a warm huff of breath that floats over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock shakes head several times. The movement dishevels his hair and the collar of his shirt, rucked up in John’s fingers. “What about Greg?”

John huffs, like he can’t help but laugh. 

“He’s downstairs. You didn’t hear?”

Sherlock looks down and away. He had not. 

Footsteps on the stairs, long pauses between steps; Mrs Hudson must be chatting up Lestrade, who is aware he is late and trying to politely hurry along. He undoubtedly knows that Molly is watching Rosie tonight and how his tardiness is not only forcing John to stay later than agreed upon (which John has been cross with him about before), but also keeping John, Molly and Rosie from getting to bed. 

Sherlock shifts to put space between himself and John to save them both from having to explain what is going on. Well, nearly going on… 

The other man’s fingers linger on his chest, arm completely outstretched as if he hates to let go, up until the moment Lestrade rattles the doorknob and pushes into the flat.

“Evening, gents,” Lestrade does not so much as cast them a polite smile before busying himself with removing his coat, back turned to the pair. “Sorry about the delay, John.” Lestrade does not bother explaining further, must assume that Sherlock has already deduced and told John the reasoning behind why he is over 9 minutes late.

Lestrade claps his hands together once he turns around, appraising the two men and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, even though Sherlock feels as if his skin is being cinched tighter and tighter.

“Evening,” John responds, though he does not look over to Greg until finally (regrettably) turning and walking out the door.

Later that night, with Lestrade softly snoring on the sofa, Sherlock stands at the window and recalls every detail. 

Early in the morning, before the sun has made its way over the cityscape, he lays in bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, and speaks each word unsaid to the dark ceiling above. 

It is later that same morning that the DX-707 ‘patience grenade’ is flown into their flat. 

The expanse of damage is confined to 221B, though Speedy's is rattled and Mrs Hudson goes on about the destruction of her fine china and the loss of a family tea set for ages. Everyone survives and they think it miraculous until realizing later that surviving was the point; the grenade was only to draw them out. 

Sherlock sustains the most injury and, in his eyes, the mild concussion is a small price to pay for his continued survival. On behest of John, he is taken to hospital and run through the standard tests and recovery procedures without fuss. His processes are as quick as ever, but his thoughts are fleeting and muddled, like he is seeing everything through a blurred lens. 

When he is finally permitted to sleep he does so without a fight. 

He is aware he is dreaming, but unable to control any of them. As in most of his dreams, he is a spectator simply watching the reels of memories unfurling from a never ending index that is his mind palace. 

“Sherlock, come in.”

Mary is beaming at him through the reflection of the lit vanity mirror before her. Over her shoulder, Sherlock attempts to expel the nervous energy that won’t dissipate by straightening the bowtie at his neck, flattening the lapels of his morning suit.

“Handsome,” Mary croons as she affixes the back of her earring and continues observing him through the mirror.

The door clicks shut quietly. Sherlock stands just inside the room, afraid of soiling the pristine whiteness of it all. There is a garment bag hanging open and empty on a nearby hook, big and billowing. The tag on the front says ‘Mary’.

There are vases full of flowers arranged on nearly every surface and their scent is overpowering in the small room. Not for the first time since waking, Sherlock feels nauseous. Mary beckons him closer with a delicate tilt of her head and he obeys.

Sherlock settles himself in the chair next to her and arranges it so Mary is no longer able to speak to him through her reflected visage. Sitting at her elbow, he observes her profile as she continues to scrutinize herself, plucking and replacing different curls and hems until she sighs softly and settles her hands in her lap, over what appears to be her veil, draped elegantly across her thighs.

“How’s he doing?” Mary asks.

Sherlock tries to return her smile. “Nothing to worry about at the moment, but he nearly threw a wobbly while tying his bowtie.”

Mary’s smile widens as she appraises Sherlock’s suit once again, no doubt envisioning her soon to be husband in a similar getup. Her eyes linger around his neck before locking gazes with him. 

She has a serenity about her, a peacefulness, that Sherlock envies. Try as he has to make this day go as smoothly as possible (not only with the arrangements for the ceremony and following reception, but also with each of the guests, the groom, and himself), he still feels wholly unprepared for what is about to happen. 

It is idiotic in the extreme, he knows this. He has made his stance on marriage clear (and has made a note to bring it up in his speech, for those that are not aware). He knows the significance of this day has nothing to do with him, yet at the end of it his life will be significantly different from what it is currently. 

“Marriage changes people,” Mrs Hudson had warned. 

Sherlock had not realized just how true this was, even for those outside the marriage. His friendship with John, for instance, is already different. John is more cautious of the time he spends with Sherlock, more cautious of the cases he agrees to join, more cautious of being home at a decent hour. Though, admittedly, their friendship has never quite sprung back since Sherlock’s return from his so-called ‘death’. 

Never one to put himself out, Sherlock had asked Molly to accompany him on case work. Her company was much welcomed; her eye for details and competence in matters of emotions was especially welcomed. 

Sherlock wonders if she has arrived yet, then wonders how inappropriate it would be of him to pull her away from her fiance (Tim?) for a moment so he can go over the proceedings aloud with her in an effort to quell this overpowering sense of unease he has had all morning. 

“And how are you doing?”

