When Sherlock got in, he got Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and put her to bed since she already had her dinner and bath. He set her down in the cot he had taken from John's flat, shushing her whines. Once she was asleep, he sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes, exhausted in every way. What was he thinking? He was in a right mess now, but he had to make it work, at least as long as possible. He had to get rid of all evidence of Mary. The biggest obstacle to that was Rosie, but he supposed he could tell John they just adopted her shortly after she was born. Should he lie and say Mary was their surrogate, and they used John's sperm, so that he knew he was Rosie's biological father? Sherlock frowned. A sign of a lie was too many details. Besides, he worried that if Mary were mentioned at all, or if John saw any photos of her, that his memory would return.
But wouldn't it return eventually? Wouldn't he remember Mary, the wedding, her pregnancy, her betrayal, her giving birth, and her death sooner or later? He...he would just have to cross that bridge-or, bridges-when he came to them.
You're an idiot, he told himself. You know this won't work for long.
Sherlock imagined the look on John's face after learning that he lied about their marriage. He shook his head. If he could keep John happy as long as possible, then he would. (He was selfish. He would keep himself happy as long as possible, too.)
It was settled. He would tell John they decided to adopt and wanted a baby to raise from birth. He would think of the details later. Right now, he had to hack into John's blog and delete all entries and comments mentioning Mary. Sherlock sat down and did just that, and maybe felt a little spite when he deleted the sarcastic entry he had written about John's wedding. More than anything else, however, he felt wrong doing this, but he did it anyway. He was a sociopath, wasn't he? This was his true nature: lying, calculating, manipulative, and not at all the nice man John apparently thought he was married to. He deleted the last entry about Mary and then went about deleting her comments on various blog entries. Since he was logged in as John, he had the administrative ability to delete whatever comment he wanted, so Mary and any mention of her was removed from every comment section. She was wiped from John's blog.
Sherlock closed the laptop, swallowing hard. He needed to shower. That would clear his head.
Once clean, he got dressed again and left for John's flat, telling Mrs. Hudson he needed to go out for a little while. He had bit his tongue and called Mycroft for a favor: a moving truck.
"Dr. Watson is moving back in?" Mycroft asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "He must have really hit his head."
"Just shut up and have your minions help," Sherlock growled into the phone. He had panicked when he remembered he didn't live with him anymore, and almost slipped and fell when he ran out of the shower with wet feet. Surely not living together would be a red flag to John since they were supposed to be married. He would just have to act like John never moved out.
He was going mad. If (when) John found out he moved all of his things into the flat, he would put Sherlock in a straitjacket. Thankfully, John and Rosie didn't have many belongings; his military experience led him to a minimalist lifestyle, and she only had so many clothes and toys. Plus, none of the furniture in the flat, aside from Rosie's crib, changing table, and height chair needed to be moved into 221B. Even so, and with the decently sized crew Mycroft sent over, the process took all night.
Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed but puzzled when she was told John was moving back in. "So soon?" she asked.
"The last thing he remembers is living here," Sherlock told her, holding two suitcases filled with John's clothes, "so it will be more comfortable for him to be here than that flat." Well, that wasn't a lie, necessarily. It would have been disorienting for John to have gone back to the other flat to be alone with Rosie. Sherlock's excuses sounded weak even in his own head. "I apologize for asking you again, but would you take Rosie while this is happening?"
"Of course," she smiled. "I know how stressed you've been and I'm glad to help, dear."
By 7:00 the next morning, John's clothes were in Sherlock's closet, his old family photos were in a trunk under the bed, his books were on the shelves in the sitting room, and his former bedroom upstairs had been converted into Rosie's room. Sherlock secretly took John's gun and put it in the drawer in his bedside table. The crew didn't need to know about that. He took all the photos from the wedding and put them through a shredder. Fortunately, any other pictures of Mary were on John's phone, so he deleted them along with her number and old text conversations. The only trace of her left was the ring on John's finger and Rosie. Just like that, it was if she never existed. Sherlock's hand ghosted over the scar on his chest. Well, almost.
