It's Quiet Uptown
A/N: Named after the Hamilton song, which I don't own. ***Quick note here. Imagine Sherlock and John are just hitting their fifties as opposed to their sixties, as math would indicate. Just for this story's purposes.*** Because writing is something that keeps my life stable when it feels like the world's falling apart around me, here's this tragic, but bittersweet-ish fic inspired by a conversation with one of my dearest friends about our favorite Hamilton songs. And, for any L4M, A.K.A. Losing My Mind (Miss Me?), readers, this is written, "For the ones we've lost."
There are moments that the words don't reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes knelt down by their daughter across from each other, each holding one of her hands as her face continued paling, blood blossoming through her shirt. She lay in between them, blonde-brown curls spread beneath her like a halo, pale cobalt eyes looking between her two fathers. They could all three hear the sirens in the distance, steadily approaching St. Bart's, whose rooftop they currently occupied. The two shots to her chest had been intended for Sherlock and John, and, without a thought, she had wordlessly jumped in front of the two, shielding them, firing two shots of her own at their attacker, whose head and heart sported matching bullets. Things weren't supposed to turn out like this. She was only supposed to drop by for lunch, hear about the case's developments, spend time with her fathers…
"Rosie," John sobbed, eyes swimming, breaths heavy and choked. "No, not like this. Not again…"
"Rosamund," Sherlock whispered, voice cracking as tears streamed down his face.
"Dad… Papa… It's alright…" Rosie whispered, a pained, Sherlock-like grin on her face. "You just took down… one of the world's… most wanted criminals. So many cold cases… have been solved, lives… saved. You-" She coughed violently, breaths a bit more shallow than they had been previously.
"We," Sherlock told her softly. "We took down an international killer. We solved all the cold cases." She attempted a nod.
"We," she agreed. She sucked in a huge breath as a fresh wave of pain flared through her midsection. "I… I'm sorry I never got to hear our piece," she told the consulting detective. "I… I don't think it's finished." Sherlock quickly scrabbled at his pockets, pulling out neatly folded sheets of violin music. The last page had been finished recently.
"I had planned on showing the rest of it to you tonight after dinner," Sherlock admitted. She weakly squeezed his hand, grin still present. Rosie then looked to John, grin softening to a smile reminiscent of his.
"I'm sorry I'm not… the daughter you wanted me to be. I- I'm sorry I didn't get to get my degree… settle down, marry, give you and Papa grandchildren." John shook his head frantically.
"You are one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I will never be disappointed in you. You are, and always will be, my brilliant, beautiful, perfect daughter, Rosamund." She let out a shuddery breath in relief. She saw her vision fading, finally allowing her tears to spill down her cheeks, both parents in her sights.
Voice barely above a whisper, she told them, "I love you both… so much."
"I love you, too," they both replied to her, Sherlock kissing the hand he held and John her forehead. A sad smile on her face, she finally succumbed to her fate, letting her eyes slip closed for the very last time. John felt the exact moment that her pulse ceased. He let out a sob, bringing her hand to his chest. Sherlock did the same, taking John's free hand in his own, rubbing over his knuckles gently. The door to the roof burst open, Mycroft and Greg sprinting through and freezing at the sight before them.
"Where's my niece?!" Mycroft demanded to know. He felt all the air leave his lungs when his eyes settled on his brother and brother-in-law. Greg's gaze followed his, and he shakily gasped, not believing his eyes. He reached for his husband's hand as Mycroft reached for his, fingers intertwining tightly.
More members of New Scotland Yard poured onto the roof. Mycroft and Greg joined John and Sherlock at Rosie's side. Acknowledging glances. The four stayed kneeling in grief, the bustle around them nothing more than background noise to the emptiness they could hear, feel, consuming them at that moment.
XxX
The moment when you're in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down
The two of them walk 'round town
And learn to live with the unimaginable
The day after was one of the hardest days either man had ever lived through. They were silent, no verbal communication used between them. They ate breakfast quietly, showered separately for the first time in a while, dressed, and took a walk together. They didn't go anywhere in particular, letting their legs take them wherever they might go. John kept pace with Sherlock's long strides, never once lagging behind, taking sharp turns and breaking out into sprints with him; they were perfectly in sync. When daylight began to dwindle, they headed back towards Baker Street. At some point, John decides to find a way to occupy his time better and, with a nod to Sherlock, heads further into the city.
Sherlock returned to 221B alone, slumping down in his chair and getting lost in his mind palace; Rosie's wing had been rearranged, the section containing memories of events leading to her death and her final moments locked, chained, and guarded should he attempt to access them in any way. Despite knowing alcoholism ran in his family, if Harry wasn't proof enough of that, John stumbled, drunk, into the flat hours later to find Sherlock deep in his mind palace. He wobbly made his way to his own chair opposite of Sherlock, falling unceremoniously into a sitting position.
They stayed like that for some time.
