A/N - Hello all! This is the second one-shot that I've thought up for the Baker Street Boys series, which I intend to be not so much a Series 4 "fix it" per se, but filling in the gaps left by the S4 plotholes and the montage at the end of The Final Problem. Chronologically, it is the first that happens after the events of series four, but is the first of two "prequels" to From the Mouths of Babes, which is the first piece that I wrote for this series. You don't have to read FTMOB to understand this one but ... why wouldn't you? There will be one more "prequel" in the works, so if you prefer to read things in chronological order ... You may also want to check out FTMOB because I wrote out a fairly detailed timeline/calendar as to the canon timeline of series 4 (as much as possible; it's a bit nebulous) and where these one-shots will go.

If you're coming to me from FTMOB: OMG THANK YOU for your support. If you're new to this series, I hope you enjoy. I posted this before I got a draft back from my beta - I was too impatient - so I may tweak a bit at some point; if you see any glaring errors, let me know. :)

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

Home Again, Home Again

John huffs as he carries the last of the boxes seventeen steps familiar steps, stopping at the landing halfway up to hitch a bag of Rosie's things higher onto his good shoulder before proceeding. Scowling darkly, the doctor growls at Sherlock's retreating back as the man scales the next flight towards John's room, toting the old army footlocker as if it were a shoebox.

"How is it," John grouses as he sets the carton down in the sitting room, "that after seven years, at least three near-death experiences, two near misses with drug overdoses, a heart-related gunshot injury, and double kidney failure, you can still bound around like a bloody gazelle without showing any signs of tiring? Especially seeing as how when you're not in the act of chasing suspects, you lie about on the sofa for days on end, only getting up to play the damn violin?!"

A deep chuckle rumbles the floorboards above him and John can't help but return Sherlock's mischievous grin when he thunders back down the stairs leading to John's bedroom.

"Just because you don't witness my exercise doesn't mean it doesn't occur, John," the detective rejoins, smirking.

John leans a hip against the arm of the sofa, crosses his arms over his chest, and favors his friend with a skeptical glare. "Is that so?"

Laughing again, Sherlock strides into the sitting room, bending to stack a few of the smaller boxes one on top of the other on the coffee table. "Mmmm," he mutters, arranging things in a pattern completely incomprehensible to anyone but Sherlock. "It never occurred to you to question why I can chase criminals all over the city and still be able to hold my own in a fight? Obviously I must be training at something, John."

"Really?" John asks, genuinely curious. "All this time we've known each other, how did I never—"

"As ever, John, you—"

"—see but don't observe; yeah, I've heard," the doctor finishes with an eye roll. "All right, all right, so you've studied what, exactly?"

Sherlock straightens and pulls at his cuffs, clearly pleased with himself. "Well, predominantly capoeira and—"

"Capoeira? Isn't that the one based on dancing?" John interrupts, secretly gratified at the detective's miffed expression. "That explains a fair bit."

"It is a highly complex, four-hundred-year-old Portuguese martial art based on the principals of balance, music, and dance—"

John can't help but snigger. "Leave it to you to be an expert in the ponciest martial art out there."

Sherlock's eyes narrow to slits. "I'm also exceedingly well-versed in Aikido and Judo, if you must know. And baritsu, but that's more an offshoot of my fencing training."

Shaking his head, John just replies, "Posh public school bollocks, no doubt."

The detective pulls himself up to his full height and glares down his nose at John. "Nonsense that allows me to 'bound around like a bloody gazelle', unlike someone who was formally trained by the military, I might add. Well, that and the fact that I'm seven years younger than you. Perhaps you're just succumbing to middle age, John."

For a second, John's hackles rise but the look on Sherlock's face is so superior and offended that John can't help but dissolve into giggles as he flops back onto the sofa. After a moment, Sherlock joins him, both in the laughter and the sofa. Tilting his head to gaze at his friend, John notes that despite his defense of his physical health, there's a light sheen of perspiration on Sherlock's brow and his chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. It's much warmer than normal for late June, so between the weather and hauling boxes, it's enough to make John's t-shirt stick to his back between the shoulders, but Sherlock barely looks like he's broken a sweat unless you really look hard. The detective still gazes up at the ceiling with a smile on his lips as he speaks.

"You're staring, John."

"Is this okay?" John blurts out, because he can't not ask. "Really okay?"

