Written for the Johnlocked Winter Challenge. The challenge was proposed a few weeks ago, and this is what came out. I've never one for holiday-themed fics, but this one... I suppose in the end the fic might orbit around Christmas, but it's about much more than that (I hope). I'm the kind of girl who likes a bit of Angst with her Fluff, so keep that in mind, also remember that Johnlock is end-game in this, and there will be a Happy Ending, regarding how it might seem at certain points. Also, check the tags for any possible triggers.
This fic is as canon as I could possibly make it, it also includes some headcannons, and ideas I think of what might come up in season 4 (though I tried to make those few and as open as possible). For the baby I used the name that was recently given and is assumed to be the canon one.
As always, my infinite thanks to Ariana DeVere for the wonder that are her transcripts.
So... here we go, I hope you'll enjoy!
7 Christmases
(or 6 Times John Sought Christmas and The 1 Time It Found Him)
By: Lalaith Quetzalli
John loved the Christmas Holidays. For many years it seemed like his life orbited around them. Until his family fell into pieces. The army was as much about escaping the memories as it was about adrenaline, Queen and Country. Then he lost that as well. He tried to regain some part of his past through Christmas... it took him longer than he ever expected
One.
The ranting finally stopped. It's amazing how even after he left the room Harry could continue her tirade for so long. It's like she didn't even notice he was no longer there! Then again, she's so drunk she probably wouldn't know it if a bomb went off three feet from her.
She's so angry, furious even... but then again, so is he! She has the gall to get angry because of what happened, because of what she herself did. What did she expect?! That he would be happy she threw her marriage, her very life into the gutter?! She walked out on Clara! Clara, who's the nicest, kindest, simply the best woman ever. John can hardly believe it! And after everything that happened too!
He knows that's why Harry began drinking, and to a point he understands it. It's painful, to have your whole life, the life you once envisioned, ripped away from you in an instant, especially when it's by someone else's idiotic mistake.
John will never forget arriving to the hospital that day, after getting some last-minute leave. He had to travel in a cargo plane to even get to London as fast as he did! But he had to get there, of course he had; in a way the baby had been as much his as it had been Harry's and Clara's. The sperm had been his of course, his sisters believing that, joined with Clara's egg, that would make the result the closest the two women could have to a child fully their own. And John had been delighted to be asked, he'd even offered them his money, everything he'd saved since joining the military (all that hadn't gone into paying the loans they'd taken to pay their mom's hospital bills). And it was all lost in a moment, in a horrible car crash, caused by a drunk driver (not Harry). Harry made it out relatively ok, just some cuts and bruises, and a slight concussion... but the other vehicle hit them on the passenger side, Clara's side. She survived, but the baby didn't, neither did Clara's womb. The bleeding was so bad they had to perform an emergency hysterectomy.
John was horrified, when learning everything that happened. Felt so much sadness for both of them, and for the little one who never got a chance: Charlotte Jane Watson... that was to be her name, it's the name in the empty grave he insisted they arrange for (and paid for), hoping a tangible marker of their grief would somehow help them all move on...
And then Harry threw herself into the bottle (or more like many, many bottles), and she left Clara! Who did that?! Who abandoned the love of their life like that?! John didn't understand, he really didn't. There was a time when John believed Clara might be able to do the impossible, bring him and his sister together again, put the Watson family back together; a family that fell into pieces after their father's loss to alcohol poisoning and their mother's to cancer... the baby would have been the cherry on the cake... perhaps it's pointless to think about such things, all those dreams are broken now.
What he finds upon arrival... It is, to him, the worst thing he could have ever imagined coming home to (in fact, he never imagined something like that). He spent years in foreign countries, trying to put other soldiers, good men and women, back together, a battle against enemy soldiers, against time and death that he seemed to lose as often as he won. Then he got shot. On the plus side, he managed to save one more life. The man the enemy sniper (whose bullet had ended up in him) was trying to kill was alive. He'd probably be discharged, but he lived, that counts as a victory in John's book. On the downside, because of that very bullet, he wouldn't be getting the chance to save anyone else. Then again, perhaps he should count himself lucky he'd made it at all. The bullet nicked his lung, missed his heart by less than two inches, shattered a piece of his collarbone, pieces which then wrecked havoc on his nerves... between that and the infection he got (because they were in the middle of the bloody desert, behind enemy lines, and he was the only qualified medical personnel in his team... the fact that he made it alive back to camp was a miracle in and of itself) the wound got bad enough, there was little they could do. They sent him first to Kandahar, then to Germany, and after several surgeries the doctors managed to take away the chronic pain (at least enough so it only hurt when he made sudden or violent moves), and restore enough motion for him to lead a more-or-less normal life. They couldn't take away the tremor though, or the limp (which the shrink claimed had to be psychosomatic, since he wasn't shot in the leg...). There was also nothing they could do about the PTSD, or the fact that he'd no idea what to do with his life anymore. He couldn't be a soldier, and he couldn't he a surgeon, what was he supposed to do then?! He didn't even have any money aside from his meager pension!
