Sunday afternoon. Living Room at Baker Street.
"Oh, shut it, will you? I'm knackered and I don't want to make you tea! Get it your own bloody self. Rosie kept me up half the night, thank you very much, and I don't feel like waiting on you hand and foot. I just got her settled for a nap, and I'd like some shut eye myself."
"All you need do is ask. I am more than happy to help with Rosie."
John looked at Sherlock, sprawled over the couch-he hadn't bothered to dress yet.
"But you still want me to make your tea?" John swiped his hands over his face and peaked at Sherlock between his fingers. Sherlock was pouting.
"But I'm rubbish at making tea," Sherlock said. "You always complain when I make tea. You know you make tea so much better than I do. There are so few things you're superior at compared to me-it just seems like you'd take the advantage and do them whenever possible."
"You, are so full of shit," John said, leaning back into his chair. Sherlock sure could act like a whiny baby. He was worse than Rosie with colic when he got at it.
"Well, yes."
"All right. I'll do it. But we need to make some sort of rules around here now that I've moved back in." John crossed his arms against his chest to punctuate his last sentence. He wanted Sherlock to take him seriously. It seemed when John projected the angry military officer, he got the best results.
"What, is that some sort of challenge?"
Didn't work. John sat up straight as a board, then made sure he also projected his voice. Captain Watson at the ready stated: "Not a challenge. Rules. You know. R-u-l-e-s."
"Yes, of course I know: 'a set of explicit or understood regulations or principles governing conduct within a particular activity or sphere' as opposed to a challenge: 'a call to take part in a contest or competition, especially a duel or an objection or query as to the truth of something, often with an implicit demand for proof.' Have I covered it?"
There Sherlock went again, being a giant cock. Typical. Even Captain Watson wasn't working on him. Insults then .
"Rules shouldn't be a challenge, but I do think for you rules are challenging ." John smirked at Sherlock's shocked expression. "All right. I suggest we both come up with a set of rules for the other. Then 'the challenge' will be to come to some sort of agreement as to what rules we'd like to follow."
"What should these rules be in reference to?" Sherlock asked. "Chores such as housekeeping, cooking, making tea , or rules regarding our relationship?"
"Both. Either."
"Very well. And when do you want me have these rules completed, and how many rules are we limited to?"
"I think we should be able to both come up with seven solid rules each. What if we shared one rule with each other every day this week and decide which ones we'll keep and which ones we won't?"
"Yes, but we need a limit on how many of the rules we can veto, say two?"
"That sounds fair as long as your rules aren't all rubbish."
"My rules will NOT be rubbish," Sherlock said, at last sitting up.
"Okay, starting tomorrow at breakfast. A rule each per day."
"Very well, the challenge is on," Sherlock said, standing and waving his arms above his head.
"I said, it's not a challenge, it's rules."
"Whatever you say, John. That can be your first rule if you like."
"No. It isn't. We start tomorrow."
Monday Morning. Breakfast.
John was surprised to find Sherlock already awake and tea made and on the table. John sat down. He was dead tired after spending most of the night up with Rosie. She was finally sleeping, but he was unfortunately wide awake.
"You spied on my laptop and found my rules," John said.
"Yes, well…"
"That's why I'm not putting them on my laptop anymore."
"I am amenable to your first rule and made a schedule for sharing the cleaning of our apartment."
"I know, I saw your schedule on my laptop-that's how I realized you read the rules I'd made," John said taking a sip from his cup. "This tea is rubbish."
"That's exactly why I made my first rule!" Sherlock said. "It's: 'John makes all the tea and does all the shopping starting today'."
"Hold it! It think that should count as two rules," John said.
"It's comparable to your multi-layered first rule."
"Not unless you do more of the cleaning and cooking," John said. John had to admit that he didn't want Sherlock shopping-he never came home with anything on the list that John gave him. As for cooking, Sherlock was actually very good at it-and he could clean efficiently when motivated. If Sherlock would do it without asking and not be distracted, it would be some sort of miracle.