Now alone in the flat, he was lying flat on his back on his bed, eyes burning from exhaustion. He had manipulated and lied to people in the past, but he never felt so...weird about it. Why did he feel this way? He lied about being dead for god's sake. Wasn't that worse?
It was necessary. This is not.
"Shut up," he hissed at his mind. He closed his eyes. He needed sleep before he drove himself crazy.
After Sherlock woke up in the afternoon and ate, he headed to the hospital. As conflicted as he felt about everything, he wanted to see John, and he couldn't just leave him alone in the hospital now that he was awake from his coma. He went alone, however, figuring that showing up with Rosie would not be the best decision.
John was awake and watching television when Sherlock came in. He smiled lightly. "Hello."
His heart thumped. "Hello, John. How are you?"
He shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Um, I'm still shocked about everything."
Sherlock nodded. "Understandable. How's your head?"
"Okay," he said. "I feel a little weak when I walk, but that'll probably go away in the next day or two." He did look better than yesterday. The color had returned to his face and his eyes were more alert.
"Probably," he agreed. He bit his lip. "No recovered memories?"
John shook his head. "None," he frowned.
"Oh." He sat down in the chair next to the bed, unsure of what to say or feel.
John sighed through his nose. "You look like yourself today. Did you get some rest?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The silence was heavy.
John cleared his throat. "Um." He looked at the television. The tips of his ears were turning red. "I did a lot of thinking last night. I'm still angry with you for faking your death. It still feels recent for me."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I'm sorry."
"I know. But I was wondering, er, about us."
"Yes?" His heart started beating faster.
He looked back at him. "You had a hard time admitting we were friends in Baskerville, but now you're married to me? How'd that leap happen?"
Fair question. Sherlock pressed his lips together, folding his hands on his lap. "I didn't realize what I had until it was gone." He remembered how much John's wedding hurt, how he went to home and cried himself to sleep. He had felt utterly hollow and alone.
John's face fell and his eyes flickered downward. "I know that feeling," he said quietly.
Sherlock wanted to reach out to him. They were "married", so he could do that now. He put his hand over John's.
John's dark sad eyes met his.
"I was...afraid to let myself feel for you before," Sherlock admitted. He had been frightened that John owning his heart heart would give him nothing but grief. In the end, wasn't he right about that? "It always came down to my own limitations, but not a lack of desire." He felt his face coloring.
"You're not afraid now?" John asked.
Terrified. "No."
John grinned a little. "Then why do you look like you're about to jump out of your skin?"
Damn. "It's been a long two weeks. I was worried about you."
John's other hand covered his. "I'm all right now. You can relax."
Sherlock breathed deeply, trying to do as he was told.
His eyes were downcast once again. "It feels weird saying it, but I must have before, so I guess I can say it now. You already did, anyway."
"You're rambling," Sherlock said, his palm sweating onto the top of John's hand. Good going.
"Yeah," John mumbled. He lifted his gaze, a soldier's determination entering his gaze. "I love you," he said. "I was thinking about how I never got to tell you that before you jumped, so there," he said with a little nod. "It was on my mind all night."
Warmth exploded in Sherlock's chest and the breath rushed out of him. This was how John felt before he jumped, before he ruined them. Did John feel that way after he returned, even with Mary in the picture? He must have. Memory loss wouldn't create feelings that weren't there. He was loved by John Watson. Would John have ever admitted this if he hadn't gotten amnesia? Would the same John who wrote him a hate letter after Mary died be vulnerable enough to confess his love?
"Hey," John squeezed his hand, "what's with the face? I did tell you that before, right?"
Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. "I missed you, John," he choked out, voice scratchy.
His face softened and he cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Listen, it's all okay now," he said softly. He licked his lips. "Well, it's not," he murmured, "my brain's still shite. But. I'm okay otherwise."
Sherlock bowed his head, hiding his flushed face. He found his voice after a couple more hard swallows. "When did you start feeling that?"