John wants to celebrate Christmas, he wants to try and rescue something from his distant past, from the time when they were still a family, when they were still happy. Before Harry came out as a lesbian, their father's alcoholism got out of control, his mother got so sick and they just didn't have enough money to pay the hospital bills... He thought with Clara there, they'd manage it. But Clara's no longer there, and Harry... John's not sure Harry's all there either.
He knows that the only reason Harry received him is because she felt obligated to, because he gave her the money for the in-vitro, even if it failed, she feels she owes him. However, John just knows there's no way he can stay. If that day is an example of what he can expect, living with her, he's better off on his own.
And to think it's bloody Christmas Eve!
John makes up his mind. Even if he has no idea where to go, or what to even do with his life. He just cannot stay. He'll be gone just after New Year's.
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Two.
Knowing Sherlock is... insane, in more ways than John can truly explain. To think that such an amazing, clever, reckless, tactless, brilliant, mad bastard even exists... There are still days when he has to pinch himself, to remind himself it's real, that Sherlock Holmes is real, and so is the life he's fortunate enough to have by his side. To think that someone as incredible as him wants plain, average, boring John Watson by his side, to be his colleague, his friend...
Sherlock saved his life, in more ways than he'll ever know. Really, only John knows how close he came to just ending it all, biting a bullet, like some of the Americans used to say. He thought his life was over, that there was nothing left in the world for him... and then he met Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world. And he became... what? His assistant? Doctor? Blogger? Friend? … Partner? Most days John has no idea what exactly he's supposed to be, but as long as he has a place in Sherlock's life, he'll be happy.
The mad bastard certainly is hell on his dating, though. It's like he cannot stand to have John date women (or anyone at all), like he cannot allow John to pay attention to anyone not him (like he's jealous or something!). But please! Sherlock is married to his work, said so himself, that first night. And John... John's not gay... actually he's bisexual, but it's easier to not go into that much detail, so he might still have a chance to pull... not that it makes such a difference since his flatmate seems to specialize in driving every single woman he manages to talk into a date away before even a month has passed! It's insane, he was once known as Three Continents' Watson, and it was not a joke. And yet since coming to live in 221B Baker Street it's like he cannot get laid! The worst part, he doesn't actually mind as much as he thinks he should. He probably would mind much less if Sherlock did something about that jealousy of his (beyond just ruining his dates with the women).
John breaking up with Jeanette (or more like her breaking up with him) wasn't exactly a surprise, if he's honest with himself. He expected them to last at least to the end of the hols, though. Still, it wasn't so bad, Sherlock's playing was marvelous of course, and while he did have his 'bit not good' moments, he made an effort. In fact, John's quite sure just his being there at all, at a party, was a huge effort on his part; and he did it for him, because the consulting detective managed to deduce it was important to him.
The first Christmas since meeting Sherlock Holmes, since finding a new purpose, a new life. A part of John wants to believe that he can get it right this time. Then there's that problem with Jeanette and Irene Adler and the risk for a 'danger night' for Sherlock... He supposes it could have been much worse... it was certainly nice while it lasted. He will never forget Sherlock playing Christmas Carols on his violin...
There's something else the army-doctor turned doctor/blogger will never forget either, some of Jeanette's last words to him before she left:
"You're a great boyfriend... and Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man..."
Even as he denies it, as he keeps trying to convince her to stay (a futile effort, he knows, He's not even sure why he's trying so hard, perhaps simply because he's shit at giving up even when he knows it'd be better that way), John cannot help but wish she were right... God how he wished it... pointless as he knew that thought to be as well.
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Three.
There's no celebration the following year. John doesn't even notice it's Christmas. He hardly notices anything these days, even time passing by; lost as he is in the restriction of leather binds and the buzz of strong sedatives.
