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Chapter Text

Desiderata

Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

++

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

++

John heard Rosie stir, rolled himself over, until her toddler morning blabble let him know she was irrevocably, indeed, awake.

The night before had been fully unplanned, unexpected, and late. Mrs. Hudson, gracious as ever despite her not-your-housekeeper fuss, had minded Rosie, put her to bed, and blearingly disappeared as soon as they'd returned to Baker Street. John didn't do it often, to be that crazy late - and after last night, he wouldn't be too eager to do it again.

"Tea, Rosie bug?" He'd forced himself upright, righted the twist of his pajama pants, tucked into slippers, and carted her off to the loo. At almost three, she was finally, fully dry every morning, but he wasn't about to risk changing that - or himself, her sheets, or anything that might be vulnerable. He brushed his teeth while she sat, then plopped her carefully just outside the door while he tended himself. "Now the kettle," he cued, giving her a proper morning cuddle, breathing in her scent. Her sweetness, faint morning warmth still radiating. "And some milk for you."

"Tea, papa," she whispered. Her words, this morning and every morning, were slower to come. A morning person, already, she was decidedly not. "I want tea, too."

"After your milk," he said fondly, sitting down with her perched in his lap.

There was a hollowness, an ache, an awareness inside. The ache within, sized to that of his …

Nope. Onward, Watson. He gave the hallway as much stillness as he could, sipped his tea, watched Rosie. On one level, he was so grateful to be here, back home. Home in a way that no place had been since those few years here, before Rosie, before ... well, yes that. Even to this day, remnants of some of the harder portions of life going all the way back to childhood before the bottom dropped out, the alcoholism, the poverty - he would have been about six when everything changed, when the comforting security of his own early years altering the course. He didn't want that for Rosie and so was very grateful to be firmly ensconced at Baker Street. And it was good, he reminded himself. Very good, in fact. The other level, wishing perhaps things were different. That things were more. Just that - more.

And yet. It was good.

Rosie, having downed her milk in barely anytime at all, handed him her now empty cup. “Tea!”

He snarfled at her, puffing lightly behind her ear as they often did, making her chortle. Then, grinning, he brushed the hair from her face. "Yes, milady."

Sherlock, as of yet unheard from, would perhaps sleep awhile yet, having still been up when John'd succumbed to his exhaustion, murmuring a faint goodnight before dragging himself up the stairs. Hoping to yet give him a fairly quiet flat, John kept Rosie occupied with her breakfast, the extremely diluted tea that he hoped she didn't catch on to anytime soon (at least 75% milk and the rest a mild blend of actual tea). From there, he got her dressed, and was in the middle of one of their favourite books about a puppy when there was a faint stirring in the hallway.

Sherlock, bleary, tall, rumpled from sleep yet still managing to look as if he could be featured in any magazine that modeled sexy, gorgeous, handsome, ravishing casual sleepwear.

"Shuhlock!" Rosie greeted him, dragging the book from John's hands and jumping about with more energy than seemed legal, over to him.

Though he didn't actually speak, he managed a grumble in return, scooping her and the awkward book up into his arms.

Watching, John reminded himself to keep it calm, but inwardly, the sight of his daughter and Sherlock always warmed him as almost nothing else could. The fondness, the tenderness Sherlock showed her, was something private. Something almost spiritual. Intimate, confined to the flat and something only the three of them got to share, like this anyway. He was caring and concerned out in public too, but not quite with this openness. The fullness in John's chest, always there to some degree - perhaps less so when there was something caustic, risky, or just plain disgusting in the flat - fanned into flame at sights like the one in front of him.

John rose, moved to the kitchen, to fix Sherlock his own mug, Earl Grey, his morning preference. Splash of milk, dash of sugar, in a sturdier mug. Today, it was one gifted him from Molly, something with a complicated chemical equation.

He'd started the book over, and was reading by the time John set it next to him. His voice, still a little morning-rough, was careful, and occasionally he would pause, seeing if Rosie was paying attention, if she would fill in the word. Now and again, he would point to one of them, a simple, monosyllabic one, and speak it a few times. Sometimes she would repeat. Today, she was listening, silent, enjoying his attention.

In one of the pauses, he stopped, sipped at his tea, meeting John's eyes over the rim of the mug. "Thanks."

"Of course." Rosie, from her perch on his knee, patted his arm, then patted the book, then bounced ever so lightly to prompt him back to focus. Shortly after, the final page turned, the cover shut, and the book laid aside, Rosie arched her back, scooting off his lap to meander over to her corner of the sitting room. There were her finest treasures, her haven, her slice of the flat. A tied back corner tent gave the area definition and within its borders, a box, several tiered shelves, a tiny writing desk, a play table of magnetic blocks and shapes in every colour known. And for some reason, whether her paternal military influence of appreciating order or her environmental bent toward enjoying her very own space, she kept things, usually, exactly where they belonged. For a few moments, the men watched her tuck into the chair and demolish the existing, gravity defying sculpture, magnet bonds broken apart and plastic shapes crashing down in a whoosh. Then, as they expected, she sorted a few pieces and began again.

"You have case work to finish up?"

"Probably a statement. I might ignore the DI today, though. He can wait."

"Something better to pursue?" John asked, knowing he had the day off himself, that eventually Rosie had her little preschool class.

"No, not exactly. Just after the ... nonsense, the late hours, thought perhaps I'd just enjoy not having something on." There was vague chemistry in his statement, something unusual not being uttered aloud. Although John, and most people in Sherlock's circle, had heard him complain of being bored many times, usually punctuated by something random, something unpredictable, occasionally something dangerous, it was truly unique for him to choose inactivity, to willingly embrace the lack of stimulation.

"That sounds ..." John began, but was interrupted by the alarming clatter of Rosie's tower collapsing that was followed immediately by an unhappy wail. "Oh munchkin, it's okay." He got to his feet, leaving his mostly drunk tea behind, and skillfully distracted Rosie with an offer to rebuild, of a redirected effort at an all green tower with an odd, pointed balcony attached awkwardly and illogically to the side. Eventually, she was indeed happy again, the whims of life giving her extreme emotions from time to time as with many toddlers, and John moved to reading the news on his mobile while Sherlock buried himself in something online, something on John's laptop. There was a snack, a light lunch, and then a jacket as John corralled and then began to herd Rosie a few blocks to her preschool.

"Want to tag along?" he offered to Sherlock. "A quick drop-off and a walk back?" It wasn't an unusual offer, one Sherlock seldom took, so John was prepared for a brush off and was somewhat surprised when he agreed.

Her usual chatter along the way, something about one of the toys at the centre, something with purple dragons, occupied most of the quick walk over. Sherlock simply stood off to the background while John signed her in, helped her hang up her jacket, and cued her through stowing her snack for later in the cubbie for that use, all appropriately and properly labeled Rosamund Watson. "I'll be back soon when school is over, okay bug?"

"Rosamund," she corrected, putting a pudgy fingertip on her name.

"Yes ma'am," he said, breathing softly into her neck, a goodbye tradition, a means to help her separate as she scurried a few steps away from him in response.

Rosie's classroom aide stood nearby, smiling, watching, and held out a hand toward Rosie. "Ready?" she asked. "We've got something special planned."

"Bye papa!" she called over her shoulder, and was off with the teachers, her classmates, disappearing through the doorway.

The return to Baker Street was the opposite kind of trip. Mostly silent. Footsteps on the kerb, the muted sound of other pedestrians, breathing, an occasional car noise, a door slamming, birds sounding off in one of the nearby pocket gardens, doors to retail shoppes opening or closing. They didn't speak to each other - they didn't need to.

Mrs. Hudson's door was closed, the blunted sounds of a television show coming from the inside, the sounds of shoes on the stairs without the chatter of a toddler, still and calm. Inside, jackets were hung, shoes toed off, and John spoke to his mobile. "Set an alarm for ninety minutes." Then, that settled, he found himself almost a little sleepy just at the sight of the couch. "Ugh, I'm too old for late nights."

"And sharing a room with a child."

"That too." He breathed out, letting the exhaustion sound in the exhale, the faint hmmm of getting comfortable.

"Speak for yourself, I'm raring to go."

"Liar," John challenged, taking note that Sherlock himself had slouched into his chair, arms relaxed, long fingers unmoving and atypically quiet as they hung over the armrests. "This is nice, though, yeah?"

Not quite a word, Sherlock made some sort of guttural noise, acknowledgement and agreement. When John glanced over moments after that, Sherlock's eyes were lightly closed, a sideways smile on his lips, the demeanor of a person at ease with the world.

A quick inhale, John's breath adding their own agreement, no words necessary, and he let his eyes drift closed too.

Perfect, came the thought, and John's smile, unseen to anyone, was relaxed and at peace too.

Or, well, he added to his innermost quiet thoughts, almost.