"Feeling what?"
He wanted to close his eyes and hide. "Loving me?" he asked, voice small and fragile as glass.
"Did we never talk about that?" John asked.
Sherlock shook his head. "We didn't talk about a lot," he mumbled.
"Well, that's not hard to believe." He cleared his throat. "Erm, well, definitely by...you know, the Moriarty thing. Um, I think the Woman was when I realized it was love. Thought it was just attraction before."
Sherlock couldn't bear to look at him. "Why the Woman?"
John laughed a little. "'Cause it was hell watching someone else catch your attention like that. I thought she was the only person you could have feelings for."
His lip twitched. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered.
"I know better now," he said with another laugh. "But, uh, yeah. I think it was then when I thought you'd go off with someone else."
Sherlock knew that terrible feeling all too well, only worse, because John actually did go off with Mary and marry her. No, don't think of her.
John squeezed his hand. "Well, what about you?"
Sherlock lifted his head. "Hm?"
John's face was flushed, too, but the tension in his shoulders was slowly melting away and he appeared to be warming up to this situation. "When'd you know?"
Sherlock gnawed at the inside of his cheek. Your wedding. "It's hard to say since I was in denial for a long time." That wasn't a lie. He knew he had romantic feelings for John since early in their relationship, but he kept denying the extent until he watched John dance with Mary at the reception, and he was more alone than he had ever been in a crowded room. "I didn't think you would return my sentiment, especially after Moriarty."
John frowned a little. "I may have been, and still kinda am still pissed at you for that, but," he snorted, smiling shyly (a shy smile from John? Sherlock was fascinated by the sight), "I guess I can't stay away from you."
It hurt. Sherlock couldn't help but remember after Mary died-no, no, stop it. That reality is gone now.
"You've got to get that frown off your face," John said, removing his hand from under Sherlock's and gently grasping his chin. "I don't like seeing you this bothered."
"Sorry," Sherlock said, suppressing a shiver at the warm pressure from John's strong hand on his face.
John licked his lips. "Hey, I know it might be weird to ask, but...can I kiss you?"
Sherlock could only gape and nod dumbly.
John pressed his mouth against his. It was warm. His lips were a bit chapped, but that was fine. It was gentle, but John applied more pressure, inhaling audibly through his nose and deepening the kiss. Sherlock was kissing back, at least he thought he was. He was never very good at this. The last kiss he had was-oh god, with Janine. This was definitely better. Infinitely better. He was finally kissing John, and now that it was happening, he didn't want it to stop.
John did pull back, though, his warm eyes hazy. He grinned. "There. The frown's gone now," he breathed.
Sherlock had no idea what his face looked like, but he felt winded yet on top of the world. He wanted to kiss again. He wanted to hug him. He could ask for these things now, right? "More," he tugged at John's hand that was still on his chin.
John placed a hard but brief kiss on his lips. "I don't wanna do too much," he said. "Don't want to get too heated, y'know?"
Sherlock was sure his face couldn't get any warmer. "A-are? Are you-?"
John rolled his eyes. "I don't get riled up that easily. I'm just saying. Besides, it's still new to me. Not bad at all, but new."
Me too. "I see."
John scratched the back of his neck, growing bashful again. "So, about that. I had wondered if you, erm, do any of that. Sex."
Sherlock was going to burst into flames. He sat up straight, heart pounding. He blinked rapidly.
"Why d'you look like a blushing virgin?" John asked.
Oh god oh god. "I'm not very, um, I mean we don't exactly talk about it like this."
"Does it make you uncomfortable?"
"Perhaps a little overwhelmed," he admitted, embarrassed. He was forty and he couldn't talk about sex with the man he loved.
"Oh, sorry," he winced. "We don't have to talk about it, then, not now. I was just wondering."
"It's all right," he waved a hand, crossing a leg over his knee. Sherlock was glad John was understanding. It wasn't that he didn't want to have sex with John, but there was only so much change he could handle in one day. They would talk about it later. John would want to do it eventually. Sherlock had to stop this train of thought right now because it didn't take much for him to become aroused when it came to John.