Oh, a part of him knows. Knows that it's not a normal day, that it's supposed to be really special. But the bigger part of him cannot bring himself to care for such things, for anything at all really. And why should he care? He's not really living. He's not really living. The only reason he still breathes at all is that Greg and Mycroft are bloody meddlesome bastards... And maybe from Greg he understands it, he's a good mate. But Mycroft?! Bugger it all! What right has he to interfere with his life?! None at all! None! It's his bloody fault that John's even in such a situation! Tied down on a hospital bed, locked up in a room, under suicide watch, inside the psych ward of a hospital. Because he tried to kill himself. Well no, he didn't even get that far, he was still in the planning stages of it; debating between the symmetry found in jumping off Bart's rooftop, or simply blowing the top of his head off, once and for all. Somehow one of them (or maybe it was Mrs. Hudson) they found out what he was planning and committed him before he could do anything at all. They might have saved his life, but it's not like John would be thanking them, and why should he? He didn't ask them to save him... he wanted to die! After all, what point was there in living when Sherlock was gone?
He jumped off that bloody rooftop, right before John's eyes, and there was nothing he could do. Seven weeks, and no matter how hard he tries, John cannot think of anything he could have done to change things. Was it John's fault? Was it because he wasn't good enough as a doctor? As an assistant? As a friend? Did he somehow fail Sherlock?! It's eating John inside, the possibility of it. It's killing him more surely than any fall or bullet ever could, for the mere thoughts aren't destroying his body but his mind, his heart, his very soul...
There's so much about the last twenty-four hours he'll never be able to forget:
"Can't you see what's going on?!"
No he didn't. He thought he did, but the whole thing was so far beyond him...
"No, I know you for real."
That's what he thought, what he still wanted to think, but then again, he never thought Sherlock to be the kind to give up, to just end his own life like that...
"Take my hand."
"Now people will definitely talk."
And he wouldn't have minded it.
"You machine"
He'll never ever forgive himself for those words, he regretted them the moment they left his mouth. Yet he convinced himself he'd get the chance to apologize, to make things right... That day will never come.
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
"No. Friends protect people."
Above all else John really wishes he could prove that to Sherlock. Yet he'd thought the consulting detective knew already, wasn't that what John had been doing all along? Since shooting that cabbie the very first night? And even Sherlock agreed they were friends, that John was his only ever friend... John wishes that had been enough.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."
The words that followed those are too painful for John to recall at any point, just doing so is enough to send him into an anxiety attack most of the time. And yet those words... they seem to have become engraved in his brain, he cannot forget them, or what sealed them: his friend, his partner his... Sherlock, laying on the sidewalk, skin deadly pale, hair and face and the very pavement under him painted red... his own blood.
So there lays John, bound to a hospital bed, locked inside a room, under suicide watch, in the psych ward of the hospital. A very small corner of his brain knows it's Christmas, the rest of him simply doesn't care.
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Four.
It took him a while, but eventually John managed to convince everyone that he's alright. Greg doesn't really believe it, of course, he knows better than that. But at least John was convincing enough to get the hospital to let him go... Greg did take his gun (the gun they both used to pretend not to know he had, or what it had been used for) and he's taken to dropping by John's new place unexpectedly (of course it's a new place, there's no way John's going back to 221B, not without Sherlock... much as he might love Mrs. Hudson, he just cannot do that. It's too painful).
So, he got out of the hospital, has a new flat, and a new job (at a clinic that's closer than Sarah's). Greg and Mike still give him odd looks whenever they see him, as if they're waiting for him to break down again. John wonders what it would take for them to back off... Hey! Maybe he'll ask that new nurse out, What's her name? Mary-something... Yeah. Maybe then the others will finally back off. Mary's new, she doesn't know him, has no idea about the life he used to have, or about Sherlock at all. It could work. Hell, it might even help distract him, just a bit, at least enough so he doesn't have to think about his consulting detective every hour of every day... No, not his, Sherlock Holmes wasn't his, he was no one's, and he proved that, spectacularly.
There are times when John honestly wishes he never met Sherlock Holmes, others when he cannot imagine a world where he never knew the other man. It seems simply... impossible.
When such thoughts come to him he cannot help but think that, had he never met Sherlock Holmes, he'd definitely be dead. And maybe that was the whole point? Maybe he's supposed to be dead. Maybe meeting Sherlock was a mistake. Maybe it was his time and he's been defying the fates by staying among the living... It sounds insane, even inside his own head. And still he cannot imagine never having known Sherlock Holmes. Even gone, the mad bastard is still the most important part of John's life! And he'd have it no other way.
