A/N - Despite being a fairly seasoned author, this is my first fic in the Sherlock fandom. I didn't seem to have the FLAMES ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE reaction that a lot of people had to The Final Problem (and/or season 4) but I thought that the ending felt very slap-dash ... as if they were trying to do just enough of a wrap-up that if season 5 never happens, it's in a good ending place but not SO wrapped up that they couldn't pick it up again. And while, rationally, I get that ... well, there were just a lot of freaking plot holes and unresolved or unfulfilling answers. So here is a little fluffy bit of ridiculousness that happened in my brain because I watched that Baker Street montage and went, "OMG THEY BECOME HUNTING HUSBANDS!" (this term may only make sense to other Supernatural fans, but I think you get my drift).
Thanks, as always, to my sister and beta, Skeptikitten. Hope you enjoy.
~~ ** Lady Tuesday** ~~
From the Mouths of Babes
"John… John, I didn't want to have to tell you this but I'm concerned about Rosie. I believe that there is some cognitive problem that we hadn't discovered before and, as her father, you should be aware of it."
The father in question pokes his head around the frame of the kitchen doors to peer into where Sherlock paces the center of the sitting room, Rosie clinging to his chest and burbling happily. A long divot pinches the space between Sherlock's brows as the detective peers down at her, his expression a mix of concern and reluctance.
"What is it?" John asks, spoon still clutched in his fingers from stirring an ungodly amount of sugar into his friend's tea. He sets it down on the counter and jogs into the sitting room when his friend's expression melts into one of sorrow. "What's the matter?"
Sherlock's fingers tighten on Rosie as she reaches out chubby fingers to John and bleats, "Dada!" but he releases his grip and hands her over to a puzzled John. The doctor gives his daughter a quick, sweeping glance but finds nothing amiss.
"What happened?"
"Well," Sherlock begins gently but must decide there's nothing for it because he plows onward with a resolute expression. "I think she can't tell us apart. She is mixing us up."
John huffs with laughter before he realizes that Sherlock is in earnest. "Why on Earth would you think that? It's not as if I look like a human stick insect, too; I'm fairly certain she can tell us apart."
Scowling at John, Sherlock directs his gaze back to Rosie and now seems agonized to admit, "She called me 'Papa'."
A long moment of silence, then John replies, "So?"
"She thinks I'm her father, John," Sherlock entones, clearly implying that John is a simpleton for not figuring it out. "She's mistaking me for you."
John can't help but laugh. "She's doing nothing of the kind. Sherlock, Rosie calls me 'Dada' or 'Daddy', not 'Papa'. She's differentiating us if anything. She's giving you your own nickname."
John has very little doubt that he has Mrs. Hudson to thank for this; she's been subtly prodding at John about Sherlock's involvement in Rosie's rearing since they moved into Baker Street with him. He's been avoiding the discussion as slyly as he can but apparently she's decided to force the issue by teaching Rosie to call Sherlock 'Papa'. Can't point that out to Sherlock, though, given the carefully blank expression on his angular features.
"You can see her point, really," John continues after a moment. "'Sherlock' is a hell of a mouthful for someone who's not even two yet." After a sufficiently humorous pause, he adds, "Or anyone, for that matter."
Surprisingly, the detective ignores the dig. He reaches out to Rosie as John bounces her on his hip but then pulls back. Rosie turns her gaze on Sherlock and makes a few happy gurgles.
"But I'm not her father, John."
"What does that matter?"
"'Papa' is a term reserved for fathers. I'm not—"
"Well, she doesn't know that. You spend just as much time with her as I do, so it's only natural she'd think you're her dad, too. And anyway," John can't help that his happiness ebbs away a bit as he stares down into the girl's sweet face, "it's not like she'll remember Mary."
It pricks at him – of course it does – that his daughter will never know her namesake. He fights against the lump in his throat.
"Mary will only ever be a name on paper and face in photographs to Rosie. She won't know her mother. She will, however, know you and you care for her like a parent."
"But John—"
"Sherlock, do you care for Rosie?" he interrupts firmly.
Sherlock scowls that Don't Be Obtuse John frown that John really hates. "Of course."
"And you'll protect her?"
"As much as I am able."
"Uh huh," he confirms. "And you feed her? Bathe her? Dress her, change her nappies, play with her when she laughs, rock her when she cries, put her down to sleep—"
Sherlock strides away from the pair of them and snaps, "That makes me a babysitter, John, not a parent. We shouldn't lie to her, even by omission."
John absorbs that for a moment. "Do you love her, Sherlock?" When Sherlock turns back and stares at him, stricken, John angles Rosie towards him to emphasize the question. "You love her?"
The detective's watercolor eyes mist a bit as he crosses the room back towards where John and Rosie occupy the center. The little girl bats at dust motes floating in the crack of sunshine streaming in from the window. Sherlock raises a finger and traces the soft curve of her chubby cheek, earning a giggle in return.
