Sherlock opened his eyes when the sun filtered through the window across from him; he had forgotten to close the blinds the night before. It took him a moment to place the bright wallpaper, the crisp white covers, and why John wasn't lying next to him; mouth slightly agape in a light snore, hand across his stomach, flat on his back as usual. He heard the small cry of a baby across the hall outside his closed door and the hushed tone from its mother came soon after, and then he remembered; he wasn't in Baker Street. He was in the home of Mrs. and Dr. Watson Sr., in John's childhood bed, but where was John? Oh right, he was in the office down the hall where Sherlock was meant to sleep until they realized his legs were entirely too long
("Honestly, I've slept in much more difficult places, and the likelihood I'm even going to sleep is slim at best, so please John, take your bed.").
Sherlock pushed the covers back. It was early, but not too early and he could hear life stirring outside the door. Not knowing of John was among them, and not knowing of John would come to retrieve him, Sherlock got out of the bed, stopping for a moment to take his hundredth look at the pictures John had taped to his walls so long ago; mostly John and his mates from school, and entire section dedicated to the girls he had loved and left (or lost), a few magazine clippings that had once caught his fancy, and some photos of he and Harry making various goofy faces; this was a John Sherlock had not known; John before the dark crept into his life, and turned him into the man he was now; the man who put on a brave face to match his military stance, who continued to suffer from a constant, dull ache in his shoulder that more often than not snuck up through his neck and planted a new pain behind the thick bone of his forehead, who still awoke in the middle of the night to make sure Sherlock was really there; the man whom he loved with more force than he thought possible, and who loved him back just as hard.
He opened the door and instinctively wrapped his arms tight around his torso trying to re-create the comfort of his dressing gown, which had been left at home due to John's concern that once Sherlock had it on, he would never take it off. He stepped into the hallway and encountered Harry; her bathrobe haphazardly tied, her hair as wild as her eyes.
"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed.
Sherlock opened his mouth to wish her a good morning, but she began to speak again before his words could make their way out.
"Can you just take Anabel for a minute?"
Sherlock again opened his mouth, this time to protest her request, but before he could even form a semblance of a sound Harry was placing her small daughter into Sherlock's arms, and starting to walk down the hallway toward the staircase.
"Harry, I-"
"I won't be long Sherlock; seems Sam has gotten into a bit of trouble outside."
And then she was gone; down the stairs, and Sherlock was left alone; well, nearly alone. He looked down at the baby in his arms; she was awake and looking back at him. He had no idea what to do. He had never as so much as held a puppy let alone a baby, and now she was starting to wiggle. Sherlock looked down the hall, and saw the office door cracked open just slightly.
"John?" He called in a loud whisper; too afraid to actually move to the door with the baby in his arms.
"John?" He called again a little louder. He didn't get an answer, but he did hear the shuffling of feet.
"John!"
The door flung open and John appeared in the hallway, pajama bottoms hanging at his hips, his hair flat to one side of his head, his shirt, uncharacteristically absent.
"What Sherlock?" he asked, annoyed (nothing new), and then began to laugh after a yawn cleared the fog away from his brain and he saw what was going on.
"Take her." Sherlock said.
"You're doing just fine."
"John, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"I'm glad that you can admit that, but really, you're fine."
John walked closer and bent to kiss his niece on her forehead, and then straightened to kiss Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock practically began to beg when John pulled away from the short kiss, "Please, John."
He looked genuinely terrified, and John reached out to take Anabel into his own arms.
"You have faced criminal masterminds, chased men with guns down alleyways while you, yourself have been completely unarmed, but a 3 month old baby scares you."
John started down the stairs, and Sherlock followed.
"She's so little. And she just stares at me."
John laughed, "Were you expecting her to hold a conversation about War and Peace with you?"
"Of course not."
John placed Anabel in the electric swing sitting in the kitchen. He peered through the curtains on the window above the sink to see his sister and her wife running down his nephew while his parents sipped tea at the table set on the lawn; his brother and the woman who was about to become his wife lost in some conversation. John closed the curtain and ran across the small distance to crash into Sherlock's body, snaking his hands up into his hair.
"Morning." He said.
Sherlock laughed tightly, and wrapped his own arms around John, teasing his finger tips against John's back.
"Good morning." He whispered back.
"Sleep well?"
"Surrounded by pictures of your ex-girlfriends? Slept like an absolute rock."
"Would you have preferred the back breaking sofa I was on?"
Sherlock bent to lightly kiss John, "I would have preferred to be wherever it was you were."
"Yes, well, you know my mother; 44 year old, unmarried son sharing a bed with his boyfriend? Not in her house. I'm still unclear as to whether it's the 'unmarried' or the 'boyfriend' part that bothers her the most."
Sherlock rested his chin on top of John's head, keeping him in a tight embrace, and he felt John relax underneath the heat he was emitting. He always agreed to spend time with John's family when he asked (if 'always agreed' meant after a ridiculous row resulting in one of them storming into the bedroom or out of the flat completely before Sherlock eventually caved under John's threat of withholding sex, despite Sherlock's attempts to hold onto his pride.), but he spent most of that time feeling complete shite. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's presence in John's life John likely would be married to one of the girls from his wall, would have children to play with niece and nephew ,and a successful practice; not sleeping on an old leather couch in his father's office
"Sherlock?"
