A/N - So I started The Baker Street Boys as a series intending each one to be a short-ish (5-10k word) one shot giving little "flashes" of life at 221B in the aftermath of series four, not exactly as a Fix-It but more to fill in all the gaps Moftiss left in the storytelling of TFP and the montage at the end. Then Home Again, Home Again ended in a very different placfe than I expected and I realized I would have to do a LOT of work to get the boys from where they were at the end of HAHA to get where they NEEDED TO BE to make From the Mouths of Babes (which was written first) make sense.
So I knew this one would be important. When I sat down to write it, I intended the intro to be a chapter or two in Sherlock's POV and then I would segue into the events I had planned ... except Sherlock kept talking. And talking. And talking. And I ended up with about 10,000 words that I hadn't planned but were far and away better than what I had intended. As a result, this fic is not the zippy one-shot I expected it to be, but in fact, a three-chapter 43,000-word BEAST. But guys, I am SO PROUD of it. Maybe the best writing I've ever done. So ... settle in because a LOT happens in this fic. Each chapter will be approx. 15,000 words and I'll post on Sundays for the next three weeks.
On a related note - if you haven't read Home Again Home Again, you really SHOULD. I mean, strictly speaking, you don't HAVE to, but it sets up everything in this fic, so you might lose some references and character development which will lead into From the Mouths of Babes, which happens directly after this one. So yeah. You really should read Home Again, Home Again first if you haven't already (pretty please read my other works?!)
Lastly - please given an ENORMOUS round of applause to my new beta, the spectacular bigblueboxat221b. She has been the master Fixer of Mistakes, Catcher of Typos, Sounding Board and Epic Cheerleader. She is also an insanely talented writer, so don't hesitate to read her stuff.
Okay, that's enough for now.
Enjoy!
~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~
Chapter One – The Evening Ritual
The months at Baker Street that follow John's return prove to be a profound mix of elation and bafflement for Sherlock. Having John back in his rightful place is a joy so acute that a telltale tightness pinches behind his sternum every time Sherlock allows himself to stop and give it active thought. They are orbiting each other as they once were and it feels as if no time has passed. He refuses to stop and consider this too often, not only because it makes him unforgivably maudlin but because he knows that even John could recognize the symptoms of peculiar affection if given enough opportunities to see it. The last thing the detective wants to do now that he's just gotten John back is unsettle him enough to give an excuse to "get on his feet" with his own flat. Especially given that this would also remove the littlest Watson from Sherlock's immediate sphere as well.
When he first extended the invitation for John to move back in Sherlock had imagined that the experience of having a small, developing human in his home on a constant basis would be tolerable at the best of times and frustrating at the worst. It is a frustration he'd happily accept on John's account, but a frustration all the same. After all, small children are a never-ending cycle of messy foods, squashy or noisy toys that litter the floor, drooling mouths, grabbing hands that can upset chemicals and experiments, and near-constant need for diligent attention. Instead of inconvenienced, Sherlock finds himself nothing less than intrigued and enchanted by the girl. His tiny god-daughter is a marvel: at times, watching her progress feels like witnessing a self-sustaining experiment conduct itself in front of his eyes; at others, he staggers at the simplicity of her sheer joy and uncomplicated affection. Even when she is inconsolable for no discernable reason, Sherlock feels pulled to her in a way that he has only ever experienced once before (with her father).
To Sherlock's very great surprise, Rosie adores him. Lulled by the rumble of his deep voice when unsettled, fascinated by his typical whirlwind of motion when Sherlock is energized, soothed by the plaintive strains of his violin … Rosie seems endlessly captivated no matter what Sherlock does with her. He'd be loath to admit it in front of anyone save for John, but the ability to indulge in childlike play and silliness makes Sherlock feel light in a way that he's never felt before, even when he was a child. Not since before Redbeard. (Victor, he reminds himself. Not Redbeard.) One day, they are pirates; the next, space explorers; the day after, medieval ruler and loyal subject; Rosie is always delighted. Young children, he discovers, are uncomplicated this way: so long as Rosie is warm and fed and clean and entertained, she doesn't care that others find him to be abrasive, arrogant, and utterly devoid of tact; he listens when she babbles, attends to her needs, speaks to her as he would any person and not as a gibbering idiot, and she delights in his attention. In fact, Rosie seems particularly fond of his stories about bees and pirates (which shows her impeccable taste) and his lessons on basic anatomy (which shows her relation to her father, obviously). John, in all his sentimental foolishness, declares Rosie to be "just another in the never-ending queue of female hearts trod beneath your feet." Sherlock scoffs, ignoring John's warm grin as he regales his god-daughter with a particularly adventurous tale about Grace O'Malley, assuring the riveted girl that she too could raise an army and scourge the seas someday (though not, sadly, become Irish).
The fond smiles from John have become increasingly frequent in the five months since John and Rosie have made Baker Street their home, and particularly since the events of the anniversary of Mary's death … which is what has Sherlock baffled. With the obvious exception of the presence of a toddler and subsequent need for a babysitter, not much changes in regards to the way John and Sherlock relate to each other in the months following the anniversary of Mary's death. At least, nothing obvious, but it seems that there are subtle differences in John's interactions with Sherlock on nearly every level. They always make so little sense, though, and don't seem to be indicative of any clear motivating force on John's part. When John makes tea now, he makes Sherlock's first and blows on it a few times before handing over the mug but still drinks his own without waiting and scalds his tongue. He leaves Rosie with Sherlock for much longer periods of time while he's at the clinic where he used to ask someone else to help mind her for shifts longer than three hours. More than once, Sherlock finishes a piece on his violin to find John watching him with a gaze that is both intense and strangely tender. In general, John watches Sherlock far more often, usually when he believes Sherlock won't notice and looking away the instant he is caught; regardless of that fact, however, their direct eye contact has increased in frequency (up 32% from before he moved back in) and in sustained duration (increased from an average of 3.4 seconds per gaze to 6.3 seconds).
These would all seem to be indicators of something positive – though what it indicates, he has no idea, given how unconnected the markers are – and yet, there are several other factors that seem equally undesirable and worryingly non-specific. Despite never batting an eye at it for the entirety of their previous tenure as flatmates, John startles and averts his eyes when Sherlock walks about in his dressing gown after a bath. He's surly for days after The Woman texts Sherlock about a blog post on a recent case. John practically yells the flat ceiling down while stitching up a gash in Sherlock's side after a confrontation with a suspect then berates himself in an apology not an hour later. And then once, during a particularly athletic chase through Islington after a drug trafficker, Sherlock herds John into the darkened corner of an alley lest they be caught by the thugs in hot pursuit of them and the evidence they pinched. Spying an alcove that is protected and defensible but gives a sightline to the outer alley, Sherlock corrals John into the corner with his body, keeping his ears trained to the outer alley for signs of their pursuers. In the tense minutes that follow, he feels John's breaths puff against his chest in increasingly erratic patterns as they wait until Sherlock is confident that they managed to shake off their shadows and can proceed safely back to the Yard. John remains stiff and uncommunicative for at least an hour afterwards at the Yard – to the point where even Donovan notices and comments on it – and then when they return to Baker Street, he barely speaks three words to Sherlock before pleading fatigue and heading upstairs. Except that Sherlock can hear John's restless pacing the perimeter of his room for nearly half an hour. Sherlock frowns and gazes up the stairs for several minutes, pondering the matter; eventually he admits defeat and gives it up as a bad job, heading back to his laptop in the sitting room.
The experiment data from earlier in the day can't keep his attention, though. As a matter of fact, he can't help but sift through the change in John's behavior over and over in his head; try as he may, he can't make it coalesce into any coherent pattern or conclusion. The only idea he keeps coming back to, unfortunately, are the words from Mary's last message: "Because here's the thing, Sherlock: he's in love with you, too … He doesn't know what it really is yet, but he will." Sherlock doesn't want to admit to himself how much he aches to believe it, that perhaps these odd fluctuations in John's behavior are indicative of John realizing—but no. It simply cannot be that. John cares for him very deeply – of this, Sherlock remains absolutely certain – but if John actually felt that, surely he wouldn't be exhibiting so many behaviors that push Sherlock away? John is many things, but never a coward. And yet, with all of the years of denying the unusual strength of their connection, perhaps—no, surely Sherlock is just seeing what he wants to see—but then again—
Sherlock lets loose a great howl of annoyance. This circular thought is getting him nowhere, and worse yet, he has absolutely no concrete evidence to support either train of thought. He strides across the room and picks up his violin, hacking away at the strings atonally for a few moments before deciding on a piece. Something energetic and violent, he thinks, to give vent to his anxiety and agitation.