He will still invite Mary out, maybe to have some coffee. Who knows? It might not be so bad... At the very least it will make life less tedious, or so he hopes.
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Five.
Seven weeks. Seven weeks since the botched dinner (and the failed attempt at proposing). Seven weeks since Sherlock strode right back into his life. Seven weeks (minus a day) since he almost died in a bonfire, only to have Sherlock (and Mary) save him. Seven weeks (minus two days) since he and Sherlock solved a new case, stopped a bomb from blowing up Parliament and god-knows-how-many-blue-bloods, and they had a heart to heart. Seven weeks, and John still cannot quite wrap his head around it all.
"Well, short version... Not Dead."
"I thought... you were dead. Hmm? Now, you let me grieve. How could you do that? How?"
"You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world..."
"Please, John, forgive me... for all the hurt I've caused you."
"I wanted you not to be dead."
"Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for."
"You were the best and the wisest man... that I have ever known. Yes, of course I forgive you."
So much feeling... so much grief, and anger, and hope, and pain, and fury and... love...
"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."
"I heard you."
John forgave Sherlock, of course he did, but he will never forget, he cannot, not with everything that happened. It's just too much.
He still finds himself engaged to Mary, by the time Christmas arrives. Not quite sure how it happened, in between everything that happened in the days following Sherlock's return (to London, to the Work, to John?). Mary knew that John had planned on proposing that evening in the restaurant, she mentioned it at some point, and just like that John found himself offering her the ring. A part of him was screaming in the back of his head about the wrongness of it all, but how could it possibly be wrong? He loves Mary, he truly does, and not just because she's pretty, and kind and so understanding; she's seen him at his worst, mourning Sherlock like a bloody widower, and that didn't drive her away. She's seen him ranting at Sherlock's unspeakably cruel actions and him high on adrenaline from a successful case... and she didn't leave then either. When John was still on a strop about Sherlock's absence and return she even spoke in the mad detective's favor! She even heard the Yarders tease about him and Sherlock shagging, and instead of being offended or demanding explanations she laughed!
Mary Morstan is, without a doubt, the most amazing woman John's ever met. Even Sarah, who was quite wonderful, could only handle Sherlock being around for so long. And Sherlock accepts Mary, doesn't try to drive her away. It might just be that Mary respects Sherlock, respects his place in John's life, and so he does the same in return. Somehow John thinks there's more to it than that, like those two somehow, truly, understand one another.
What John doesn't know is that Sherlock understands. He understands what his leaving did to John, not all the details, thankfully, but he knows it was bad, in some ways even worse than how the blonde man was before the two met (and even then John was toeing the line of suicidal); he was in a bad way, and Mary saved him. Mary became the lifeline Sherlock once was... and as much as it may pain him, Sherlock sees all that, he accepts it as his due, and chooses to deal with the consequences of his actions. In the end, he'd rather have some part of John than none at all.
Mary understands too. She understands that, in many ways Sherlock is John's other-half. Doesn't mean he doesn't love her, but Sherlock is important to him, is a part of him, and she can either accept that, or fight like crazy, make John miserable, and perhaps lose him eventually. She chooses to accept the situation rather than risk the rest, she loves John enough.
And John... John loves them both. He's loved the mad bastard of a consulting detective for four years, and he knows himself well enough to know he's capable of loving him for the rest of his life; would have even if Sherlock had turned out to be truly dead. He also loves Mary, he might not have loved her as long, and their relationship might have started as a mix of a ploy to distract himself, and to get his meddlesome friends off his back; but he truly loves Mary Morstan, she's an exceptional woman, the woman he'll marry.
There are times when John wonders what would have happened if Mary hadn't revealed she knew about the ring he kept in his army duffel-bag. Would he have chosen another moment to propose to her? Or would he have chosen to stay as they were? Worse even are the moments when he's left wondering what would have happened if Sherlock had never used that line on him, the whole 'married to his work' speech... Then again, it's not like that one is in his power to change, so it's a pointless exercise in the end. Because it is pointless, right?
In any case it is certainly pointless to keep thinking it over. In the end, he's engaged to Mary, and he did choose that. He did it because he loves, and also a tiny bit to prove to Sherlock, to Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, to the world... to himself, that he has moved on, that he can live without Sherlock Holmes... Yes, he too sometimes wonders who he's trying to fool.
