The heat crept over his skin like sunlight and seeped into his marrow, fending off the sharp bite of the London winter. The fire had waned, but continued to fill the room with an intimate warmth. The clink of dishes resonated from the kitchen as Sherlock busied himself with cleaning up from the Christmas party. It was a good party. The kind where everyone who came was happy and everyone left happier than they came. He felt like 221B hadn't had such a party in years. Rosie had the lead role, of course. Children had a way of stealing the show and stealing hearts. She'd passed through everyone's loving hands and received the most presents. She was now dreaming in her crib upstairs, having soundly slept through the last three hours of the event. The partiers had left—Greg and Molly together, Mrs. Hudson and her herbal soothers downstairs and Mycroft…well, back home to whomever may or may not be waiting for Mycroft. It was just the two of them once again. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. As it had been since that fateful January so many years ago. Despite the hurt that they caused one another, the traumas they had each been through, they kept ending up back here together, again and again. John felt a contentment deep in his soul.
It had been ten months. Ten months since he and Rosie had returned to Baker Street to live and well over a year since Mary had died. It had all started the day of The Hug. Yes, he thought of it in capital letters. It was a day that they had shattered barriers. An emotional barrier that had kept them apart for too many months, during a time when they had needed each other more than ever. He had needed Sherlock in his grief and Sherlock had needed him for sobriety and stability, and yet, John had denied them both their most basic need. He denied them both what it took to heal them. That day, at his most vulnerable moment, after John confessed his crippling insecurities and his profound shame, Sherlock had tentatively pulled the doctor into his chest. It took a few moments for John to register what was happening before he fell against his friend's chest, wrapping his arms around his waist and gasping through his sobs. He had so much to grieve—the loss of his wife, the loss of his daughter's mother, the shame of abusing his best friend, and the months spent in solitude. A self-imposed purgatory. He nearly drowned in regret as he inhaled Sherlock's scent and leaned against him for support, his legs feeling weak and unreliable. Sherlock kept him afloat, tightening his arms to keep him above the surface.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" John repeated between his tears and his shaking sobs. Sherlock made quiet murmurs of "It's OK", but John persisted, "No, I hurt you, Sherlock. You're the last person I ever wanted to hurt, and the only person I needed."
"Shhhh…" Sherlock, held him tightly, an arm circling his back and an arm pressing John's head against his chest. The detective's fingers gently caressed his friend's hair. Eventually, John came back to himself. He drew deep, tremulous breaths as his tears subsided. He tried once again to articulate his thoughts…his fears.
"How can you ever forgive me, Sherlock, when I can't forgive myself?" Sherlock pulled away from him to look into his eyes. The detective's eyes shone with tears and an emotion that John couldn't name at the moment.
"I've already forgiven you, John," he said. "We can stop hurting each other now. We can move forward from here." John read the raw emotions in his friend's eyes. The need, the desperation. Sherlock's arms still held him close. John nodded slowly.
"God, we've been through so much in the past few years, Sherlock. You're right. We have to stop this. You are worth too much to me."
Relief flooded through Sherlock as he clutched his friend to his chest, once again. They remained there for a few more moments before John pulled away, sniffling with a gentle laugh.
"I really need a tissue now." Sherlock briefly disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a box of tissues. His arms felt cold and empty without John, but the catharsis he felt from their reconciliation overwhelmed the sensation of physical loss. He took a deep cleansing breath and smiled into John's eyes. They were going to be OK.
Shortly thereafter, the debacle with Euros unfolded. When they finally pulled John out of the well, he had been nearly unconscious and shivering so violently that he couldn't speak. The rescue workers wrapped him in warm, dry blankets and whisked him away to an awaiting ambulance. He did, however, remember, Sherlock plowing through the workers to get to him. He remembered Sherlock's arms around him briefly, with vice-like strength, and Sherlock's broken voice whispering,
"Thank God, thank god, John. I couldn't have lost you, too." John grasped the lapels of his friend's jacket, vibrating with chills. Later, after the worst of the cold had stopped wracking John's body, and Euros was safely contained, they both climbed into a helicopter for the brief flight off the island. Sherlock's shoulders slouched and his eyes were dark and haunted. They buckled into their seats and slipped the headsets over their ears. Sherlock turned away, gazing out the window, his posture defeated. John couldn't even imagine what he must be going through—learning that so much of your childhood had been a lie. A lie perpetrated by the people you trusted the most. He saw Sherlock covertly wiping his eyes. The doctor reached out and grasped his friend's hand. Sherlock immediately squeezed his hand in return and shot him a grateful, watery glance. John could feel the detective's hand trembling in his own. He did not let go for the duration of the flight.