Chapter Text

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

As far as predictability went, life on Baker Street was about as good as it was going to get. By necessity, Rosie's bedtime and schedule mostly dictated that they tried to keep regular meals, an evening routine, and the occasional visitor. John's work schedule, chosen by financial need and not the excitement of vocation allowed him to work several days a week while Rosie was in her preschool programme. Occasionally, he would work later hours, perhaps to cover someone's holiday or an illness, and on these days, Sherlock had made himself available to pick up Rosie and bring her home until John got home from work. John worked hard at keeping their schedule straight, between a shared calendar on their mobiles and a monthly submission to Rosie's school. If it was a last minute change, he'd been sending the coordinator a text message explaining the change in pick up.

"Will you be here to get Rosie later today, then Dr. Watson?"

"It's John," he reminded Rosie's teacher. Again, though he didn't fault her for her politeness, but after nearly a half year, it seemed they could - should - move past this. "And yes, today I will."

The teacher, Miss Anne, bit at her lip with a very slight furrow to her brow. Rosie, long gone, had joined another couple of little friends at the clay table and was joyfully and eagerly already hard a work making snakes. Or balls. Or handprints.

"Everything all right?"

"Um, yes, I suppose," she spoke tentatively, then told him, "Yesterday, when Mr. Holmes picked her up, though, afterwards, one of our assistants was a little upset is all." Almost immediately John could feel a little bit of dread in his throat, but he said nothing right away, just waiting for her to explain. "When I asked her why, she couldn't - wouldn't tell me - just that it sounds like they had a conversation. I'm not sure what was said." The eye contact then, the teacher toward John, seemed to implore that John be aware of the situation, that he would intervene. "I just can't afford to lose her now, she's one of our most flexible classroom helpers, nor can I allow her to be mistreated," she commented, mentioning another assistant ready to go out on maternity leave, another considering a relocation. "It's just that, John, if you could, pick ups do seem to go very smoothly most often ..." When it's you, she didn't need to add.

Clearly John could tell that she didn't wish to elaborate, so John didn't push for more details. "I'll do my best to be the one, then, but there will occasionally be times when I'm late at work, when it will need to be Mr. Holmes." There was instant concern in her eyes at his words. "I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding , but I’ll have a chat, make sure ..." Make sure, what, that Sherlock doesn't speak? That he refrains from unkindness? "I'll take care of it," he amended.

++

"Oh that? Seriously, what is the matter with people?" Sherlock said a bit later when John related the sparse details of what he knew. Blinking, John stared, pondering yet again how Sherlock, for all his intelligence, could be so clueless about people. A pale blue set of eyes stared back at John for a moment, before he breathed out a quiet curse, "For gods sake, do you know what I told her? Simply that if she wanted to lose weight, she should quit those ridiculous fat-laden coffees in the morning."

Oh no. "Sherlock, real--"

"No, she needed to hear that. She's wearing clothes too tight. She's unhappy about her appearance, and unwilling to change her eating habits. Just that one change would almost certainly --"

"You can't just blurt ou--"

"-- help her lose a few kilos in a month or so." John chose to keep silent, and Sherlock pressed on in the pause. "And then I told her that it probably wasn't worth it anyway, and that she should be as chunky as she wants, but that she needs to wear clothes that fit."

No wonder she was devastated, John knew, and he held up a hand until Sherlock acknowledged that he wanted to speak. "You do understand that people don't want unsolicited advice. That no one likes to be called out on something like that. And you can't call people chunky. It's just not done."

"It was all true. If people would only listen to me, I could help them."

"So here's the thing," John said, slowly, intentionally, attempting to be patient as he grew a little more serious in addressing his flatmate. Addressing Rosie's alternate pick-up person. Addressing his best friend, whom he still very much wanted in his life and needed to be on board. "You can't offend people like that. You can't treat people in our lives like that."

"She's not in our lives, John."

"Yes she is. She's one of Rosie's teachers."

"Assistants."

"Stop it. And listen to me." When Sherlock made a face, John lowered himself onto the coffee table directly in front of him, then and with a serious gesture, he pointed to Sherlock's chest. "She is in Rosie's life. She talks to Rosie's teachers, and while she might be an assistant, she's spending a lot of time with Rosie. How do you think you made her feel, being insulted like that? And don't you think that might have any influence on how she might treat Rosie?"

"That's ridiculous. The one has nothing to do with the other."

"Okay then, genius, think about this. It's taken me forever, years, to not be angry with Sally Donovan." He let that sink in, and when Sherlock looked perplexed after a moment, he smiled just a little. "I've been ... not exactly upset with her, but not feeling like I wanted to deal with her any more than necessary." Another blink, and John asked, "Do you have any idea why?"

"Because you're an --"

"Stop it. Really. Any ideas?"

"Because she's an idiot, then?"

"No. Not at all." John searched for the best, most concise way to explain it. "Because she was mean to you. Because she called you a freak, and meant it."

"That's ridiculous. Who even cares what she thinks of me?"

"Me. I care. It was hurtful, and untrue, and it made me want to keep my distance from her."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"I just don't want it to have an influence on someone in Rosie's life."

"I just don't see it quite that way."

"So maybe," John said, trying to come up with more data, another example, one Sherlock would appreciate, "you know you love Mrs. Hudson's ginger biscuits."

"Obviously. They're perfection, and --"

John held up a hand, hoping Sherlock didn't get too distracted. "Suppose her sister comes to visit, and you criticise her hair, or her clothes, or something she says. Do you think Mrs. Hudson is going to make you cookies again, if you're mean to someone she cares about?"

"Mrs. Hudson understands me, and --"

"Answer the question."

"Was what I said true, about her sister?"

"Irrelevant."

"It's never completely irrelevant."

It struck John, again, that using examples to demonstrate a point to Sherlock was fraught with all kinds of problems, whether literal or conceptual, and he tried not to let it de-rail his point.

"Okay, stop. Here's the thing, the bottom line. I'm not asking you to do anything more than be kind. Be kind, Sherlock, to other people. Because we need others to be kind to Rosie." 

"People need thicker skin, and to be less offended in general. I was truthful, and helpful."

"But not kind. I really need you to understand. For Rosie's sake, please." There was a rather displeased, critical expression on his face, but after a moment, Sherlock looked down and nodded faintly. "Thank you. We need Rosie to be able to go to this school, and really, it's just a good life skill to be on good terms with people - or at least not piss everyone off ahead of time, okay?"

"Yes John." A tiny smirk appeared at the edge of Sherlock's lip, a delightfully playful statement that could mean anything from what he said, yes John, to absolutely not.

Chuckling himself, John turned back to another important matter at hand:  tea.

"I'll try to do most of the pick-ups, or we can go together, but when it's just you?" John could see the range of responses in Sherlock's eyes, the set of his mouth, the cynical expression, and he sighed, "Please, Sherlock, make a little effort, for me and for Rosie?"

"I'll try."

"It's important. Thank you," John said, hearing some noise from upstairs where he hoped Rosie was settling in for the night. Shortly after, they were sharing tea, a typical evening ritual, something without caffeine these days. There was quietness between them, the occasional sound of cup against table or a page turn of John's book, a random noise as, out their windows, London wound down for the night, too.

"You know," Sherlock said, a little bit of an edge to his voice, "I'm not wrong. Those drinks, with all the sugar and Chantilly cream, can run seven or eight hundred calories."

John didn't bat an eyelash and tried to keep the sigh minimal, the eyeroll absent. "Not the point, mate."

"Slightly less than plum pudding. Mycroft may be interested in my findings."

John glanced over the top of his book, watching Sherlock's eyes dart between his mobile and John. "No he isn't."

"Does your admonition to be kind even apply to Mycroft?"

John held his glance, raising an eyebrow, and murmured quietly, "What do you think?"

"If I start being kind to him, he'll probably hit me with an ASBO or something."

”At your own risk, then.” He frowned then as another thought struck, and stated a couple of things. “You picked up Rosie in the afternoon.”

”Yes.”

”You told the teacher about giving up her gourmet coffee. In the morning.”

”Yep.”

”Care to explain?”

”Simple. Shouldn’t take you very long at all.” He set aside his mobile and turned toward John as if awaiting the great reveal.

”She told you?” A negative head shake. “You saw her there, at the coffee shoppe? You could still smell it on her, the roast, or the flavour?”

”How close do you think people let me get to them, John, honestly.”

The banter between them was easy and effortless. “Ah, right, not in the morgue, keep a wide berth. She was still drinking it?”

”Wrong.”

A few blinks later, and John tried again. “The cup, the label.”

”What about it.”

The details emerged, slowly, not entirely correct at first, but Sherlock would cue John through the specifics. Her name, the printed menu taped to the cup, and the cues that she was a regular there, the hand drawn symbols by her name. Then, finally, with a chuckle, John self-reported, “Well that took me longer than it should have.” Sherlock picked up his mobile again, smirking quietly, silently to himself, but his expression from the eye roll to the clench of his jaw told a tale. “That’s it? Nothing to add?”