From then on, during the day, John would work at the surgery, taking long walks by himself when the opportunity presented itself, sometimes not able to hold back tears. Sherlock usually remained in 221B, people-watching and deducing everyone on the street, solving small cases for Scotland Yard, deliberately avoiding his violin. On the rare occasion Sherlock did go out, his walks around the city consisted of thinking of John and sobbing his heart out about Rosie, the stunning young lady who, when old enough to ask, asked Sherlock to legally become her other parent. Rosie, the blonde child he taught violin and deductions to. His daughter. When John would come home, Sherlock attempted to hold conversations. They usually started as, "So…" There was never an answer, and they always ended there. The cycle continued for many weeks.
It was only when Sherlock came home after a nighttime stroll to hear John sobbing his heart out that he decided things had to be different. If he could somehow make things better, even marginally so, his efforts would be worth it. So, he and John started going on walks together again. Silence followed them, but the company was welcome, and though John still didn't speak to him, the sad smiles he received instead made his heart soar, knowing that things weren't completely lost. Despite knowing this, nothing could quell Sherlock's fear, his fear of John's anger at him, at his line of work. He didn't think he'd be able to stand another time of John wanting nothing to do with him. No, he knew he wouldn't be able to. Anything else would probably be the end of him. He's lost his daughter, his normalcy in life; he couldn't lose John too.
It was then that the idea came to him.
XxX
Look at where we are
Look at where we started
I know I don't deserve you, John Watson
But hear me out; that would be enough
"Do you remember the first time we met?" Sherlock asked quietly one Saturday morning. John, surprised, but not discouraged, smiled slightly and nodded. Sherlock, encouraged, began recounting that tale and their first case together, A Study In Pink, if he remembered John's title correctly from the blog. Each of their walks together consisted of Sherlock retelling some of their greatest cases, enthusiasm so evident in his voice that John couldn't help but smile and chuckle fondly. Eventually, however, Sherlock ran out of cases to keep their spirits up, and John, noticing, gave him a quizzical look for it. Sherlock sighed.
"John, I… I know I don't deserve you. I don't deserve your friendship, your love, our marriage, a life with you, but I need you to know something." John gazed at Sherlock with curious, melancholy eyes, and gestured for him to continue. "If I could bring Rosamund back, through my own power or in exchange for my life, I would, but I can't… and I won't pretend that I understand how you feel, because I don't and likely never will. If…" The dark haired detective paused, swallowing nervously. "If your silence is our new normal, if you believe I deserve no better, then I will accept your judgement, and though the prospect of that worries my greatly, I feel no fear. I know the man I married, and I know he knows me as well. So long as I can be by your side, that would be enough." John, whose stare was directed at the ground, simply nodded as they kept walking. "Do you still like it uptown?" he asked himself, not intending for John to hear him. The blonde never answered.
That night, when both were fully prepared to head to bed, Sherlock asked John to stay up and talk with him. Really, he asked about where their relationship stood, and was happy to find that John had no intention of changing their marriage in any way. Much like his previous attempts at conversation, John answered with head nods and shakes, hand gestures, and facial expressions. These were sufficient answers, however, for Sherlock's deductions brought forth more information about John's state of mind than any verbal statement he'd ever received from the man. Stressed, but as happy as he can feel given the circumstances. Misses Rosie and wishes to visit… her grave… Doesn't know how to feel about Sherlock, increasingly positive, however. Wishes to never touch alcohol again to cope with anything, no matter how bad. Wishes to... Oh.
To kiss him, because despite the tension of sorts between, they still loved each other. They leaned towards each other on the couch, and their lips met in a soft undemanding kiss. John's hands instinctively flew to Sherlock's curls, tugging and carding his fingers through them lightly. Sherlock cupped John's face with a low groan, pulling away after another minute or so. The conversation ended when John's yawn caught Sherlock's attention. John cemented his goodnight with a kiss to the forehead and a mini wave while Sherlock's goodnight consisted of saying the word goodnight and stealing a brief kiss.
Their next walk, which would be several days later, ended with the two entering the cemetery that once housed Sherlock after the Reichenbach Fall from Bart's. In its place, Rosie's dark tombstone gleamed in the light filtering down through the thick blanket of dark clouds overhead, illuminated as if by angels. John laid a bouquet of various flowers at her grave, placing a kiss on top of the cool headstone before standing back up. He turned to Sherlock, seemingly hesitant, before his eyes became determined. Gingerly, he took Sherlock's hand in his own, grasping it firmly. He kissed each knuckle before finally looking him in the eye.
"It's quiet uptown," he whispered. Sherlock released a shaky breath, squashing down his disbelief and pulling John into his arms. His head rested on top of John's for a moment before he plopped a kiss in the greying blonde strands. They stood in an embrace together for an undetermined amount of time before breaking apart, sharing a brief kiss before leaving, hand in hand.
The next week saw Sherlock and John chase multiple gang members across the streets of London, solving cases left and right, keeping Greg on his toes. The two collapsed happily together in their bed at the end of the week. That Sunday, Sherlock brought his Stradivarius with him to the cemetery and played his and Rosie's piece, John by his side. Things would never be classified as "okay" for them again, but as life returned to normal, they didn't mind so much. "It is what it is," John muttered under his breath sometimes. They were back to what they did best. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson-Holmes: solving crimes, protecting the innocent and ones they love, and honoring those they couldn't save.
Closing A/N: Definitely not my best, but it combined a prompt and my feels, so I rolled with it. Also, a late happy holidays to everyone!