"You and I against the world," John said, suddenly stern.
"Just like it's always been," Sherlock replied with tears in his eyes
The siren roared distantly outside the windows.
They held each other on the floor, John breaking down as he had before. He gripped Sherlock's jacket like it was the only thing on earth keeping him from giving in to his failure and broken soul. He held on because he couldn't let the only thing he had left be taken from him. Not again.
John didn't notice when the paramedics and police burst through the door, but Sherlock didn't let go when he stood, practically carrying him. He explained what happened to the police and the paramedics tended to Mrs, Hudson, gently placing her on a gurney and carrying her down the stairs.
Lestrade had been the first one in the flat, his hair in a mess like he had just woken up with panic on his face. Everyone spoke to Sherlock, he was the only one able to communicate even if he was breaking inside.
"John," Sherlock whispered into his ear. He did not respond but gripped harder on to Sherlock and so he carried John down the stairs of the flat like a frightened child to the ambulance. They wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, which Sherlock knew wouldn't do anything.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade said, carefully approaching them with a notepad, "what in the hell happened?"
"Rosie has been kidnapped," Sherlock said.
"By who?"
"Janine."
Lestrade looked confused, "Janine, as in, Mary's bridesmaid Janine?"
"Yes, that Janine. She is Moriarty's sister."
"Moriarty's sister," he rubbed a hand over his face, "You've got to be bloody joking."
"I am afraid not." John was still unresponsive.
"Well, we are looking around the apartment, DNA samples off door handles, everything. I think you should come and take a look."
Sherlock nodded and began to stand, but John gripped his arm with a look of desperation.
"John, I-" he began to protest, but was interrupted by Lestrade.
"It's ok, Sherlock, we can figure it out." He patted his shoulder, "he needs you right now."
Sherlock glanced cautiously at the incoherent military veteran bedsides him. John had been through so much; Being shot, PTSD, losing him, marrying an assassin and her death. He had been so strong through it all, seeking the truth and vengeance on his wrongdoer but this was it. This was the act that broke John Watson, and if it broke John, it broke Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn't break, because John needed him just like when he was shot by Mary and had to come back because John needed him, and if John needed him then he couldn't break so he pulled John closer whispering silent promises in his head.
"Mr. Holmes, sir," a paramedic came over to him. "Ms. Hudson has been taken to the hospital. Her injuries are not severe, but she will need to stay the night for observation."
Sherlock nodded.
They sat for what felt like hours on the back of the ambulance in silence, so long in fact that John had nodded off on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Oh, brother mine," Sherlock heard the voice and looked up at Mycroft, who was not carrying his usual umbrella. Sherlock's deduction skills were not exactly on par tonight, but it was not hard for him to see that his brother was in disarray. Maybe to everyone else, he was pristine as usual, but Sherlock saw how his tie was slightly crooked, his cuff links were on the wrong wrists, and the genuine saddened look of pity in his brother's eyes.
"Mycroft," is all he said, "took you awhile to get here."
Mycroft looked up slowly at his brother, almost ashamed. "I was in New Zealand, I came as fast as possible."
Sherlock didn't have to do the math. "Why?"
"Because you need my help."
Sherlock remained silent, his usual remark about not needing help were drowned in the growing pit of his stomach.
"Sherlock, I warned you not to get involved oh so long ago." Mycroft said coldly.
"I have been hopelessly involved since January 29th." Sherlock looked helplessly at the broken man next to him.
Mycroft couldn't keep the straight face anymore. For the first time in his life, he looked at his shoes for purposes other than tying them.
"I am sorry, brother mine," he swallowed his own words, "I should have known about the other Moriarty."
"Have you heard from Irene Adler?" Sherlock said thickly.
"No, there has been no word, though this is what I am guessing she meant by danger."
"She must have been a part of this, I see no other reason why she would have come into London. She worked for Moriarty before, perhaps Janine was able to threaten her somehow into coming back to assist her."
"This has been my conclusion as well."
"Do you have any idea where she could have taken Rosamund?" Sherlock asked desperately.
"No, not the slightest, though we are checking all of the places you previously infiltrated in Moriarty's network to see if they are keeping her there."
"I trust you know I will search on my own."
"Yes, I know." Mycroft attempted not to fidget with his hands behind his back, "and you know it will be dangerous," he said a beat later.