Sherlock turns just his head and regards the doctor with a furrowed brow. "You've never shown concern about the way we tease each other before; why start now?"

"Not the teasing, you git," John says, a tiny smile fading away as he continues. "This." He waves his hand around vaguely to indicate the boxes. "I know that we've rebuilt the flat to the way it was and you said it's fine until we get on our feet but—"

"John," Sherlock chides, "you said 'until we get on our feet'. I said that Baker Street is and always will be your home, so you barely even needed to ask. That hasn't changed and will not change. You're not just welcome here, you belong here. You always have, from the very beginning."

John swallows around the lump in his throat and stares up at the ceiling. "Yeah. But when we first became flat mates, you didn't exactly sign on for 'emotionally damaged widower with PTSD and a toddler', did you?"

"And you didn't sign on for recovering, often relapsing, drug addict who shoots holes in walls, keeps body parts next to the butter, and has siblings with dubious or completely absent morale structures. And yet—" Sherlock mimics John's gesture to his moving cartons, "—here we are again."

John remains silent for a long while before asking the last question he can't quite seem to get his head around. "Why are you doing all of this for me? After everything I've done ... Jesus, Sherlock, I beat you to a bloody pulp back in that hospital." Sherlock opens his mouth, most likely to protest with some practiced answer, but John steams on. "Whatever I was going through, whatever I thought about your role in Mary's death, nothing – nothing – should excuse what I did to you. You were dying and I knew it and I still—Christ, I damn near killed you. Smith had to stop me. The man who was a bloody serial killer had to stop me killing my best friend. Even after everything you'd done, I still—"

Sherlock sits up so swiftly that John startles when the detective leans far into his field of view. "John, stop. Stop this. Neither one of us has treated the other as well as we should, and I've told you it's fine, I des—"

"Don't say you deserved it," John growls. "No one deserves what I did to you. Least of all you."

"Fine," Sherlock says quietly. "Then I forgive you."

And somehow, John finds that's exactly what he needed to hear. Sherlock knew it, without John even knowing it himself.

"And as for … all this?" Sherlock jerks his chin towards the flat. "John, you're my best friend; Rosie is my god-daughter. Even if there were nothing more to it than that, even if we hadn't endured everything we've been through together … wouldn't that be reason enough?"

John feels his face pinch and he can't help but give one last protest. "But—"

"Besides, it is at least somewhat self-serving," Sherlock says as he hoists himself to his feet. "Haven't I said I'd be lost without my blogger?"

John studies the sharp planes of Sherlock's face as his friend offers him a hand up from the sofa. A long moment passes before John moves as Sherlock stands there, hand out, and something achingly vulnerable passes over the angular features that makes John's chest feel tight. He reaches out, clasps Sherlock's wrist, and allows him to haul John up to his feet.

"Now," Sherlock begins in a business-like tone, his 'armor' back in place, "let me show you some modifications I've made to the flat in anticipation of your arrival."

A grin pulls at John's lips without him even planning it. "Modifications?"

"Necessary," Sherlock confirms, "given that Rosie has been toddling or walking outright with regularity for the last several weeks. I've decided that—"

Sherlock moves out into the foyer towards the stairs but a glance into the kitchen stops John in his tracks.

"Sherlock," John says, all astonishment. "The kitchen…."

Poking his head around the doorsill, Sherlock sighs and says, "Do keep up, John."

"The kitchen," John repeats, gesturing.

Sherlock glances around quickly. "What about it?"

John huffs. "It looks like a kitchen. A clean, usable kitchen," John clarifies when Sherlock squints at him as if he's a simpleton, "not a science lab or a morgue."

The detective straightens. "Modifications, John. I could hardly have volatile chemicals or decaying body parts sitting out where Rosie could reach them, so I rented the basement flat from Mrs. Hudson and set up my experiments downstairs." Whatever Sherlock sees on John's face in that moment brings a high flush to his cheeks, causing the detective to mumble, "Wouldn't want to waste valuable materials and specimens."
"Naturally," John confirms, nodding his head.

Sherlock can't seem to hold his gaze for very long as he says, "Come along, John; more to see."

John chuckles and takes off after him, barely following Sherlock's high speed chatter about the new baby monitor and nanny camera he's installed or the nappy disposal dumb waiter/chute he's built into the wall of John's bedroom.