He starts with Ysayë's Sonata Number 2 – fitting, given that the prelude's subtitle is "Obsession" – though ironically, it doesn't hold his attention; he blends into the Barber 3rd movement, but with his loss of focus, it's too much, his fingers tangling on the strings. Growling in frustration yet again, he starts up the Corigliano Red Violin Concerto and it's perfect: angry, abrupt sawing at the strings that lets him pick away at the festering wound that is his mood. Somewhere floating above his concentration on the piece, Sherlock hears the pacing above him stop. He picks up the tempo and the volume, his fingers racing his bow across the neck of his violin; the metal bites into his callused fingers, his chin slips from the rest and the instrument sways but he thrusts it back against his throat and continues to heave with the motion of it as he forces the notes out. He's only a third of the way through the concerto, scowling out the window and his feet scraping against the carpet as he rolls and pitches with the force of the music, when he hears a telltale creak of floor boards behind him. The music trends upward, quieter and quieter strokes into the highest pitches he can wring from the neck of the violin, when John speaks.
"You sound upset."
Sherlock lets the high, trilling note linger, his bow still moving in continuous strokes as he turns to regard John. He knows what he must look like to the doctor: flushed about the cheeks, sweating lightly, scowling to high heaven; and yet, John just quirks a small smile at him.
"Your violin sounds upset, anyway," he quips.
When Sherlock's expression doesn't change, a look of tentative unease flashes across John's face. He seems … nervous. Odd. Sherlock lets the bow drop and then quenches the vibration of the strings with his fingers. The room is plunged into sudden silence but for the noise of London outside.
"Play the gypsy one?" John asks, hesitant.
He feels his forehead pinch as he scans his Mind Palace quickly for which of the dozens of pieces he's played that have a Romany bent to them that John would consider "the gypsy one" and lands on a piece he'd played last Midsummer that the doctor had taken a fancy to even though he'd only heard it the once.
"Csárdás?" Sherlock asks, although he's fairly damn certain it's the one. "The Monti Csárdás?"
John chuckles and the sound releases some of the tension in the detective's chest. John shuffles over to his chair and plonks himself down, crossing his socked feet in that odd, bent-inwards way he does when he's content.
"Damned if I can keep the names straight," John chortles. "I just know it started out sounding like a sad gypsy and then got quite bouncy."
Sherlock nods. "Definitely the Csárdás then. If … that's what you'd like to hear."
John nods wordlessly in return so Sherlock picks up his bow. For the first few long strokes across the strings, Sherlock watches John's eyes, letting the swirling depths of ocean-blue set the pace of his pulls on his violin. The unwavering strength of John's gaze burns at something in his stomach so when the tempo picks up, Sherlock turns away, letting the jaunty rhythm of the piece move his limbs into a lilting dance of instrument and musician and melody. He coaxes the bouncing cascade of notes out and lets the short, sharp strokes of his bow occupy his thoughts throughout the entire up-tempo section. He never turns to face John again, even when the middle section drifts up into a legato melody almost like a lullaby, but he can feel the doctor's gaze on him the entire time, intense and focused and warm. As the music picks up again, Sherlock finds himself irresistibly pulled by the liveliness of the tune and gives in to the impulse to dance across the sitting room. Undoubtedly somewhat ridiculous in his motion, Sherlock hears John laugh but the sound caresses rather than jolts. It's not a laugh of derision; his doctor laughs in delight and the sound sparkles within his veins. Sherlock finishes the final notes with a flourish and whirls to face John, his chest heaving with the effort, his cheeks flushed, his mouth turned up, and his pulse a bit erratic from giddiness.
John beams at him and actually applauds. "Absolutely brilliant. Loved that one the first time I heard you play it. Tried to look it up on YouTube a time or two, but even when I thought I'd found the right one, I could never find anyone that played it as well as you do."
Blood rushes to Sherlock's cheeks so quickly he swears he can hear the blush occur. "Really?"
"Mmmm," John hums in agreement. "I suppose some of it is that it's never quite the same as having your own live concert," Sherlock smirks, "but, I dunno, you in particular … when you play that one you just…."
John trails into silence, gazing up at Sherlock in the golden beam from the street lamp outside (when did it get dark enough for a street lamp?). Sherlock feels himself wavering forward onto the balls of his feet, leaning towards the end of John's sentence.
He can't help it, he prompts, "Just …?"
John hands fist in his lap but he doesn't look away. "You just …" His voice drops to a half-whisper. "Transform."
John says it with such a tone of awe that the weight of it squeezes the breath from Sherlock's lungs.
"As if you become a gypsy right in front of my eyes. You've always been high energy but when you play, you just … come alive in such a different way. You're beautiful," John finishes in a hush.
Sherlock's stomach drops away and he stares at John. The doctor stiffens suddenly, as if he's only just realized what he's said, and although his facial expression doesn't change, his voice sounds controlled.
"The song, I mean," John says carefully. "Your music. It's beautiful."
Throat feeling raw, Sherlock nods and turns away. "Thank you, John. I … I'm glad you enjoy it."
"I do." John sounds sincere, but that tender, green tone of … something is gone from his voice.
Sherlock gently lays the bow across the stand and packs his violin away in the case left open on the desk. John rises from his chair and shuffles about behind him – looking for some reason to stay in the room? – but Sherlock doesn't turn. Eventually, John sighs and heads towards the stairs. The doctor pauses at the doorframe.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
The tone trends up at the end a minute amount, a question without being a question; John is asking Sherlock to give him a reason to stay. Sherlock remembers the expression of veiled panic on John's face when he called Sherlock 'beautiful'.
"Goodnight, John," he says heavily.
John wakes up the morning of Mary's anniversary feeling far more rested than he expects, considering the previous night's interlude. In fact, he wakes up feeling far more rested than he has since he lost Mary, swaddled beneath warm covers and unaccountably cozy. The awareness of an extra set of breathing noises washes into the back of his mind like low tide and he counts them: his own breaths; Rosie's; Sherlock's. Sherlock's. Even and slow inhalations with a little rasp at the end which is almost a snore but not quite followed an abrupt whoosh of air from his mouth when he exhales. A tiny smirk pulls at the edge of John's lips as he thinks of the innkeeper back when they went out to Dartmoor: apparently, his is a snorer.
Well, not his, obviously, but—
John nips that thought in the bud with the simple expedient of rolling over carefully to observe his sleeping friend. Sherlock lies on his left side facing John and seems to have banished himself as far to the opposite side of the bed as possible without risking his limbs dangling off the bed. Perhaps it's a product of his confession that he's never slept in bed with another person, thinking he's got to be careful about space? John's been in Sherlock's room while the man was sleeping on a number of occasions and every time, the detective sprawled out in a bent starfish of gangly limbs across every available surface (something that amused John to no end, considering that when sitting, he tended to ball up as tightly as his long arms and legs would allow). Maybe he was trying to be considerate of John's comfort. That seems unlikely, though, given the man's typical lack of regard for personal space. What if he was actually uncomfortable sharing a bed with John and resisting his natural inclination for John's benefit? A light snuffling noise comes from Sherlock as he nuzzles his face against the pillow and a movement below the covers catches John's eye: Sherlock has hedged the majority of his body to the edge of the mattress but his left arm, which should have been tucked under his body, extended straight out across the empty space stretching between them with his fingers bowed outwards towards John. Lifting the covers as slowly and gingerly as he is able, John notes that Sherlock's hand is tilted in such a way that, before John had rolled over, the backs of Sherlock's knuckles would have been pressed right up against John's shoulder blades …. A coincidence? Or had Sherlock consciously (unconsciously?) reached out to connect to John?
Possessed of an odd mood in the moment, John performs a tiny experiment: he slides his hand slowly towards Sherlock's, extends a finger, and traces the deep lines etched across the center of the long, warm palm face up on the mattress between them. Sherlock gives a sudden deep inhale, his fingers extending out like the petals of a flower seeking sun but then closing over John's, trapping the tip of his pointer finger in a loose grip. John studies Sherlock's face carefully but the detective's features remain relaxed in sleep, so John opens his hand and brushes the rest of his fingertips across the backs of Sherlock's fingers. The fine-boned hand opens and Sherlock's fingers swirl over his, gently caressing as they move back and forth, around and between John's own; a small smile appears on the bowed lips and they puff out a bit with an exhaled breath as Sherlock snuggles deeper into the pillow. John's chest feels too tight.