"Take care of Mrs. Hudson for me." He said, but Mycroft knew what he was implying.
"I will have someone with her at all times." Sherlock simply nodded and Mycroft turned to leave. "The 29th of January," he said his back turned. "That early on?"
The silence that followed answered his question.
At around 1 am, when the police were done with their investigating for the night, the drivers of the ambulance they were sitting on guiltily asked Sherlock and John to get off. Knowing John would not fall asleep again if woken, Sherlock carried him up the stairs into the flat and debated what to do with him. Putting him in his room was not an option, as the empty crib was there. Putting him on the couch was also not an option, as his shoulder flared up if he slept there. The only remaining place to put John was Sherlock's bedroom, and so that's what he did without a second thought. Sherlock pulled back the white sheets and gently tucked him in. When he turned to leave to sleep on the sofa, John's grip on his arm did not cease and he tried gently to pry it off, but John had always been stronger so he sat on the edge of the bed, John's hand in his, and traveled to his mind palace for the night.
There was a deafening silence in 221B. A silence so loud it could be heard from across the street. When a home once filled with the constant babbles of an infant and warm smell of tea in the morning falls quiet and smells of dirty laundry the world takes notice. It did not take long for news of Doctor Watson's daughter's kidnapping to reach mainstream even though Mycroft exhausted every resource to keep it private.
Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts to the violent thrashing of John in his sleep. Sherlock knew of his PTSD, that traumatic events would trigger his nightmares. Since his daughter being kidnapped qualified for such an event, he had deduced these nightmares were coming and prepared himself accordingly.
"John," he said gently. The grip that had not ceased on his hand all night grew tighter. "John, wake up."
John opened his eyes quickly and sat up straight, "Sherlock? Why are you here?" he looked around and realized he was Sherlock's bed.
"You were in a state of shock, I could not leave you in your room or on the couch so I brought you here."
Then John seemed to notice their hands and released his grip immediately. Sherlock stood, still in his clothes from the previous night, and turned to leave.
John rubbed his eyes as the night came back to him, and he stood instantly. He walked out of Sherlock's room and found the man standing in front of a wild display of locations they had solved cases at.
"Hello, John," Sherlock said to him without turning around.
"Do you have any idea-,"
"No, of course, I don't," Sherlock said tiredly.
"Well, we should try and get ahold of Irene Adler, maybe she has some information."
Sherlock held up the phone that was already in his hand.
"Has she said anything?" John asked
A beat passed.
"No."
"And Mrs. Hudson?"
"On her way home."
They stood in silence for far too long, a tense thickness in the air until John broke it again.
"We need to go out and start searching for her."
"Mycroft has already sent people to every place in Moriarty's network, it would be a waste of time to go searching alone."
"Well, I'm going alone if you don't want to come." He said walking to the door.
"John, wait." Sherlock finally looked up at him, "she wants us to go looking for her. Janine wants us to find her, it's another trap."
"Why go through all this trouble then, why not just shoot us on the spot!" John was furious.
"Because that would be too easy."
"Well I need to get out of the flat, so I'm going."
"You can't go alone John, it's dangerous."
"Well does it look like I bloody care?" He flung on his jacket and stomped down the stairs, gun in his pocket.
Sherlock ran two hands over his face and pulled at his hair when John was gone.
"What is the secret, what is it!" He shouted at the smiley face on the wall and turned around slowly to see the skull sitting on the mantel. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating his next move and walked to it defeated.
I can't do this, I promised him I wouldn't. But he was already picking it up.
John walked alone along the streets of London. He didn't have a place in mind and hadn't been tracking where he was, but he knew he had to keep walking so he did. He passed small shops and the park where a family was eating a picnic. He, Sherlock, and Rosie had done the same thing one time after John had practically begged him. It was the night Rosie said her first word, "Shwoc" which roughly translated to Sherlock. Instead of tearing up, he focused on getting back Rosie so they could have more memories like that one.
It wasn't until he noticed the sun starting to go down that he actually looked at his surroundings and realized he had no idea where he was. He patted for his phone in his pocket to call Sherlock, but when he turned it on there was a text from an unknown number on the lock screen.
We have much to discuss,
The car should be at your location at 7:46
John looked at the time on his watch, 7:45, and looked up and down the street he was on. Sure enough, a black car pulled up as soon as his watch hit 7:46.