Sherlock turns his attention back to Mary. “Everything is according to plan.”

Her smile changes then. Only slightly, only enough to no longer look care-free. 

Sherlock braces himself. 

There is polite chatter and the unmistakable sounds of dress shoes and heels clacking outside the door. Sunshine streams in through linen curtains and brings with it a gentle warmth that fills the room and has permeated the fabric furniture, like the one Sherlock is sitting on. He quite literally feels like he has been thrown onto the hotseat. 

Thankfully, Mary doesn’t press further and the sadness in her smile fades to something mischievous. 

“No surprises?” She asks.

Sherlock has the courtesy to look repentant as he is chided. “No surprises.”

“And no fake mustaches?”

He rears back in a dramatic fashion. “Only if John plans on pulling one out.”

Mary laughs and the room is filled with tinkling bells. The sound draws Sherlock’s awareness towards Mary’s undeniable femininity, especially when she leans forward and takes one of Sherlock’s hands (large, knobby) into both of hers delicately. 

Sherlock can sense it coming. They have been avoiding it for so long, but the wedding is here and they can put it off no longer it seems; Mary’s face is set in determination. She has wanted to talk to him for a long time, he knows, and that she simply will not feel right about the marriage until she is given Sherlock’s express ‘blessing’, though why she feels that way is beyond Sherlock’s comprehension. 

She studies him for a moment and Sherlock has never known a gaze other than his brother’s to penetrate so completely. 

“Don’t,” He says.

“He loves you.”

“Mary-”

She squeezes his hand tighter. “He loves me, too,” She says with certitude. “And I’m secure in whatever place I hold in John’s life. It isn’t a competition.”

Certainly not , Sherlock thinks, you’ve already won.

“I’m not you, though,” Mary says. Her voice is soft, but strained, like it pains her. “Just because he has me now doesn’t mean he doesn’t need you. He does. More than he needs me, I reckon.”

Sherlock burns. His face, his chest, his hands all burn with such intensity he fears he might scream out. The walls of white are closing in on him and soon he will be nothing more than a black and lilac stain left smeared between them when others finally come and pry them apart. 

“What I’m trying to say, I guess,” She sighs and taps his hand lightly, thoughtful. “Is that you’ll always be his best friend. This,” Mary juts her chin down, indicating her dress and the veil still draped across her lap. “Isn’t going to change that. I don’t want you to fret.”

Two things occur simultaneously.

 First, Sherlock realizes the time and estimates that John will be searching for him, specifically searching for him because he has yet to surrender Mary’s wedding band into Sherlock’s care, which is a vital, if not the most vital, function expected of him today and that he should really excuse himself before John begins to panic.

Second, Sherlock realizes that Mary never wanted his blessing at all. Rather, she wanted to plainly state where the both of them stand in respects to John Watson; wife as compared with a best friend. 

Truly, there is no competition.

Later, after the ceremony and the pictures and a fair amount of champagne and wine, Sherlock is attempting to put the conversation behind him and focus instead on being jovial and helpful, as a good best man ought to do, when Mary approaches him again, having been abandoned by her new husband for Major James Sholto.

“Neither of us were the first, you know.” She hugs him around the side and flashes her teeth impishly.

Sherlock can’t hold it in. “Stop smiling.”

He walks away.

Chapter Text

The adolescent skeleton of Victor Trevor is laid to rest after nearly three decades at the bottom of the Musgrave Hall well. 

There are less than a dozen people present, including a sprinkling of permitted press members. Victor’s parents have no other children and the modest extended family they once had has diminished; just the pair remains.

John stands towards the back, an onlooker. 

The man with the news camera fixes his lens towards the grave site.

There is a correspondent accompanying him and another journalist from a local paper standing a respectful distance away, but not so far that they would miss even a single tear shed by the stoic couple in black that stand at the head of the procession. There are others, too, at the entrance of the cemetery, forced to stand an even farther distance away by tape and police officers.

The stone is rather extravagant, John thinks, though he is certainly not judging the Trevors for wanting something beautiful and grand to memorialize their son. There is an inlaid portrait over a short epitaph, as well as his christian name and birth date. No death date. The stone is relatively old, judging by the lichen spreading over the bottommost portion, but visited often, as there are several small tokens left in the shadow cast before it, some worn and unrecognizable from years in the elements. John looks towards the Trevors and imagines the stone being erected long ago, but years after Victor went missing. He imagines they wanted a place to remember him, a place to mourn.

John looks to the freshly disturbed earth. The Trevors had done this once, he reckons, when the stone was first set, without a casket or proper funeral, with undeniable hope still in their hearts. And now, to come back and properly lay their son to rest, John wonders if they are satisfied with the closure of knowing he was murdered. 

That is always something people want, isn’t it? Closure? 

Though, in cases such as this, ignorance might be the kinder option.

John thinks about Rosie and how he might handle the grief if he were in the same shoes as the Trevors, then instantly regrets doing so. This day isn’t about him or his feelings; he did not even know the poor child. He is only connected to this through Sherlock and having discovered the remains inadvertently (on his part, that is. Eurus, of course, meant for him to find them, gambling that he would live long enough to do so). 

A graying man comes forward with a worn Bible and begins to recite scripture.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die,” He recites. 