John's not exactly brusque when he pulls his hand away but he doesn't go out of his way to avoid waking Sherlock as he sits up in bed and rests his back against the headboard. The detective responds immediately, his arm slithering back beneath his body as his limbs flex and stretch, and his eyes flicker open and unerringly glance up to catch John's gaze. For the span of a breath, Sherlock's expression is devastating, languid and soft and (oh God) sensual as he regards John above him in bed, but in a moment, the quicksilver eyes narrow just a bit (probably immediately cataloguing the difference in the light or something) and then his face reflects something John is more used to seeing, an expression that is content but somehow … careful.
"Good morning, John," he says in his deep rumble that is a bit rough from sleep. He's graceful even now, with pillow creases on his cheek and a riot of bed hair, as he levers himself up to mirror John's posture against the headboard.
"Morning," John echoes, his voice as even as he can manage. "Sleep okay?"
Sherlock's lips quirk up in a rueful grin. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
John's throat hitches but he nods. "Actually, I slept just fine." The silence sits heavy for a second. "Thanks for staying. It helped."
"Of course," the detective responds swiftly.
A gurgle of noise from Rosie's cot saves them from drumming up future conversation, tufts of towheaded curls popping over the edge as Rosie pushes herself up on wobbly legs and reaches out to them. Sherlock starts towards her – he's on the side of the bed that's closest to her, after all – but then the seawater eyes flick back to John's and he composes himself again, watching the doctor's face carefully. John makes a show of yawning and stretching, arms lifted up over his head, and throws Sherlock a guilty smile.
"Would you mind getting her nappy and outfit changed and taking her downstairs for breakfast?" he says as casually as he can. "I would love to start one day with a nice, long shower before I'm covered in baby food, wee, or diaper cream and cursing you for using all the hot water."
"Hardly my fault that you can't be bothered to get up earlier than I do."
John scowls, but it's mostly for show. "That is practically impossible. Most days, you never go to sleep!"
The detective's forehead wrinkles and he gives John a withering stare. "I sleep nearly every night since you came back with Rosie."
Astonished, John scans back through his memory and realizes that it's true; in the last several months, he can only remember a handful of instances where it was clear that Sherlock had not been to sleep when John rose with his daughter. He's stunned to realize that this is just another instance in the growing list of ways that Sherlock seems to have rearranged his entire livelihood for John (and now Rosie). Another thing for which John may never be able to repay him.
"Would hardly be good for a growing child if I was clambering around just under her bedroom all hours of the night," Sherlock says as if he's a completely reasonable person who has always had sensible personal habits. "Toddlers thrive on routine, you know, John."
John scoffs. Loudly. "Ta, I did know that. In addition to being the father of a toddler, I am a doctor, after all."
"One who can't be bothered to roust himself out of bed a half hour early for hotter bath water."
John puts up two fingers at him, trying to cover his lingering surprise at Sherlock's blithe declaration. Sherlock gives him a thoroughly unrepentant grin as he bounds out of bed and scoops Rosie up. The girl dissolves into hysterical giggles when Sherlock tosses her in the air, flapping her chubby arms and crying, "Again! Again!".
"Come along, Watson," he says, using his stupidly expensive dressing gown to mop up the dribble from the side of her mouth before throwing it over his shoulder. "You and I will go visit Mrs. Hudson once we've cleaned you up so your father can idle about in his dressing gown."
"Ironic, coming from you," John rejoins but he returns Sherlock's grin as the other man pads out on bare feet, Rosie babbling in his arms.
The first day or two after the anniversary, they seem to be very … cautious with each other. Sherlock agrees to nearly everything John asks far too quickly, picks up after himself without being nagged, conspicuously keeps Rosie busy so John has more leisure time. John chats too often, makes all Sherlock's favorite meals to entice him to eat, swallows his annoyance on a few usual stressors that he would normally have read Sherlock the riot act over on a typical day. It fades eventually, of course, and they settle back into a normal routine. As normal as Baker Street ever gets, anyhow.
In the next few weeks, though, John notices a subtle but definitive shift in the way Baker Street works. Sherlock becomes a much more regular, even enthusiastic, minder for Rosie, seeming to be genuinely delighted in coaching her through various cognitive and physical milestones – although he is violently opposed to the milestones associated with teething; little wonder – and regales John with stories of their activities during each day that he spends at the clinic, away from Baker Street. Only a few days a week, but John still aches for the things he's missing that Sherlock gets to see with Rosie. That being said, he's certainly glad that the person who is seeing them is someone who loves her; John knows that in no uncertain terms. In the months John and Rosie have lived at Baker Street, Sherlock staunchly refuses to take any case, be it from Lestrade or his email, which ranks over a five. John only presses him on it once, being flabbergasted into silence when Sherlock explains.
"Anything above a five is far too dangerous, John," he says. "Too much chance that one of us would get hurt or made into a target."
"This from the man who had the both of us literally leaping across building rooftops and chasing a serial killer the day after I met him."
"That man didn't have a best friend with a small daughter who depends on the two of us for her livelihood," the detective responds quietly.
"You could go without me," John suggests.
Sherlock shakes his head before John even finishes speaking. "Never again, John. Not if I can help it, of course. I'm no good without you. My conductor of light, remember?"
John just nods. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised at Sherlock's consideration for him and for Rosie at this point … and he isn't, exactly, but the fact that Sherlock is so free with showing his consideration these days…. The man who called himself a sociopath for so long has begun to show his heart without reservation and John doesn't quite know how to accept that. Accept that he is the recipient of that great heart so much of the time. It makes John feel as if something is shaking loose in his chest and he is just as unsettled by it as he is warmed.
At first, John believes that Sherlock has been the only one shifting and changing in this new iteration of Baker Street. More stable, less manic, more … content, Sherlock blossoms into the best version of himself that John has ever known. John, however, feels that he is as he ever was, at least in essentials. The stress and grief and pain of Mary's lies, betrayal, and eventual death has ebbed enough that he no longer feels it as a constant throbbing agony but more like a hangnail that only pains him when he catches it on something that rips open the wound. He supposes that this is how most people probably feel when they suffer a situation like this, but John really doesn't have a frame of reference other than when Ella tells him what's 'normal'. Between his father leaving when John was small, his mother's alcoholism, and his strained relationship with Harry, John's never known his life to exist without dysfunction and stress, so for quite some time he doesn't feel that he has changed.
And then one day in early autumn, John stands at the kitchen peeling and sectioning an orange onto a small plastic plate decorated with unicorns when he realizes he's already done one for his daughter, who happily munches away in her high chair as juice drips down her face. He knows, though, without even stopping to consider, that he's made this one for Sherlock. The man barely eats on the best of days, despite his healthier attitude regarding sleep, and somewhere along the line, John realizes that he's started making a snack for Sherlock whenever he makes one for Rosie to ensure that his friend gets enough calories. The last time they lived together, John would berate Sherlock about food until they both got frustrated, then he would give up, tell Sherlock to go to the devil, and eventually coax him into eating something when the man got too hungry to function properly. Now, when John gives Rosie a hard-boiled egg for protein, he automatically shells another and leaves the neatly quartered pieces on a plate near his laptop where Sherlock is sure to see it and eat without thinking; he hangs a banana from Sherlock's music stand; he fills an extra small bowl with apple slices that he knows Sherlock will eat as Rosie teethes away at them, using the fruit pieces to explain the germination process to her; or he spreads marmalade on chunks of muffin (Sherlock hates the seeds in John's preferred blackberry jam), splitting them evenly between his daughter's plate and a bowl he leaves on the arm of Sherlock's chair. John's fairly certain that this little trail of snacks that he leaves for Sherlock have become the detective's main source of caloric intake, and John can't accurately point a finger at when he started this behavior, only knowing that it started after the night they shared a bed. John is wholly unsure of what to make of this phenomenon.