"Get in," his phone read, and he obliged.
"Look, Mycroft unless you have information on Rosie I-,"
"You always fall for that, don't you?" Irene said next to him.
"You!" John reached for the gun in his pocket, but she grabbed his wrist.
"Listen to me, John Watson," her voice trembled, "It is of great risk that I came here."
"And why should I trust you, after what you did to me, to my family," He was fuming.
"I did nothing to you." She said
"Yeah? Then why were you in London? Why did you come here, because of it sure as hell wasn't to help us."
"How do you know I didn't come to help?"
"You worked for Jim bloody Moriarty! He was your boss!"
The car started to move.
"Where in the hell are you taking me, it better be to my daughter."
"I did work for Jim Moriarty, but he is dead now."
"Well his sister sure isn't," John huffed
"I am in debt to Sherlock Holmes," she said, "I do not like to be in debt, I prefer people to be in debt to me."
John laughed wildly, "of course you do. Make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with you so you can get his plans for your dear old boss."
Irene looked at him with a sly grin, still not affected by his rage, "After all this time, you still think he loved me?"
"Think? Do I think he loved you? Of course I- I know he loved you. Wrote all those sad songs, not to mention he saved your life."
"He saved my life because he couldn't stand to fail." She tutted, "When I died the first time, he had failed. He couldn't have that now could he, couldn't allow anyone he was involved with die."
John remained silent and a beat passed.
"There have been three scenarios in his life where he failed, and someone close to him died."
A beat of silence.
"Viktor Trevor."
John's eyes went wide, "how did you-,"
She smirked, "do you forget who I worked for?" John swallowed and let her continue.
"That was the first time he turned to drugs. When Viktor died, he didn't know how to cope, so he poked his tiny arm with that needle that his brilliant mind was able to buy."
"He started that young," John said mostly to himself.
"Yes, and the second time was me. At least he thought it was me."
"The danger night,"
"He wanted to find them, his coping mechanism, but you had already searched the flat. Well, at least you thought you did."
"What do you mean we thought we did, I went through every drawer in the flat," John said, annoyed.
She ignored his comment and kept going, "The third time was Mary Watson herself, but this one was much worse than the other two."
John swallowed.
"No this time he had promised, he made a vow to protect your family and he failed." She tilted her head, "He cares much more about you than he ever did me. Can you guess what he did next?"
The gears were turning in John's head as he spoke, "drugs."
"Oh yes, more drugs than he had ever taken before, though you didn't know."
"How do you know all this about him?" John asked again, already knowing the answer.
"Really John, let's not get distracted." She began reaching into her bag. "Three times Sherlock Holmes failed, with three distinctly similar outcomes." They locked eyes as she finished, "And now, a fourth." She tucked the folded piece of paper from her purse into his coat pocket. "What can we deduce about what happens next?"
John shouted at the person driving the car, "Stop the car, stop it now!"
Irene smirked as the car stopped in front of Baker Street, which had been their destination all along. "Good luck, John," she nodded as he got out of the car and ran to the door, paper forgotten.
"Sherlock!" John called, taking the steps two at a time. He yanked open the door to the flat to find Sherlock standing at the window, playing his wedding song again on the violin but much more violently. The strings squeaked and squealed as he pounded them mercilessly with the bow.
"Sherlock, stop." John tried to say gently, but he just played louder. "Sherlock!"
"Not now John!" his voice was slurred, but he didn't turn to face him.
John looked around the flat and it didn't take long for him to see the needle next to his chair.
"Sherlock, no," he whispered silently and the violin ceased, though the silence that followed was even louder than the strings had been.
"What have you taken?" John asked, trying to suppress the rage inside him.
Sherlock lowered the violin to his side and stared out the window, pressing his hand against it, and said, "I haven't taken anything."
"Don't bull shit me, Sherlock, I see the needle right here." Sherlock didn't answer. "You promised you wouldn't do this anymore."
"I'm sorry, John," he didn't turn.
"This isn't your fault, Sherlock."
He didn't answer again.
"I know last time, I-," John swallowed, "I blamed you, but it wasn't your fault. Mary chose to sacrifice herself for you and I know you would have done the same for her."
Silence.
John stepped forward, and Sherlock flinched.
He flinched.