John's barely been back at Baker Street a week before Sherlock receives the envelope. Given the writing on the outer tag, Sherlock knows what it is before he slits open the end and the disc slithers out into his waiting fingers. Fingers trembling, Sherlock gives a tremulous laugh as he sees the words that she's scrawled on the disc's envelope; she always did have a knack for reading Sherlock like a book. Inconvenient, that.

Last one, I promise. Nothing to fear.

John's out at the surgery for another two hours and twenty-seven more minutes, counting the cab ride home, and Rosie will be on an outing with Molly until at least tea time; no reason not to play it now and just get it over with. But he can't seem to force his fingers to close over the disc enough to take it to his laptop to play. His extremities are numb, his heart races, and a bit of a flop sweat has broken out on his brow. Stupid, stupid. Nothing to be afraid of, even Mary's said it herself right on the envelope, knowing he'd be terrified to find out whatever piece of advice or instruction she's deemed important enough to save for last.

A tiny hysterical part of Sherlock demands that he sit down this instant and figure out how a dead woman is still sending him video diaries no one seems to know about nearly a year after her death, but Sherlock knows that it would be useless: Mary's too good (was too good, he corrects his brain) at what she does – did – and anyway, it would just be a displacement activity to avoid hearing what she has to say.

Coward. He hears it in Mary's voice, merry and teasing and reproachful all at once. He jams the disc in the tray of his laptop before he can convince himself not to.

There she is on his screen again: same tired but smiling eyes, same bouncing curls – after Rosie was born, then, as Mary had let her hair grow during late pregnancy – same shirt as the last two videos, so clearly made all at the same time. He nearly misses the beginning of her message when his brain darts towards trying to place the timing of when she made the video by when she purchased that particular shirt, but he yanks his attention back to the screen when she sighs and says his name.

"All right, Sherlock, this is the last one. For you, anyway. John might have a few more – just one or two, I promise, but there's more he needs to know than you. Help him through it, will you? Seeing me again will wreck him for a bit after each video." Her voice hitches as she tries to get herself back on track. "By now, John will have moved back to Baker Street. Obvious choice, really. Without me, he'll have no reason to ramble around that flat out in the suburbs, especially when he'd much rather be here in London with you. Not to mention there'll be more help with Rosie in London. Oh, he'll give it a go for a few months – insisting to himself that he doesn't need help, doesn't need to rely on anyone else, doesn't want to be a burden – but eventually he'll see it's best and move back in with you. He'll never admit that he's doing it because that's where his heart lies, but you and I both know that's what it comes down to. And that's the heart of why I'm making this video just for you, Sherlock. Because there's one last thing you need to know about John, but it'll have to start by discussing one big thing about you. You're in love with him."

Sherlock wavers forward, nearly banging into the desk. Mary pauses on the video as if she's really there, watching and waiting for him to collect himself.

"Figured I'd just jump right to the core of it and get it out in the open. You're in love with John; have been since the beginning I think, and really, how could you not be? I was right from the off, and you and I aren't so very different when it comes right down to it. Not in the fundamentals, anyway. Funny that John said you and I should have got married that time after I shot you … he didn't understand the correct implication, did he? What that meant about his relationship to you because you and I were so alike? I understood, though, and I think you did too.

"Here's the thing that I want to make clear, Sherlock: I don't mind you're in love with him; I never did. Would be a bit hypocritical of me to criticize you for loving him, wouldn't it, given everything I've done simply because I love him?" Tears well up and tremble on her lashes. "I want you to know that I never minded that you're in love with him. It was kind of nice, actually, knowing how very, very loved John is even though he doesn't know it. I know you did everything you could to stay quiet about it; not for my sake, obviously, but for John's, although I wouldn't have minded even if you weren't quiet about it. Truly, I wouldn't have. That's something I've learned, Sherlock; you shouldn't keep it bottled up when you love someone this much. I don't know if John could have handled knowing how you felt at the start, but given all we've been through, but the time is coming where that won't be the case. You need to understand, Sherlock, it's okay that you love him. I just had to leave this one last note to tell you that. Not because you need my forgiveness for being in love with my husband but because now that I'm gone, you have the freedom to love him right out loud if you want to. Because here's the thing, Sherlock: he's in love with you, too."

She waits again with a smile on her face as if she could hear the scoff that comes, unbidden, from Sherlock's throat.