John becomes similarly baffled by the growing catalogue of differences in his own behavior that he notices with increasing frequency over the next few weeks. He's always been volatile when it comes to his temper even if he is more reticent about his other emotions, but his conduct seems a bit manic even to his own eyes. They get a case from Lestrade which seems, on its face, to be a simple burglary-turned-homicide which John would have written off as just a smash-and-grab gone wrong when witness walks in at the wrong moment; in a flurry of particularly inspired (and ostentatious) deductions, Sherlock notices some odd scratches on the broken safety glass at the jeweler's shop that revels an international ring of endangered animal traders run by the owner's illegitimate (and as such, non-inheriting) son who'd been blackmailing the proprietor into allowing his store to be a front for the trafficking for nearly a decade. The detective makes quite a showy declaration of his conclusions while hanging upside-down over the side of a hastily dug pit in the back of a warehouse despite the fact that, but for John's grip on his ankles, he would have been a chew toy for a bloody tiger. John smiles more that night than he has done in ages.
Naturally, he spends the next day writing up the case – which, much to Sherlock's chagrin, he titles The Tiger's Eye Ring – while Rosie gums at some teething biscuits in her high chair next to him. Despite Sherlock's disdain, he's fairly proud of himself for managing to wrangle a ridiculously sensational case into relatively unembellished language. Sherlock reads it over his shoulder, huffing and eye-rolling and pretending not to be chuffed to come off like a cross between Indiana Jones and James Bond. As a result of Sherlock's good spirits, they enjoy a lovely, leisurely evening of dinner at Angelo's and a nice ramble around Regent's Park with Rosie charming all the nearby patrons in the restaurant as she shows them all her new stuffed tiger that Sherlock bought her – he's a bit puffed up with his own cleverness; it's going to take ages for John to deflate his ego over this one. They're just strolling past the Open Air Theater, Sherlock nattering on about the recent production of Oliver Twist, when a muffled moan comes from Sherlock's pocket. John glances from pocket to detective to pocket again, noting with no little amount of exasperation the rosy flush that suffuses his friend's high cheekbones. Sherlock ignores it, his face studiously blank, but the corner of his eye twitches as two more moans float out from the depths of the Belstaff in rapid succession.
John grinds his teeth. "Might as well see what she's said," he prompts with an acidic smile, trying to keep his voice even. "She seems insistent. After all, High Wycombe isn't that long a cab ride at this time of night."
Without waiting for a response, John wrenches the handles of Rosie's pushchair out of Sherlock's grip and starts off towards home. The entirety of the relatively short walk, he berates himself for acting like a stroppy teenager but just the reminder that Sherlock's been communicating with her all this time puts him in a foul sulk. Sherlock doesn't return for a full seven hours, which John only knows because he's still staring angrily at the ceiling at 5am when the downstairs flat door opens and closes with a muted click. Obviously he's now moved on from stroppy teenager to jealous housewife, which only makes him even surlier. Unable to chase away his black mood even after a good sleep, John can't shake a feeling of general discomfiture until he sees Ella three days later.
Not a fortnight after the animal trafficking case, John ends up shouting himself purple at Sherlock, crowding into the loo with his med kit as the detective plunks down on the toilet, scowling and staunching a bleeding gash in his side with a tea towel. A case that should have been a five at best went utterly tits up when a bookkeeper that Sherlock exposed to be defrauding the barrister who employed him pulled a knife as a last ditch effort to make a getaway before being apprehended. John's being unreasonable about it given that the wound isn't that deep and Sherlock's done worse to himself just in his own experiments in the flat, but Sherlock is bleeding quite profusely despite the cut being rather shallow. The sight of it yanks something loose in John's chest, his heart leaps into his throat, and every single technique Ella taught him to handle his anger goes squarely out the window.
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock!" John rages, being decidedly rougher than he should be when placing the line of stitches just above Sherlock's right hip curving up and back towards his ribs. The gash is worryingly long but not deep. "Do you have to be so antagonistic when you're determined to be clever? I realize that you can't stand not to demonstrate how brilliant you are, but could you at least refrain from taunting people when they're holding a bloody weapon?"
Sherlock blithely ignores the scathing censure and scowls down at the gash. "Honestly, John it's not really deep enough to require stitches; you could have probably patched it up with medical grade glue and had done with it ten minutes ago. I got deeper scratches learning to shave." He hiccups and winces when John pulls a suture too tight and has to tug at Sherlock's skin to loosen. It. "Why are you so upset?"
"You're bleeding, Sherlock. I know that usually doesn't even register to you but I'm patching you up from a knife wound that could have been a hell of a lot worse. Why shouldn't I be upset?"
The heavy brows wrinkle in consternation. "You've done it dozens of times before and never gotten this bothered by it. Why is this one so different?"
John glares up at him and spits back without thinking. "Because someday your luck is going to run out, Sherlock. I've had to watch you die right under my fingers twice now, I'm damn well not going to do it again. Someday you'll insult another nutter with a gun just a shade too much and it'll be your chest that I'm pressing my fist into while you bleed out in front of my fucking eyes and I've had enough of losing the people I love! I've bloody well had enough, do you hear me?"
Sherlock gapes at him and John resolutely applies himself to laying the last few stitches. The detective winces a few more times as John works – little wonder; his typically peerless focus under stress is shot to hell – but Sherlock doesn't comment. John crouches under Sherlock's lifted arm to place the last few, grimacing and batting at the dangling cotton of his mangled shirt sleeve that keeps darting in front of John's line of vision.
"Can't you just take off the damn shirt?" John growls, desperate to change the subject. "You're not exactly modest and I can't get a good look at what I'm doing if I don't have good lighting. Why the hell would you insist on keeping it on anyway?"
Sherlock stiffens. "It's fine, John. You can leave off the stitches now."
Normally John would have ignored him and carried on with the last few but he's too upset to focus. He chucks the dirty needle in the direction of the med kit and stomps out of the lavatory without a second look, resolved to let Sherlock clean up the mess for once. It takes nearly an hour's walk around circling nearby streets to clear his head but once he does, John realizes the full measure of what an arse he'd been. Sherlock scared him and took unnecessary risk, no question, but it doesn't excuse his reaction to it, especially not when he'd been so determined to change how he deals with his anger after what he did to Sherlock at the hospital last spring. The worst part about it is that when he returns to Baker Street to apologize with his tail firmly tucked between his legs, Sherlock won't let him get through it.
"John, stop," he says quietly. "Stop."
John stems the tumble of remorseful self-flagellation into his folded hands and lifts his head. He's taken his chair across from where Sherlock has curled up in his own, head hung low between his shoulders as he hunches over his knees. God, after all these months of trying like hell to be better, healthier, he's still no better—
"John," Sherlock remonstrates, interrupting his thoughts forcefully.
John realizes that at some point, Sherlock put his feet to the floor and mirrored John's position and leans forward with his forearms across his knees to bridge the space between them. "Stop berating yourself when there's no cause for it. I was careless and I shouldn't have been. I also never stopped to consider how it would affect you, given what hap—"
"Don't."
Sherlock startles at the firmness in John's voice.
"Don't do that thing where you act like you deserve my bad behavior. Don't act like you making a mistake justifies me being a complete boorish arse. It doesn't."
Sherlock ponders this and then offers, "If you'll promise me to stop flogging yourself for having the audacity to be imperfect."
John gives an unsteady chuckle. "Fair enough," he confirms.
Sherlock sighs heavily and sits back in his chair. "I really am sorry, John. I should have considered that seeing me wounded would be … unsettling to you, so close to the anniversary of what happened to Mary."
John stares at the hands he has clasped in front of him. "That's the weird bit: I wasn't even thinking of Mary until the words came out of my mouth."
Sherlock tilts his head in confusion but doesn't get the chance to ask before John answers the unspoken question.
"In hindsight, I'm sure that was part of it, all rolled in to my PTSD now. But Sherlock, I—" he swallows before continuing, "What happened to Mary wasn't just awful because I lost my wife, the woman I loved, right in front of me and I had to just sit there and watch it happen and not be able to help her. That's bad enough. But I sat there holding in her blood from a bullet in her chest … and it felt like being back in Magnussen's office, pressing my hand over the spot where a bullet was lodged in your chest, watching the light go out of your eyes in the back of that ambulance and…."
He stops talking and hums a bit to try to clear the lump in his throat.