John froze in his spot and stared at him, forcing the tears away. Silence hung in the air for an unspeakable amount of time, but Sherlock turned around, eyes red from the drugs with a look of guilt on his face.
"I'm sorry John, I didn't mean to-," he stopped himself mid-sentence.
"You flinched." Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "You flinched because all I do is punch you for things that aren't your fault." A wave of anger washed over him like none other.
"Why-" John kicked the coffee table, "Cant-," the books on the table, "I-" his chair, "Just- have- a- normal- life!"
Sherlock remained frozen at the window.
"John-,"
"No, no, stop it. Don't say anything." he put out his hand to silence him. 'Irene Adler, that's who I was speaking to." his fists were in balls at his side. "Why is it that everyone can figure you out except me!"
Sherlock looked at the floor, violin still in hand.
"She told me you never loved her." he sniffed. "Is that true?"
Sherlock blinked at him a few times. "yes," whispered like it was hiding a deeper secret.
"Don't give me that Sherlock, don't give me that. You may think I'm an idiot but I'm not one!"
"Well you make it very apparent you are one!" Sherlock shouted.
"Oh, is that true?" They were standing closer. "Why, because I think you loved her? because I think you love your brother? Because I don't buy into the lie that you're a sociopath that doesn't care about anyone else?"
"I never loved her!" Emphasizing her, Sherlock gripped the violin harder, "I am a sociopath! I am!" his drug-addled mind repeated.
"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love Rosie!" John stated confidently, "Look me in the eye and say it."
"I NEVER LOVED ANYONE!" He poured all his anger and heartbreak into the words, the final phrase that broke him. He raised the violin up and smashed it against the wall, over and over he slammed it like he did the coffin. The beautiful strings snapped all at once, the memories the instrument contained spilled out onto the carpet. Sherlock gripped the shattered handle and slid down the wall.
John approached slowly and sat next to him, not caring about the shattered wood around them.
"Why do you play that song, Sherlock?" he asked carefully.
Sherlock stayed silent for a moment before looking up with the most sadness John had ever seen. They were the eyes of a truly heartbroken man.
"I didn't write it for her," he whispered like a confession. As if it were his deepest secret.
John didn't understand what he meant but reached out his hand. Sherlock knew what he was asking for, and so he reached in his own pocket and handed John the list of what he had taken. John bit back his words as he read.
"You should go to a hospital," he said, already knowing the answer. Sherlock remained a broken puddle on the floor. Instead, John helped Sherlock stand and brought him to his bed, tucking him as best he could into the sheets and went into the hall to make a call. The phone barely had to ring.
"What's the matter, John?" Mycroft's voice said.
"I have a list."
Silence.
"I should have seen this coming," Mycroft sighed over the line, "can you handle him for the night?"
"Yes, I think so." John put a hand in his pocket, feeling the piece of paper he forgot about. He unfolded it slowly. "Oh, no," he said
"What, what is it, John?" Mycroft said, concerned.
"I've just had a run in with Irene Adler, she gave me a piece of paper."
"Well, what does it say?"
"I don't like this at all," John mumbled.
The East Wind takes us all in the end.
Sherlock and John were on a helicopter to Sherrinford the next morning. They tried to ignore the conversation from the previous night and sat through the ride in silence. They flashed their badges when the arrived and were led to the darkest pit of the asylum.
The cell of Eurus Holmes.
She had begun speaking again, or so they were told, and Mycroft had made a few extra visits when Sherlock had been to busy with parenting and cases.
She sat in the center of the cell. Chair facing the glass as usual.
"There once was a merchant in Baghdad" she stayed still, grinning at the glass.
"I don't have time for this, Eurus," Sherlock said.
"You always did hate that story," she recited as she stood and walked over to her violin. She ran a hand over it carefully, "poetic, isn't it?" she smiled and picked it up.
"Depends on the poet," he replied.
"I suppose the poet is death, then." she paused, "you broke yours." she cradled the violin.
Sherlock remained quiet.
"The emotional one you always were," she picked up the bowstring and began to play the wedding melody.
"Stop this," John interrupted.
"Oh, look Sherlock, god he still doesn't know does he?" she didn't stop playing.
"What, what is it-," John began to say but she cut him off again.
"All in good time, John."
"Where is Rosamund?" Sherlock said, firm.
"How is Molly?" She said, ignoring his question.