In any case, he gets his Christmas celebration that year. Mary is there, and Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft drops by briefly with Anthea, Molly, Greg, Mike, even Harry's there, and sober (he's even heard from Clara, that the two of them have been talking about perhaps giving their marriage another try)! It's everything he's always wanted right? Ever since he returned from Afghanistan, the kind of Christmas celebration he's been trying to recreate... then why does everything feel so fake? He honestly doesn't know if he has no answer to that, or if he's just that good at denial.
(He knows... he's just too much of a coward to accept it.)
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Six.
"The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future... are my privilege. It's all I have to say. It's all I need to know."
Those are his words. The words he said to Mary in the Holmes living room, on a quiet, slightly awkward Christmas afternoon. They're words John spent weeks pondering over, choosing each and every one carefully... they still don't feel real. Sometimes he feels like he himself isn't quite real, like none of the situation, the life he suddenly finds himself in, is real. Because how can it possibly be? How is it possible that his wife, his kind, loving, gentle, nurse (Normal!) wife has turned out to be an assassin, possibly a former intelligence agent, possibly worse, and not just that, but one whose past identity came out after she shot his best friend! She tried to kill him, did kill him, in fact. And John doesn't care however many excuses and speeches Sherlock might give, he was dead, for what seemed like forever, and it was Mary's fault.
Mary, his Mary, his wife, Mary Elisabeth Watson nee-Morstan... except that's not really her name, is it? It never was. Mary Morstan is a poor little baby girl who never got a chance at living her own life, is no one, it's a name that was convenient for the woman John calls wife, when she chose to drop her old one (her last alias? He doesn't even know how many times she's done the same bloody thing!).
And the most freakish part of it all? The most insane part, in all the bloody insanity that has become his life (their life) is that if such a secret had come out in any other set of circumstances (literally any!) John would have thought it amazing. Would have thought it incredible, brilliant, perfect! Because Sherlock was right in one thing (when wasn't he right, anyway?), Ma... she was the perfect woman for him. Knowing the kind of past she's had (even if he knew very little) it explained, at least in part, how she was able to accept all of John's quirks so easily, to accept Sherlock, and the life the two men lead. It would have been perfect, John Watson, the luckiest bloody bastard in the world, with the wonderful wife and the brilliant best friend...
But the circumstances are what they are. They found out about things the way they did. He only found out because his wife shot his best friend, tried to kill him (did kill him!), had the gall to demand his silence on the matter, and then went as far as threatening him when Sherlock made it quite clear that he'd be telling John the truth... A part of John wonders what she'd have done if they hadn't revealed his presence right then? Would she have shot Sherlock again? Would she have killed him, for good, then? She said she would do anything... In any case, those are questions to which John rather not know the answer.
What feels the most sickening to him, is that John thinks that, at least a small part of him (hopefully a very, very small one) might still love Mary. And not just the woman he thought she was, or the woman she is and could have been if they'd never gotten in such a buggering mess with Magnussen and she hadn't shot Sherlock... but the woman she is despite (and because) all of that. Mary... or whatever her name might be (whatever the initials A. might mean) is still the woman who accepted his offer for coffee, even with the awful way he'd been treating her for weeks beforehand, who then agreed to dinner, several times, despite the way he'd fall silent for no reason at all, or how he literally ran out on her in the middle of a date for no bloody reason twice; she stayed through all of that, and through Sherlock's return, and John's own mercurial moods, and the media scandal and... and she loves him. It might be insane, beyond that even, but she loves him, and a part of John cannot help but think that ought to count for something.
One thing does not change though: She shot Sherlock, she effectively killed him. He told her her past was hers (her problems, her business), and that's true. He doesn't need to forgive her for any of that, in the end it's not his business who she might have been, what she might have done, before they met. Her future is very much his business, at least as long as she's Mrs. Watson, and who knows how long that will last. She's changed identities before, who says she won't do it again the moment it's convenient (or the moment it stops being convenient to be Mrs. Watson). And yet even through all that mess, there's one event that doesn't fit: her shooting of Sherlock. That's not part of the life-from-before, the one that doesn't concern him (it's about Sherlock, so of course it concerns him!), and it's not connected to the future, it's the present. It feels to him like a stone tied around his neck, weighing him down... it's not something he can forget, nor forgive. As much as he might love her... how do you forgive one of the most important people in your life, for trying to take away the other most important person? John doesn't know the answer to that, isn't sure there's something like an answer to such a question.