"I know what you're thinking, but he is in love with you; he just doesn't know it. Well, he knows he loves you, but he tells himself that it's just an especially strong bond because of everything you've been through together. He doesn't know what it really is yet, but he will. For all we kid him, he's a smart man; he'll see sense, eventually. Our John's a bit slow, though, isn't he? Forgive him that, Sherlock, because he'll come around, especially now with me out of the picture. He won't be able to help himself." Mary gives a watery chuckle. "I don't know if John always loved you the way he loves me but I'd say the odds are good. The Not Gay thing isn't a lie; he believes it completely, and he's not wrong exactly. The thing he doesn't realize – yet – is that it doesn't matter. You're the exception, Sherlock; to everything. And if I'm not there to love John, I'm happy knowing that he'll have the only other person in the world who'd love him as much as I do. So love him, Sherlock. He needs it; God, does he need it. He needs you. Don't let him spend too much time tripping over my memory when you two could have something amazing. I know what it's like to be loved by John Watson, so I can say with all certainty that you need it from him, too. Don't think you've fooled me with your 'sentiment is a chemical defect, human error' blah blah blah. We both know better. So go. Be in love. Be happy. Take care of John and Rosie for me. I know you will."

Sherlock stays silent as a stone as Mary presses fingers to her lips and blows him a kiss. The video cuts to black and ejects itself from the CD tray. Sherlock doesn't move. The flat is dim by the time he does, when he hears the creak of the downstairs door opening and closing and John's heavy tread on the stairs. He hasn't even bothered to stash the disc somewhere John won't see it yet – can't seem to move; why can't he move? – but he tossed the packaging in the grate as soon as he removed it, so at least that evidence has been consumed by the licking flames that really aren't necessary at this time of year.

"Sherlock?" John calls as he trudges into the kitchen. He tosses a few carrier bags onto the table – forgot they needed milk, stopped at Tesco; not the closest one to his office, the one nearest the flat; obvious from the sound of his shoes – and bends to pick up a teething ring that tumbled to the floor in the aftermath. "I stopped for a few things on the way home but didn't know what you'd want for dinner … is Rosie still out with Molly? Didn't know if I'd have to make dinner for all three of us. Have you had tea yet?"

Sherlock still stares flatly at his laptop screen by the time John makes it into the sitting room. He flicks a gaze to where John stands with his hand on the back of his armchair, a questioning look on his face. When Sherlock doesn't answer, just gapes at John silently, the doctor's expression goes from relaxed and inquisitive to focused concern in a heartbeat.

"You all right?" John asks, moving further into the sitting room. "Something wrong?"

"Of course not, John," Sherlock says, snapping the lid of his laptop shut. He isn't quite ready to say more than that, so he steeples his fingers in front of him and rests his chin atop them, focusing his gaze on the wall in front of them.

"What were you looking at?" John continues doggedly. "Something for a case?"

"Case?" Sherlock asks, damning himself for only being able to manage this. "Case, no. Not a case. More of a … study, I suppose."

"Study? Of what?"

Sherlock looks down and pulls the disc from the computer's tray. "Human nature," he says eventually.

Another moment of pondering and then Sherlock snatches up the disc and moves over to the floo. He hesitates just a moment, his fingers clutching the disc; stupid, really, but some sentimental part of him wants to preserve – if only for a moment – that it had been said out loud: "you're in love with John." John starts to walk over to Sherlock, clearly unsettled, which makes up Sherlock's mind for him. He pitches the disc into the grate, silently thankful that it lands title-side down where John cannot get a hint of its nature.

John chuckles at the action. "Guess it wasn't up to your standards then, eh?"

Sherlock forces a smile. "Few things are."

The smile becomes more real when John laughs again, that delighted giggle he usually gives when Sherlock has said something ridiculous or scandalous. This time it just seems … fond, which causes Sherlock's heart to thud heavily in his chest.

"Never a truer word spoken," John confirms. He pauses, regarding Sherlock with a fretful gaze again before he asks, "Dinner?"

Sherlock nods, collecting himself and turning towards the kitchen. "Molly's going to treat Rosie to a pasty or something equally appetite-demolishing after the park—"

"Did she say that—?" John begins, then gives a fake put-upon sigh. "Of course she didn't, you'll have guessed—"

"I don't guess, John."

"—by the sound of the clinking change in her handbag or something," John continues with a rueful grin. "So it's just you and me then. Any requests?"