John's voice and the touch of his hand cupping at Sherlock's chin broke him from his trance.
"Sorry; I was just thinking."
"Well, that's nothing new is it?"
He glanced out the window, this time the large picture window behind Sherlock to see his family now all sitting at the table; nibbling at an assortment of sweets his mother had no doubt procured earlier that morning from the shop down the street. The idyllic scene that they created was beautiful, but, still standing in Sherlock's arms, and breathing in his scent, he felt as if he was the luckiest of them all.
"I know you do." Sherlock said, tightening his grip on John's waist, almost swaying him to a non existent rhythm.
"You know I do what?"
"Love me, of course."
"Ah, of course."
"And you do know that I do too."
"You do too what?"
"Love you, of course."
John placed a small kiss to Sherlock's cotton shoulder, "Of course." He whispered against it.
"Mind if I take the first shower?" Sherlock asked.
"No. I'll make us some coffee."
They let go of each other and John went to the cupboard to take down a pair of mugs, and the jar of instant coffee. Sherlock went back up the stairs, stopping to grab a hold of Anabel's hand before he did, and looking back to see the smile it caused to creep across John's face. Not a smile like the ones he had studied in the photographs up the stairs, but a genuine smile none the less; a smile he had stashed away for his entire life, meant only to be shared with Sherlock.
He came back down the stairs, running a towel over his curls, dressed for the day slightly more casual than his usual attire; a broken in pair of dark jeans (the only pair he owned, and they were not purchased by him, but rather a gift from John), and a forest green button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He heard John still in the kitchen, but he wasn't alone anymore. There was another voice; a female voice that he didn't recognize, and John was laughing comfortably at something she had said; not something he normally did around his family. Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, the towel now draped around his neck. He saw John sitting at the table, his smile curled around the rim of a mug, his shirt still absent (who was this woman he was letting have visual access to the scar he hid from everyone else?). He caught sight of her as he came around the table, taking the extra mug of coffee sitting next to John, but looking at the woman who was bringing easy delight to John's face.
Blonde; no trace of any discolored roots, and it didn't shine like tin underneath the harsh overhead light in the kitchen, so it was natural; swept back in a tangled hair tie; she had been out in the wind of the morning for quite some time. Jogging shoes, jogging pants and a bright pink t-shirt; loose fitting, but expensive; a morning run wasn't just a passing fancy for her, but rather a ritual she had committed to some time ago. Divorced; twice. No children of her own, but comfortable with them as evident by how casually she was holding Anabel in her lap while she sipped at her own mug of coffee.
He took his first sip out of the mug.
"Are you done then?" John asked.
"Yes."
"Good. Sherlock this is Claire; Claire this is Sherlock."
"Did he just do that thing to me?" she asked John.
"Yes, I just did that thing to you." Sherlock answered for him, and sat leaned against the island a few feet away from them; he didn't feel like being in close proximity with the two of them.
"Why did you do it in your head?"
"John doesn't always appreciate when I deduce out loud."
"Well, how will I know if you were right then?"
Sherlock smiled smugly, "I'm right."
Claire blushed slightly at the tips of her ears and her nose of all places, "Of course; you are Sherlock Holmes after all."
"Yes, I am."
John turned his head to throw Sherlock a glare that said, stop being a smug bastard.
Sherlock returned it with a glare of his own saying, make me.
"Well, I-" Claire started toward John, sensing the tension rising in the room between the lovers, "I really should be off; I just came by because my mom said you were in town for your brother's wedding, and I couldn't pass up a chance to visit my favorite ex-husband."
Sherlock made an ugly choking sound as the coffee he had just swallowed went the wrong direction in his throat and threatened to come back up. He quickly regained his comosure as Claire's curious eyes gazed over to him; he might have been surprised as hell to hear those words come from her mouth, but he still had an image to project.
Claire, for her part seemed to notice she had made a mistake as she glanced between Sherlock's face of disbelief and John's expression of horror.
"Oh God," she said. "Did he not-?"
John shook his head.
"I just assumed, with him being who he is, or that you had told him. Oh, God." She repeated again, and stood from her chair, Anabel still in her arms.
"No, I never did quite get the chance, or rather the courage to tell him, and he never did figure it out on his own."
"Shit." She exclaimed, and handed Anabel to John. "I am so sorry; I shouldn't have just blurted it out like that. I'll go; I suppose that drink is off tonight then?"
"Don't be silly Claire; I'll call you a little later."
Claire let herself out of the kitchen. Sherlock was quiet, running his thumb against the contrasting temperature difference of the ceramic mug between the space of the coffee he had drank and the suddenly nauseating amount that was left.
"Sherlock, please say something."
But Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was blown away on two different levels; not only had their been a piece of information about John that he was able to keep secret and away from his prying brain, but there was something John had kept secret from him.
"I'm going to pop out for a bit; take a stroll through town." Sherlock said, putting his mug down slowly and walking toward the entrance of the kitchen slowly, not wanting to exit through the back door and be met with questions from John's family.
"I've never known you to be the strolling type."
"Yes, well, we're both learning something new about the other today, aren't we?"