”I’m trying out this kindness lark. Isn’t that what you wanted?” John made a face of his own, in return. At which point Sherlock spoke again. “Don’t get too used to it, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

John's day, fairly routine, seemed to be even keeled until it wasn't. Rosie'd had a meltdown over supper, John's mobile battery died, a dish didn't quite make it into the sink, breaking into shards on the floor, and John carried a fussing Rosie down the hall for a bath. Usually, it would settle her, or at least distract her, and he was going this evening alone and so was ready to find anything to restore calm. Sherlock had taken a case for DI Lestrade and was on something of a stakeout most of the afternoon and apparently heading into evening hours. His text had been vague, reminding John to neither wait up nor worry.

She was just finished in the tub, rosy cheeked and tucked into pyjamas, ready for a book and a snack when there was an unexpected knock at the door.

"Here's some berries, you can start here, let me just ..." John murmured to her as he stepped toward the door.

It was Billy. Billy the chemist, that is, not Billy the skull. Or, more properly, Bill Wiggins.

"Oh, uh hi," John greeted him, opening the door and allowing the man inside. "You remember Rosie?"

Mouth full of strawberries, Rosie smiled and said something similar to what hello would sound like around a mouthful of food.

"Sherlock's not in tonight, unfort--"

"I came to talk to you, actually, doc."

"Of course, it's just ... Rosie and I, it's almost bedtime, and ..."

"I can wait," he said, not caring in the least that John wasn't exactly interested. "I don't mind."

Over at her little table and chair, Rosie focused singularly on eating every piece of fruit with her fingers, watching John and Billy watch her in return. "I'm Rosie," she finally said.

"I know. We've met, you and me." His words were clear, and John took a second, more careful look at him. He'd put on some weight and looked much healthier than previously. There was clarity to his eyes. He'd even shaved, and though his clothes and shoes were not new, they were clean and in decent shape. Overall, Bill seemed to be doing well compared to any of the other times John had seen him. "I'm Bill. But you can call me Billy if you want."

"I have a friend Billy at school." When Bill didn't respond to that, Rosie shrugged and turned back to her snack. "He picks his nose sometimes."

"Okay, then," John said by way of derailing further discussion about nose-picking, "while you finish up, I'll just ... here," John gestured to the few things still out and about, and though he'd cleaned up the broken dish from earlier, the kitchen was still kind of a mess. "Tea, Bill? I don't have any beer or anything, though." John knew there was scotch in one of the cabinets but didn't want to necessarily give Bill that option.

"No thanks. Gave up drinking, I did. And the rest, too."

"Done!" Rosie exclaimed, holding her empty bowl up for John.

Who seized a teachable moment and scooped her up so she could deposit her own used dish in the sink without breakage.

"I'll be back in a bit. Bedtime's a little bit of a routine, but make yourself at home," John offered, hoping the hesitancy at his statement didn't show too much. He tucked Rosie up over his shoulder and prompted her to wish Bill a goodnight.

++

Rosie actually went down fairly well, her sweet hug giving him the sense that things were okay and that these challenging days were worth it. When he stepped back into the living room, Bill was waiting quietly, still on the couch where John'd left him. He was thumbing absently through one of the research journals Sherlock received but seldom read. When John asked again, this time he welcomed a cup of tea.

"Thanks for lettin' me inside." Bill stopped his fidgeting, set the magazine aside, and made eye contact, albeit briefly. "I won't take up much o' your time, either." There was a bit of quiet as Bill was clearly gathering his thoughts, and John was just about to encourage him when he began. "Lost a friend last month. Scared me good. Scared me clean, or into wanting to get clean." There was a frown, and restlessly, Billy shifted his position, foot tapping rapidly, nervous. "So Mr. Holmes, he'd always said, run into trouble, to give 'im a call. So I did, an' he set me up good. Rehab a couple days is all, and help after."

John was fairly certain Mycroft would not have made such an offer, but there was enough doubt for him to seek clarification. "And by Mr. Holmes, you mean ...?"

"Yes, Sherlock. He always says call 'im Sherlock, but it's Mr. Holmes to me." John nodded, wondering that Sherlock hadn't said anything about the offer, about helping, about Billy reaching out. "Been seeing a therapy person. I'm just so angry about it. That he died, you know? That someone sold him stuff, knowin' they shouldn't, him knowin' he shouldn't of. But ..." For a moment, John thought he might actually have tears forming, but he must have steeled himself, moving forward. "So angry. And it got me thinkin', it did, about when I was the same. Sellin' to people when I knew better. Sellin' to Mr. Holmes, even -- Oh wait, I'm sorry, maybe you didn't know, and --"

"No, Billy, sorry, do you prefer Bill?" He shook his head no, so John nodded back, and continued without missing a word, "It's okay, I knew about it."

"I just ... My therapist said I should keep a short list, make amends, apologise, pay it forward if I can." Billy was staring hard at his hands, and for a moment, his foot stopped shaking. "Which is why I'm here. I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, that it could have played out different, that my choice could have led to ... led to you losin' a friend like I did. We got lucky with Sherlock, we did, you an' me."

Lucky?

John was stunned by the immediate lump in his throat, the sudden appreciation for Billy's words. Lucky wasn't necessarily something he particularly felt - given the harder times, the harder choices, the string of difficult adventures, his whole life, really. But the word 'lucky' was made somehow more poignant, more truthful by the speaker.

Who wasn't done speaking.

"Doc? You 'k?"

"Oh yes," John blurted quickly, his throat thick but workable. "Never quite thought we have that in common, being lucky, Sherlock coming back the way he did."

Billy stared, barely blinking. "He said you popped 'im right in the kisser, you did." John chose not to correct him - nose, not mouth.

"Well," John began, stalling for time as he considered that Sherlock had flat out confided in Billy. That Billy was privy to much more of the story than he'd have expected. "To be honest, he made me watch, and then was gone for so long, and I had no idea." There was a thunderclap, a question, something that John also wasn't expecting. "Did you know?"

It was Billy's turn to stall, which made the spoken answer completely unnecessary.

"So you did know." For a moment, the anger flared in John's chest, unstoppable, unwanted. The pain of those long months while he grieved, the cemetery visits, were seemingly always waiting for an inopportune moment to ambush him, just under the surface. He gave himself a mental shake, remembering why Billy had come. And remembering most of all, that despite their journey to this point, he was lucky on that topic anyway. "I am sorry about your friend you lost. It's hard. I'm sorry, too, you've been troubled about ..."

"Creatively obtaining and delivering substances to Mr. Holmes."

A smile flickered across John's face without him meaning to, before he could stifle it. Of course Billy noticed, a quick smirk about his own mouth in tandem. "Where did you grow up, learning to talk like that?" The question, as unbidden and unplanned as the chuckle.

"Wales. My parents worked in government, for some hoity toity family. Reminds me of the other Mr. Holmes." Billy took a moment to play with the nearly empty beverage in front of him. "We were in uni together, me and the elder Mr. Holmes, at Oxford."

Thankfully John did not have a mouthful of anything, or it would have come out in a terribly spray. Or he could have simply aspirated and died on the spot. "What?"

"I only lasted -- not even a term there, he was nearly done by that point, and --"

From out front, there was a bit of noise, a car stopping, a door slamming, and then the outer door to the kerb opening.

John chuckled, considering the difference in age, assuming Mycroft was much older than Billy, and shook his head. "You're having me on."

"I'm not, swear it." Footsteps approached, growing louder as (presumably) Sherlock ascended. John went to open the door, in part to be polite, in part because the energy of the conversation was driving him. Driving him somewhere. 

"Well, that was --" Sherlock started to say, then saw Billy, changed his mind. "Hello." He glanced then at John, or meant to glance, until he saw and read John's expression. His surprised expression. "What's the matter with you?"

Rather than answer, John spoke to Billy. "Does he know?"

"Of course he does. Actually, 'e's the one who put it together."

With a wry snort, Sherlock continued into the room, the situation obviously not worthy of his attention. "Oh that. Oxford. As if it's earthshattering news."

"Took me by surprise, actually," John said, managing to regain some of his equilibrium, his presence in the moment.

"But that's not why you're here, is it?" For a moment, Sherlock focused intently on Billy, then on John, and then, silently, he crossed the room after scanning for anything being awry, or disturbed, or new. "What brings you 'round tonight?"

"Just a private matter," John said, calmly, hoping to come across casual. "Between the two of us, is all."

For a moment, John worried that Sherlock was going to deduce it all and blurt it out, perhaps making Billy uncomfortable. Instead, he merely nodded as he opened the computer, a few keystrokes, completely ignoring them once more.

"Thanks for stopping over, Billy. Anytime, you're welcome here, you know."

A handshake or two later, and Billy was gone.

Sherlock waited only a few seconds before speaking. "It was about me, wasn't it?"

"Isn't everything?" John parried back.

One eye narrowed as Sherlock again turned his laser focus on John. "He lost a friend again, didn't he? And it rattled him to the point of ..." Rising, Sherlock strode closer to John, a finger tapping on his lip as he prepared for a big reveal.