Sherlock is a dark smudge in John’s peripheral vision, his coat collar as high as ever. Sherlock is seldom aware of polite societal practices (like knocking before entering rooms, saying farewell before ending a call) and proclaims their stupidity anytime he is forced to observe them, so John had not anticipated walking downstairs to find Sherlock dressed head-to-toe in black.

Just as Sherlock had not anticipated John joining him today. Sherlock turned from his spot at the window when John entered with Rosie on his hip and declared that they could leave as soon as he wrangled her into her highchair for breakfast at 221A. 

John wondered if he had made a mistake in thinking his presence would be welcome. The entire drive had been silent and Sherlock made a quick exit from the car once they arrived, leaving John to play catchup as he weaved through the lines of headstones.

“There is a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal.”

Victor’s mother turns her head into the shoulder of the man beside her, no doubt her husband, Victor’s father. 

The day is just cold enough to bite at the tip of John’s nose. Each puff of air creates the faintest trace of condensation. He is aware of Sherlock tracking the rate at which they appear and evaporate; anything to keep from listening to words from the Bible. 

 “A time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…”

Sherlock lets out a disdainful huff that goes unnoticed by all but the man at his elbow. 

John pushes against his side.

Sherlock casts him a sidelong glance, jaw tight.

John leans his weight against Sherlock’s side again and some of the lines around Sherlock’s mouth smooth.

Sherlock exhales slowly, controlled, and his shoulders lower as John gently wraps an arm around him. This is how they remain until the man leads them in prayer and draws the ceremony to an end. Instantly, the newshounds spring forward, eager to capitalize on the grief of the Trevors. 

Back in London, the “Baker Street Bomb” is just beginning to gain publicity when a different story snatches the public’s attention– this story. Seemingly unrelated to Sherlock Holmes at first glance, John was hopeful that neither of them would be pushed back into the public eye (especially so soon after the entire Colverton Smith debacle). However, the date the remains would be interred was released in the local news, as well as statements from the Trevors regarding their son’s apparent homicide and… well, everything snowballed from there. 

The Holmes family was left to answer for the murder of an innocent boy. 

Press was constantly at Baker Street.

Even Mycroft could not cloak himself in anonymity.

Mummy and Daddy Holmes fled back to the States for an undecided amount of time.

As far as John knows, the Trevors have never spoken ill of them or the Holmes children, one of which killed their son and the other which their son was great friends with. John wonders, though, whether the Holmes' absences have less to do with the media frenzy and more to do with their own misplaced feelings of guilt.

John and Sherlock make a quiet retreat back to the car, John guiding Sherlock along with a gentle hand at his back.

Sherlock does not visit Eurus for a length of time after the burial and nobody discusses why. 

The press coverage slows significantly in the weeks following and John breathes a sigh of relief. One morning, for the first time in over 6 weeks, there are no reporters donning the steps below the window as John peeks out, Rosie propped on his hip. She is by no means interested in being held and John releases her into the playpen before she can begin a death-roll maneuver. He reckons he has 15 minutes before she begins her newfound talent of high-pitch screaming.

Sherlock is not seen or heard while John goes about tidying the kitchen to make a quick breakfast for himself and his daughter. Mrs Hudson has music playing downstairs and the warm scent of biscuits baking fills the air. 

For once, the fridge has a variety of fresh and easy-prep food. Even fresh milk! John begins cracking some eggs into a bowl and only realizes he is humming when Rosie joins him, babbling and hooting at random intervals that only those close to her would recognize as singing. 

It is a strange feeling that moves through John at that moment, one that he is skeptical to give a name to because it has been so long since he felt it last. 

The realization, once it finally comes, is so delightful that John can not help but let out a laugh. 

John ascends to 221B slowly. Each step is carefully tread, lest he wake the sleeping girl tucked in his arms. 

It is springtime and Rosie has caught her first fever, presumably a bug she picked up from daycare. Just a bug, John knows, but he can not stop himself from fussing over her reddened cheeks and ragged breathing. The rocker in Mrs Hudson's flat never fails to put Rosie to sleep, no matter how much she might fight in the meantime. Their host turned the lights down and offered to relieve John of his fatherly duties for a few hours while John tried to get a few hours sleep, but John couldn't find it in himself to part with her. He has done his fair share of passing her onto others; this time he wants to do the right thing. 

John holds his daughter tightly to his chest with a single arm while he ginger opens the squeaky door of his flatshare.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, hands relaxed over the armrests, feet flat on the floor. It looks as if he has just been roused from the onset of sleep, but his eyes are quick as they survey Rosie, huddled against John’s chest, then John’s face. Without hesitation, Sherlock quickly, yet silently, goes to them.

Using the light of his mobile to see by, Sherlock guides the father and daughter up to their room, then hurries ahead of John to turn down Rosie’s blankets and double check that her humidifier is on the highest setting before John places her on her bed. 

She has only slept in this a handful of times before tonight, and to say the transition from crib to bed has been difficult would be an understatement. A large part of him wants to toss all the 'big girl bed' talk out the window and let her share his bed while she is sick, but he knows doing so will just make it harder for the both of them.

Dainty fairies dance across the fitted sheet and matching pillow case. John thought having Rosie pick her own bedding might make her excited to move to her own bed, but when evening settled on the first night, she was a crying mess and crawled out of it more times than John cared to count. He sets her down upon the same bedding now and hopes for the best. Sherlock is incrementally raising the volume of her sound machine so as not to startle her. 

