Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, don't sue me. Unless u want to inherit a very grumpy cat.
Rosie threw her spoon across the room with a "Gah!", splattering puréed carrot across the tile floor & up the cupboard door. John scrubbed a weary hand across his face, eyed the mess & stood up to retrieve the spoon & take a clean one from the drawer. Thank heavens for dishwashers.
"Rosie, sweetheart, please don't do that," he sighed, wiping her mouth & feeding her the last few spoonfuls of carrot. He was so tired. Waking every morning at 5am to get Rosie ready for the babysitter, working a full shift at the surgery & the torturous commute with a pram on London public transport made him want to just curl up on the sofa after work & sleep. Except Rosie had other ideas. He was starting to understand those women who lost their minds in the months following childbirth. And he didn't have the hormones to contend with. How did people do this? It was hard enough with Mary here but, without her, John felt like he was drowning. And his rage was getting more & more difficult to keep a lid on. He found himself silently cursing his deceased wife for leaving him with this.
His addiction to adrenaline had been a recurrent problem in his life so he'd forced himself away from the danger and towards the safe choice - Mary. Except she wasn't safe. Yet for all that he'd been climbing the walls a month into his marriage, the discovery of his wife's dangerous other life wasn't even enough to feed his addiction. If anything it was annoying that it caused him more of a distraction from... what, exactly? He was constantly running, seemingly each time jumping from the frying pan into the fire. It was equal parts craving the opportunity to just stop the world and get off and scrabbling for something, anything to focus his constant bubbling lava just beneath the surface that he'd suppressed for as long as he could remember. He wasn't even sure what the reason was anymore if he'd ever really known.
After cleaning up & putting his daughter to bed, he sank into the sofa & closed his eyes. Was this his life from now on? Existing day to day, no time or energy to focus on anything but getting through the next 24 hours? The funny thing was that it wasn't Mary whom he missed when he closed his eyes. He hadn't seen Sherlock on a regular basis since his babysitting duties and the last time he had... their friendship was fractured and fragile, no doubt in part due to the events of the past few months and his subsequent meltdown at Sherlock's apparent drug use and indifference. Or so it had seemed. What actually transpired was that he'd been unforgivably terrible to a man who, once again, risked life & limb to save him from himself. It occurred to him that he'd never even said 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry' yet Sherlock was the one walking on eggshells around him. How did that work?
He reached for his phone, pulling up Sherlock's message thread and hesitating over the keys after the first stroke of the 'H', not really knowing what he was wanting to say. Before he could continue, his phone beeped.
May I help you, John? - SH
His thumb bounced on the send button for a few seconds before hitting send.
How r u? - JW
He frowned, the obvious lack of anything else to say glaring at him in blue tones from the screen.
Bruising has gone & fracture is almost healed. Thanks for checking. - SH
OK, goodnight - JW
Goodnight, John - SH
John threw his phone across the sofa, irritated. Sherlock was being so..NICE. Kind. Accommodating. And John hated it. He missed their easy friendship from the previous year, before a DVD-sending, assassin, dead wife & the Holmes family skeletons falling spectacularly out of the closet. Now every time he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock's blood gleaming against the cold, clinical mortuary floor as he stared up at him, eyes wide & hurting, as he took every punch & kick that he had inflicted upon him. And he would have taken so much more. He would have died if John had deemed him deserving and, for that fact alone, his blood boiled with rage at his utter & complete descent into abhorration. The last time he'd seen Sherlock, he'd had a slap around the face larger than any he'd care to repeat.
...
Sherlock had rushed down the stairs to help John with Rosie's pram as he struggled to hold open the front door. Taking hold of the front wheels, he helped John to lift the pram up to 221B, carefully watching his step and keeping a watchful eye on Rosie to ensure her safety. Once inside the unusually tidy flat, Sherlock did a quick sweep of the room, snatching his scalpel from the coffee table and shoving it into a drawer. He began tidying the untidy kitchen table, hastily moving glassware into the sink out of Rosie's reach, almost frantic in his rush to make the room safe.
"Sherlock, you don't need to do this," he said quietly, "Rosie is fine in her car seat."
"I'll only be a second, just let me-"
John strode up to Sherlock who was frantically twirling about the kitchen and reached his arm out to grip Sherlock's bicep
"Sherlock! JUST STOP!"
As John's hand made contact with Sherlock's arm, Sherlock flinched & his eyes snapped to John's, wide & panicked. The reaction was involuntary on Sherlock's part and only lasted for a moment but John dropped his hand like he'd been burned. Sherlock cleared his throat & glanced down, unable to meet John's horrified stare.
"John,... I'm sorry, I didn't..."
"We need to go, I have an appointment in twenty minutes.", John blurted out, wanting to get out of there before he did or said anything further. This whole situation was fucked up and it was completely his fault. He grabbed the pram & carried it down the stairs as fast as he could, Sherlock chasing behind offering to help but he was just making it worse.
"Look, Sherlock, I'll text you, ok?" He mumbled at Sherlock as he swung open the door and hurried out into the street, mingling into the crowd before Sherlock could respond.
Sherlock slowly closed the door to 221B and leaned back wearily against it. In a sudden outburst he slammed his head backwards into the wood and exclaimed profanities into the empty hallway.