"Where is Rosamund Watson," he said again..
"How did she take it?" her head tilted but Sherlock refused to answer. Her eyes traveled up and down John, who tried not to show the hatred on his face.
"Where is Rosamund Watson?" His voice had a tremor.
"So impatient," she tutted.
"Where is she!" Sherlock demanded.
"Temper, brother mine."
"Don't," Sherlock swallowed, "don't call me that."
She continued to smirk "How should I know where Rosamund is?"
"You told Janine Moriarty what to do with her."
"Janine Moriarty?' she sighed, "don't be stupid."
"Who, then?" John asked.
"Oh Sherlock," she said, ignoring John. "Don't you remember what Jim told you all those years ago?"
He looked at her with prodding eyes, "He told me lots of things."
"Oh yes, but what was his main threat to you, Sherlock? At the pool with those bombs strapped to his chest?" She gestured to John.
Sherlock seemed to be looking in his mind palace, "burn the heart-," he mumbled.
"Ah yes, and we all know what your heart is now don't we Sherlock. Where you lost it all." She smiled wickedly.
"Where is she Sherlock," John intervened.
"Why did you do it?" Sherlock asked one more time.
"Death waits for us all in Samarra," she nodded at him, "Don't bring that brother of ours, Sherlock." She said to him as he left, "you have to go alone."
"Do you have your gun, John?" Sherlock asked when they got in the helicopter.
John flashed his coat.
"Leave it here," Sherlock watched out the window.
"What?"
"We won't be able to do this armed."
"Where is she, Sherlock?"
"Driver!" Sherlock called, "Barts hospital!"
"Barts, why?"
"To burn the heart out of me," Sherlock said nervously.
They arrived within minutes and hopped out of the helicopter.
"How could they get her here without the staff knowing?"
"They hid her, John."
"Where?"
Sherlock pulled John through the hospital and they rode the elevator with heavy breathes to the roof.
"Sherlock!" Janine said with her back turned, "How good to see you."
They walked forward carefully.
"Where is she?" John demanded.
"But the party is just starting!" She whined and began to pour glasses of champagne. "Take one, I insist," she handed them each a flute which they knew better than to drink from.
"My brother really hated you," she said, taking a sip from her own drink, "Told me to do this when he died. Wanted his last revenge."
"Where is she," Sherlock demanded again.
"I suppose he thought he had finally met his match. You must of thought you were so clever, beating him like you did." she took another sip. "Now look at you."
"If it's a game you want, we'll play," Sherlock offered.
She laughed, "well I sure hope you would! Not like you really have a choice."
John and Sherlock stood up straight.
She huffed, "No fun you are, alright fine. Let's cut to the chase." She chucked her flute behind her and the crack of glass echoed. "Follow me," she lead them to the elevator and pushed them in. "The game is on," she mocked and sent them down.
They watched the buttons light up as they went down in silence, feeling each floor passed as the numbers ticked down.
"John, whatever happens down there-"
"I know, Sherlock." John stood up a little straighter.
"You're a good father, John."
"We're going to get through this," John said, ignoring Sherlock compliment.
They stood in silence until the doors opened and they were met with Irene Adler herself.
"Ms. Adler," Sherlock said.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes," her smile was plastic. "This way." She lead them down through to the back of the basement where she gestured for them to enter a room.
"Oh my god, Rosie," John said when they entered. She was in the arms of Janine, who had used a back way to get to the room, unconscious. John tried to go to her, but Sherlock held him back, a silent warning for what was to come.
"Here is where the game gets fun," she smiled, and Irene came through the same entrance they had. "Now that all parties are present, we can begin the game." Irene came closer to her. "Unlike the pointless games your sister made you play, my game only has one step and one task." She took a gun from her pocket and aimed it at Rosie's head.
"You bitch," John made fists at his sides.
"I learned a lot from Charles Magnussen," She twirled the gun on her finger, "Know your pressure points, though I didn't need him to know anyway."
Sherlock watched her, hands folded behind his back.
"John Watson, your flatmate. How hopelessly transparent." she paced around, "John, your weakness was Mary, but now," she looked at the child in her arms, "it's her."
John's eye twitched.
She gestured to both of them. "And now, well, she's both yer pressure points." Janine's head snapped to Irene, "And yours is Sherlock Holmes."
Irene stood up straighter.