John hovers with his arms still tucked beneath his daughter’s back. Her breathing indicates she is still severely congested, but she does not stir as he assesses her lymph nodes and pulse one last time before finally sliding his arms out from under her. He rises and watches her for another moment, fearing she might cough herself awake and all the last hour’s work will have been for nothing, but she does not. 

John blinks and rubs at his face. He is warm where his daughter laid across him and his own breathing is slow and even. This is the second night in a row he has done this with her and the weariness he has been fighting with cups of coffee and sheer willpower is bone-deep.

Nothing would feel as good as hunkering into bed, so John goes to do just that.

He turns to find Sherlock propped in the doorway. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest.

Even through the dimness, John can make out the circles under his eyes. If that were not evidence enough of Sherlock’s exhaustion, his unkempt hair and disheveled clothing is. His pajamas have not been donned in several days, seeing that the detective has had an influx of private clients to keep him well dressed and away. Still, Sherlock has been home before Rosie's bedtime each evening, sometimes even offering to take her off John's hands so he can have time to himself.

"I've got her. Thank you." John says. He means it. Truly, he appreciates everything Sherlock has done to help with Rosie. Well, to help in general, really. John has never been the perfect flatmate. Now more than ever with a child in arms and enough baggage to sink a frigate. He did not expect Sherlock to take all of him back with such decency, let alone offer to be part of Rosie's life. Each day, however, John is proven wrong in the most extraordinary ways.

"No." Sherlock's voice is firm, but not impolite. "You are more than deserving of some child-free time out of the flat. Go on."

"Really, I'm fine-"

"I insist. You're near your limits, John. Go get a pint, a sandwich. Go grab groceries if you must feel useful, but let me keep Rosie for a while."

John smiles good-natured. "What are you doing? Are you kidnapping my daughter right in front of me?"

Sherlock snatches the little girl, who lets loose a squeal through her gap-toothed smile. "Can't a man just want to spend some time with his goddaughter?"

Rosie's chubby fist is wrapped tight around Sherlock collar. Her little feet swing back and forth from where Sherlock holds her on his hip. 

How can he resist? John smiles and raises his hands in defeat. "Have fun, you two." John smiles at his daughter. "Give Daddy kisses." He leans in for a wet, smacking kiss against his cheek. Rosie leans back and looks up into Sherlock's face, plants a wet, smacking kiss on his chin. The man turns red instantly. 

John brushes the wet off Sherlock's skin with his knuckles. "Silly Rosie." 

A quick pop upstairs and John has his wallet in hand, ready to go. He takes one last peek through the doorway before making his leave and the sight of Sherlock, so unabashed in his adoration of his daughter, stops him. He takes a moment, a quiet moment that Sherlock does not notice because he is stomping and roaring like a dinosaur with Rosie balanced on his dress shoes, to just admire the man.

By the dimmed lamp in the corner John admires him.  Something about the darkness just on the other side of the window pane and the hush of the air makes him feel cloaked, as if Sherlock can not see John admiring him so. It must be that, or Sherlock simply does not mind, because their eyes meet and Sherlock lifts his chin.

John mirrors the man before him. 

Sherlock's arms drop and his entire demeanor changes. He is a snake uncoiling; each muscle moves deliberately and with caution. 

John licks his lips. “Will you sleep?” Voice as thick as molasses. 

“Yes.”

Not every night is a sleep night. Most, in fact, are not. Since having returned to Baker Street with Rosie, Sherlock has given up his cat naps on the sofa and exclusively sleeps in his bedroom, door shut tight. John has never done anything as gauche as stand outside his flatmate’s door in the middle of the night. Some nights, however, with Rosie soundly asleep, John will lay in bed and wonder what it might be like to wake from his dark dreams with Sherlock beside him. Or how his breathing sounds when his body is completely at peace, in a deep slumber after a long day’s work, or if Sherlock might reach out for him under the covers. 

John knows he should not. The thoughts of 'what if', the gnawing want. Of touching, of being touched. Of quelling every curiosity that comes along with Sherlock Holmes... 

Some days it takes all of his strength to resist because there is always that devil sitting on his shoulder telling him to go forth, to reach out, to invite… 

Temptation, the devil is called, whispers in John’s ear. He whispers and pleads. On the opposite shoulder sits a second devil (not an angel, for angels do not consort with men such as John Watson). This devil is Desire, who tempts him just as the first, but this one illustrates all of John's most closeted fantasies, ones he has only ever dared to conjure up in private.

Go forth, reach out, invite...

Rosie snuffles in her sleep. 

John glances at her and the spell is broken. When he turns back to Sherlock, chin lowered once again, he can still feel the warmth in his chest, but it is softer now. Less demanding. He wants to go about this the right way. He wants to do right by Sherlock, just this once. Especially this once. And the moment is now. 

John tilts his chin towards his bed. “Sleep here,” he says. 

Sherlock eyes are wide and searching.

John takes a small step forward. “You can sleep in my bed.”

“I have an adequate bed downstairs.” It is said as a matter of fact. 

“I know.” John smiles and ducks his head to keep from laughing. “I know that. I would still like you to sleep here. With me.”