And yet, even without an answer he will go on, because he needs to, for himself, and for Sherlock, but most important of all: for his daughter.
For his daughter he will put a lid on the riot of feelings he cannot help, concerning his wife (his baby's mother), will hold together the pieces his heart and soul broke into when he saw his best friend so high it was a miracle he wasn't already dead, that fateful New Year's morning... he will don on the mask of calm, faithful, ever-reliable John Watson and he will 'soldier on' (and he will bury deep down each and every memory of the most recent failure of a Christmas holiday).
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Seven.
Rosamund Mary Watson, that's her name, the name of the tiny baby-girl in his arms, the one John can hardly bring himself to put down, and even then only when he's been holding her for so long he feels like his arms cannot do so anymore. Most people think that it's a reaction to shock, to the loss of his wife, his Mary, that John insists on holding his daughter in his arms because he's afraid she'll disappear if she's not with him. Then again, few people see when Sherlock holds her, how John never minds (it actually delights him, the mix of wonder, and awe and the tiniest hint of joy that fills Sherlock's eyes when they lay on the child). There's also the fact that, like Sherlock often says, people often see but they do not observe; they see him wanting to hold Rosie all the time, but don't realize that it isn't a new thing, he's been that way ever since she was born, since the nurse first put a tiny, red-faced, crying baby in his arms. And regarding his fear of her vanishing, he's not afraid of that, not any longer. Though he was, for months. Then again, the one person he ever believed could have taken her away is gone, Mary is gone.
It's twisted enough most people would probably feel sick at the mere thought of it, but then again, less than half a dozen people know the whole story. Who Mary Watson nee Morstan really was... Or perhaps he should say Agatha Geier? Germanborn, of American descent, prodigy hacker and talented with languages and accents, she was recruited into the CIA before even starting college, made a name for herself before hitting her mid-twenties. At first her job was supposed to be safe, but she wasn't happy with that, she wanted action, and she got it, she also found out more about her own superiors than they ever wanted her to; something made her eventually switch sides, and she went on the run, becoming freelance for a while, until even that life became too much. It was easy enough for her build herself a new identity, she even chose to give a try at something she'd never had before: a normal life. And then she met John Watson.
John has wondered more than once if it was his fault, if Mary/Agatha would have been able to keep living a boring life, if he'd never gotten in her path. Yes, she was involved with Moriarty, but never directly, never as a straight-out threat towards any of them. And as suspicious as it might be that she began working at the same clinic John moved to after the Fall... there's never been a reason to believe she did so in order to get involved with John. Far as they know she might have chosen to move into that neighborhood and that clinic as a way of getting away from her previous boyfriend (which, all things told, she didn't do a great job of, considering she still met with him every so often, even invited him to her wedding to John). And that's just one of the many, many questions John (and no one) will ever get an answer to. Because Mary's gone, she's dead.
And she really is dead, no doubt about that. She died in John's arms, saving his life from the 'Professor', the wannabe Moriarty (the insane bastard trying to rebuild James Moriarty's old criminal web... the one that had taken two hellish years and so many efforts, troubles, blood and tears to take down).
"I love you John... always..."
Those were her last words to him, and as romantic as some would consider them, all John can think about was that, in her last moments, Mary's thoughts were of him... and not of their baby daughter. John honestly didn't notice it at first, the way Mary seemed to distance herself from Rosie, both physically and emotionally. He was completely focused on keeping the baby with him as much as possible without seeming completely paranoid, though Sherlock obviously noticed (and he was kind enough towards John not to mention it).
It was until that day, until Mary was bleeding in his arms, until he heard her last words, that he stopped to consider, when was the last time that Mary held Rosie? Really held her, not just to feed her, or change her nappy, or burp her, but just to hold her close? John had no idea. He was actually fairly sure Sherlock had held the baby more than Mary, which was insane! Or was it? Was it some form of Postpartum Depression? Was she afraid John would object to her keeping Rosie close, after everything that had happened? (John honestly doesn't know if he would have) Had she ever wanted children at all?
Each of those questions terrifies John more than the last. Even though he knows it's pointless. He doesn't know the answers, will never know them now, and in the end they don't change anything at all. Rosie exists, she's alive and she's safe and she's with him, and nothing and no one will ever be able to change that.