"I—" Sherlock begins, falters, tries again. "Of course I do, John." Then, quieter, "She's you."
That last bit will have to wait, John knows, before he can get back round to it. Letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment, John swallows around the tightness creeping from his chest up into his throat. He clears it conspicuously before he can continue.
"So how are you not her parent? Just because you didn't supply the genetics?" John asks.
When he opens his eyes, his best friends stands too close, fingers threading around Rosie's back and just barely brushing John's arm underneath her bottom.
"What about all the adoptive parents and step-parents and foster parents out there? Thousands and thousands of people who love and care for children that they have no blood relation to. They're still parents, aren't they? Why should that make you any different?"
Sherlock turns his back, walks towards the window, and fingers his violin where it's propped in the corner of his chair. "I'm not her father, John."
"You are," John insists. "You are and you will be, especially from Rosie's perspective. Look," John tries using his Sensible Doctor Voice, hoping to penetrate, "Rosie will grow up without her mother. And that is sad. Breaks my heart."
Sherlock's shoulders hunch and he curls away from the bald truth.
"But look at all the people she will be surrounded by who love her. She will grow up without a mum, but she will have all those other people who will love her and care for her and protect her: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft even—"
"God help her," Sherlock quips, tossing John a smirk over his shoulder. "Imagine what he'll be like to the young men or women she wants to date." He affects a face that is an unfortunately accurate depiction of his brother's tipped-nose sneer and quotes, "Don't say anything, just look frightened and scuttle."
John chuckles but doesn't let the blatant distraction tactic derail him from his point. "Your parents dote on her already."
"Mummy'd lost hope of grandchildren. Rosie is the nearest she'll get and no doubt she'll smother her with affection," the detective chortles.
"And she'll have two fathers who love her to distraction," John finishes.
Sherlock turns and walks back to them slowly. When he makes it over to John, Rosie thrusts out her hands and squeezes her fists open and closed in the air, grabbing towards Sherlock just as she had done for John. Sherlock's breath hitches before he raises his arms to take her. John hands her over without hesitation and watches, smiling, as she settles in his friend's grasp.
"Rosie, who's this?" John points a finger to his own chest.
Rather proving that the girl has spent an inordinate amount of time with Sherlock, his daughter gives him a speaking glare that clearly states that John an idiot for asking the question. Sherlock guffaws.
"Daddy," Rosie answers dutifully.
"And who's this?" He pokes a finger into the baby's belly, causing her to laugh.
"Wosie."
"You're right! Daddy loves Rosie. Give us a kiss, love."
The little girl puckers her lips and giggles when John kisses her with a resounding smack. John puts a hand on Sherlock's chest but before he can ask the obvious next question, Rosie raises a hand and pats her fat palms against the detective's lips.
"Papa," she burbles and Sherlock chuffs against her fingers.
"Very good, sweetie," John coos. "Papa. And who's this?" He taps her cheek this time.
"Wosie!" she cries triumphantly.
"That's right!" John congratulates her. "Papa loves Rosie, too."
"Luff Wosie," she manages after a moment.
Her chubby hand moves to pat Sherlock's cheek where a thin stream of tears trickles down from one eye. "He does," Sherlock murmurs to the girl.
"Rosie loves Papa?" John prods.
"Luff Papa," she babbles then puckers towards Sherlock for the expected kiss. Sherlock's eyes dart briefly towards John then back to Rosie. He leans forward tentatively, unsure, but Rosie shows no such uncertainty. She leaves a wet smooch on his lips and then leans back and claps her hands, clearly pleased with herself at the success of this new lesson.
Sherlock seems completely nonplussed with the progress of the entire situation, his face a stark mask of surprise and … hope? Apparently, he's not quite sure he deserves what happened, but he's clutching Rosie tightly enough to his chest that maybe he just doesn't want to admit he's pleased with it.
John lets it sit a moment before he says, "See?"
He'd been perfectly content to leave it at that, ready to turn back and finish the tea that's probably cold by now. John forgets momentarily, however, that children are unpredictable and have a tendency to expose hidden things that adults are afraid to let out into the open. John is halfway back to the kitchen when the little squeak of voice startles him.
"Papa luff Daddy?"
John freezes. Apparently that last bit is going to be addressed sooner than he thought. He turns to find Rosie staring up at Sherlock, question on her face, and Sherlock trying desperately to mask the panic on his features.
"Papa?" she says again and pats his face for emphasis. "Luff Daddy?"
Sherlock keeps his gaze fixed on Rosie and jigs her up and down in his arms. "Yes, darling," Sherlock stumbles over the endearment, "Papa loves Daddy. Very much."
Rosie nods then yawns loudly, her eyelids drooping as she leans forward against Sherlock's chest. "Nap," Sherlock mutters and practically scurries away to his bedroom where they'd placed an extra bassinet for her to nap in while they were downstairs working on cases.