Sherlock regards John for a moment. He doesn't look any different (of course he wouldn't, his brain reminds him, he isn't; only Sherlock is, after hearing Mary). John certainly doesn't seem like a man in love. Mary was wrong only slightly more often than Mycroft but, well, she has a blind spot in this particular instance. So does Sherlock, which is why he resolutely refuses to allow himself any hope that Mary's post-script might be true.

"Just you and me," Sherlock confirms. "Perhaps risotto and the thing with the peas?"

John stares at the screen of the TV, barely aware of the thin stream of tears snaking down one cheek. Almost a year past and the sight of her still feels like a gut punch that knocks the wind out of him. The sleeve labeled Three Little Favors to Ask has fluttered to the floor from John's numb fingers. He had to run the DVD back twice because twice now he's spent the first three minutes of her video just staring at her face as she talks and not paying attention to a single word, just absorbing the sound of her voice.

"Buck up, John, and pay attention—" she says when John restarts the video for the third time; he gives a shaky laugh because it sounds for all the world like she knew he hadn't been concentrating the first two repetitions. "—because this is important. I know that having me pop up yet again just when you're trying to move on with your life probably makes everything so much harder, but there are several things you need to know that I don't think you'll figure out if you aren't given a bit of a shove. Sorry, love, but you are a bit thick when it comes to this sort of thing. So here they are, the three things we need to discuss…."

John can't help the way he straightens up; his laughs a bit when she leans towards the camera, as if she believes John should be taking notes.

"First of all, don't torture Sherlock about me forever. I know it's hard and I know that in the aftermath of my death – however it happens – the easiest thing will be to blame Sherlock. Obviously I have no bloody idea how it's going to happen, but if my luck runs slim, my old life will catch up with me and Sherlock being Sherlock, he'll try to save me from it. And if I know anything, I know this: he will lose. If it comes down to my old life versus Sherlock, he won't win."

She gives a heavy sigh.

"Don't blame him for it too long, John. It's not his fault he's only human and whether he admits it to himself or not, your good opinion of him is one of the few things that keeps Sherlock off the knife's edge. He needs you so much and he tries so hard to be the infallible genius he thinks you believe him to be. So don't hold out on him. Secondly, I want you to promise me that you'll move on from me once I'm gone."

Without even thinking about it, John begins to protest and, once again, Mary seems omniscient because she holds up her hands as if shushing him.

"I'm not saying you have to run right out and try to pull someone before you're ready, but if I'm dead, don't die with me. Live, John. You deserve that. And speaking of things you deserve, here's the last request I'm going to make of you: be honest with yourself about Sherlock. I know how you feel whenever anyone suggests there's something between the two of you," John growls under his breath but stays quiet as she continues, "but answer me this, John: you told me once that he would 'outlive God trying to have the last word', so think back on every time anyone has ever suggested you're a couple: has he ever corrected them? Has Sherlock ever even acknowledged the misconception? Ask yourself why, then, would someone so delighted by telling other people they're wrong leave such a glaring error uncontradicted?"

She sits back and folds her hands, staring deliberately at the camera for a long moment, waiting for John to cotton on. John is flummoxed into silence. Eventually, when Mary speaks again, he realizes he's clapped a hand over his mouth in shock.

"Sherlock always knows things you don't, John, but never more so than this instance. You told me about your first evening with him, John. When you asked about girlfriends, he said 'not my area'. When you asked if he had a boyfriend, what did he say?"

"He just said no," John says to the empty room. He feels the realization creeping up on him and Mary nods as if she hears his thoughts whirring.

"No. Not 'I am not interested in a boyfriend', not 'not my area'; just 'no'. No boyfriend. And when he thought you were flirting with him, he didn't ignore or disdain it like he does when women show obvious interest, he just said 'thanks but no thanks'. Bet he's kicked himself over that one, hasn't he?"

Mary chuckles and John just shakes his head and mutters, "Jesus."

"I think by now you're ready to hear it, John; or if you're not, you need to be. Sherlock Holmes is in love with you. Always has been."

"No." It's weak when it leaves John's mouth.