He's back at Baker Street now, both he and Rosie are. It was actually Sherlock's idea. He claimed John shouldn't have to be alone in his time of need, that he needed help processing his grief, and taking care of Rosie. John actually refused at first, but after two weeks straight of Sherlock taking a cab to the Watson place every morning, just in time to fix coffee for John and help him feed Rosie her breakfast... John finally decided it might be better to just take his invitation (also, much as he didn't want to admit it at first, he didn't feel like he belonged in the little suburban home anymore... wasn't sure he ever had).
"John..." Sherlock's low baritone, pronouncing his name in that tone of voice the doctor knows so very well, pulls him abruptly back to the present.
He's sitting in his chair, his armchair (and it's most certainly his, again, always), laptop in front of him. It was his intention to write a new entry for his old blog, when he got so completely lost in memories he forgot where he is.
He turns to look over his shoulder then, just enough to look at Sherlock. The consulting detective is standing a few feet from him, Rosie in his arms, wearing footie pajamas of an off-white color with a print of what look like red poinsettias. She's wearing pajamas in the middle of the day... perhaps not surprising, considering Sherlock. Her being in the detective's arms is also pretty normal... what isn't are the pieces of what look like green and white shrubbery on both her and Sherlock, one particularly long piece actually seems to have tangled into Sherlock's curls, and Rosie keeps slapping it away, as it tickles her ear. John cannot help but smile at the picture, the perfect picture they make, getting himself just a bit lost, basking in it, before he catches up with what it is he's looking at exactly: the things on them, it's not shrubbery, and it's not part of some experiment of Sherlock's (while he seems to take some odd pleasure from designing baby-safe experiments he can show her, he's always been very careful to make sure she stays away from any substances or objects... mainly because she's at the stage where she seems to believe putting anything and everything in her mouth is a good idea); but no, the green and white thing on them are actually pieces of garland.
"You hadn't noticed at all, had you?" Sherlock murmurs, though it isn't actually a question.
John actually glances at the corner of his laptop's screen, confirming his suspicions.
"It's Christmas tomorrow..." He mutters, not quite believing it.
How could he miss something like that? He does a double-take as his mind fully processes the fact that there are pieces of garland on Rosie and Sherlock. He stands up and slowly spins around, looking at the flat... at the fully decorated flat... the flat that Sherlock decorated.
"Sherlock..." He murmurs, voice failing him, the doctor doesn't quite know what to say.
Which seems to be just fine, because the detective doesn't give him a chance to say anything anyway, instead walks to him and places Rosie swiftly (though carefully) in her dad's arms.
"Here, you hold Rosie for a while." He says before turning around. "I have some gifts to wrap and I rather she not rip the paper on one side while I'm taping the other."
John's not quite sure Rose has the coordination, never mind the range of motion necessary for such a thing, but he doesn't comment on it (a part of him is still processing the fact that Sherlock has actually gone through the effort of acquiring presents, and wrapping them... then again, he decorated the flat as well, and John somehow managed to miss the whole thing!).
It's amazing, and shocking, and so many other things the former army Captain cannot quite name, the fact that the year he finally stopped trying to celebrate Christmas; he wasn't even paying any attention to the calendar anymore, someone else made sure it would still happen. And not just anyone but Sherlock, the very man who once, years ago, claimed not to know why John was so interested in celebrating a 'holiday that commemorates a fictional being they don't believe in, and a religion they don't practice'. But for John... for him it was never about 'Santa Claus', or about Christianity, it's always been about family.
John spends the remaining hours of the afternoon with Rosie. Playing with her on the corner of the living room that Sherlock long since declared is the baby area (it's surrounded by a baby-proofed fence, the floor has a thick, luxurious carpet, most of Rosie's toys are kept there, and nothing and no one untrustworthy is allowed within three feet of it). Eventually it's time for the bath, and after that and a quick shower John takes the dozing baby and places her in her crib, in his room. The room is wired, in a much more advanced manner than any baby monitor, John and Sherlock know the moment she makes the slightest sound.
Once back in the first level of their flat, the doctor finds his friend in the kitchen, preparing some tea (something else that has become normal in their new life). John sees the gifts then, carefully arranged beneath the tree... and how he missed That, John has no idea. It's easy enough to pick out who some of those presents come from. There are some from him (John has always been the kind to get his Christmas shopping done early... like way early). There are some from Mrs. Hudson too, and of course, Sherlock's. He notices something else too, several gifts that are meant for Rosie. One is from Mrs. Hudson, and the card reads: "To: Rosie", simple, to the point. One, from Mycroft judging by the high-quality of the wrapping and the stylized calligraphy on the card, says: "To: Rosamund Watson". Only Sherlock's (John recognizes the handwriting, of course he does) reads: "To: Rosamund Mary Watson".