As he hears Sherlock shuffling around in his bedroom – changing Rosie's nappy, most likely, before putting her down – John stares at the tea service and debates his next move. He's known it was inevitable for a while now that they'd have to deal with this, discuss it eventually. John's known it since Sherrinford, certainly; maybe even since his wedding, if he's really honest with himself. Which he hadn't been until very, very recently. But it can't be helped now. He'd just hoped maybe they could have waited to talk about it until everything had settled down more. Hoped not to spring it on Sherlock when they were still so busy just rebuilding their lives together in the aftermath of Mary's death and Sherrinford. Also, John's just plain rubbish at the whole business of discussing emotions. No help for it though.
"No time like the present," he murmurs. And really, Rosie did unwittingly give him the perfect opening for it. The tea can wait.
When John pads into Sherlock's bedroom, his heart wrenches in his chest. The detective stands over his daughter where she just drifts towards sleep, his slim digits creating gentle swirls along her back as it rises and falls with her deep breaths. It'd taken John ages to talk Sherlock down off of the "but all the articles I've read say that she must sleep on her back, John!" ledge, but now Sherlock seems to get a strange amount of peace just sweeping his fingers along her back as she lies curled up on her belly. Undoubtedly, Rosie is the first baby that Sherlock's had any kind of prolonged contact with and John can't help but be amused at how mesmerized the detective is by her most mundane accomplishments and realities. John's even caught his friend grinning lightly as he pats her upthrust bottom while she naps, causing John to resolutely banish the word adorable from his mind every single time.
John's procrastinating the unavoidable conversation, he realizes, as he stands here watching Sherlock dote on his daughter. So he tells himself to just nut up and get on with it.
"Daddy loves Papa, too, you know. Has for some time now. Probably longer than he cares to examine."
Sherlock whirls to face him, his face all astonishment. If it wasn't such a serious moment, John would probably laugh at how gobsmacked Sherlock looks. He flounders wordlessly, his mouth opening and shutting a few times before he narrows his eyes at John and scrutinizes him ruthlessly. That's something John didn't expect; he didn't think Sherlock wouldn't believe him. The man sees through everyone and everything. John had thought it'd be obvious.
"John," his friend manages eventually, "you don't mean—you can't be saying—"
John takes a few steps closer. Sherlock actually backs away a bit.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not—you don't feel—"
Sherlock stops and grips Rosie's crib. John takes another few steps until he can feel the heat of Sherlock bouncing against his crossed arms.
"What if I did?" John stays calm. Oddly calm, now that they've come right to it.
"You don't," Sherlock says firmly. "It's just … grief."
"Nope," John says shortly. "Try again."
"I'm a man," Sherlock says, rather stating the obvious.
"I'm aware," John answers, smirking.
"You're not—"
"Oh, what does that matter?" John protests and then drops his voice to a near whisper when Rosie stirs. "Isn't that what Mary said? It doesn't matter what we really are; she knew what we could be?"
"But John, I—" Sherlock curls his arms in front of his chest as if protecting himself from John's inevitable rejection.
"Do you love me, Sherlock?" John asks bluntly, surprised at his own composure. A long, tremulous moment passes and John begins to worry that maybe he'd got it wrong.
Eventually, Sherlock says, "For ages," in a broken whisper.
John grins. "Good. Because with me declaring myself just now, this would have been awkward as arse if you'd said no."
A startled chuckle rumbles Sherlock's chest as John leans forward slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to dodge away if he wants to. He doesn't.
When their lips press together, Sherlock gasps noisily against John's mouth before opening his lips to surround John's. It's fairly chaste, as kisses go; just a gentle movement of mouths against each other and not even a hint of tongues, but John feels it down to his toes. Sherlock untwines his arms from around his own ribcage to cup his hands around John's face, palms splayed against John's cheeks, fingertips massaging his skin where they start to run into his hair. John's fingers clutch at Sherlock's hips and pull him closer. When John's teeth clamp down on Sherlock's heavy bottom lip just enough to scrape the delicate skin, the detective gasps and keens out a low "John!" that the doctor swears rattles his whole chest cavity.
John pulls away and hisses, "Shhhh!" and nods at Rosie.
"Perhaps," Sherlock says unsteadily, then clears his throat and regroups, "perhaps I should call Molly and ask if she and Mrs. Hudson would like to babysit this evening."
John kisses him briefly one more time, just because he can, before pulling back and saying, "That sounds like an excellent idea, Papa."
A/N - I actually imagined this as one of a series of vignettes about where Sherlock and John go from here, being the Baker Street Boys post-TFP. It wouldn't be one cohesive "story", but more just a series of "flashes", I guess, of who they become. If this interests you, drop a line below and I'll see what I come up with.