"Look at you all now, so quiet." She chuckled, "Sherlock come here."
He approached her cautiously.
"Now all you have to do," She smiled wickedly, "is tell him."
The room was dead quiet.
Sherlock's eyes went wide even though he tried to hide it, and he cleared his throat.
"Tell him what?"
"Don't play stupid with me, Sherlock,"
Sherlock swallowed and steadied his gaze, "I can't do that."
"Well if you can't do that," she cocked the gun.
"Alright, alright!" his breathing sped up and he ran a hand through his hair. He looked at John with regret and fear.
"Sherlock what does she mean," John said, bewildered.
"John, I can't-" he squeezed his eyes shut and paced around the cement.
"Go on Sherlock, time is ticking."
Sherlock paced frantically, eyes darting across the floor.
"Has he really not figured it out after all these years?" Irene said from across the room.
"What is it! Sherlock for god sakes!"
"John," he held his hand over his neck.
"Tick tock, Sherlock!" Janine squealed.
"Anything else, Jaine this is ridiculous."
"Play the game my way."
Sherlock looked at John once more, "John-,"
Alright then," Janine said.
Her finger began to pull.
Irene's locked eyes with Sherlock. She said everything she needed to say at that moment with her eyes, and she leaped forward, toppling Janine to the ground as she grabbed Rosie from her arms as the gun shot rang through the chamber.
Sherlock and John sprinted forward. John snatched Rosie, who had woken up from whatever Janine had done to her and held her close in his arms searching for injuries.
"Rosie, darling," John pulled her head to his shoulder and she cried into him.
Sherlock knelt next to Irene, who had turned the gun at the last moment to shoot her instead. Janine lay dead on the ground next to them, as the bullet passed through her too.
"I suppose you were right," she whispered meekly, "love is dangerous."
There was a beat where she went silent, her eyes were draining of life but she did not look afraid. "John," she called out once more. He placed Rosie on the floor and came to her. "He never did love me," she smiled as the life left her eyes, "he loves you."
The room was dead silent. Even Rosie knew better than to make a sound. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the basement floor, horrified at what he would find if he met John's eyes.
"Irene," John said, feeling her empty pulse.
There was so much to be said, so much that had remained hidden for so long, but John knew they couldn't do this here. Couldn't do this now, so he stood up on legs of jelly.
"We need to get Rosie home, and we can't leave her here, come on Sherlock, up." John didn't dare to touch him, but Sherlock stayed frozen on the floor, so John backed away slowly and picked up his traumatized daughter in his arms.
"Come on Sherlock, please," his voice shook as he said the words.
"John," Sherlock began to say.
"Not now, Sherlock," his voice was stiff like a soldiers, but tears were in his eyes.
After calling Lestrade and taking a silent cab ride back to Baker street, the two separated and traveled to their own rooms. John checked Rosie over for injuries, which she had not retained, and put her to bed, a golf ball size lump in his throat as he did so, planning out his words carefully.
When he had finally changed and showered, he traveled down the stairs slowly, gripping the railing like a lifeline. He saw Sherlock standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back in blue silk robe. He remained quiet, even though John was sure he had heard him come down the stairs.
"What would you like me to say, John," Sherlock finally said, sounding defeated.
John cleared his throat, "a lot of things."
"Mmm,"
Silence again.
"Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?"
"I couldn't ruin what we had. Balance of probability suggested, and still suggests, that you would pack up and leave immediately of I did so, therefore I kept my mouth shut."
"How long?"
Sherlock seemed taken aback by this question.
"When did you realize?"
"January 29th, 2010."
"My god," John swallowed back the tears, "that's-"
"The day we met." Sherlock finally looked up at him, eyes scared and helpless.
"So at the wedding, that's why you left early?" John blinked furiously.
Sherlock nodded slowly.
"And when you were leaving for eastern Europe," John's hand remained firm as he gripped the back of his chair.
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name," they both said at the same time.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "It would be wrong of me to tell you then. I wanted to part on good terms. He paused and picked up a shattered piece of violin, pursing his lip. "I wanted to see you smile one more time."
John broke.
He approached slowly and timidly, heart pounding wildly in his chest. Sherlock remained still and defeated, but watched him approach. Just like Sherlock had done, John pulled him into an embrace, but instead of tucking his head like before, he gently pulled Sherlock head down. They stared for what felt like minutes, all the words forever unspoken pouring through their eyes, and so John closed the gap between them.