"And tonight, all I could think was what would happen if you were really hurt. What would happen if he managed to stick his knife in you somewhere that wouldn't leave time for medical help? I … just couldn't see past how I seem doomed to be helpless while the people I love die in my arms." He looks up to where Sherlock is sitting, legs pulled up to his chest and arms wound around them, his bare feet and old pajamas and posh dressing gown all at odds with each other, expression miserable and lost like a frightened little boy.
"John," Sherlock begins but the anguish in the deep baritone pulls too hard at a fresh wound.
John rises from his chair and walks to the kitchen. Standing in the door frame, he speaks without turning around. "Please just … I know what we do is dangerous but for God's sake—for my sake—please don't throw your life away just to look clever in front of strangers. It'll never be worth it, in the end."
Sherlock stays quiet as John bangs around more than necessary for making tea. John doesn't know the answer to any of those 'What If' questions that ran through his head nor does he understand why suddenly the life-or-death daily reality of what they do suddenly seems terrifying as well as exciting, where it used to be simply exhilarating. John just adds it to the pile of unanswered questions swirling around him since he came back here to stay.
Another week goes by and John starts to wonder if he's actually coming down with something bizarre, as his body seems to be all at sixes and sevens. He seems to be in a constant, low-level state of jittery awareness over the last few days, primarily around Sherlock. The more time he lives at Baker Street, the tighter their orbits of each other become, the more John starts to feel something in his hind brain tensing, waiting for a cosmic shoe to drop. The fact that he can't point to any specific marker of what it is he expects to happen becomes increasingly frustrating. He and Sherlock have been getting on exceedingly well – incidents such as the Great Text Debacle and that night with the knife wound notwithstanding – so that aura of anticipation seems completely unfounded. And yet ….
His heart pounds in his chest when Sherlock wanders into the kitchen in just his dressing gown, curls damp from his recent bath. He jumps when Sherlock rests a hand on his shoulder as the detective reaches around him for the marmalade, a cloud of fragrant, humid air from the bathroom still following in the detective's wake and sending John's senses into high alert. The man went to bloody Buckingham Palace in a sheet and John barely turned a head, but now it takes nearly ten solid minutes for John's pulse to go back to normal, scowling into his cereal bowl all the while. An accidental brush of Sherlock's fingertips across the back of John's neck make him suck in half the oxygen in the room while the detective gives one of his theatrical speeches that John has taken to calling "The Great Reveal" – although Agatha Christie would probably call it the dénouement – earning him a questioning (suspicious?) glance from Lestrade that John doggedly ignores.
For God's sake, John even had some kind of episode of … something in the alley after their case the other night. They have a rather spectacular chase through Clerkenwell with some low rate thugs and end up ducking into an alley with a little alcove just big enough for the two of them to crowd in and escape their pursuers. He allows himself to be shooed into the tight space and shaded from the outer alley only because Sherlock is a) bloody insistent and b) wearing entirely dark clothing, so less likely to be spotted in their dingy surroundings. When pressed back into the alcove by the inexorable motion of Sherlock's body, John gets wedged tightly against a sharp corner without a way to turn his body to align flat to the wall; with nothing else to do with his arms in the limited space, John's hands drop to Sherlock's waist. Too late, he realizes that they end up underneath the folds of Sherlock's coat, settling onto the smooth fabric of his ungodly expensive shirt. Some footsteps clack in the outside corridor and Sherlock presses closer, his forearms braced above John's shoulders on the dirty bricks of the building and the heat of the other man's body radiating against John all the way down to his knees. Sherlock cranes his head sideways to listen for the thugs chasing them and John can't help notice that the position would look, to an objective observer, as if they'd slipped in here for an amorous embrace. John's arms are nearly laced around Sherlock's back now and his fists tighten over the prominent span of the detective's slim hips. Their position puts his face right into the base of Sherlock's throat and suddenly he's surrounded by the warm aromas of clean sweat drifting up from inside Sherlock's clothes, posh aftershave above John at his neck, the crispness of the laundry soap John buys and astringent tang of the antiseptic soap Sherlock uses after his experiments. Christ, how could he have not noticed how overwhelming all of these smells were surrounding his flatmate for years and then suddenly be overpowered by them in such an odd moment? And why in God's name is his heart galloping like a bloody racehorse and he can't seem to control his breathing and he may be panicking a tiny bit at the electric zip down his spine because it's far too close to that thrill he gets in the first flushes of arousal and—
"Come on, John," Sherlock rumbles in a low whisper, grasping the doctor's arm and tugging. "High time to get back to the Yard and show them what we've found."
And they're off again, running across London as John tries desperately to shake that feeling, whatever the hell it is, out of his chest.
It's late November when two mugs of tea cause all of the puzzle pieces to fall into place with sudden, inescapable, horrifyingly crystalline clarity. The first good, stiff chill of autumn whips through London during the daylight hours and by nightfall the entire city pleasantly huddles in for warmth. After the upheaval of the last few weeks, he finds the idea of a night at Baker Street with just himself, Sherlock, and Rosie lounging in front of the crackling fire in the grate to be a welcome comfort. He may not normally be the quiet night in type, but with Rosie drowsing against his chest in front of the fire, it seems idyllic. John rouses her long enough to feed her dinner while Sherlock picks away at something on his violin that John recognizes as a recent new composition. Once the girl is fed and watered, John plunks her on a play mat in between their chairs to make tea. By the time it's done, Sherlock has settled in his armchair, using his toes to occasionally topple the wobbly towers Rosie makes out of building blocks. Instead of being frustrated by the constant rebuild necessary when Sherlock knocks them over, Rosie jams her little tongue between her lips – something that teases out a grin that Sherlock always tries to hide – and sets to work making another tower, each one successively more stable and well-built than the previous attempt.
"She's a prodigy, John; mark my words."
John scoffs as he stands in the doorway from the kitchen, blowing gently across the surface of the tea he's just poured for Sherlock as the steam billows up in fragrant curls. The freshly boiled water in his own mug stands steeping on the counter but Sherlock always takes sugar in his so John starts his first to give it plenty of time to dissolve. The detective reaches out a long arm for the mug which John hands over with a chuckle.
"She's recreating whichever style of build you're less likely to kick over," John rejoins, amused. "That hardly makes her the next Norman Foster."
Sherlock sips his tea and smiles. "Nonsense. Frankly, I'm surprised you're not crowing on about the obvious superiority of your genetic material making itself known in your offspring."
Scoffing, John pads back for his own tea and returns with the steaming mug. "I was medicine not architecture, remember? And with you to remind me how ordinary I am all the time? Must be Mary's influence."
"Well," Sherlock says, playing as if he's pondering the matter, "she has me around, after all. Perhaps it's nurture instead of nature."
John wordlessly puts up two fingers on the hand not holding his tea and brings it up for a sip. Sherlock chuckles roundly at the rude gesture then shakes his head as John immediately winces at the scalding temperature of the drink.
"Honestly, John, I'll never understand you."
"All evidence to the contrary," he says and takes another drink despite it not being any cooler than a moment ago.
Sherlock gestures to John with his mug, crossing one long leg over the other. "You have the patience to let my tea come to the right temperature and yet you can't stand to wait for your own to cool. As ever, John, you are positively an enigma."
Sarcasm and amusement are plain on Sherlock's face as he lounges languidly across from where John has gone rigid. Suddenly all of his hinky behavior over the last few months makes sense and it's all because of a bloody cup of tea. It was something he'd done for Mary, making her tea first so it would have time to cool before she drank it. When she was pregnant, she'd had trouble with her teeth and gums being extremely sensitive, so he'd gotten in the habit of making her tea before his own and blowing on it to cool it before he gave it to her. She seemed equally amused and touched by the process because she always remarked that by the time herswas cool, he was so impatient and intent on sharing the evening ritual with her that he burned his mouth on his own because he refused to wait for it to cool. He'd once gotten frustrated and asked her what was so bloody sweet about that and she'd favored him a brilliant smile before answering, "That's real love, John: a man who'll burn his mouth every night just so I won't drink my tea all alone." Thinking back on it, John realizes he's been doing the same thing with Sherlock for months now, the damn nightly tea scalding. If he stacks it up in his mind next to the trail of snacks, the annoyance at Irene Adler's texts, the terror at Sherlock's injury, and that moment in the alley, it's impossible for his brain to miss what this really means. Jesus. Jesus. He's in love with Sherlock.
John's mug slides out of his numb fingers and crashes to the floor.