"Very well, but I'd rather clean the kitchen more than cook," Sherlock said, standing up and retrieving John's laptop. With that, they sat down and working out the rest of the schedule. John won out on having Sherlock cook at least twice a week, and John stipulated that take out didn't count.
Tuesday Morning. Breakfast.
"No more experiments with Rosie around," John said, setting Sherlock's tea in front of him.
Sherlock was already dressed and shaved, and Rosie was in her highchair sharing the morning sunlight that poured in from the kitchen window.
"Agreed." Sherlock said, adding sugar then taking a sip. "Perfect rule, John."
John thought that was a bit too easy. And yesterday had been too simple too. "Alright. What's your rule?" John asked with trepidation.
Sherlock sat up straight and began: "John must let Sherlock take Rosie on walks two times per week. Preferably with John, starting today."
John actually smiled at that. "Really?"
"Yes, why are you surprised? I love walking with you through the parks. Now I get to share it with Rosie."
"I don't know what to say. Of course I agree."
"Of course I agree with your second rule, too. I think Rosie's safety is of the utmost importance. I refrain from this day forward doing dangerous experiments in our apartment."
"That's not what I wrote. I wrote experiments. Period," John said.
"You can't mean that," Sherlock said, nonplussed. "When she gets older, I'll want to teach her about so much-like how to use a microscope, investigate chemical reactions, learn dissection…"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" John said, chuckling. "Not so sure about chemical reactions and dissection. We'll talk about that when she gets a bit older. As for the microscope, that's a lovely idea, Sherlock. For now just forgo any experiments with body parts or dangerous chemicals and the like, okay? And no storing anything other than food in the fridge."
"Agreed," Sherlock. "Now, can we go on that walk with Rosie?"
Wednesday Morning. Breakfast.
Rosie and Sherlock had had a long night, and John was grateful that Sherlock "took over" for him, rocking her and singing to her in his deep baritone. John never realized Sherlock knew so many lullabies.
"I already read this rule too-although the rest of the week's rules will be surprises for me," Sherlock began. "I'm going to bring up my right to veto this one."
"What? Why?!"
"John, you are intelligent in your own special way, but you can be a complete imbecile at times. There is no way I can refrain from saying you are not-"
"Even in front of Rosie?" John asked. That seemed to give Sherlock pause. He steepled his hands beneath his chin. Twenty minutes later, he answered.
"I will no longer call you an imbecile or use any other words such as that to disparaged you in front of Rosie."
"Thank you, Sherlock." John had reasoned it would come down to that point. Sometimes he could beat Sherlock at his game. Imbecile indeed! "What's your rule today. I'm prepared."
"One I think you'll agree to: 'John must let Sherlock tuck Rosie in at night and read her a bedtime story (of Sherlock's choice) whenever we are not on a case."
"Well, that seems acceptable, unless 'bedtime stories of your choice' include murder cases."
"They're not any less violent that fairy tales or nursery rhymes! Children love being terrified! What do you think 'peek-a-boo' is if not a scare fest?"
"No, Sherlock. No murder mysteries."
"At least until she's older…"
"Sherlock…"
"Very well, until she's in her teens. Then you'll want me to scare her to death."
Thursday Morning. Breakfast.
"You begin today," John said, sitting down at the table with his paper. Rosie banged her spoon on her highchair in time with the water running down the spouts outside. It was pouring rain, but Rosie was still in good form, banging and laughing at Sherlock's silly faces.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "My third rule is: 'After John takes out his gun, he must fire it within 24 hours.'" Sherlock sat back, wagging Rosie's rattle in the air and smiling, obviously pleased with himself.
"What! That's a stupid rule!"
"But I love watching you shoot your gun." John didn't know what to say to that. So instead of vetoing it, he told Sherlock his rule.