Another step forward. Sherlock is stock-still in the doorway.

“If you’d like,” John continues. He feels light, as if floating on a breeze. He is standing in front of Sherlock and Sherlock is staring at him and he does not flinch away. He does not try to hide. Let him look. Let Sherlock look and see. "I would like you to."

His hands are steady as he offers them both.

Sherlock’s hands slide into John’s open palms. 

They lay facing one another and John does not shy away. He holds his friend close by the waist and traces the evidence of sleep deprivation with his thumbs. When Sherlock averts his gaze, overwhelmed with the intimacy of it all, John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and lets the man look with his all-seeing eyes some more. Look, and see. 

Rosie’s breathing is barely audible over the slowing rhythms of their hearts and the gentle sound of water coming from the sound machine. It is that, along with the gentle touch of Sherlock’s fingers across his brow and over his chin, over and over, that lull John into a peaceful slumber. 

Chapter Text

While in the army, John had not denied himself the pleasures of physicality. Especially after his final promotion; with the risk of dying each day, one stops worrying about labeling their sexuality and simply does what feels good. 

After days of struggle or loss, it was not uncommon to share your grief with one or two of your mates through a dirty blow job or a quick wank somewhere private. It had not been love, or even attraction, just the most effective method of instilling some normalcy amongst the chaos. Touching another man, being touched by another man, was not what he derived his pleasure from, but an obstacle that could not be avoided unless he wanted to be alone.

Once back in London, John had not denied himself the pleasures of physicality, either.

It was both more and less difficult to find a partner as a civilian. Less, because John has always been a charmer and his attraction towards the opposite sex is sincere. More, because John had to rely more on mutual attraction and (usually) emotional connection rather than simple opportunity and lack of options, such as it was with the others beneath his rank. 

Still, John enjoyed sex with women more than he ever had with the men in Afghanistan. He enjoyed their softness, their femininity, the delicacy of their sex, their lips and hands. Their scent, always light and sweet, and their voices; so undeniably woman. 

That was the thing about the sex he had with the men in Afghanistan: they sounded and smelled so undeniably male. Everyone tried to keep quiet, of course, but the breathless grunts and huffs of laborious sex was unavoidable. And nothing could be done about the smell when even the soap used to wash away the musk of sweat reminded one of men. 

Things with men never went further, though. Luckily, none of his partners ever pressed him for more. The prospect of being penetrated was always at the forefront of his mind whenever he was with another man, but it was not exactly a thought John found exciting. Far from it, actually. 

There had been a couple women before he had enlisted that were audacious enough to ask John’s permission to stick a finger in his bum, but he was always able to steer the attention away from his orifices and onto more conventional coupling. He had, admittedly, done some of his own experiments in his younger days, but it was far from what he would consider self satisfying. His interests, he would find over the years, sway more towards the conventional modes of sex. 

Not to say that John is vanilla. He does not think he is, anyway. Has never been told such. He has dabbled in certain niche kinks, fetishes. Many of his girlfriends were into S&M and bondage practices, but… well, it was really only something John did during the course of those relationships and not something he made an effort to seek out for his own pleasure.

Sex and John’s approach to it changed and evolved as he did. The sex he had when young and inexperienced, overly eager with every touch a milestone; the sex he had just before and during his residency, fast and perfunctory, just enough to take the edge off. His dalliances with the same sex while a soldier, recreational, over as fast as they happened. 

Now, dating was different. John has always prided himself on being a most giving lover. His partner’s wants always took precedence over his own. Not to say that John did not enjoy himself. He did greatly, of course, but with certain partners he knew certain things were off the table (or expected) from the start based on the predilections made clear during their first rendezvous.

He enjoyed that aspect of sex within a relationship, of anticipating his partners’ wants.

Like sex with Mary.

Mary was sweet and charming. She was playful and plush and smooth. John decided that he was to settle down and wanted Mary to be the one he did so with. Their passion was more mature, slower paced. They did not hump like teenagers, nor did they abstain from the naughtier side of things, but their lovemaking was that of two adults who felt they had nothing to prove and nothing to hide. 

It was nice. Very nice. And John had wanted something nice, then. Truly.

Once they married and were expecting (and John had effectively moved out), sex stopped. Even when they reunited after his extended stay at Baker Street, they had only kissed and bid each other a good night before quietly sliding under their shared down comforter. 

Postpartum sex had been pleasant enough, but they both had drifted so far apart prior to Rosie’s birth that it felt forced, even after several encounters. That, on top of the added workload of a newborn, breastfeeding, and Mary’s post-baby body insecurities put a damper on their already strained love life. 

And now… Well, there is not really time to think about, let alone pursue, sex. John has scant spare space in his life for anything aside from his daughter, his work, and his time with Sherlock. 

Time with Sherlock consists of working alongside the Met and helping him maintain his sobriety. Some days that means asking Molly to keep Rosie for the day so Sherlock can rant and rage and parade around the flat without upsetting the little girl. Some days it means an arm full of nicotine patches and the kettle having no time to cool between uses. 

Some days it means saying nothing at all while they face each other, both typing away on their respective blogs while Rosie naps in Sherlock’s bed.

The nights are not easy, but become easier as time passes. 