Mycroft had a car ready for them in London. They climbed out of the chopper and John looked at his friend,
"You're coming to my house, Sherlock.". Numbly, the detective nodded, too overwhelmed and fatigued to argue, even if he had wanted to. The wind from the chopper blades had chilled John again. Ever astute, Sherlock slipped off his Belstaff as they were about to get in to the awaiting vehicle. He wrapped it around John tightly. John protested,
"You're going to be cold, Sherlock."
"No, I won't." They climbed into the back of the inconspicuous black car and Sherlock slid close to his friend and pulled him in to his side. "Body heat is the best way to treat hypothermia."
"Hey, I'm the doctor here," John said, smiling, tucked against the detective. As Sherlock's warmth alleviated his well water chill, his shaking subsided and he started to become drowsy. Shivering and hypothermia had burned all his energy, leaving him exhausted. His eyes drifted closed as his head fell onto his friend's shoulder. Sherlock felt John's breathing become slow and regular as his body relaxed into a deeper slumber. Sherlock eased his friend onto his lap, placing his arm over John's and his fingers buried in his friend's hair. As John slept, Sherlock allowed himself to revel in this physical confirmation of his friend's survival, affirmation of his continued presence in his life. This was going to be difficult—navigating the uncharted waters of a relationship with his psychopath sister and repairing relationships with his parents and Mycroft. He was going to need John's friendship. Although their relationship was only recently recovered, it did not feel tentative. They were indelibly bound to one another. The weight and warmth of his friend resting on his legs sent a warmth up through his chest and a laid a blanket of ease over his unquiet mind. He leaned his head back on the seat and dozed for the remainder of their ride.
Once back at the house, John had to pay the babysitter. Rosie was already asleep in her room. John offered Sherlock the first shower while he made some tea. He dug out an old shirt and boxers for Sherlock to wear and slipped into the shower himself, after placing a hot mug into Sherlock's tremulous hands. Sherlock had been quiet thus far and John assumed that his friend had a great deal to sort through. Sherlock would talk when he felt ready. John toweled his hair, feeling fresh but still tired, despite his nap in the car. When he walked into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of his best friend leaning over the counter, shoulders shaking in an attempt to contain his sorrow. It was inevitable. Everyone has their breaking point.
"Sherlock." The tenderness with which John whispered his name as he ran a hand over his back, was Sherlock's undoing. He turned and pulled John into him, holding on to him like a life raft in a stormy sea. Sherlock shook so hard that John felt his own arms were the only thing keeping Sherlock whole. They leaned against the counter, Sherlock's tears soaking John's shirt, for what felt like hours. Gradually, his tears subsided and Sherlock was rasping,
"I'm sorry."
"No," John refuted with determination. "You don't need to apologize. After what you've been through today? Sherlock, this would shatter anyone." Sherlock looked into his friend's eyes.
"This is ok? Me being here, like this? We're ok?" John read the desperation and naked need in Sherlock's voice and in his face. It took his breath away and John pulled him close again,
"Yes, it's ok. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere." He pulled away to take their mugs and place them in the sink. "Come on, we both need some sleep."
"I'll take the couch," Sherlock said, fatigue evident in his voice.
"No, you won't. This bed is big enough for both of us. "John headed toward his bedroom. Sherlock lingered, tendrils of hesitance and discomfort holding him back.
"Come on, Sherlock, we've shared beds many times on cases, it's not a problem. You need real sleep and you're way too tall for the couch."