It wasn't long or intense. It wasn't a grand swath of desire. It was raw emotion and years of unspoken words. It was the first time they met. It was 57 text messages that John had in fact counted. It was the fall from the roof. It was his grand return.
It was all of John and all of Sherlock and they both pulled away from the kiss overwhelmed.
"Your deduction was wrong," John said, leaning their foreheads together.
Sherlock smiled widely and they both began to laugh. They laughed like they had before in the hallway all those times, high off what they thought were cases and adrenaline but was really just time spent together.
"Mrs. Hudson will be pleased," Sherlock said.
"I think she knew all along," John smiled again.
"Mrs. Hudson is never wrong."
They pulled away from their embrace, happiness buzzing through the air.
"Why do you play my wedding song?" John asked.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, looking defeated all over again. "I never wrote it for her."
"I don't understand."
"I wrote it when we first met. It was originally intended to be-" he cleared his throat, "our wedding song." He looked ashamed.
John smiled sadly and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" Sherlock inhaled deeply.
"For letting me be your flatmate."
"It took you long enough," Mycroft said, letting himself into the flat holding the latest newspaper.
"Thank you for your words of encouragement, Mycroft," Sherlock said into his tea.
"Oh boys, won't you please just be nice to each other for once!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, handing Mycroft a cup of tea.
"Oh, no Mrs. Hudson, I'm not-" Mycroft began to refuse but Sherlock gave him the evil eye. "Thank you for the tea." he nodded at her and took a hesitant sip.
John and Sherlock were sitting in their respective chairs, Rosie tucked under John's arm.
"Uncew Myrof," She smiled, waving at him.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John, who laughed.
"Always knew it would happen didn't we," Mrs. Hudson tapped Mycroft's shoulder.
"Yes, well, my brother has always been the one to get attached."
"You two both knew?"
"Of course we did, John, you read like an open book." She patted his hand. John furrowed his eyebrows.
"I come here on a separate matter, brother mine." Mycroft said, setting his untouched tea on the table.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, why would you come to congratulate your brother on his relationship, that's so unlike you."
Mycroft ignored his comment and pressed on. "There has been a package sent to your name."
"Well?" Sherlock took a sip of tea.
"It's from the will of Irene Adler."
Sherlock dropped the mockery now. "Well, what is it?"
Mycroft literally snapped his fingers and a man came up the stairs with a box in hand.
"You're actually snapping your fingers now? God you really are getting older."
Mycroft nodded to the package and sighed.
Sherlock picked it up carefully, all eyes in the room trained on the box. He opened it slowly, and pulled out the contents with great gentleness. It was a beautiful, hand crafted Stradivarius violin.
He held it in his hands and ran his fingers over the strings, admiring it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Without a word he took the bow and began to play.
"I think i'll be leaving then," Mycroft said while walking over to John. "Thank you, John," he smiled and nodded. John knew what he meant. "It was about time."
Mycroft made it down the stairs to find Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen.
"Thank you for watching him for all these years," Mycroft said.
"Oh it's really no bother. I love them even though they can be quite wild."
He kissed her cheek and left.
That night, after Rosie had been put to bed, Sherlock began to play the waltz while John read.
John placed his book on the side table and stood. He walked over and slowly placed a hand on his, guiding them to the middle of the room. They kept their eyes locked as John began to dance to a song that didn't have to be playing for them to know what it was.
They danced in a slow pace, simply appreciating being in each other's arms, allowing the music in their heads tp flow through them. Sherlock closed his eyes and squeezed back the emotion, gripping harder. There they danced, chest on chest, breath upon breath until their hearts were woven into one by the music.
When it was over, they kissed under the sliver of moonlight that came through the window.
"Sherlock is actually a girls name," John said.
"Yes, we've addressed this." Sherlock digs his head into John's shoulder.
"I just realized what it would be."
"And what have you deduced?"
"If I named my daughter Sherlock, her name would have been Sherlock Watson."
"Fabulous deduction, John, truly."
"You were showing it all along, and I just didn't see it."
"I think it could work," Sherlock smiled and kissed his cheek.
"Does have a ring to it doesn't it?" They both chuckled.
And so, in the moonlight of the flat, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson remained. Just like they always had been and always will be.