When he does not dream of Mary, he imagines what they might be doing were she alive, next to him. He can imagine aspects of Rosie’s appearance on a different child’s face, Mary’s face, and tries to conjure an image of what she may have looked like when she was Rosie’s age, and who their daughter looks more alike. She never showed him any baby pictures of herself, so he can only speculate. Sometimes he catches himself watching Rosie and wondering if Mary had stretched her arms above her head like that, if Mary made a fuss over washing her hair like that, if Mary ever fixated on one book and demanded to read it every single night before bed like that. Rosie must get it from somewhere after all, and John cannot discern what traits are from her and what is simply Rosie.

Some, John knows, are from Sherlock. The eyebrow quirk, the nose crinkle. The overly dramatic sighs around clean-up time. All just as cute and irksome coming from Rosie as they are coming from the originator. 

What a marvel, John thinks, for Rosie to be an illustration of the two people he has loved most in his life. 

He wonders what parts of himself others see in her.

“Your eyes,” Sherlock says one evening. His face is obscured by his microscope. 

“What about them?”

The detective sighs, but does not look up. “You’re wondering which of Rosie’s traits are inherited from you; your eyes.”

She is mucking about with the pasta on her tray, naked save for her nappy, strapped into her highchair. “Mary had blue eyes,” John counters.

He is too busy appraising Rosie to notice how Sherlock’s shoulders raise towards his ears or how his hand twitches on the coarse focus knob. When he does turn to face him, Sherlock expects to find John’s face overcome with the familiar shadow of grief he has worn for so long.

Instead, they lock eyes and John's lips give a slight twitch upwards. Sherlock can not discern exactly what emotion lay behind that smile, so he tucks his head back into his eyepiece. 

“She certainly inherited her hard head from the both of you,” he grumbles. 

Rosie smacks her hands on the tray in delight at hearing her father laugh. Red sauce splatters onto the floor and some of it even lands on Sherlock’s prepared slides. He pretends to be horribly put out by this and watches the light of John Watson flicker brighter with each chuckle. 

John wakes the next morning with one arm dangling over the side of the bed, cold and half numb. His consciousness comes on slowly, then all at once. He knows something is off before he opens his eyes. It gives him pause and he strains his senses to get a grasp of what is happening in his bed. 

He breathes silently through his nose and picks up a familiar smell. He recognizes the scent as Sherlock; warm and billowy, like freshly laundered cotton with notes of pine. There is a noticeable dip in the mattress, too; Sherlock must still be in bed with him.

John’s ears pique. Someone is whispering. No; there is more than one voice. One must be Sherlock’s, but who could he be talking to if not John?

He remains still, tries to decipher what is being said and by who, but has no luck until a small giggle burbles forth that could only belong to Rosie.

“Shh,” Sherlock goes, then continues speaking so softly John can not make sense of what is being said. 

John does not want to make himself known, not just yet, and keeps his breathing slow and quiet. His back is to the pair, so he takes a chance and cracks an eye open to get a scope of the time. Pastel morning light floods through the window blinds just above Rosie’s bed. 

Rosie’s empty bed. 

The bedclothes are all thrown aside and the small pillow that should be at the head of the bed is on the floor. John had let Rosie pick the sheets and blanket herself in hopes that it would motivate her to sleep in her new “big girl” bed. Initially it had done the trick, but midway through the first couple nights, before she came down with her fever, she had crawled out and pulled herself into bed with John. 

Rosie giggles again, louder this time. John can feel the dip of the mattress and the pull of the bedclothes as Sherlock exits, presumably carrying his goddaughter. “Shh,” he says, and the door squeaks open, confirming John’s suspicion. “Come, Watson. Are you hungry? We can start breakfast while Dada sleeps.”

“Dada’s up, actually.”

Quick as a whip, that little blonde head turns and finds her father. Rosie wriggles down Sherlock’s body and clobbers towards the bed. “Guh mo’ning!”

“Good morning, angel.” John flops forward and pulls her the rest of the way into his lap. “No more fever?” 

Sherlock answers as John places a hand over his daughter’s forehead. “Broke last night. Temperature was within normal range when I checked earlier.”

“When she jumped into bed and woke you, you mean?”

The remark is said with mirth, but Sherlock’s palms begin to sweat instantly. 

John had invited Sherlock to spend the night in his bed with him. He had taken Sherlock’s hands in his own and had welcomed Sherlock’s caress upon his face. Despite all this, he does not expect John to make a remark acknowledging it. 

There had been a time when Sherlock believed himself above things like love, desire. He was above all of it and therefore above those who might fall victim to having their hearts broken. He was more clever, more determined, more stubborn than the countless plebeians tangling their emotions with those of others. If John were to look at him now, right now, with his hair still mussed from sleep and pillow creases across his cheek, and tell Sherlock that last night would be something better forgotten (or worse, a mistake), he would have to join the plebeian herds. Inescapable. 

What Sherlock expects to happen next is for John to excuse himself and his daughter and continue about their day as if nothing has changed, as if Sherlock is not here, sharing their space with them. It would be the most sensible thing to do, surely.

“Angel, did you wake Sherlock?”

Rosie smiles proudly and nods. “Yuh!”

John bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He should not find this amusing; he really wants to sleep in his own bed without tiny feet kicking him every hour of the night, but he can not help himself.  “What happened to sleeping in your big girl bed, hm?”

Confusion streaks sweetly across Rosie’s face. She understands her father’s tone is chiding, but not precisely what he is chiding her over. “Bed?”

“Yes, I want you to sleep in your big girl bed. You don’t need to sleep in bed with Dada.”

Rosie’s brows quirk together. “Eer-yock.”

Two sets of rich blue eyes flash towards Sherlock. He is frozen in their gaze. 

There is a buzzing in his ears and he is suddenly and abundantly aware that he is still in last night’s shirt and trousers, both wrinkled like crepe paper, his hair is sticking out past his ears, he can feel the tendrils tickling his skin and catches a few strays falling over his brows. He realizes simultaneously that his feet are bare and the magnitude of his discomfort is surely written across his skin in bright red hues. 

Rosie rucks the quilt up with her restless feet, leans back against her father’s chest. The teeth in her mouth are gaped and twinkling. She looks so much like her father around the eyes, especially now, smiling at Sherlock, he is reminded of just how swiftly he had become enamored of her.

Just as he had done with her father. 

“John.” His voice drags from his throat on hands and knees. 

He had not meant to undermine John’s parenting, after all, had only wanted to soothe Rosie, lest she wake John, when she awoke in a fit. He really only had the best intentions when he had spoken to Rosie in hushed tones and told her she could come to the side of the bed he was sleeping on until she settled. Quite cleverly, Rosie had tossed a pillow off her bed to act as a buffer so the floor would not creak when she made her escape. Sherlock had not explicitly pulled her into bed; she had done that herself because he did not want to chance jostling the mattress so much that John would wake. 

But when he finally seeks John’s eyes, he is not met with the anger he dreaded he would find, nor confusion. Instead, Sherlock sees that twinkling smile, except with less gaps and more lines around those thin Watson lips. 

“Eer-yock,” Rosie says again. Her little fingers squirm in the air as she beckons him closer. “Eer-yock seep bed.”

John can not stop smiling, even when Sherlock’s cheeks turn as red as cherries. 

“Say ‘laters, Eer-yock,’” John tells Rosie, fed and dressed for the day an hour later as he gathers a snack and extra clothes to stuff into her backpack. 

“La’ers, Eer-yock!”

“Laters, Watson,” Sherlock says, settling her onto his hip for one last cuddle. “I’ll be here when you come home.”

“Eer-yock home?”

“I’ll be home. And Dada will pick you up after school.”

“Dada work?”

“You're correct. Dada will pick you up once he’s off work. You know the routine very well, Watson.” 

She knows when she is receiving praise and milks it. With a prominently pointed chin, Rosie beams. “K’ever.”

“You are,” Sherlock assures, pressing his forehead briefly against hers. “You are very clever.”

John joins them, a tiny pink backpack stretched across one shoulder, and they pass the little girl between them with the type of ease that only comes with practice and familiarity. 

“You’ll be here all day, then?” John rests his cheek atop Rosie’s curly head. He is shifting back and forth in a way Sherlock recognizes.

Sherlock nods, unsure exactly what John is phishing for with such a question. They generally have the same routine every day. Regardless, Sherlock is always home for dinner, bath, and bedtime. For Rosie’s sake. 

“Nothing on?” John’s eyes are wide as Sherlock scrutinizes him. 

“No,” He enunciates. “Why?”

As if zapped, John quickly turns on his heel towards the door and calls over his shoulder, “Laters!”

John takes Rosie to daycare on his way to the clinic and Sherlock works around the flat, fielding sporadic texts from Lestrade and Dimmock, as well as ignoring his brother’s multiple voicemails. Aside from that, he keeps himself busy with menial tasks and light research, determined to not allow thoughts of John and last night overrun his mind. 

 He makes an effort to keep shared areas clean or fenced off ever since Rosie began to crawl, and they installed magnetic locks on the cabinets just before her second birthday. She is prone to mischief, inherited and learned, and both men are overly cautious ever since Rosie pulled some pots and pans from the kitchen and smashed her toes. She had cried for ages and one of her tiny toenails had turned black and fallen off as a result. 

Once he is satisfied with the state of the flat and dressed for the day, Sherlock stands in front of the sofa, mulling over the red lines of thread linking pictures of suspects and victims where they are pinned to the wall. Aside from a few closeups of the murder weapons retrieved from the crime scenes there is nothing Sherlock would consider unsuitable for Rosie to see. Nevertheless, he shakes out a large sheet and leaps onto the sofa to begin pinning it (apologies, Mrs Hudson) over what John dubs the ‘evidence wall’. 

He is just sticking the final tack in place when he hears footsteps on the landing. He turns around, spreads his arms wide in anticipation of Rosie barrelling clumsily towards him. Instead, John walks in with only his wallet and jacket in hand. There is no sound of little footsteps on the stairs and John does not pause before shutting the door behind him. 

“Hey,” John says. He offers a small smile before taking in Sherlock’s stance on the sofa. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock’s arms wilt back to his sides. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Daycare, still. I uh,” He fidgets and turns his back to the other man, hangs his jacket on the peg. “Thought I’d shove off work a little early today.”

Sherlock’s head whips this way and that in search of a clock. It is still early, evidently. He steps down onto the floor and straightens his suit jacket. 