It's the truth, from everyone any of them know, Sherlock is the only one, aside from John himself, who ever addresses Rosie with her middle name, who even acknowledges that name at all. The rest act like it doesn't exist, as if doing so will somehow erase her namesake... John knows not everyone does it for the same reason. For some (those not in the know, which are actually most), they hold back from using the name, believing it might hurt John, assuming he must still be mourning his wife; despite the fact that it's been months, and that he chose Mary as Rosie's middle-name himself. Others (those few who do know the truth of Mary's past, and especially the things she's done more recently, good and especially bad), they refuse to use that name, to acknowledge that Mary Elisabeth Morstan ever existed; nevermind the fact, if she hadn't, Rosie wouldn't exist either!
It's not like John doesn't understand why they do it, or like he holds it against them. He knows it's insane, knowing the kind of person Mary was, the things she did, both in the distant past and the most recent one; just what she did to Sherlock! And yet, though he doesn't understand it himself, John cannot bring himself to hate her. A part of him does still love Mary, perhaps not the woman she proved herself to be, in the end, but he loves the woman she once was, during their time together, the woman who loved, who saved him when no one else could have...
It's why Rosie bears that name. Their daughter represents everything good from both of them, she holds all their hopes, especially the hope for the kind of woman Mary Morstan once tried to be. John hopes he'll be able to guide her through the right path. And Sherlock knows all that, has managed to deduce most of it, without ever having to ask, which is why he too will always keep in mind that name, the name of Mary...
With a shake of his head John puts down the gift and turns to watch Sherlock. He's standing by the window, a half-full cup of tea by the bow of his violin; the other cup is on the table nearest to John's chair... but the doctor doesn't pay attention to any of that, all his focus is on the detective, or more precisely, on the little object hanging just above his head. A handful of green branches and leaves with little white buds, tied together with a red ribbon; it's fresh mistletoe.
John doesn't stop to think about it twice, not even once, before he's fully aware of it he's across the room and crowding Sherlock against the window.
"Joh..." That's as far as Sherlock gets.
The last letter and his breath as a whole is swallowed by John when he pulls the younger man's face down and kisses him. It doesn't feel like a first kiss, it's not shy and hesitant, or quick and sloppy; instead it's slow, tender, and yet somehow very intense. It's a kiss that says (almost screams) all the things that have been left unsaid for the longest time, it's questions and answers and declarations, confessions and acceptances and all that no one, not even them, could have ever thought of saying out-loud. It's everything...
Afterwards there is no need for questions, for clarifications, there are no doubts. That one kiss was enough. Sherlock and John know how much they love each other, that they always have (even if it might have taken them a little while to catch up), that they always will (until the last star blinks out of the sky). They're together, and with Rosamund Mary they're the family John has always wanted, the family he's dreamed of since the one from his childhood memories was forever lost to him.
Tomorrow their extended family (Harry, Clara, their newly-adopted daughter: Heather, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Billy, Mycroft, Anthea, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes) will be at the flat, and they will have dinner together and exchange gifts, a big, happy family. Sherlock will play the violin, Mummy will sing, and they will all be happy. They will all be together, celebrating Christmas.
After so many years, after so many trials and tribulations, grief and joy and pain... John Watson's dream is finally coming true... and he knows it was all worth it.
So, what do you think? This is honestly the first time ever I write Good Mary, in a universe where she married John and shot Sherlock... I tend to be more for the evil-Mary, and whenever possible I make sure she never married John; but was trying to do something new here. The whole thing with the baby was inspired by seeing so many pics and vids of the upcoming season, and only once did I see her holding the little one, in all others it's always John.
My apologies if I offended anyone with the whole-miscarriage thing, but I needed something to justify John having no money after his service (a writer in another fic recently brought that matter up, the mom's medical bills didn't seem enough, and I really didn't want to make him a gambler, like he was in canon... didn't want to have to deal with that.
I hope I've managed to keep in character with everyone here, and as canon compliant as was possible, all things considered. Most of all, I hope you all enjoyed reading this. Any kudos and/or comments you might wish to grant me are very welcome (and they tend to make my day).
See ya around! And Happy Holidays (whatever each of you might celebrate)!