Interrupting, John put out his hand in a cautionary gesture. "Listen. Billy came over, something was bothering him. If he wanted you to be aware, he would have told you. He felt better, and then dropped the bombshell about attending Oxford with Mycroft, for gods sake."

"You might as well just tell me."

"No."

"You actually want to tell me."

"No, I don't. And it's okay to keep someone elses confidences, personal matters or feelings. You don't tell me everything, nor do I tell you everything, and so ..."

"Perhaps, but I know your secrets anyway." The look Sherlock leveled at him was sharp, pale eyes boring into John's own. There was a moment, a connection, some sort of chemistry just in the way the air hung, their breath held and then mingled, the acute awareness of the close proximity of the other person. It was charged. For a moment, John briefly flicked his eyes toward Sherlock’s mouth, returning immediately to Sherlock’s gaze. There was a flicker of acknowledgment before Sherlock’s expression became unreadable.

John quickly deflected, pushed back. "No you don't." You might but I'm not confessing anything.

"You have so many tells, and so little skills to keep things hidden from me. Yes, I do know." John stared back, willing his expression neutral and his pulse rate down, lest Sherlock see it in his carotid artery or something. He doesn't know, he doesn't know - does he know? "Would you like me to prove it to you?" His tone was something smooth as honey, melodic, almost a caress.

John ignored that too. "You probably don't know, or you're bluffing, and either way, no, I don't want to hear it."

"Soon, then. We'll continue this discussion later."

"Maybe," was all John would reply to that, wondering exactly what Sherlock would claim to know, or what he would say, or if it was just all designed to rile John up again. "So, Oxford? Seriously? How'd he even get in!?"

"Parents made him try it, another foolish decision. As I and my siblings can attest, parents do not always choose best for their children."

John kept quiet about Harry, about his own background, which Sherlock knew a little about anyway. "I have to believe they meant well."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said but it was clear he didn't mean it. "Either way, about Billy: you of all people already know that everyone, absolutely everyone, has some sort of story."

"Yes, we all do."

Sherlock's smile, the charming one, the genuine one, appeared then, and, inspired, he took a moment to search for something on his mobile. When he apparently found what he was looking for, he smiled broader, and John's interest was evident in the raised brow as he waited.

"There's one photo from those Oxford days. As both of them were, extremely briefly, together in chess club. Mycroft was captain and Billy in all likelihood was selling drugs to the team. All the same, it's proof they were actually there." His eyes sparkled as he looked at John. "Want to see it?"

"Of course," he breathed, taking care to downplay his reaction to what that smile really did to his insides. "Yes!"

Chapter Text

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.

Pick ups at school had been going well, and from what John could tell, the teachers and assistants no longer twitched warily when Sherlock arrived to collect Rosie. And John's work schedule remained settled. On the days he wasn't at the clinic, on occasion he still dropped Rosie off at school. Partly because she loved it and partly because he still needed the occasional break. And, as an added benefit, he was able to accompany Sherlock on random errands, or cases, or even the occasional lunch out. He greatly appreciated his home life, with just the three of them, yet savoured moments away as well, whether it be as simple ("and boring, John") as lunch out, or catching up on some pleasure reading.

Now and again, a case even managed to surprise them. Most often, a consultation didn't incur much follow up. Lestrade didn't often insist on paperwork, whether Sherlock's protestations had finally succeeded, or he did it remotely. The active crime scene, when it occurred, was weighed carefully. Greg didn't include them on anything dangerous. It was an added bonus when Rosie was at school when a consult beckoned. Sherlock had worked it all out without breaking a sweat and incurring only a small amount of lingering, requisite paperwork. Greg hadn't had to hassle, nag, or threaten them. Much.

"Here," John said, having read Sherlock's summary and pushing the file back across the conference table where they were working, toward Sherlock. "It's spot on. Just requires your signature under your statement. And then we can leave."

"I shouldn't have to sign it. Obviously, my name is there, and that should be enough."

"The signature makes it official. Unmistakably yours."

Sherlock had just signed his name when Greg poked his head in.

”Heading to collect that elusive scumbag that's been terrorising the elderly, stealing handbags and such. Cornered in an alley very close." John nodded, having heard about the cases, most often in a shoppe, occasionally on the tube. Greg's smile flickered, and he lowered his voice. "Want to tag along?"

In a flash, Sherlock was on his feet and nudging Greg as he answered, somewhat unnecessarily, "Of course we do. Come along, John!" As Greg strode toward the front of the building, Sherlock paused when John didn't follow right away. "Come along, yeah?" he breathed quietly, feeling less inclined to be ordered around. Even though, when it came down to it, he had every intention of following. A huff preceded Sherlock's scowl, but he acknowledged his error. "Please?"

Only a few minutes later, nearby as Greg had promised, the crook was indeed apprehended. But somehow, shortly after their collective arrival, there was a sudden scuffle as the seized man unexpectedly shrugged out of the hold of the officers and made an absolute lunge toward freedom, a desperate effort towards escaping. He made his attempted flight away from the uniforms and toward the plain clothed persons - straight for Sherlock.

"Get him!" someone urged, albeit unnecessarily.

Sherlock, of course, was ready for him and his escape did not work out, ending with a tall, gangly, coat-wearing man holding a flailing, body-thrashing criminal down on the ground, breath knocked out of him. It had happened amazingly fast, and both John and Greg moved in to grab him.

The man, disheveled and still desperate, regained his breath by this point, and unleashed a torrent of loud, hostile, aggressive statements. Profanity abounded - and as John glanced Sherlock's direction, the furious man managed to free an elbow, catching Sherlock hard and solidly in the ribs. Which was followed immediately by John grabbing the limb, pinning it, while hissing harshly, "That's enough of that."

Yet he continued at loud volume, he spat out personal insults at life and the police force in the beginning - using words like loser, fat, imposter often with a profane slur in front. He spied Donovan and was quick to add the N word, at which point there was eye contact between John and Greg, both of whom shared an intolerant nod. Greg called for assistance with the handcuffs, which the perp didn't care for. So when the man began kicking, they were ready, and John pinned both legs as Greg indicated for help from someone (not Donovan) who came to assist. One of the other officers issued a demand to cease, which was met by an outburst that would have been physically impossible, every other word a profanity. "Get your bloody hands off me, you fucking pig!"

Greg was not engaging, of course, as there was no reasoning with him. While Greg gave a few quiet directions, as he could between shouts and writhing of the man they held fast, John nudged at Sherlock. "You okay? Did he hurt you?"

Sherlock of course didn't want to confess that he had, but John could see the answer in the faint grimace and the tilt of his head, though the words belied that. "I'm okay."

Despite being on the sidewalk, the man still had enough peripheral vision to see them. "You are not, big bag of ugly shite. Arsehole. Goddamn piece of curly garbage. Get away from me, you bugger!"

His words were punctuated by somewhat superhuman strength, and both Greg and John tightened their grips to keep him from getting an extremity loose.

But John couldn't stop the response to his insults, his tirade that was very personal against Sherlock. "Keep your mouth shut, or ..." I'll shut it for you. Fortunately, he didn't verbalise the threat.

"That is quite enough," Greg said sharply, giving his arm a quick shake. "Stop it, before you manage to injure yourself." He followed that with the mandatory statements about the right to silence, and someone helped secure the handcuffs and ankle shackles. Both John and Sherlock stood back then as Greg dismissed a few people, requested a few others to hoist the man to his feet so he could shuffle to the waiting panda car. Although the man continued to speak, his volume was lower and he was making less sense than before; he was no longer violent once the restraints were on. A few minutes later, he'd been successfully loaded into a car and driven away.

Greg watched the car disappear, gave a quick smirk with a sad commentary, "You just never know what these idiots will do." Much calmer now, the scene remained somewhat subdued as the rest of the evidence was gathered. "Mate, you sure you're okay?"

Sherlock stood tall, aloof, coolly reserved. "Indeed." 

"I don't think I'll need your version of things, as I was here," and then Greg paused, also seeing what John had noticed, "unless you are injured and not telling me."

"I'm fine."

"Do you want a ride --"

"No," Sherlock answered. "No, we're only a short walk from here."

They weren't, and Greg knew it, but John didn't protest either as they turned quietly for a walk ... well, if not home, at least away from where they'd been.

"So, really, are you sure you're all right?" John spoke low, his words caring, for Sherlock's own hearing only.

"Yes, John." It was dismissive.

John pondered Sherlock's demeanor, back to his aloof, untouchable persona. Quietly, he stated, "I would have gleefully bashed his head in a little for you, had I the opportunity. And less of the Met around to watch." That statement at least got Sherlock to pause, glance at John's (somewhat murderous) expression. "Probably not worth the paperwork it would have cost me." He could feel his fists clenching, and his chest tightened, his face feeling every bit of the scowl he was wearing. "In fact, I could go back and --"

"Pointless. Not worth it," Sherlock sighed in John's direction. "Stop that," he pointed to his body language, John's cheeks coloured with annoyance, "before you pop a gasket or something."