"You need to move objects that could be dangerous to Rosie out of her reach," John said. Sometimes Sherlock needed having things spelled out for him.
"Of course, according to stages of development such as crawling and walking and climbing, you must move objects beyond a child's reach: objects that could cause injury or that the child could swallow. I've read every child development book online, John."
"I see."
"But you should shoot your gun and let me watch. It's safe in your hands. Just keep it locked up when not in use, yes?"
Friday Morning. Breakfast. Later than usual.
John was still angry at Sherlock. Very angry. A client had stopped by yesterday late-morning with an important and sensitive case-Sherlock had solved in a flourish without leaving the living room. He had, however, managed to piss off half of Scotland Yard and Buckingham Palace in the process. Sherlock had absolutely no decorum. One does not insult the Queen. How could he not know who the Queen was? Hence John's next rule. Although this one was ad hoc, it could have reaching applications.
John sat heavily in his chair and tried to ignore Sherlock, who was spooning oatmeal like a mama bird into Rosie.
"My next rule is," John said, clearing his throat, "be nice to royalty and know their names."
"I veto this! This doesn't have any connection to our relationship or home life."
"It happened here. In our home. You insulted the Queen."
"But I didn't know she was the Queen!"
"My point exactly."
"She was on the phone for god's sake! How was I supposed to know?"
"You're the genius. Deduce it."
"That rule is hardly fair."
"No more deleting information about the royal family. No more."
"But I have one more veto."
" Sherlock ."
"Very well. I will no longer delete any information regarding the Queen," Sherlock recited, "the royal family or any other information connected-if you agree to my next rule without question."
"I can't agree to that until I know what your next rule is."
"That is the point. You don't know. Do you agree?"
"Well, only if I can amend it."
"That will not be necessary."
"What's the rule?"
"You agree then?"
"I agree, I agree."
"The rule is: John must never go to bed mad at Sherlock. Starting tonight."
"That's it?" John scratched his ear. This was too easy.
Second thought, recalling last night, maybe not so easy. Still, the thought made John feel unreasonably happy-that Sherlock would actually care enough to not want John upset with him. He looked on again at Sherlock with Rosie. He had oatmeal splattered all over his blue bathrobe from Rosie spitting it out at him in fits of giggles. Despite being painted with oatmeal, Sherlock giggled back each time.
"No amendments?" Sherlock said, smiling at Rosie, then turning to John. "I thought not. It should not go unsaid that I will not go to bed mad at you either. It really isn't good for a relationship to go to bed angry with each other. You need to put things in perspective and 'let things go' so to speak. Going to bed angry can irreparably damage a relationship. I read that last night on a self-help page for married couples."
John stared at Sherlock. And stared. And stared.
Saturday Night. Home at last after a case that spanned the morning before until that afternoon. Sherlock is warming takeout in the oven after their walk in the Regent Park with Rosie.
"Sherlock! You're burning dinner!" John ran into the kitchen, turned off the oven, and pulled out the charred remains of Pad Thai. He turned to Sherlock, who had just finished putting Rosie in her high chair.
John shook his head. "Next rule. Check the temperature. Set the timer. When. Cooking. Anything."
"But shouldn't that apply to just baking in the oven?"
"No, don't forget what you did to the eggs last week on the stove top," John dumping the burned dinner in the trash.
"Yes, I should check the temperature and set the timer."
"No, you MUST check the temperature and set the timer."
"Agreed."
"Now what's left to eat?" John asked. He put Rosie in the playpen, then rolled up his sleeves and pulled out some eggs and rashers while Sherlock peeled some potatoes next to him in the sink. Since yesterday's rules, John began to think about all he'd put out of his mind so long ago. The idea of the madman he lived with and more than lived with. Of relationships and marriage. Of feelings he denied and pushed away for so long. As they made dinner together, John waited for Sherlock's rule, but it didn't come. It wasn't until after dinner and Rosie was settled into bed as they both sat relaxing on the couch watching a bit of crap telly that Sherlock sprang his rule on John.