"But," Sherlock stammered uncharacteristically at the doorway of John's bedroom, "this is….was…your bed with Mary, John. It's not my place," he looked down as he said the words.
"Look at me," John stepped into his space, making eye contact unavoidable, "She's gone. I've accepted that now. I don't see her anymore. I don't talk to her anymore. All we have is each other. And when I have a nightmare tonight about you putting that bloody gun under your chin, I want to be able to reach out and touch you. To know that you're alive." He said it a bit more forcefully than he intended, anger a defense against his own vulnerability. Realization crept into Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't considered the effect that would have had on his friend—his best friend, who had already watched him die once.
"Yes, " he started, clearing his throat, "About that, I'm—"
"No, " John shook his head resolutely. "You did what you had to do today, Sherlock. There's nothing you need to apologize for and nothing you could've done differently. You were given no options." He sighed, looking tired and ten years older. "Let's just get some rest, Sherlock."
"Ok," he nodded, climbing under the covers on the opposite side of the bed. They lay facing one another. It didn't take but a few moments before John was snoring lightly, once again. Sherlock tried to rest but he ruminated, his mind spinning over and over the events of the day. Their hands were mere inches apart. Sherlock gently covered John's with his own, hoping it wouldn't wake him. He took deep, even breaths, trying to block out the day's events and focusing instead on the sensation of John's warm skin against his own, the gentle rhythmic lull of his breath, the sensation of the duvet weighing on his body. John turned his hand over in his sleep, clasping Sherlock's. Finally, the detective succumbed to Morpheus.
When John woke from a deep, and miraculously dreamless sleep, their backs were pressed against one another. He felt the warmth of his friend against him, his ribs moving with deep even breaths. He felt affection move through him like a tidal wave. He wasn't sure what was happening to him. All he knew was that he had witnessed an astounding amount of kindness, bravery and humanity yesterday and it had left him in absolute awe of his best friend. Sherlock had changed since his return from the dead over a year ago. He had matured as a friend, as a brother, as a human being. He was more honest with his emotions, more giving, more accepting and more generous with his care. It was John himself who had been childish and reactionary of late, displacing his anger at himself onto all the wrong people. The events of yesterday were clear evidence that John needed to make some changes in himself in order to be worthy of this man's friendship. He didn't want to wake him, but he needed to hold him. The urge was irrepressible. He turned over and fit himself against Sherlock's back, slipping an arm over his waist. Sherlock stirred, settling back against his friend, covering John's arm with his own, and returned to snoring. John, too, drifted back to sleep.
Sherlock was the next to wake, mid-morning light shafting through the blinds. He felt the heat against his back and the arm anchoring him. His breathing quickened with the awareness that John had either consciously or unconsciously pulled him close and he smiled into the pillow. Knowing the tumult that the next days were going to bring, he took this moment for himself. He shored up the strength and stability that John gave him and coveted it away for the coming days. He was able to stave off the chaos of his thoughts for another few minutes and breath in John's scent, to allow it to permeate his thoughts like curls of smoke, drifting around and through, obscuring his pain. Now, feeling at least somewhat fortified, he pulled away from John and climbed out of bed to face his demons.
The following weeks were busy. At first, Sherlock was away for days. He was at Sherrinford with his parents and Mycroft by day, staying at their places at night. Their family had so much to work through as the dust settled and they were all anxious to see where the pieces had fallen. The brothers seemed to have reached a new milestone in their relationship and stood together in the wreckage that was their history. They needed each other. Sherlock and John stayed in touch by text, feeling slightly uneasy without the constancy of the other, particularly in this tenuous repair state of their friendship. Finally, John went with him to visit Euros and to walk around the old Holmes homestead. John had no desire to see the sister—the woman who had nearly killed him as well as others whom they cared about. But he wanted to be with Sherlock, to support him, to stand with him as he gazed at the ruin of his childhood home while memories moved like ghosts through the rooms of the detective's Mind Palace. They talked. Sherlock shared what their family had been brooding and bristling about, how he had been coping and he tentatively shared his hopes of forging a relationship with his sister. John listened and accepted. He would accept everything the detective had to bring to their friendship now. He was done with rejecting and denying and lying. His heart was open. This is what Sherlock had taught him and continued to teach him daily. The physical aspect of what they were, of what they were becoming, was growing easier between them. As they ambled around the island, Sherlock quiet and pensive, lost in his thoughts, he hovered in John's heat, often brushing a hand or leaning into his shoulder. It felt comfortable, accompanied by a sigh, as if they had always been doing it, or perhaps always should have been doing it. Though they didn't share the thought aloud, they were both hopeful that they would always do it.