Rosie's cry of alarm snaps John out of his stupor and within seconds, he and Sherlock are both leaping forward towards her. She wails in pain and fear as a splosh of steaming liquid leaps from the shattering mug and splashes across her arm and neck. Sherlock gets to her first since she'd been playing near him, scooping her up into his arms and away from the spill, managing to keep her from the worst of it. That doesn't stop all of John's immediate battle instincts from kicking into gear, though, and he's tearing away the sopping, searing fabric of her onesie as Sherlock attempts to calm her hysterical shrieks. They bustle her immediate into the kitchen where John heaves on the faucet, letting the water temperature drop just enough to be cool but not cold. Sherlock has stripped away her nappy as well by the time he reaches the kitchen; without the need for words, he follows John's train of thought and plops the girl in the sink, tilting her reddened skin under the trickle of water to help stop and soothe the burn. Only then does he look up to catch the doctor's eyes. John can only hold them for a minute before he refocuses on Rosie, crouching in front of the sink to murmur to his daughter as her cries become less panicked and more pained. He's stroking his thumbs across her red, mottled cheeks as he croons to her.
"It's all right, love; it's okay," John says in his calmest tone, trying not to betray the squeeze of worry in his chest. "I'm so sorry, darling. You're all right. I'm so sorry—"
"John," Sherlock attempts.
John doesn't respond. His hands tremble a bit but he keeps stroking her cheek and swiping the cool water gently across the streaks of enflamed skin on her left arm and up her chest and neck.
"It's okay, my love, shhhh. You're going to be all right. Daddy's going to take care of you. I'm so sorry." This time, the apology gets stuck in his throat and his voice hitches.
"John."
Sherlock's voice pitches low and soft and John feels the gentle but insistent pressure of Sherlock's hand at his shoulder. He resists looking up at the detective but Sherlock slides his hand down from the shoulder to grip John's elbow, grasping him firmly enough to telegraph his intention. John lets himself be pulled away from the sink and steered to a kitchen chair.
"Sit," Sherlock says, his voice still low. "I'll take care of her. Take a moment to calm down."
"I'm perfectly—"
"No, you're not," Sherlock cuts through. When John makes to get up again, Sherlock pushes down on his shoulder and the gesture is decidedly less gentle. John sits. He watches Sherlock go to the sink and mimic John's movements, sluicing water over Rosie's shoulder, neck, chest, and anywhere he thinks the tea might have splashed her, murmuring all the while. Eventually, she stops sobbing and trails off into whimpering sniffles.
"How long?" Sherlock says, casting John a look over his shoulder.
"Another fifteen minutes or so," he answers woodenly to Sherlock and then leans around the detective to gaze at his daughter. Rosie reaches out with her right hand and whimpers, eyes filling as she leans towards John.
"Daddy!" she sobs. "Daddy, ouchie!"
"I know, love, I know," John answers, reaching out around Sherlock's hip to touch his fingertips to Rosie's outstretched palm. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you ouchie."
John feels his own eyes water as Rosie clutches his fingers and turns her face into Sherlock's damp palm. The detective bends and murmurs to her for another few minutes, his voice rasping a bit when Rosie presses her damp cheek to his. As the water trickles over her shoulder and John counts the minutes, Sherlock speaks soothingly and eyes John.
Eventually, Sherlock speaks. "What's wrong?"
John tries not to stiffen – obvious tell – but he's not sure he succeeds. "Nothing."
"John—"
"I'm fine, Sherlock," John answers stiffly. "I just—"
"Don't lie to me, John," Sherlock interrupts. "I thought … I thought that we were trying to … trying to be better. To each other and to ourselves."
He opens his mouth but finds he has no good response.
"If it's—" Sherlock starts, turns back to clutch at the counter, and tries again while staring ahead at the cupboards. "If you don't want to tell me what it is then say so, but don't lie and tell me that nothing's wrong. Even if I didn't have the powers of observation that I have, I know you too well not to see that there's something. Don't insult me by pretending I can't see it."
John gulps and nods. "There's … something. And I will tell you, I just … not now, all right? I just need some time to think it through."
Sherlock's curls bounce a bit as he gives a single tight nod. John sees his hunched shoulders work as he pulls Rosie from the sink, wraps a towel around her bottom and cradles her against his chest.
"Let me have a look," John prompts.
Dragging the other chair over with his foot, Sherlock places Rosie on the table between them. John gives her a quick once-over and is relieved to see that the lion's share of the redness has gone down. On further inspection, though, there's still an angry patch near her collarbone that hasn't calmed and causes the little girl to howl when he gingerly presses a fingertip to the nearby area.
"Get me the liquid paracetamol from the bathroom cupboard, would you?" John says to Sherlock, trying to keep his voice steady.
Sherlock fetches it and returns swiftly, handing the medicine over to John and watching like a hawk as John doses her and brushes the wisps of hair away from her face. Another few minutes go by as he waits for the medicine to take effect; when he angles her neck to take another look, he lets out a gruff curse.
"John?" Sherlock's voice is tight with anxiety despite his calm expression.
"Go down and get a cab, will you?" John answers as he lifts Rosie up against his chest.
"What's the matter?"
He can't help the angry edge to his words when he strides towards the stairs. "She's starting to blister; we're going to have to take her to the A&E. I'm going to get her dressed and I'll be down in five minutes. Have a cab waiting."
Sherlock grabs the Belstaff and is gone in a flurry of wool and curls.
"Oh, bugger it," John mutters as they sit in the waiting room of the A&E.
Sherlock regards him with a raised eyebrow. John rocks Rosie in his arms as she sniffles and sucks her thumb. He leans towards Sherlock, hoping that his comments won't be overhead when the detective leans in as well.
"We'd better hope that we get a doctor who has kids or is tremendously understanding."
Sherlock pulls a face. "What makes you say that?"
John scowls as well. "Sherlock, we're sitting here with a toddler that has a second-degree blistering burn on her neck at half past ten on a Tuesday night. They're going to think we've abused her."
Sherlock jerks so violently in his chair that John clutches at the man's leg with his free hand and shushes him. They lean back together again once John throws the receptionist a tight smile.
"Most A&E doctors would be suspicious of two middle-aged men bringing in a toddler with a burn at this hour of the night, Sherlock. And on top of that, any good doctor would at least consider writing a referral to Child Protection for a father that has scalding liquids within striking distance of his two-year-old. I've written referrals for things like that. Jesus," John pinches at the bridge of his nose with his free hand and tries not to let his voice falter, "Jesus, I've become the sort of father who needs a Child Protection referral against him."
"John, you most certainly are not that sort of father," Sherlock remonstrates in a harsh whisper. "You dropped the cup by accident—"
"Onto the floor where my toddler was playing," he interrupts harshly.
"John," Sherlock whispers, but even though his tone is sharp, he threads an arm around John's back and places his open palm behind the shoulder where Rosie rests. "You're too hard on yourself."
The reassuring weight of Sherlock's hand and the warmth of his arm at John's back feels … good. Comforting. He's barely aware that he's leaning into the circle of Sherlock's arm until he registers that the detective has angled himself in so that John's side presses in against his. John stares hard at the top of Rosie's head, trying to gather the courage to say something when Sherlock's arm tenses behind John's back and pulls the doctor just tiny bit closer. A puff of Sherlock's breath ruffles the hair above his ear and John turns his head, finding Sherlock's face much nearer than he'd expected. He's just opening his mouth to speak when a high voice says, "Watson?" from the other end of the room.
From anyone else's perspective, John supposes that the way they leap apart from each other when they quit their chairs probably looks fairly comical. As a matter of fact, the nurse holding the clipboard at the entrance to the waiting room raises an eyebrow as they both stride towards her but, mercifully, she says nothing. The petite brunette bustles around them taking Rosie's temperature and weight, getting a look at the burn, and asking for a basic statement on what happened. The nurse plonks Rosie down on the exam table, shooing them towards uncomfortable chairs in the corner as she examines Rosie's neck. John notes a distinct expression of disapproval on the nurse's face when he begins, "Rosie was playing on the floor between us; I'd just handed Sherlock his cup of tea and sat down with my own when—"
"The mug slipped right from my fingers," Sherlock babbles in a voice tight with entirely fake anxiety.
John gapes at him, well familiar with this voice: it's the one he uses when he either wants to coax a power-drunk suspect into thinking he's weak or a hysterical victim into sympathizing and divulging key facts. What he can't figure out is why Sherlock is pretending that he was the one to douse Rosie on accident.