Sherlock turned to John. He really hadn't been interested in the show. "My sixth rule is 'John must rub Sherlock's head or feet once a week. Starting tonight.'"
John laughed and sat back and stared at him. "You're serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be serious? Doctor's hands are talented at such things. Yours are perfection," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Which would you like to rub, my head or my feet?"
John sat dumbfounded as Sherlock's pale eyes searched his, fixed and pleading like some damned puppy waiting to be petted. John sighed. This was wrong in so many ways, but…
"Head. In my lap. Now."
Sherlock quickly complied. Maybe a puppy was the wrong pet to compare Sherlock to. He slinked around like a cat stretching and clawing at the couch with his fingernails, and he practically purred like one in his lap as John's fingers scraped his scalp and toyed with his soft curls.
"John that feels wonderful." His voice vibrated, rich and deep. Sherlock's eyes remained closed as he moaned John's name. John was lost. He couldn't repress the tangible result of running his fingers through silky locks. Sherlock's head rubbing in his crotch didn't help either. It then became a game. A game of pretending. Sherlock feigned the evidence and rolled his head, making John's predicament all the more urgent. He was rock hard and leaking. John's breath came ragged. Then the game became real. There was no way to deny what was happening between them. One glance at Sherlock's tented lap told John that Sherlock was reacting the same. God, Sherlock's toes curled. Neither stopped. Couldn't stop. Between the friction and Sherlock's pornographic moans, John came in his pants like a teenager, groaning Sherlock's name. John, no longer able to keep from touching what was forbidden to him for so long, reached down and palmed Sherlock thick cock through his sweats. Sherlock eyes remained shut tight as he came with a whimper.
After, he opened them and smiled up at John. "That was most satisfying," Sherlock said, sitting up.
"Yes, it was," John agreed. Sherlock was beautifully flushed, disheveled, and most certainly a sticky mess from the wank.
"Goodnight then." Sherlock stood and went to his room and quietly shut his door. John stared at the telly and wondered what in the hell just happened, and how it would change his life on Baker Street.
Sunday Late Afternoon. Seventh Day of Rules
To say that John felt awkward around Sherlock that next day was an understatement. They did a dance the whole day: furtive glances, shy smiles, a few "accidental" brushes of skin. John was giddy with goosebumps and butterflies. Sherlock swished around in his bathrobe, bored, but not bored. He had a focus. It was the last rule.
Sherlock played with Rosie on the floor while John made dinner. John had been mulling over what his last rule should be. He'd had plenty of practical ones ready. But what he needed tonight was an impractical rule. A rule for the relationship. A rule for all rules.
After they ate, Sherlock took Rosie to bed and read the first chapter of Winnie the Pooh to her. John smiled at Sherlock's "well, because…" and "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!" and his silly Pooh voice saying "Good morning, Christopher Robin!" He bookmarked the page, kissed her forehead and whispered good night.
Sherlock followed John into the living room, and they both took a seat on the couch.
John smiled. "Me first," he said, then turned to face Sherlock. "I know what my last rule will be, but it can not be vetoed or amended in any way. Do you trust me, Sherlock?"
"Of course I trust you completely."
He thought of Sherlock's gentle kiss on Rosie's brow. John was willing to take a chance now. He thought of all the love he'd held for this insane man for so long. He knew Sherlock felt the same. John hoped he'd trusted John with his heart enough to take a chance. To try.
He cleared his throat and in his best Captain Watson voice he said: "My rule is 'Sherlock must always kiss John goodnight.'"
He heard a gasp from Sherlock, his eyes fixed on John's lips.
"Yes. I think that is possible." Sherlock was thinking, his forehead scrunched in question. "How many times?"
"What do you mean, how many times?" John asked.
"How many times can I kiss you goodnight, because I think we should be very liberal with this kiss goodnight."