The reconstruction of 221B was progressing, financed by Mycroft and requiring a great deal of somewhat tedious decision making. Before they ever discussed John's return to Baker St (with Rosie, of course), Sherlock included him in all the decisions, as if they were building a home together. John was there frequently, Rosie in tow, visiting Mrs. Hudson (who adored the child) and helping with clean up and décor decisions. They kept it much the same, recreating what they had Before. Before used to refer to Before The Fall. Now, it was Before Euros. John pondered that and concluded that all relationships must have defining events. Theirs were of a rather unusual nature, but they had forged through them and were building a new life. Sherlock had returned to John's house during the reconstruction. They continued to share a bed (though without intimacy), share their meals, and share parenting. John was surprised by how good his friend was with Rosie. He truly enjoyed being with her, spending time with her, discovering things with her. Sherlock's own curiosity about the world was reflected in the baby's sighs and squeals. He spoke to her like she was a small adult, taught her the physics of rainbows and the biology of bees. Despite themselves, they became fast friends. John hadn't believed he could grow any fonder of the man, but his heart continued to expand. It seemed to be limitless.
It was a warm summer evening, the horizon still softly lit with the lavender remains of the day. Sherlock had been at Mycroft's for a couple of days, but now he sat with John after Rosie was asleep. John had made some delicious pasta dish and they relaxed, sated, on the couch, with wine and crap telly, when John quietly stated,
"It's lonely here with her gone. Really gone, now." John stared into his wine, swirling it. Sherlock looked up quickly, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
"Come home, John." His voice had become suddenly rough. When John met his gaze, Sherlock fought the innate urge to look away, to hide his vulnerability. He was done with that. He was done with sidestepping the truth and covering his feelings for his friend. Life was too short for that—a lesson learned once After The Fall and again After Euros. And as he did so despise repetition, he didn't need another lesson to prompt him to make a change.
"You really want us both there, Sherlock?" John asked, still quiet, sounding cautious. "Living with a baby is not—"
"Yes, it's what I want John. More than anything. We'll make it safe for Rosie. I'll get a separate fridge for body parts, I can rent 221c for experiments, and no more shooting the wall. She'll be safe, John, I would never allow her to be in danger." Sherlock's eyes were wide and earnest. He had clearly put some thought into this. John's breath hitched in his chest and he reached for his friend's hand, interlacing their fingers.
"Ok," he breathed, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "We will come home."
And so they ended up at Baker street, all three—finding a shared routine, of waking and sleeping, investigating and doctoring, caretaking and take-out, arguing and laughing. Though they had their own rooms, the affection remained frequent and easy. A light hand on the back, on a shoulder while passing through the kitchen, the whisper of fingers on mugs, lingering embraces with Rosie between them and molding to each other on the couch as the hour grew late and eyelids dropped low. There were heavy moments, the desire for more thick enough to taste, the air sticking in John's throat, as he wondered what comes next. He had no doubts about the love he felt for Sherlock, but he had doubts about how much detective wanted from him. Sherlock seemed happy….looked happy. His eye shone, he ate and slept somewhat more regularly (he was still Sherlock) and he was irritable and irascible less often. He rarely went for days on end without speaking and he played gentle, passionate pieces on his violin day and night. John and Rosie had already altered Sherlock's natural habits so much, that John didn't want to risk forcing more change on the detective. It wasn't worth losing everything they'd built—a life that John loved. He let the moments pass and they fell back into their easy rhythm.