John leaned back on the pillow, looking him up and down. "This is still so surreal to me. It's like I woke up in a different reality." He sighed a little. "I guess it's weird for you, too, right?"
"Yes, but I'm glad you're okay."
"They can't kill me that easily," he said, sounding hollow as a furrow formed in between his eyebrows.
"John?"
He looked at the television and sniffed. "Did you think of me, while you were gone?"
The warmth in his chest from John's kiss dripped away. "Of course I did." Did John have these thoughts when he returned in 2014? Sherlock hesitated, then put his hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't as if I forgot you and went on holiday, John."
"I know," he looked back at him. "I wasn't trying to imply that. Just nice to hear."
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "I always thought of you."
He smiled weakly. "And I always thought of you."
"Sorry," he said, even though he said it before. There was too much guilt clawing at his chest.
"I know you are." His eyes flickered down to his hand on his shoulder. "Hm. I still feel fucking weird, but this is nice."
Sherlock bit back an Is it?, because he was supposed to know John loved him and wanted to touch him already. He stroked his thumb over John's shoulder, watching his face to see his reaction.
John was smiling, but his brow quirked upwards in curiosity. "Why don't you wear a ring?"
"A ring on me would wind up lost inside a corpse."
"Ah, gotcha."
Sherlock took his hand away.
Just then, John's doctor came in with a smile. "Knock, knock," she said obnoxiously (well, Sherlock thought it was obnoxious).
"Hello," John said politely.
Sherlock said nothing.
"How are you today, Doctor Watson?"
"I'm all right," he shrugged. "Can't remember a thing, but I'm in no pain."
"None at all?"
"Nope."
"Any weakness?"
"A little in my legs, but I can stand and walk around for a little. I'm not very steady, but better than yesterday."
"Let me see."
John got up and walked to the doctor, and then they engaged in further conversation as Sherlock retreated into his own head. The past several minutes with John were good. Better than any time together in recent memory. He didn't know he would enjoy kissing so much, but he should have. Of course kissing John would be pleasurable, and he got to do it whenever he wanted now-as long as John believed they were married. Damn it, his mind couldn't stop going back to the ugly truth. He knew it would come out sooner or later, but he decided he couldn't tell John without devastating him, so he would ride with it as long as possible. If that were the case, then he should try to enjoy their relationship to the fullest until its end. He could commit what a relationship with John was like to memory before it was gone.
"Is he okay?"
"Oh, he does that sometimes."
Sherlock blinked. "What?"
"There you are," John said, now sitting on the edge of the bed. "Mind Palace again? Anyway, while you were gone Doctor Atkinson said I can go home."
"Really?" he looked up at her.
"Yes, I think it should be fine," she said. "Unfortunately, there's nothing more we can do here to help his amnesia, and aside from muscle weakness, he's in perfect physical condition. He just needs to exercise to get his strength back and combat potential muscle atrophy, but I think he'll do that better outside of here."
"Definitely," John agreed.
"So you can bring him home this afternoon."
"Excellent," Sherlock said, and it was, but he was nervous about going back home with him. It had been a long time since they lived together, and they never did so with a baby. Damn, he would have to tell John about Rosie. He should do it here so he could brace himself before they got home.
"Um, John," he said softly, tugging on the sleeve of his hospital gown once the doctor left the room.
"Yeah?" he asked with a smile, in good spirits.
"There's something important I haven't told you."
The smile instantly dropped. "What?"
Just seeing a glimmer of fear enter John's eyes made Sherlock want to conceal the truth about the entire situation even more. "We're not living alone."
"You mean, there's someone else besides Mrs. Hudson?"
He nodded.
"Who?" he asked. "We've always been private people."
Sherlock folded his hands atop his lap, digging his nails into his skin. "We have a baby."
John's jaw dropped. "We have a fucking what?"