Through clenched jaws, despite Sherlocks suggestions, John snarled, "How does this not bother you?"

"Why is this bothering you, is the better question. I'm not affected in the least."

"He had no right to speak to you like that. No right at all. Or to anyone like that." John could feel the irritation still coiled inside, building. His steps quickened as the annoyance, the indignation increased. "What is the matter with people today?" Sherlock levied a stare back, as if John had just asked a ridiculous question. "Well, yes. I'm just glad you're ..."

"Fine, John. Unhurt." Sherlock chuckled, "Not angry like you are."

"I am, I'm just ..." With conscious effort, John inhaled, exhaled, trying to let off some steam. "Offended for you. On your behalf."

From either side, in both directions, people passed by them, carrying on with their day, and there was just regular street noise, the sound of voices, the bit of a breeze. Down the street, a horn blared. Sherlock waited until there was less extrinsic noise before answering John. "I don't need you to ... defend my honour or whatever this is. It's truly not worthy of all this energy. Except that used in walking home. Burn off some energy."

Sherlock's words, though not a quote from their past, stung. John made a few efforts at letting things settle, at relaxing, at letting each footstep be a release. But only a block passed before he was speaking his mind. "Years ago, you might have said that you'd take me out and run me a little." He didn't need to remind Sherlock of the conversation years before, during the stressful wedding planning season, the comment Mary had made, that they had both made that reference. In the moment, it had sort of made sense; today, looking back, it was insulting.

"Good god, John. Let things roll off you. That's not what I said."

Aggravated anew, John stopped mid-stride and took Sherlock's coat sleeve. "Listen to me. I don't need to be run. I didn't need it then, and I don't need it now."

Snapping his arm away, Sherlock pulled out of John's grasp. "Why does this annoy you? The truth, please. It's not that you're just offended on my behalf. Why are you angry?" There was an eye-roll as Sherlock gave a bit of a cynical laugh. "If you even know, that is. Because self-aware, you are not!"

"Stop it, please." He exhaled, waiting for his brain to find the right words, and for Sherlock to pay attention. "It's just, for all the times I didn't defend you, didn't support you, didn't speak up when --" The words in his mind threatened to spill, threatened to confess those true things that he typically tried not to think about, and he glanced at Sherlock's expression. At Sherlock's worried expression. "Never mind. Yes, a walk sounds ... fine." 

Skeptical, Sherlock kept quiet and let his steps fall in alongside John's as they continued toward home in relatively awkward quietness.

For a little of the walk, they were subdued, somber. John's earlier angst, his inner annoyance, his bristliness, was certainly not gone, but thinly, intentionally, actively suppressed. Eventually, Sherlock tested the waters of conversation again.

"You're still angry."

"Yes."

"At me? Or at yourself?"

"Never mind. Can we just ... not?" There was a resigned huff, an exhale. "You know, you're probably right. It's not worth it."

"Likely true, he's not worth any of your time." Sherlock statement was oddly, strangely, atypically non-inflammatory. "But, if it's bothering you, you could finish your statement, if you want. For all the times you didn't ...?"

"It's the missed opportunities, you know. To have done things differently - or not at all - with Mary I suppose. But especially with you. With us." Sherlock nodded a little, introspective himself, and John waited a bit then added, "I suppose being reminded of what she said, too. I have some regrets is all." There was a traffic signal that halted them, followed by several cars turning that didn't stop to give them the right of way. So there, on the street corner, John managed to make eye contact with Sherlock. There was no ire, no unhappiness looking back at him, just curious interest. Expectant eyes waited for him to continue. The signal changed again, and they crossed the street before John spoke again. "I suppose I do need an outlet of sorts, but being reminded of that, of things done that can't be done over, just ... the reminder is hard. The two of you, conspiring against me."

"I can understand that, I suppose."

Half a block, still with no further words exchanged, John gestured at one of their usual cafe's, one that had a specific tea they both liked. "Can we ...?"

A few sips of tea later, holding insulated cups and feeling somewhat more settled on a kerbside park bench, John weighed the options: talk or keep quiet.  "I still think the way he spoke to you, yes it bothers me. It was completely uncalled for. Completely. And you say you don't care, but words hurt."

"I do not give any stock, any credibility, to the words of an obvious thief addicted to mind-altering substances."

"I was still offended on your behalf. And I think it bothered you too."

"I assure you it does not."

"Well, at least I can own up to being upset by someone's words. Because, being reminded of that comment, you and Mary's observation, that was a hard time A bad time. And ..." 

A faint breeze rustled, stirring leaves and a few bits of paper on the street, rippling the grass and, as John stared off in the distance, lessening the things he wanted to say. The things, the regrets, that still bothered him after all this time.

But Sherlock didn't let it drop. "And what?"

Who cares, John thought, and it loosened his tongue. "And I'm not sure I ever said I was sorry to you. For excluding you from things. For teasing you about the wedding plans. The purple napkins -"

"Lilac."

"Lilac. And piss off," John breathed quickly, a brief smile appearing before he continued. "For not defending you or supporting you when I should have. For ..." It never took much when John's mind could clearly recall those awful days, in the hospital morgue, his spiraling anger. The terrible decision to inflict as much pain as he could in Sherlock's direction, using words and Molly as his vehicle of delivery. "For what I did. And what I said to you."

"How did we get from that phrase, to those things?" Briefly, distracted, Sherlock shook his head, took a sip from his cup, and set it down before turning to face John next to him on the bench. "I have long forgiven you for all of that. And I was not blameless in that, either. The provocation was intense and, in hindsight, quite contributory. And yes, you did apologise, that first night when you moved back in. You were distraught, and exhausted, all that moving and ... Rosie had bumped her head or something. But you said it then, and I haven't looked back." For a moment, John wanted to look completely in the opposite direction, or get up and leave the place entirely. But he forced himself not only to stay, but to look over at Sherlock. Who was watching him, entreating him to understand, their conversation deep and personal. "And you need to let it go, too."

Despite the discomfort of the eye contact, John forced himself to nod, understandingly, before glancing at where Sherlock had reached out to touch his arm. "Or you'll take me out and run me?" His words were light and amused, without rancour. "Perhaps we both need that from time to time."

There are other ways to burn off extra energy.

John hoped he didn't speak that extra bit out loud.

"Perhaps we do, indeed." A shared smile, an exchange of calm, friendly eye contact, and they set off toward home, again, calmer and with their usual camaraderie. "How about cottage pie for dinner? We can stop and get ingredients on the way home."

"Perfect."

Chapter Text

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Rosie was already at school, and John had a few hours before being scheduled at the clinic, so he hung up his jacket to join Sherlock at the table.

"Listen to this," Sherlock said curtly, holding his tablet next to his morning cup of tea. "After careful and rigorous consideration by the Metropolitan Committee, DI Gregory Lestrade has been selected as recipient for the Services to Detectives Award for his meritorious caretaking following several internal investigations last year."

"Oh, that's great. I'm surprised he didn't say anything to us yesterday."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he continued, "An invitation only ceremony will be held in his honour next week, at which he will be presented with certificate of commendation and an honourarium."

"I'm glad for him, he --"

"John!"

"What?"

Blinking a few times, Sherlock waited for John to catch up. "Invitation only." John hesitated, understanding immediately that Sherlock was feeling left out. "I don't understand why we didn't get invited."

"Yes, makes no sense, that. I mean, we couldn't have a murderous photographer again, or an attempted murder of a military veteran, or any sort of drama, or the possibility of being upstaged, could we?" John chuckled, hoping that the humour would offset his concerns a little.

"Mass texts to all in attendance?" Sherlock added to the list, snickering himself. "Are you sure we didn't get an invite?"

"Not that I recall. It certainly wasn't handed to me. I wonder if it would have come in the mail? I'll go check with Mrs. Hudson," he suggested but didn't actually move to do so. "Do you think they specifically don't want us there?"

"Maybe it's a small dinner, and they only invited others on the force?" John truly couldn't imagine that Sherlock wouldn't have been invited, but didn't exactly read into it like Sherlock was apparently doing. "Want me to go check with Mrs. Hudson?"

Moments later, Sherlock shuffled down the stairs, and there were voices, followed by returning treads. "Nope," he said, though the empty hands were answer already. "She says that all the mail goes on that little shelf for us to grab, or she brings it up with her."

"Or Rosie does," John quipped, knowing that recently, Rosie has been interested in helping, and sorting, and laundry, and cooking, so they've been creatively finding ways to include her. 

"Her version of help makes everything take three times as long," Sherlock observed, then amended, "though she is exceedingly cute while doing it."

"Mostly, yes," John agreed, and then something occurred to him. "Ohh, I wonder?" Tilting his head just a little, with a slight frown, he asked, "You don't think it's lying around here somewhere?" He spied a few pieces of paper on their shared desk, and leafed through a few piles without success. "Or maybe ...?" he asked, glancing over at Rosie's little table and chair, where her colouring books and crayons were stacked up. 