"He is, John. You know he is. And if I'm really honest, maybe he loves you better than I do – not more, but maybe better – because he has been able to let go of you when it's what you wanted … something I could never quite manage. He loves you. And what's more important: you feel the same about him. And before you go on with your typical I'm Not Gay nonsense, remember that you're speaking to a woman who has sex with you regularly. I know what your sexuality is. Do you? What's more … does it matter? It's Sherlock; nothing about him or the way he does things is ever going to qualify as normal, so why does it need to be? Instead of getting hung up on the labels, John, maybe just consider the important stuff: do you love him? If you do, what's stopping you? Me? If you're hearing this message at all, I'm dead. Loving Sherlock won't negate the fact that you loved me and it certainly won't mean you didn't love me enough, just that you have a heart big enough for two people. So is it the sex? Sex doesn't scare you; never has. In fact, given our experiences, I'd say it's completely the opposite."

John chuckles unsteadily and mutters, "Damn right."

"And as far as Sherlock's concerned … well, I'd say it's rather obvious, but I'll point it out anyway. The man is proper gorgeous, John, and you should be damn proud to be able to pull a man who looks like that. And knowing Sherlock, he'll more than likely be a hell of a shag once he knows what to do with everything."

John's cheeks heat up but he'll admit, if only in his head, that Mary is probably right about that.

"What's so scary then? Why be afraid of it? All I'm asking is that you let yourself consider the possibility, love. Really consider. Because I promise you that if you look with an open mind, you'll be happy about what you see there. Once you have your inevitable sexual identity crisis panic attack, of course. But you'll get there. John, there is a man who loves you beyond all good sense and he's just waiting for you to pull your head out of your arse. Get the hell on with it!"

It feels odd but they chuckle together for a moment, John and this past shadow of Mary. Quick as a whip, she snaps to serious again.

"Don't let my ghost wedge itself between the two of you, John, and don't be afraid of being something new, of having a new definition. Be well, John. Be well and let yourself be loved. And for God's sake, be happy."

The high-pitched wail of a frantic young child may not have been what startles Sherlock awake, but it is what motivates him to heave himself from his bedclothes and stumble the thirty-two steps out into the hall and up the stairs to John's bedroom. John remains unaware that Sherlock has a receiver for the baby monitor in a drawer of his nightstand – he listens to John crooning lullabies and stories to Rosie sometimes when his mind is restless at night; lack of privacy, bit Not Good – so what wakes him is actually the hoarse moaning in John's voice, followed by rustling of bedsheets, then a thump and a yelled curse. Were he not yanked from sleep, Sherlock could certainly have deduced the problem and the reason for Rosie's cries, but at the moment his brain just repeats a litany of John upset – Rosie crying – check on John – comfort Rosie over and over again.

By the time Sherlock makes it up the stairs and pushes John's bedroom door slightly open, John has pulled Rosie from the bassinet and settled back onto the bed with her, attempting (ineffectually, it has to be said) to soothe her. John's chest heaves with rapid breaths, he's covered in a light sheen of sweat, and obviously barely keeping himself calm. He rocks too fast for it to be comforting to Rosie; Sherlock can tell that it's a motion more bordering on hysteria than pacification.

Stepping just a foot or two into the room, Sherlock murmurs, "John?" in the gentlest whisper he can manage.

"Sorry," John mutters quickly, pressing Rosie closer to his chest, angling her red, blotchy face towards his neck and away from Sherlock. "Sorry if she woke you – or, I dunno, interrupted you if you haven't gone to bed yet."

John seems unable to stop rocking back and forth but his pats to Rosie's back are distracted at best and the child is clearly aware that something is wrong, as she won't stop howling. Sherlock's hands twitch towards her; John's fingers clench at her back so Sherlock drops his arms.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

"I … woke Rosie."

"You woke her? On purpose?" Sherlock may still be a bit groggy from sleep (little wonder; it's the first sleep he's had in 72 hours), but he finds it unlikely that John would intentionally deprive his daughter of rest.

For the first time, John looks directly at him, his expression a thundercloud and his eyes wild. "Of course not on purpose," he spits but his anger fizzles quickly. His gaze darts away. "I woke up shouting. It woke up Rosie."

Sherlock nods. "Nightmare?" Obvious, but John doesn't like it when he assumes the blatant facts without checking.

John turns his gaze even further away from Sherlock but nods. "I was dreaming—anyway the noise upset Rosie."

Sherlock digests this and turns his gaze to where the little girl's eyes still stream fat tears that soak the shoulder of John's t-shirt. John's pace is relentless as he rocks and the child clearly doesn't appreciate it.