"Stupid, stupid!" Sherlock goes on, his normal baritone pitching up with uneasiness. "John knows I would never do anything to hurt his daughter; never! Don't you, John?"
He turns a beseeching look to John with eyes that quite clearly entreat John to just go along with the story.
John nods and murmurs as he pats Rosie's back. "Of course not. I know you'd never—"
Sherlock reaches a hand into John's lap and weaves his fingers together with John's, compressing his hand in a tight grip when John jumps in surprise.
"We've barely been living together six months," Sherlock goes on, clutching at John's hand, "but I wanted so much to show him I can be good with her, that he can trust me to look after her and—"
John recognizes his cue, as Sherlock has started to glance back and forth between the two of them with a desperate expression, so he picks up their twined hands and lays his other one over the top. John pulls Sherlock's focus to him with a thumb and forefinger under his chin.
"Hey," he says quietly, slipping into the role of calm and doting boyfriend that Sherlock has clearly assigned him. "I know that you didn't mean to hurt her. Accidents happen," he finishes, his voice hitching.
The faux-anxious expression slides from the detective's face and he gives John a gentle, satisfied smile. The long, slim fingers gentle but don't leave John's grip.
"You're right, of course," Sherlock says quietly. "Accidents happen. We're all only just human, right?"
"Exactly," John agrees.
"Yes, well," the nurse says in a tight voice, but she doesn't finish the thought. Her eyes dart between them and John's not sure, but he's reasonably certain the disapproval only intensifies. Despite the fact that, at one time, John might have seen that censorious stare and quickly removed his hand from Sherlock's, John finds himself clasping the long digits all the more, sitting straighter in his chair and pinning her back with his best military glare that he used on unruly privates in Afghanistan.
Unsurprisingly, the nurse withers under the stare, mumbles, "I'll just go see if the doctor's available to see you now," and darts out of the room.
John smirks at her back as the door clicks shut. He turns to regard Sherlock and pulls up short at the expression on his friend's face. There's something sharp in the blue-green eyes, something that makes John's pulse hammer in his throat until Rosie bleats at him from her place in the little supportive chair that they placed her in on the exam table. John's legs wobble a bit when he gets up to retrieve her. They stay quiet for a long moment after John has cuddled Rosie in his lap but eventually John has to ask, "So what was all that with you taking the blame for the tea?"
Sherlock quirks a brow at him with that infuriating Isn't It Obvious? expression but this time it's paired with a tiny, fond smile and a loose shrug. "I thought that there'd be a much smaller likelihood of a Child Protection referral on a high-strung long-time bachelor anxious to impress his new live-in boyfriend than a doctor who should have known better and was careless with his tea around his young daughter."
John flinches in spite of himself and watches Sherlock's expression flash from amusement to shock. Turning his face away guiltily, John jumps a bit when Sherlock's hand clasps his and pulls it away from where he'd wrapped it around Rosie's middle.
"I didn't mean," Sherlock fumbles. "I just meant that's what a stranger might see. Because they don't know you as I do. You're not careless, John."
"I was just then. Rosie got hurt because I was … distracted."
Sherlock doesn't attempt to contradict him – he was distracted, after all – but he does slide his long fingers in between John's again, squeezing just enough for John to feel it. John's pulse hammers in his ears and he stares down at their joined fingers. His voice comes out just above a whisper but it sounds too loud.
"You don't have to… It's just part of the act, isn't it?"
"Not entirely." The detective stares forward at the wall for a moment then regards John. "You seemed to need it."
"I—yeah, I suppose I did."
A long, loaded pause. "Do you still?"
John clears his throat. "I dunno." Mary's voice in his head: Do better, John. "Yeah, maybe."
John's breath falters when Sherlock's thumb sweeps across the top of his. Another gentler sweep when some of the tension slides out of John's shoulders.
"You don't have to—" It's a husky whisper now.
"I don't mind."
John's positive this isn't really what Sherlock means to say. The air in the tiny room feels alight with tension and anticipation and John's entire focus narrows to the two stretches of skin beneath his fingers: his daughter's warm belly as she perches on his knee and Sherlock's long, smooth fingers. Despite the hum of energy crowding around him, John smiles.
"What's funny?" the detective asks.
John's grin widens. "You have cold hands," he says simply. John can't really pinpoint precisely why he finds this funny but it makes him laugh, a low chuckle that teases an answering rumble from the man next to him.
"A common ailment of the desperately long-limbed, I'm afraid," Sherlock muses, then slides a slick smirk to John. "Not that you'd know anything about that."
"Oi!" John retorts without any heat to it. "I'm not that short."
"The average British male is five foot nine, John."
Lanky git. "That's not that much—"
"Two full inches, John." Sherlock turns to give him an assessing glance without dislodging Rosie or their twined hands. "Two and a half."
John scowls. "Two at most."
Sherlock just stares flatly.
"Lanky git." It bears stating out loud.
The detective stretches his slim right leg from where it had been crossed over his left and regards it thoughtfully. "They do come in handy here and there. Although it does make trouser shopping more difficult."
John scoffs. "As if you don't just have some posh store make them bespoke."
"And now you know why."
John makes a loud noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh.
"We can't all dress ourselves exclusively at Primark, John."
"Oh, for—" John grouses, catching the blooming smirk on Sherlock's face. "I suppose if I were built like a damn giraffe and had unlimited resources—"
"Honestly, John, the jumper you wore to my mother's birthday tea in September—"
"—I could swan around in Spencer Hart, too, but us mortal beings have to be a bit more thrifty," John carried on loudly.
"—looked like curtains my grandmother would buy at Oxfam," Sherlock retorts. "For God's sake, John, at lease press your nose up against the window of Burberry, would you? It's the least you could do if you're going to be seen with me. The very least."
The grin that Sherlock aims at John is full of mischief so John puts his nose in the air. "Until you and your brother's unlimited gold card decide to fund a new wardrobe for me, I guess you'll just have to put up with the assault on your fashion sensibilities. And I happen to like that jumper, you prat."
"You looked ridiculous."
"I did not. I looked comfortable and responsible for a toddler who has a knack for ruining clothing."
"Is that your excuse? What about the five years I'd known you before she was born?"
"God, you're such an arrogant arse. I don't even know why I put up with you," John says it with heavy sarcasm, but the twinkle in Sherlock's eye says he enjoys the banter as much as John is. That and the way Sherlock's grip tightens around John's hand.
"Would you?" Sherlock asks, his expression turning thoughtful.
John blinks a bit at the non-sequitur. "Would I what?"
"Let me choose a new wardrobe for you?"
For a moment, John's chest warms a bit at the idea of Sherlock putting that much care into John's appearance. Until, of course, he continues speaking.
"Obviously, my taste is far superior, so really it could only improve—"
"No."
"But John—"
"No, Sherlock. Your taste is fine for you, but not for me. I'm Action Man, remember? Not a bloody Ken Doll."
"At least Action Man didn't favor such god-awful jumpers."
Delivering a particularly well-aimed elbow to Sherlock's ribcage, John relishes Sherlock's "oof!" a little more than he should, jigging Rosie up and down and making a few soothing noises when she startles and starts to cry a bit at the jostling.
"Oh, sorry, love," John murmurs, leaning over to whisper in your ear. "Didn't mean to upset you, just needed to teach your—"
John's speak grinds to a halt when the exam room door swings open and a tall woman with golden hair pulled back into queue at the back of her head and clad in pink scrubs slips inside. Unfortunately, John's mind sticks on the words he'd been about to say just prior to her entrance. What had he been about to call Sherlock? It hadn't been his name, it had been a title that was ready to roll off of his tongue. But … what could he have possibly meant to say? Surely not "daddy" – that was John, obvious – and definitely not "god-father"; Sherlock was the only one to refer to himself as such. It's an accurate term, yes, but John never used it because it seemed so inadequate to encompass what Sherlock is to John and to Rosie. So what had he meant to say? John shakes his head to clear it when he realizes that both the doctor and Sherlock are staring at him.
"I apologize," he says. "Late night and high emotion, I'm a bit shattered."
"Understandable," she says and gives him a smile far more chipper than an A&E staff around midnight would usually afford. "Just introducing myself. You didn't miss much."