Slowly, John walks towards him and Sherlock is overcome with the most nauseating feeling of deja vu. 

John with sock-clad feet walking towards him for a dance, John coming towards him with sweat across his brow and his fist cocked back to strike, John walking towards him with his goddaughter sleeping soundly in his arms, John walking towards him just last night, soft and warm, with his hands outstretched and asking him to stay. 

Sherlock’s calves are pressed against the sofa cushions. 

“Oh.” This is all he can think to say. 

“Is that alright?” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock blurts out. John, having arrived sans Rosie, has caught Sherlock off guard and it sets his nerves on edge. 

“I don’t know. I thought-”

“What?”

“Nothing,” John acquiesces. “Nothing, I just thought maybe we could have a little time to ourselves.”

“What for?”

John huffs in that way people often do when talking to Sherlock. Over the years he has learned to ignore it, but now, coming from John like it has countless times before, Sherlock does not take offense. It is almost endearing, actually. 

There is a small smile hinting at the corners of John’s mouth.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” John’s cheeks are the faintest shade of pink that never fails to lure Sherlock to reach out and touch. He steps away from the sofa and does just that. John meets him halfway and the angle of his face must be intentional, because he presses his cheek against Sherlock’s palm like he expected the man’s hand to be right there and nowhere else.

They share a long sigh.

It is a relief to be standing here, in front of each other as they have so many times before, and to see the other smiling so openly. Sherlock wishes to stroke the skin at John’s heated temple and raises his hand to do so only to be intercepted. The other man looks up at him, poises his lips just over Sherlock’s knuckles, now squeezed between his fingers. 

“Is this alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly.

His body cannot be his own. His voice is certainly not his. It is so very quiet. 

John chuckles and shakes his head. His lips just barely brush over Sherlock’s fingertips, intentionally or coincidentally, the man can not tell. He does not care; just wants John’s lips against his skin more.

They must be swaying, Sherlock thinks, because his head feels as if it is underwater, floating along a current. Even his hearing is affected. Gone is the hum of the fridge, the noise of the street, the soft clinking of glass test tubes as the orbital shaker runs. All he can hear is his heart and, interestingly so, his own breathing, loud in his ears. He is so overcome by this sudden change in perception that he nearly fails to realize that his eyes are shut. 

Light pressure moves up and over his arms, melds into a firm hold. John is holding him steady. His hands are sure and warm and on his body with something akin to adoration. He could not possibly open his eyes and look into the face of this man, this one holding him now, after holding him last night, and seeming for all the world like he is waiting for Sherlock to…

To do something. Or say something, perhaps. To imply that what is happening can continue to happen, can unfurl into something even more…

Sherlock turns his palms over and grasps John’s forearms. The contact is light, but tender. And all that either of them need to finally give in. 

Gently, John’s lips touch Sherlock’s.

In tandem, the two men exhale. Their fingers curl into the other’s shirtsleeves simultaneously, seeking purchase without demand or desperation. They nearly step on one another’s toes as they both move closer, fully embracing. 

It is so very easy to kiss John Watson. Instinctual, it seems. Sherlock does not doubt or question his actions as he feared he might during his many private musings of this exact scenario. He presses against the other man and John releases a low, satisfactory hum that Sherlock can feel more than hear. 

Sherlock tilts his chin down to break away and catch his breath, unable to continue properly kissing the other man after eliciting such a glorious sound from him. Something deep inside him sparks to life when he feels John’s lips chase after his, pressing against his chin, his cheek. 

“Okay?” John whispers.

Sherlock can only nod before plunging back in. 

They drink from each other languidly and Sherlock becomes emboldened as the seconds tick by. He places one hand against John’s broad chest and relishes in the knowledge that he is causing John’s heart to beat heavily against his ribs, causing his breath to quicken, just like his. 

He has to break away again to settle his own rapid breathing. 

“Sherlock,” John croons against his closed eyelids. His hands are spread wide over the tops of his arms now, thumbs nearly hooked inside the collar of his shirt. 

Hearing his name spoken in such a way makes his heart race all the more and he has to turn his face away from John to actively focus on controlling his breathing.

The warm pressure against his collar bones lessen and when Sherlock tries to lean into it, John steps back, creating several inches of space between them. 

He is still breathing at an alarmingly fast rate.

“Hey,” John says. There is concern in his eyes and Sherlock wants to make it disappear, tries again to insert himself into John’s arms, but is held at bay. “I know. I know.”

With much chagrin, Sherlock lowers his hands. He must be pouting, because John places the pad of his thumb just over Sherlock’s bottom lip. 

“I know,” He says again. “We’ll go slow. I want to go slow.”

Looking up is a herculean task Sherlock can not fathom attempting at the moment. Not with John’s calm voice acting like a salve over his body and his steady hands anchoring him to the present. He takes stock of himself, of his elevated vitals, and admonishes himself for being so eager and childish. 

“I want to take this slow,” John says. He leans forward to catch Sherlock’s gaze and holds it. “I don’t want to rush. Yeah?”

It is a disappointment and a relief to look into John’s eyes and see only sincerity. Still, Sherlock can not help but feel embarrassed for himself when he nods his assent. John, quite happy with this, kisses him once more.