"John, perhaps you should let me—" he begins, stepping towards the bed with his arms outstretched again.

The doctor actually wrenches away from Sherlock, cradling his arms around Rosie as if he believes Sherlock is going to steal her and pitch her out the window.

"I can care for my own daughter, damn it!"

Sherlock halts at the accusatory tone and John's expression wavers when he sees how stricken Sherlock is. Biting his lip for a moment, the detective collects himself before trying again.

"Of course you can, John; I would never suggest otherwise. I merely saw that you still seem … unsettled from your dream. Rosie can likely feel your anxiety. Perhaps if you just let me take her—"

"I can—" John begins again.

"—just until you calm down. I will sit with her in that chair," he motions to the rocker a few feet away in the corner, "just until you feel more settled and then I will give her back immediately."

John looks as if he is going protest but then startles, as if he's only just realized how aggressively he's been swaying back and forth. A quick gaze down at Rosie's mottled face and John hands her over to the detective, cursing under his breath.

"Sorry," John mutters once Sherlock settles Rosie against his chest. "Sorry, I just—still a bit … rattled."

"It's all right, John," Sherlock replies, his voice low. He starts to head for the rocker he indicated but then thinks better of it. "Would you … like some privacy? I could take Rosie downstairs for—"

"No!" John says hoarsely. He looks away for a moment then gazes back to Sherlock. "No. Please … please stay."

"Okay."

Sherlock settles in the rocker and lays Rosie on her stomach against his chest, one arm under her bottom; the little girl wriggles a bit until her warm face presses against Sherlock's neck. John leans forward, dropping his face into his upturned palms and scrubbing his fingers across his closed eyes. Sherlock clenches his own shut against the weak light from the street lamp just outside John's window and lets himself savor this quiet moment – his god-daughter's moist breath puffing against his throat as her sobs ebb away, the clutch of her tiny fingers against the collar of his t-shirt, another fist twining around one of the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock allows himself this one indulgence, here in the dark where even John won't see.

After a moment, he manages, "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Nope," John says immediately. After a deep exhale, John clears his throat and says, "Sorry. I'm … trying to get better about this. Ella says—"

"You're seeing Ella again?" He can't help the surprise in his voice.

John peers up at him with a wry smile. "She's a damn sight better than your sister."

The joke falls flat but Sherlock gives a tight smile anyway.

"She's the only one who has ever helped," John answers. "She—I didn't give her enough credit at the outset, but she has been helpful lately. We're—" John stumbles, hums a bit, trying to regroup, "we're trying to work on my anger issues. Guilt and anger and … well, I call it 'emotional constipation' though I'm sure that's not the technical term she's used."

Sherlock turns his face away to hide his grin.

This time John looks Sherlock straight in the face. "I'm trying to work on not pushing people away when they offer help. Trying not to be quite so defensive about my short-comings. So … thank you for helping with Rosie tonight. For trying to help me. I'm sorry if I'm a bastard about it sometimes, but … I really couldn't do this without you."

The hitch in John's voice as he finishes is minute but Sherlock catches it, and so he has to clench his eyes shut and croak around a tightness in his throat. "You're welcome, John. Of course."

After a few minutes of silence, he realizes that John is not shaking any longer and Rosie's eyelids flicker with all indications of dreaming during REM sleep. Sherlock unfolds himself from the chair as gently as possible to avoid waking her and gestures towards John.

"Would you like her back?"

John's gaze softens as it glides over his daughter. "She's asleep?"

Sherlock nods but continues forward towards the bed. Surprisingly, John shakes his head.

"No sense in risking waking her up," he whispers, then puts a hand on Sherlock's arm as the detective turns towards her crib. "Wait a minute…"

Sherlock's heart seems to stop in his chest when John kneels up on the bed and clasps at the round of Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and slides the other up the arm supporting Rosie. With John on his knees on the bed, they're of a height, so when the doctor leans forward and places his lips on Rosie's cheek, John is so close that Sherlock can feel the warmth of John's breath strike his throat in just the same place as Rosie's. John pulls back from Rosie but doesn't pull away, doesn't drop back to the bed, simply kneels here close to Sherlock. He'd never precisely understood the idea of feeling as if your heart was in your throat until that moment, with John's hands on his arms, John's sleeping daughter clasped between them, and John's eyes tracing over his face in the darkness. He feels his arms begin to tremble. He has to break this moment before he does something he can't take back.