It was there he found it, the corner of an envelope sticking up out of one of her books. It was unopened, addressed to them both, best they could see beneath the solid scribble of purple crayon. There was no possibility of reading the postmark. "Not sure how she managed this, but ... here you go."

"Little imp. Guess we'll have to monitor her 'helpfulness' a little closer," Sherlock noted, not exactly irritated but a little shy of pleased. "Guess we should see if it's too late to RSVP."

"And get a minder."

++

Arrangements ended up not being terribly difficult. John picked Rosie up from school and took her to Molly's, where they would pick her up later in the evening. Sherlock had indeed responded to the invite for them both, and if it was indeed past the date, no one said anything. So, all they had only to dress and show up.

"This look all right?" John asked, struggling a bit with his tie.

"It's too late for you to purchase something decent to wear, I suppose?" he asked in return, the smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "Stop, you're making it worse," Sherlock hissed back, coming over to stand in front of him. "Let me." Batting his hands away from the offending accessory, Sherlock untied and then carefully crafted a pristine Windsor knot. Although John was quite aware of Sherlock's proximity, he could feel the heat creeping up his neck as Sherlock was quite a bit closer than usual, close enough to see product drying in his curls, close enough to smell the faint vanilla in his aftershave, close enough to feel the heat from his fingers radiating through his collar. "Chin up," Sherlock finally said, and when John complied, it was an intense moment - breathing each others air, John's gaze meeting and waiting for Sherlock to look up after deeming the tie "Finished!"

For a little bit, they stood there quietly. Sherlock's jacket, dark gray-on-gray charcoal over a white shirt, no tie, a few buttons opened in somewhat of his usual attire - but this suit was carefully fitted and the fabric glistened in the warm light in the sitting room. His shiny Italian shoes peeped carefully out of trousers with a perfect break mid-shin. John's attire was definitely more atypical, a matching trouser, vest, and jacket in a faintly patterned gray tweed. The tie, now perfectly tied at his throat, and matching pocket square were satiny blue and complimented his light silvery dress shirt. A smile began on Sherlock's face, complete with eye-crinkles, and he then gave a waggly, non-committal movement of his hand. "You'll do, I suppose."

"Wanker."

++

Later that evening, just as most attendees were finishing their meals, one of the higher-ups introduced Greg Lestrade as honoree of the night. He listed his upbringing, his education, his attendances at various certifications and conferences, and then succinctly highlighted his career, ascending through the ranks of the police force. There were a few noteworthy cases listed then, many of them familiar to John and Sherlock because they had assisted in one way or another. After mentioning several in a row, Sherlock leaned close and said, "Perhaps the award should have been given to me?"

"Shhh!" John whispered back. "This is Greg's night."

With a small frown, Sherlock sat up a little straighter, and seemed to debate a little within himself. And John could completely understand, and had it not been part of the presentation, he might have reminded Sherlock about Greg's role, about how often Greg had allowed them access, plus some freedoms, some liberties, with various investigations.

Some applause sounded when Greg was summoned to the podium, and for a moment he was silent, just taking in the room and all those gathered to wish him well, to celebrate the accomplishment. Sherlock, by this time, looked much more relaxed as he gazed upon his friend of so many years being recognised.

Greg's opening remarks took the entire room by surprise.

"Good evening. Although I find myself wanting to say thank you for all this, what I find necessary to say instead is, that I find it hard to accept this award." The room fell utterly silent. "Because this was not anything that I've done by myself. Nor anything that, without this team - including most if not all of you - would ever have happened." He cleared his throat, the genuine emotion of gratitude coming across very clearly. "However, I do appreciate the honour and the acknowledgement of the team's hard work, of the efforts of keeping our streets and our city safe. So as I accept this, I do so on behalf of all of you, all of us, who have worked long hours and in difficult situations on very challenging, sometimes very horrifying cases." Chuckling then, he added, "I was threatened by my lieutenant to keep it short, so I think that's about it. Thank you, all of you, for your assistance, for your teamwork, for helping do the right things. I appreciate you all very much!"

++

Later, after making the rounds of the room and especially greeting and congratulating Greg, the men turned toward the exit, to secure a cab rather than walk.

"What would your speech have been like, if that had been given to you?" John asked.

"I would never be given something like that, because I'm too much of a berk to work with."

"Well, I can't argue too much with that. But you joked about you getting the award instead of Greg. What would you have said?"

"Probably something offensive that would have insulted the whole room. Calling them idiots in the first few sentences."

"Would you have said thank you? Or including gratitude to anyone, or something about all those who make it possible, the work?"

"What do you think? Does that sound like anything I would say?" Chuckling, Sherlock glanced out the window. Traffic this time of night was still moderate, and they inched forward at one of the many traffic lights.

"Good point, no. But you are crucial to the department, to helping with the big cases. And of course, in Greg's thank you speech, he didn't mention you by name, but you were absolutely included."

"As were you."

"No, not really. I don't really --"

"Whom do you think keeps me from being forcibly removed from almost every crime scene? Or who manages to come along behind me and soothe all the feathers I ruffle?"

"Well," John giggled. "That may indeed be true." For a moment, the back of the cab was comfortably quiet. Dim lights from various traffic signals and street lamps illuminated oddly, a profile, a shoulder, the fabric wrinkles of a coat sleeve. Their breathing was soft, even. After a bit, John could feel the urge to speak further about the award, testing the waters a bit. "I would have loved to see you get that award, by the way. Just so you know. It would have been very deserving."

"While I appreciate your sentiment," he slurred a little on the last word, drawing attention to his own negative connotations, "and appreciate that you think somehow it would be fitting, I would have hated everything about this evening, had I been in the spotlight."

"You actually love the spotlight."

"Yes, but only when I can control the variables. Deflect when necessary. Flounce off dramatically." His eyes, staring across the back seat at John, glimmered a little as the cab continued on toward Molly's, where Rosie was waiting. And while John was watching, he popped up his collar. They shared a smile before he continued, "Greg needed this tonight, as he's going to be up for promotion shortly."

"He is?" John let Sherlock distract him by changing the subject. "Did he tell you?"

"He doesn't know. Tonight at the dinner, a couple higher ups from headquarters were there, his candidacy for another position, something administrative, will be announced shortly." For a moment, John considered what the promotion might mean for Sherlock, and for them. "But don't worry. There's a ninety percent chance it'll get offered to him and he will turn it down."

As expected, John snorted just a little before commenting. "You're guessing."

"Time will tell." His delivery, enigmatic yet somehow as if he had inside information, only made John more curious. "Want me to go get her?"

"No, that's fine, I'll just run in," John said, the cab waiting at Molly's address. "Don't leave without us, though."

"Spoilsport," he replied, speaking up a little louder as John was already out of the car.

++

"She was exhausted. Fell asleep mid-way through the book," John declared, returning to the sitting room to find Sherlock reading something on his mobile. Not looking to retire to bed, John proceeded to the kitchen, returning with a beverage to relax in his chair. "Reading something ... fascinating, I presume?"

"No." Initially, Sherlock didn't elaborate and John didn't ask. But a few minutes later, Sherlock was making some sort of discovery type noises as he read, glancing with raised brows at John a few times, at others mostly a curious expression. "I'm reading your blog."

"The old blog. Haven't posted in ... over a year now?"

"Fourteen months." Sitting more upright, Sherlock set his mobile aside, turning his laser focus on John. "Your conversation tonight, what you said, was ... interesting. You don't begrudge Greg this award."

"No, of course not."

"But you seemed to imply that I could have received it, and you would have ... how did you put it, thought I deserved it."

"You do."

"You seem to always relegate yourself to the background. To minimise your role. To, oh, let's say perhaps, take care of business and then hide in a crowd." Jefferson Hope never really needed to be named.

"Well, you did have the shock blanket." John could vividly recall seeing Sherlock, across the crowd barrier, sitting in the ambulance wrapped about the shoulders with orange.

"They made me wear it," he said wryly, catching John's eye, very similarly to how they'd done it long ago outside the building where the cabbie lay. So much had changed since then - living situation though now back on Baker Street, relationships and now Rosie slept upstairs, career changes and sibling dynamics, yet they were still cohabitating, sharing meals and cabs and their lives - but not everything. "And to follow up on your earlier statement, if I'd received an award?" As John watched, there was a frown, eyebrows moving, an amused quirk of Sherlock's mouth as he considered his words, debating within himself. Finally, he breathed deeply and uttered, quietly, "I would have said thank you to you, John."

Chapter Text

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock declared as John opened up his review papers. Again. For the sixth night in a row. "Why do you even bother?"

John tried hard to let the frustration roll off him. Again. For the sixth night in a row. "Because to stay current, let alone keep my medical license, there are annual appraisals which I already do, and then revalidation every five years. Things change all the time, and it's important to know best practice. It can be invaluable, and you never know when --"

"Seems quite a hassle to write prescriptions and sign forms, if you ask me." John let his glare, his raised eyebrow state that he wasn't asking. "And if it's just about the money, --"

"It's not."