The anniversary of Mary's death was difficult. John woke to the barest hints of grays and pinks in the eastern sky. The hole in his chest ached as he gazed at his sleeping beauty of a child. A little girl who would forever be motherless. He curled in on himself, pressing his face into his pillow as sadness hollowed him out, scratching at his ribs and the inside of his belly. He rolled out of bed and hobbled downstairs to make tea. The familiar routine was a balm for his soul. He supposed he ought to be quiet as Sherlock may be sleeping. The probability was always 50/50, no matter the hour. The kitchen was still cast in shadows as he rooted for his favorite cup in the cupboard and set the kettle on the stove. Would she be proud of him, he wondered? Is this what she would have wanted for him? And for Rosie? A voice whispered in the back of his mind…yes, of course, I loved him too…this is why I left you that final message… the whistle of the kettle startled him and he moved quickly, hoping he hadn't woken his friend or his daughter. He poured the steaming liquid and sat down at the table. He often found the quiet of the early morning to be soothing, contemplative, but today it merely provided a stark backdrop for his grief. He dropped his head onto his arms, consumed by his desperate wish that she could see Rosie. Her first tooth, her first step, her first words….it was all happening here at Baker Street. As tears dropped onto the table, he felt strong hands clasp his shoulders. Relief flooded through him-relief that he wasn't alone, relief that he had someone with whom he could share this burden. Someone who knew who Mary was and who she wasn't and how they had ended up here. He couldn't bear to tell this story to someone new, make them understand. He would never be able to. He reached back and grasped Sherlock's hands, pulling him down toward him, once again feeling as if he was drowning and Sherlock was the only thing keeping him afloat. Sherlock moved around him as John turned in his chair and buried his face into his friend's waist, feeling arms wrap around him. Sherlock curled over him, placing kisses in his hair, his own heart breaking in tandem. The awareness that he was here with John, raising their child, instead of Mary, felt like a knife in his gut.
"I'm sorry, John", he whispered into his hair. "I'm sorry."
"I know, Sherlock. I know we both miss her. It was never your fault-"
"I'm sorry it was her and not me." John stood up so abruptly that his chair nearly upended. He grasped his friend's skull, leaning in close. His face was contorted with anger and… was it fear? Sherlock was taken aback John's intensity. His face was close enough to breathe the same air and feel the heat of his words.
"No! Don't you ever say that, Sherlock. She made the sacrifice, she made the choice. It was what she wanted. I was so, so wrong a year ago, the way I spoke to you, the way I treated you." He leaned his forehead against his friend's as he took steadying breaths and struggled for some control. His grip relaxed and his thumb caressed Sherlock's temples. "We cannot change anything that has happened and I don't know that I would even want to." His pulls back and his eyes met Sherlock's shocked gaze. "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about that, Sherlock. The unanswerable question, the impossible scenario. If I could go back and choose…but I didn't have that choice. Neither of us did. That's how life works. All I know now is that you are precious to me. I choose you, now. I want you in my life and in Rosie's life. You cannot leave, Sherlock, you can never leave me again. You can't leave us. Do you understand that?" Raw sentiment turned John's voice to gravel, but the words were anesthetic for Sherlock's heart. He closed his eyes against his own flood of tears.
"I understand, and I'm never leaving again. You're my family now. You and Rosie, and I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here, always." He opened his eyes, their transparent seas revealing pure honesty. Though he knew him nearly as well as he knew himself, John's expression was nothing Sherlock had ever observed before—a mosaic of pain and passion, relief and love, and before he knew it, John had pressed his lips to his. The kiss was soft and warm, sweet and intense. Sherlock's mind halted and he saw blooms of colors behind his eyelids, his heart skipping in his chest. It was over all too soon, leaving him completely breathless and wanting for more—so much more. John quickly pulled away and ducked into an embrace, hiding his face in his friend's shoulder, muttering "I'm sorry, I-"
"No," Sherlock said, his voice raspy when he recovered his ability to speak. "Don't apologize. The two of us have done far too much of that." He pulled away to look into John's eyes…into his heart. "It's fine. It's all fine." John gazed at him for a long time before saying,
"You mean….?" He left the question open, the weight of this moment leaving him floundering and inarticulate. Could his best friend want the same thing? Did he want more?