"Liberal is good."
"You also didn't state when it begins," Sherlock said, bottom lip pouting out. "I always state when it begins."
"How about now?"
Sherlock tentatively leaned in to John, irises wide in wonder as he stared at John's mouth. He pressed in ever so slowly and brushed his lips against John's like a gentle drop of rain. Then again, kissing the corners of his mouth then nipping playfully at John's bottom lip. John moaned in approval. Sherlock pulled back and looked to John for permission, and with a sly smile, it was granted. This time the tip of Sherlock's tongue tickled John's mouth and begged admittance, then pulled back. What a tease.
"Enough of that," John said, "C'mere." With that, John pulled Sherlock on top of him, and let his hands cup Sherlock's face as he kissed Sherlock hard and wet, tongue plundering his mouth. John loved the feel of Sherlock pressed against him, sliding and straining. Sherlock's hands slipped between John's legs, kneading him. Those fingers! He reached inside John's sweat pants and explored John's cock at first just with the slightest touch, then pulled away and aligned their crotches again and rutted against John shamelessly. His groans and gasps pushed John to want all of him. Apparently, Sherlock wanted all of John too.
"Bedroom," Sherlock said, pulling John off the couch and along with him.
"God, yes."
Early Monday morning. Sherlock's bedroom and the Final Rule
John woke with Sherlock wrapped around him like some giant heating pad. With a start, John realized for the first time ever that Rosie had slept through the night. It seemed they'd had two firsts in the household. He couldn't help but smile. In fact he couldn't stop.
John basked in Sherlock's warmth and admired his sleepy face. As he brushed a knuckle across his cheek, Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Morning, John." He opened one eye at John and smiled. That mouth could make a nun a sinner.
"Morning, Sherlock." He was half tempted to blurt out ' care to go for another round,' but he worried that Sherlock might be a bit sore. Sherlock opened his other eye and smiled wider.
"Yes, you're right. I am sore."
"How did you know I was thinking that?"
"Not hard to deduce," he said as his long fingers grasped the evidence between John's legs.
"Guess not."
"John, John, there's other things I could do to you."
"Please, go ahead." Then Sherlock gave John the best fucking blow job of his life. John ranked it as the second best sexual experience of his life, next to that orgasm on the couch. In the afterglow, John remembered he was forgetting something-something important.
"My final rule," Sherlock said, turning in John's arms.
"Of course, yes. How I could I forget? Oh yeah, that's right! Maybe it was the two times I fucked you into the mattress last night or that phenomenal blow job you just gave me that made it slip my mind."
"Yes, I am amazing. I can understand how your last rule might make you forget my last rule. But my last is an important rule, John. The most important of all our rules."
"Okay, you've got my attention, not that you didn't before," John said, propping himself up. "But if you don't take your hand off my cock, I'm not going to be listening too carefully."
"Yes. Your undivided attention then," Sherlock said, removing his hand. "My final rule is: 'John must never move out of Baker Street.'"
"Well, I'm not so sure-" John began, then noticed Sherlock's face fall and turn to wax and clasp his hands tight in his lap. "No, I mean I think it needs amending."
"Do tell, John, in what way?" Sherlock's voice was icy and made John's heart freeze.
"You see, we may not always want to live here," John clarified. "I mean, we may want to retire some day. Live in the country. You love bees. You could keep hives filled with bees. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! So your rule calls for an amendment: 'John must always live with Sherlock.'"
Sherlock flung himself at John and kissed him hard on the lips, then pulled back. "I must admit, I was worried for a moment, but I like your amendment. Yes, I quite like it."
Sherlock flopped back down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, then with purpose pulled his right hand out, then grasped John's hand. "Maybe we should add one last rule," he said. "John must always sleep in Sherlock's bed."
John laughed. "How about John and Sherlock must always sleep in the same bed."
"I'm amenable to that," Sherlock said as he squeezed John's hand.