"-- we could easily live off cases, and --"

"Mostly your doing."

"You help," Sherlock countered.

Very loudly, John thought about Sherlock's trust fund, his financial fall-back, and his own personal responsibility to support and raise a child.

Sherlock knew what he was thinking - not saying - and shook his head as he returned to his previous unfinished statement, "-- you could leave this nonsense behind." Sherlock gestured at John's study materials.

An angry fire burned inside, and John stared hard as Sherlock looked on with condescension. Multiple responses, all of them mean and retaliatory, came to mind, but John clenched his jaws instead. Sherlock didn't usually unleash his hostility on John, not too much any more, but this was still Sherlock. And he still operated largely without a filter, without tact or politeness, when it suited him. Coolly, with great effort, John spoke quietly, his delivery with great underlying restraint, "I'll just take this nonsense upstairs with me then."

Rosie, already asleep, was usually out for the night, and John had a tiny reading lamp he didn't use often, but ... well, when he needed a break, or obviously Sherlock did, it was available. Careful with his steps, not to awaken her, he climbed into bed, pulling up sheets without letting his annoyance ... have unwanted effects, like waking Rosie.

Sherlock's words, though, rankled. He liked working, and he enjoyed practicing medicine, making a difference for those in his care. Despite Sherlock's taunt, it was not all writing prescriptions and signing forms. His schedule was flexible enough, and he could mostly choose his working hours. For a moment, he tried to see it from Sherlock's perspective, that John was not at his beck and call (though he hadn't been that for a long time) and that occasionally, it would fall to Sherlock that Rosie might need something, like a preschool pick-up or helping with a meal, although he'd tried to minimise that, too. For the time being, though, he would study (and pass) the revalidation. It would at least keep this option open to him.

++

"That was brilliant, you know. Again." John chuckled, the solving of the particular case in a very touristy area. Sherlock had somehow figured out the details, suspected the criminal would try to disappear into the crowds of the queue at the Eye. And they'd managed to catch him. "But of course you know that."

"Nice to hear again, regardless," Sherlock grinned back, pocketing his mobile as they considered quickly the best, quickest, and easiest way to return to Baker Street. There was a little time to spare before needing to collect Rosie, but not much. "After you," he said, offering out a dashing type of gesture, arm outstretched, in the direction toward the tube.

As John headed that way, something amiss, something approaching urgent, caught his attention. A pair of tourists, both women, sisters perhaps, had just sat down on one of the benches near the water but out of the way. One was looking a bit peckish and the other, touching her arm and speaking perhaps louder than should have been necessary. The message was not being well received. At all.

"Wait," John spoke quietly to Sherlock, approached where they sat. "Excuse me, you okay?"

At the same time, the more frail of them said 'fine' while the other contradicted with a curt 'no.'

John stood in front of them, focusing on one, who was pale, leaning hard on the bench, a hand pressed near her throat. "What seems to be troubling you?"

"My cousin. I'm fine," she insisted with an American accent, though she was breathless. "My cousin is bothering me."

"Stubborn old woman," the other woman uttered, somehow sharply but with kindness. "She's not well. Insisted on ..."

John took another look at her. "I'm John. Nice to meet you. I'm a doctor."

"Good, tell her to go to the Emergency Room."

For a moment, John could tell that, though she definitely appeared sickly and something was indeed brewing it wasn't a call 999 moment. Not yet anyway. "We call that the A&E here. For accidents and emergencies." He tried to smile, redirecting his attention. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Her insistence wasn't entirely coming across clearly, as if she wasn't exactly getting it. "I just need to --" Her sentence trailed off, her eyes flickered a bit right and left as if she'd lost the thought.

"She's not acting herself. At all," the cousin harrumphed. "This is not her usual."

John aimed for compassionate and calm, giving a quick pat on her shoulder while watching her pretty closely. "You don't seem as if you're feeling too well, to be honest," he said to her. "Sit and rest while I have a bit of a chat with your cousin." For a moment, she seemed to understand and did as John instructed. "So? Any health history? Did she eat today, perhaps that's part of this?"

"Pneumonia once last year. Takes something for diabetes, not insulin."

"A pill? Or one of those newer injectable medications?" John asked the speaker, who shrugged, but the patient nodded and murmured, unclearly, "Mon - something."

"Mounjaro?" John asked, but neither woman could confirm that.

"She broke her ankle, needed surgery, maybe 10 years ago. But all healed and very healthy, actually. We both walk, a lot. Did one of those walking tours yesterday."

John appreciated the slim history, though when she didn't answer the other question, he asked the quieter patient on the bench, "Did you eat today? Or drink anything."

"I think I had a half a cup of coffee," she shrugged, glancing at her cousin. "Did we eat yet?"

John could feel that there was something wrong, an infection or something multi-factorial more likely. Proceeding as gently as he could, he patted the back of the woman's hand but spoke to the cousin. "I do think she should go get checked out."

"No, I'm fine," she protested, then tried to get up but didn't quite have the strength to do so. Her respiratory rate, John noticed, especially once she'd tried to get up, was quite elevated. As was, he discovered, reaching for her wrist of the hand he was touching, her pulse.

"I strongly believe you get medical attention. The A&E at St. Thomas' hospital is right --"

"Is it that serious?" the cousin asked. "Do you have those urgent care clinics nearby? I mean, she's --"

"If she hasn't had much to drink today, and is on those medications, with a lot of exercise even walking, yes it could be."

The gaze she cast back at John could only be described as dubious, disbelieving, skeptical. "Maybe if I just take her back to the hotel, lay low, get her to drink ..."

Exchanging a glance with Sherlock, who was puzzled and probably more agreeing with the cousin, John rose to the occasion to ... well, not quite pull rank, but almost. "I don't disagree that perhaps, she might be okay. But the meds she's on can mask very serious signs of ..." Struggling with a layperson's substitution word for acidosis, he settled on, "... a very serious acid/base balance problem in the blood. It can be difficult to reverse, and sometimes," he gauged her reaction, her listening, and chose an appropriate level of alarm, "gets much worse before it gets better." Her worry levels rose, and John gestured to the woman on the bench. "Breathing fast, skin is flushed and pale at the same time," he indicated her face, her neck. "The altered mental status, as you say, she's not herself, alone makes it worth checking out."

"From her medication? She loves that med, she said. Lost some weight. Says her blood sugar is better than ever, that level, A something?"

"Haemoglobin A1C, yes." Her relieved smile at John's understanding, at his knowledge, was only brief, so John continued. "So please, do what you can to convince her, or just ..."

"Force," Sherlock murmured.

"Persuade her," John clarified, a wry grin at his flatmate's word choice, "to go."

"Tell her it's another sightseeing stop, St. Thomas A&E," came Sherlock's next suggestion.

Shaking his head, John stared right at the woman, the patient whose hand he took once more. "Please. You need to listen to your cousin. Just to get checked out. And make sure things are okay."

"I don't want to. We're on vacation, and --" Her voice was uncertain, though, and tremulous, and she was definitely not processing. John considered that, if she continued to refuse, her cousin might have to call emergency services.

"I know, but a quick check is all." The cousin, somewhat empowered now by John's suggestion, became a bit more declarative. "Up you go, dear. Let's take this nice young man's advice, and make sure you're fit for the rest of the week."

Both John and Sherlock each took an elbow, helping the woman get to her feet. Once she was up, she seemed a little stronger, and managed to regain her balance. "Here, let me help you, there's a cab stand right --"

"Oh, no, I see it, and I can take care of it," the cousin told him. "Thank you, John you said your name was?"

"Yes ma'am." They were already on their way, and John watched for a few moments until Sherlock interrupting his spectating.

"We'll barely make it to pick up Rosie, if we leave now." John consulted his mobile for the time and found that, of course, Sherlock was correct. "That was, by the way, an impressive lie. To get her moving, blaming that medication."

"I wasn't lying. That's completely, wholly true. That class, those GLP-1 meds, can wreak havoc when someone's dehydrated, or has an underlying infection." Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, clearly disbelieving. John consulted his mobile briefly for the quickest path to their destination, but he continued the discussion while starting off at a brisk pace. "I'm not kidding. You know, this is one of those times when I'm going to say I told you so. Because this is newer, recent finding. The class of meds is fairly recent, and widely prescribed, so we're seeing all kinds of problems in certain specific instances. You fuss at me for studying, for staying current, keeping my license. But this? A direct benefit of revalidating. I've seen maybe a case or two of it at the surgery. But it's definitely out there."

"Staying current is a separate issue than revalidating. You could accomplish the former just reading, keeping abreast. The latter? A money-hungry NHS just trying to keep control over you."

"Sounds like a flatmate I know trying to control greater London."

"You know if that were true, there would be far more interesting crimes."

John, chuckling, kept a quick pace, feeling satisfied for a couple reasons - they'd make it in time to get Rosie, the woman would seek appropriate follow-up care, and Sherlock had solved the case. From his periphery, he could see Sherlock studying him intently. "What?" John asked with some hesitation, not knowing what Sherlock had chosen to make a fuss about.