"I should—" he whispers, jerking his chin towards the crib.

John starts, then nods. Sherlock can hear him clambering back under the duvet as Sherlock deposits Rosie back onto her cot. Nearly out the door, Sherlock almost believes he hallucinated the sound of John's voice when he speaks again.

"Stay."

Sherlock's grip on the door frame practically cracks the wood. "Sorry?" he asks. Idiotic.

"Stay," John says again, leaning up in bed. His eyes are lamp-like in the darkness but for once, Sherlock can't read the expression. "I mean … would you stay?"

When his heart starts beating again, he manages to say, "Okay," before he crosses the room and begins to seat himself in the rocker.

"No," John says, "with me. Would you … would you stay … with me?"

Sherlock actually freezes in the act of sitting down. His pulse erratic – surprise; fear – his hands clenching in the air – nervous tic; picked up from John? Impossible – for once, he's not sure he can trust his own brain. John can't mean what the sentence would imply. He can't . And yet, John is shuffling over to the far side of the bed, pushing the sheet down just enough to possibly be an invitation but not so obvious as to cause embarrassment if Sherlock refuses.

"I ..." Sherlock flounders. Stupid, stupid. "You want me to—?"

"Please," John says in a rush.

Sherlock's heart feels as if it's trying to escape his ribcage. "I'll just," he gestures to the chair, "let me just…."

Sherlock turns away from John long enough to smooth his expression, making a show of taking off and folding his dressing gown to justify his hesitance. Knowing he can't dither any longer, Sherlock makes his way back to the bed and slides beneath the sheets. Every skin cell uncovered by his pajamas soaks up data, cataloguing the warmth left behind by John's body, the smell, the radiating heat of John's body so nearby. John has rolled away, facing the wall even though it puts him on his bad shoulder; Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, mind racing. He can tell just from the expanse of John's back that he sees out of his peripheral vision that the muscles are tense; John wants to say something but is holding back. Sherlock breaks the ice as best he can.

"I have a confession," he murmurs in the direction of the crown molding.

"Hmmm?" John says. His voice is too clear to be as nonchalant as he's attempting to sound.

Sherlock waits a moment before admitting, "I've never shared a bed with anyone before."

John rolls to his back, turning his head all the way over to look at Sherlock. "What, really? Not even when you were kids?"

Sherlock can't help but grin. "Certainly not with Mycroft." John chortles in a rough whisper of voice. "And if there were any moments like that with Eurus, I was either too small to remember or I've blocked them out completely."

"And never as an adult?" John asks tentatively. "Not even—never?"

Sherlock knows what John is really trying to ask but he can't come right out and acknowledge it, so he hedges for a safer, ambiguous answer. Still true, anyway. "Never as an adult either," he says.

"Huh," John huffs. "I just figured … Janine, maybe …."

"No, John; not even Janine."

John hums, perhaps just to show he's listening. Several moments of silence go by with both men still staring at the ceiling. Eventually John speaks again.

"I dreamed about Mary."

It only takes a moment for Sherlock to make the connection and quite frankly, he feels like a fool for not making it sooner. He turns his head towards John. "It's the anniversary today, isn't it?"

"Tomorrow," John croaks.

Sherlock pulls up John's travel alarm clock and shows him the little blinking display – 1:03 am. John actually laughs.

"Today then," John corrects. "You're always right, aren't you?"

"Not always," Sherlock says, damning the break in his voice.

"It's not your fault," John says firmly.

Sherlock is about to protest when he feels John glide his fingers across the expanse of bed between them. When they interlock with Sherlock's fingers, any words the detective may have had on his tongue scatter to the winds.

"It's not your fault."

"But—" Sherlock begins.

"Fine," John whispers into the darkness. "Then I forgive you."

After a moment, his hand slides out of Sherlock's grip as he turns back onto his left side, settling in for sleep. Sherlock stares upwards into the weak orange glow from outside for as long as he can, his mind struggling to unpack everything that has happened in the last few minutes. The weight of every minute that escapes him settles heavily on his chest as he clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to hold onto the rapidly dissipating warmth from John's fingers.

A/N - Again, there will be another prequel to FTMOB coming and then I have a few more one-shots that will show vignettes/flashes of John, Sherlock, and Rosie as they live their lives together at Baker Street.