"Yes, John. I want this. We don't need it to happen today. Today is not the day for it. But I want it. With you. I love you." At this, John's tears fell yet again. He placed his head against Sherlock's chest and listened to the steady thump-thump of his heart. They remained wrapped around one another until the pinks and grays transformed the world into the bright, bustling city on an uncharacteristically sunny fall day.
Soon, the cold winter winds blew in a steady stream of mysteries, meals, holidays and children's toys. Though they had a regular babysitter, Sherlock took care of Rosie often and with love. They occasionally took her with them to NSY to review case files, strapped to one of their chests, a tiny detective in training. Her rosebud cheeks and one-tooth-grin softened opinions of Sherlock and their new kind of partnership, smoothing the sharp edges of words and glances. They transformed the upstairs bedroom into Rosie's room and slept together in Sherlock's. Like much of their relationship, that had transpired without much discussion or fanfare. One chilly late night, when they dragged themselves off the couch to go to bed, Sherlock didn't let go of John's hand. John smiled and followed him, as he had always done.
Now John sat anxiously, with rings in his pocket. He had removed them from the box, knowing that his detective would have discerned the outline of it in his pocket hours before he was ready. He and Sherlock rarely kept anything from one another anymore and the detective had sensed his anticipation earlier. The lively sounds of the party filtered up the stairs, where John had taken Rosie to put her down in her crib. The room dark, he leaned over and touched her soft baby hair as she slept. He felt more than heard Sherlock standing in the doorway to her room.
"What are you nervous about?" he probed, without preamble or pretense. John smiled. He couldn't hide anything from this man.
"I'm fine, Sherlock."
"Hm, " was his dissatisfied response. Molly called from downstairs,
"Sherlock, come play for us!" Sherlock pushed off against the wall with a lingering thoughtful and slightly suspicious glance at John before heading downstairs. John took a deep breath. When heard the merry voices singing to holiday melodies, he smiled and returned to the party.
Dishes finished, the detective slung the dish towel at the table and sat next to John, who had been sitting on the floor before the dying fire, soaking up the last of the heat.
"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked him. John shook his head, his gaze still on the glowing embers. This is it, John thought, it's time to do this.
"Sherlock, " he began. Sherlock looked up in alarm, knowing that John had been behaving differently all evening and detecting a shift in his tone. Tension filled his own chest…maybe John didn't feel the same, maybe he wanted something different, maybe they were moving too fast, maybe…
"No, no, that's not it, we're fine," John read the fear on his features and quickly reassured him. He slid closer to Sherlock, taking his hand, and chastised himself for allowing his love to experience the discomfort of that uncertainty. Especially since his very goal tonight was to remove all uncertainty.
"Quite the opposite, actually, " the doctor said, smiling in self-conscious manner that Sherlock found endearing. John pulled 2 platinum rings linked by a tiny silver bow from his pocket and handed them unceremoniously to Sherlock. "I don't know if it's…what you want, I mean, I know it's what I want, but…" he took a shaky breath, "I'm saying that I love you, Sherlock, and I want this, all of this, everything we are and everything we have, to be permanent. I never want anything else. I want you to be mine forever. We are perfect together." Sherlock's eyes were glassy saucers and he had stopped breathing. The rings lay in his hand untouched. John smiled into his eyes, and nudged him with his knee "Breathe, " he said softly. The detective abruptly pulled air deep into his lungs.
"They're perfect," he said huskily, "We are perfect. And, yes, I am yours forever." He leaned into John, touching his face with a trembling hand, pressing his smile against his lips. The tension drained from John as he relaxed into his fiancée's body, deepening their kiss. Sherlock pulled away, murmuring,
"I never expected to be anyone's husband," nearly echoing his own words from long ago. John grinned,
"And I never thought I'd have a husband. Life is funny like that. The things you don't expect, the things you were never looking for, turn out to be the best things in your life."