"You're just feeling smug because she referred to you as a young man."

++

The texts came through, a group text from Greg Lestrade.

I have something to ask you, can stop over later tonight after Rosie is in bed if that works. GL

Sherlock couldn't have been bothered, gesturing with his long fingers, "Whatever," he murmured to John, "you take care of it."

John debated only a little before responding, because sometimes, riling Sherlock up was great fun.

Sounds great. Anytime after eight should be fine. Sherlock is thrilled. JW

Of course, that evening Rosie gave a bit of push-back about bedtime, and John was a few minutes later than he'd expected before going back downstairs to find Greg already there. Sherlock, predictably, was rolling his eyes and a little huffy.

"Finally," he complained, "Took you long enough."

"Hey, anytime you want to read to the little tyrant, or whatever nickname you'd like to assign, feel free," he quipped back, heading into the kitchen with an offer extended for pints if anyone wanted. Both Greg and Sherlock indicated they did, so John returned rather quickly, three bottles in hand, and once he'd seated himself, and exhaled slowly, he could feel the busyness of the day just melt off him.

The relaxation was short-lived. "So," Sherlock said a bit edgily, "we're all here now. Please do alleviate the suspense we've been suffering with, and share your news."

"Ignore him," John suggested, reaching out toward Greg with the bottle to click them together. "It's been a day." He crossed one stockinged foot over a knee and began to tell them a brief tale of some excitement they'd had in the surgery, a story about an encounter, a custody dispute involving not only the child, but an iPad and a fish tank. As usual, John told the story well, and Greg laughed at the appropriate moments. Sherlock, however, did not.

"Our jobs are not all that different, sometimes," Greg observed. "Unpredictable. Ridiculous."

"Oh for gods sake, just get on with it."

"Or," John began, voice strong to make the point, "you don't actually have to have an agenda. Your choice, mate," he reminded all of them. "Might serve someone right to be taken to task for their manners."

"Oh, I know. And I'll get to it, shortly." For a moment, Greg simply looked over at Sherlock, waiting to be noticed, and when their gazes caught, Sherlock nearly bounced to his feet, ready to storm out. "No, I'm ... Sit down, it's a good one. But seriously, Sherlock, you're just getting to be more and more entertaining." Leaning back, getting comfortable, Greg took another sip before speaking. "I can see why Mycroft enjoys this so much, mate. You make it fun." Both he and John knew when and how, and especially how hard to push, and they were approaching the limit, so he changed tacks. "I got an interesting email through the website today. Someone had searched for any contact in the public sector, had some feedback to share, and decided for some reason to start with the Met police force. And because of that award a few weeks back, the news article was there, with my name, and they searched for me to find the email address."

"I'll be sure to catch the highlights tomorrow, because at this rate, you'll still be talking in the morning!"

"Shut it, Sherlock. Seriously." John laughed at his frustrated face, curious why he was feeling so high strung, and then he advised, "You don't have to listen if you don't want, though. Just shhhh!"

"I have the email here, it's short enough. Just let me ..." He set the beer down to scroll, which took a few seconds before he started to read.

"Dear Mr. Lestrade - clearly an American writer. Oh, sorry, I'm editorialising - I am writing to express my thanks to someone in London who helped us out the other day, and am hopeful that you'll be able to identify the person who assisted my cousin and I. We were sight-seeing near that ferris wheel, the London Eye - again, referenced, haha those Americans. My cousin was becoming ill, and we were aided by couple of nice young men, one of them said he was a doctor named John. He never gave his last name. Anyway, my cousin truly wasn't well, and he helped persuade us both that she needed medical attention. Last we saw them, we were headed off to St. Thomas hospital, but our good Samaritans disappeared before I could get more information from them. At the hospital, my cousin Loretta suddenly became hard to wake up, and they took us back immediately, and worked on her for a long time before putting her in the ICU. She was in the hospital almost a week before things got fixed.

"John was so kind, and smart. He knew exactly what the problem might have been just based on a few details and the medication we couldn't remember, he knew without us recalling the name. It was exactly what he said, though, and his advice - and his warning - I think saved Loretta's life. The doctor in the A&E, not the Emergency Department, as John explained the term, told us she wouldn't have lasted much longer untreated.

"I know it's a long shot, but I thought if anyone could figure it out, it would be someone like you, a Special Detective Award recipient. If you know who this man is, or if you can locate him, can you please tell him we are so grateful? 

"Whether or not you can find him, Loretta would like to send off a check - cheque, spelled wrong, of course - to you, a reward of sorts as payment, and to pay it forward using funds to help people with. She doesn't like to name drop, and she's insisting that I don't either, but she holds a role in the entertainment industry for some very famous (and yes, very wealthy) clients and this is how Loretta likes to say thank you very much. In fact, she has already sent off a check to the hospital.

"I look forward to hearing back from you and trust you are doing well. I hope we get back to London someday, seeing as how our vacation - though I'm to understand you call it holiday - was cut rather short!

"Very truly yours," and Greg looked up to find them both watching him, "she signed her name, included her email, and reminded me to let her know about where to send the cheque." He set the mobile down, grabbing his beer in its place, and waited a little while. When no one had anything to say, "I know it's a long shot, as she said. But those details, curious. Anything to say?"

Under his breath, Sherlock murmured something that sounded like oh dear lord, causing them both to give him a bit of a stare. Eventually Greg turned toward John. "So, really, John. Was this you?"

"Sounds like a pretty big stretch," John began, tentatively, "finding one of the thousands of people who are there every day. A long shot, to be sure."

Greg's eyes narrowed, clearly hearing the creative avoidance, the lie of omission, and he pressed, "So you're saying no, this wasn't you?"

"Seems I'd remember that, if it was me. When did she say she was there?"

"She didn't. And I didn't. I was hoping to catch you in the detail."

"Hmm," John said, hoping to cover his expression by pulling deeply at the beer in his hand. For a few seconds, he held Greg's gaze, keeping his face neutral. "Hope you have a few other people to check with."

In the lull following John's deflection, his statement, there was some noise coming from upstairs, the sounds of fabric, or bedding moving followed by the sounds of something falling off a bookshelf and then a small wail of distress.

The sigh was heartfelt as John closed his eyes while Rosie called out to him. "Being summoned again, apparently," he set down his drink, said goodbye to Greg, and headed upstairs.

Once they were alone, Greg waited long enough for Sherlock to have volunteered anything, and when he didn't, Greg asked the question. "So, it was the two of you, right? That was John, helping that woman out?"

Smirking, Sherlock snuffled a bit of a laugh before telling Greg, "John doesn't appear to recall that incident, does he?"

"But it was, right? You were there too?"

"I don't seem to recall it either."

Their eye contact, held longer than necessary, communicated all that was needed. "All right, then. That's ... I understand, sort of. But I'll be following up with her, and I expect between the two of you, you can come up with an appropriate recipient for whatever donation she'll be sending." He stood, set down the empty beer bottle, and ran his hand through his hair as he sighed with mild frustration. "Do I make myself clear?" Not waiting for an answer, he headed out of the flat.

++

A few weeks later, after an, according to Sherlock, frustratingly long and boring case resolution, they were leaving the yard on their way back to Baker Street when Greg stopped them. "Here," he offered his hand, holding out a piece of paper. "Copy of an email I got earlier this week."

Sherlock, a hand on his hip, parried back, "Why on earth would I want to read one of your insipid emails?" Something in Greg's face, his raised eyebrow must have given Sherlock pause, who deflated a little, "Oh. Yes, okay." The paper ended up in his hand, but without a blink, he passed it off immediately to John. "For you, I believe. Or so Greg wants us to think.' With a wave, an upstretched hand, Greg headed back to his office, effectively dismissing them.

Later, over tea, John pulled it out to read.

Dear Detective Lestrade,

Thank you for your very generous gift of [redacted] for benefit of our Walking with the Wounded project here in London.

As you explained, the donor was expressing gratitude for assistance received, and the private citizen had wished to remain anonymous. It speaks volumes when someone receives assistance and pays it forward, who doesn't seek their own notoriety in the least. 

I don't know if you are privy to the details, or the persons involved, but if so, please express that this gift will both cover some current expenses and allow us the privilege of broadening our scope. We are eager to address some upcoming partnerships, meeting some very real needs for some very hurting (and very deserving) veterans.

Thank you for the connection, and for all the work you, your department, and your service extenders are doing.

As agent of the Walking with the Wounded foundation,

Very truly yours, 

Without statement, John offered it over to Sherlock who didn't move. "Don't need it."

"Old news?"

"Mycroft told me, yes." Sherlock sipped at the tea, blowing gently into the steam that rose. "Would you like to know the amount of the donation?"

"No," John said instantly. "No I do not." Then, he smiled, feeling the affirmation that it was the right thing to do, to request, to pay it forward, as the woman had wanted. "How long have you known?"

"Since yesterday. He's slipping."