John flushes guilty and a little part of him hiccups when he realizes he has to pull his hand from Sherlock's to offer to the doctor to shake. "John Watson, and this is Rosamund."
Rosie gazes up at the doctor balefully and jams her whole hand in her mouth. The doctor smiles as she takes John's hand and gives a few firm pumps but he doesn't miss that her sharp hazel eyes travel over him then Rosie then Sherlock, all in the space of the handshake.
"Kathryn Simon, pleasure," she says in a bright, nasal accent that he places as East Coast American. He was stationed with a bloke from upstate New York who sounded just like her. She bends to regard the little girl now glaring at her with heavy suspicion from under her blonde lashes.
"Hello, Miss Rosamund, I'm Katie," she says and offers Rosie her hand. To the amusement of all the adults, Rosie removes her soggy fist from her mouth and clasps the doctor's forefinger in an unmistakable shaking gesture. "Polite little one you have there," the doctor says to John and then turns a sympathetic face back to Rosie. "I hear you've had a rough night, haven't you? Could one of you give me a rundown on what happened?"
Sherlock unfolds one arm from under the drape of the Belstaff and offers his hand with a flat, almost challenging look on his face. "Sherlock Holmes," he says in a voice that is higher and smoother than his normal tone. John's eyebrows wing up.
"And you…?" the doctor asks, clasping his hand and giving it the same attention as she had the other two people in the room but her eyes flicker back to John.
"Live with Dr. Watson."
Emphasizing my title? What's that all about?
"Great!" she says in the same chipper tone. "Can you tell me what happened then?"
Sherlock narrows his eyes just a tiny bit. Curious. Sherlock gives her the same story as he'd given the nurse only with a little more charm and a little less anxiety. More than once, John notes that every time the doctor's focus shifts to John, Sherlock's hand alights somewhere on John's body: first the back of his knuckles against John's elbow, then a palm over his wrist, and when Dr. Simon favors John with a bright smile, spread fingers that linger on John's thigh. That last one has John falling back on his military training so he won't let the surprise show on his face. After the quick recitation of the story, Dr. Simon reaches out both hands towards Rosie so John hands her over, murmuring to her when the girl whines a bit in protest.
"Oh, I know!" Dr. Simon croons to her as she sets the girl up on the exam table. "It's so awful to be poked and prodded by a stranger when you're sleepy and hurting, but I'll be quick, I promise."
Rosie reaches out a chubby fist and grabs the air in John's direction but the detective and the doctor are both between them so he can't quite reach her. When John lifts a hand, Sherlock takes it in his own and lowers their joined grip to Sherlock's own thigh, stretching out his hand for Rosie to grip. She clutches it tightly as the doctor angles her neck to get a better look at the patch that has now sprouted a three small blisters. They aren't large enough to give serious concern; John recognizes this as a doctor, of course, but as a father, the sound of his daughter crying out in pain at the examination has him clamping his fingers around Sherlock's as he tries to maintain a stoic face. Sherlock's hands are the only parts of him that react: an open palm for Rosie, which she grabs at greedily, and a tight compression to match the strength of John's grip. The doctor hmmms a bit, gingerly tilting Rosie's neck this way and that, and then straightens to rummage in a drawer of the cabinet nearby.
"Nothing too bad," she says as she forages and produces a small tube. She uses a swab covered in cotton wool to apply a cream to Rosie's neck and then bandages it, making a soft whooshing sound every time the girl whimpers. She turns her head just slightly to address Sherlock and John as she works. "You're a doctor then, John, so I don't have to spell it all out?"
John nods and gives a tight smile. "A brief diagnosis is fine."
She casts her eyes to Sherlock briefly and he bites off a curt, "I'm very clever. I'm sure I can keep up."
Seemingly unperturbed, Dr. Simon nods and answers, "Superficial epidermal burns on her arm and chest – swelling and redness mostly reduced by the cool water and paracetamol you gave her, so good thinking – and a relatively superficial dermal burn at the juncture of her neck. It's the dermal burn that's a bit more concerning given that it penetrates deeper, obviously, and the fact that it's blistering, but given that it's been about three hours since the initial incident and there's no further swelling or profusion of blisters, I'd say it's likely that she won't have any lingering effects." She strips off and disposes of her nitrile gloves, binning them and leaning against the count to regard them both. "I applied some lidocaine cream, which I will give you to take with you, and I'll write you a script for it, but she probably won't need it that long. Potential for a small scar at the juncture of her neck where the burn is the worst, but nothing too horrible if it does scar. She should be just fine."
Rationally, John probably could have determined that all on his own. Even so, he also knows that rationality rarely comes into play when dealing with your child being injured, so he's not too ashamed of the heavy sigh of relief that comes out of him when he stands to retrieve Rosie. Sherlock stands – silent and still, more's the wonder – next to John, giving a single squeeze of his hand before John moves towards the exam table. The girl thrusts her arms in the air the instant John nears her, whimpering at him as he hugs her to his chest. He shakes the doctor's hand again and gives her a rueful smile when Sherlock insinuates himself between the two of them and sweeps out the door without another word.
"Sorry about that," John says with a grin as he shakes her hand. "Not sure what's gotten into him but … well, it's nothing new."
She gives a huff of laughter and they both cast their eyes down the hall after Sherlock's retreating figure. "Your friend, is he … a life partner? Business partner? Live-in babysitter?"
John tries not to sigh as he prepares to give her the Not His Area speech that he's given to dozens of other women instantly enamored with the detective and his bloody cheekbones, but when John refocuses his attention on the doctor, there is an unmistakable spark of interest in her eyes and Sherlock is not the target. John's Pulling Smile – as Mary had jokingly called it – leaps to his face without thought.
"Some combination of the three," he jokes. And because he can't resist, "Why? Which one were you hoping for?"
"Babysitter," she says without hesitation. She comes up close and uses two fingers to push the tube of cream for Rosie into his front trouser pocket rather than the much more accessible jacket pocket. Her smile is unrepentant in the face of John's raised eyebrows. "Hoping for an excuse to slip you something much more exciting than medicine. Maybe my cell number. For house calls, obviously."
John smiles because this is normally the part where he would give some teasing response that would hook her interest as he scrawled her number on a slip from his pocket. But his eyes flicker back to the disappearing Belstaff and he can't seem to find the anticipation he would have felt once upon a time.
He settles for, "It's complicated."
She gives him a rueful smile. "Isn't it always? Good night, Miss Rosamund. Have a good sleep and you'll be all better."
John shakes her hand again and thanks her before turning to head out the front doors.
"Oh, and John?"
He turns at the sound of her voice and is surprised to see her regarding him with a kind but concerned expression.
"Don't be too hard on yourself. Accidents do happen, you know. Even to doctors."
She laughs at his stunned expression. "Mr. Holmes's story. It was a bit too smooth. I've seen that here a lot, although usually with much more nefarious intentions." Her face pinches then turns up with another lopsided smile. "Give yourself a break, John; it could have happened to anyone. And really, you're lucky to have someone who cares so much about protecting you."
John finds himself at a loss to respond so he just nods and turns to go. A cab stands just outside the front entrance with its side door open, Sherlock already crowded to the far side with his face buried in his phone. John ducks inside, careful not to jostle Rosie too much as he sits. At least five solid minutes go by in silence as London whips by them. Despite the detective's front of complete absorption in his phone, John sees that Sherlock's eyes haven't changed focus since John sat down.
"You were talking to the doctor for quite a while," Sherlock says eventually, his irises almost transparent from the bright light of the screen in the dark cab.
John squelches a smile. He talked to Dr. Simon for no more than thirty seconds once Sherlock left. "Mmmmm," he mutters noncommittally, rocking Rosie. He has no doubt waiting the detective out will yield interesting results. He's not wrong.
"Did she offer to 'make a house call'?" he jibes with no small amount of disdain.
John clamps his lips together momentarily to keep from laughing. "As a matter of fact, she did."
"Ugh, Americans." Sherlock scoffs. "So ridiculously predictable."
John so nearly makes a comment about the ugliness of jealousy but decides to leave it be.
Sherlock doesn't disappoint, though. "When are you meeting her?"
"I'm not." John's remains placid as Sherlock finally drops the pretense of staring at his phone.
"Why not?"
Shrugging, John answers, "I don't need a doctor who makes house calls. I have a live-in detective."
Sherlock turns his face away towards the window but John catches the reflection of a small grin in the window glass.
