A couple days later, Sherlock got a text from John:

Mary and the baby were discharged, so we're home now. Just letting you know. -J

Sherlock replied:

Thank you for the update. SH

His message didn't have a shred of sarcasm-he was really glad John let him know they were okay. But, at the same time, Sherlock felt anxious. The hospital kept Mary in line, but now that she was home, in her own territory, she was free to do as she pleased. He wanted to text John and ask what Mary was doing, but he didn't know if she read their messages. He wouldn't put it past her. Mary had to know he hated her, but did she know he wanted to remove her from John's life permanently? He wasn't sure. He wasn't going to make it obvious, though. He put his phone away and curled up on the sofa. This was the official beginning to John's life with the baby and Mary. Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh.

That night, he had a dream.

The dream started out with John in Baker Street, just the two of them, no Mary, no baby, laughing together on the couch. Then, John had a filthy smirk and leaned forward, crowding Sherlock's personal space, and he kissed him. Suddenly and in the nonsensical way dreams work, they were both naked, humping each other on the sofa, John on top of him, his wet cock thrusting against Sherlock's hip. Everything in the dream was quick and fuzzy. Dream-John was biting Sherlock's neck and Dream-Sherlock was crying out, his cock hard and throbbing. His hand flew to his cock and squeezed, and John leaned down and brushed his lips against his ear.

"I love you," Dream-John whispered. "I love you Sherlock, I always have. It's never been Mary, never. Only you."

"John!" he gasped.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He panted, staring confusedly with wide eyes at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes and groaned in frustration, realizing what happened. His chest swelled with bitter disappointment. John didn't really confess his love to him; it was all a figment of his imagination. He hadn't had a dream like that in over a month. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat. He was completely alone now in his dark room, and could not escape or repress his feelings now. He loved John. He loved him so much. But everything was so wrong. Tears stung his eyes and he turned on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest. A tear rolled down his temple into his hair, and to his disgust, his prick throbbed. Why couldn't his body behave for once? He hated feeling aroused and dejected. It made him feel...lonely, reminded that there was no one there to care for him. He inhaled through his parted lips.

John confessing his love and having sex with him may have been a dream, but Sherlock's erection was very much real. He sighed shakily and slipped his hand into his pants, cupping his cock. He pressed his lips together and breathed deeply through his nose. He hadn't done this in awhile, and he always felt weird touching himself. He only did this when his needs became too difficult to ignore.

Like tonight.

The images in the dream came back full force. He thought about what it would be like if John really did lose control and grind against him, dick wet, releasing deep moans out of his opened mouth.

Sherlock shivered and began stroking himself, closing his eyes and imaging John above him like in the dream. The pressure on his hardness made him moan weakly in his throat. The dream had truly left him aching, the head of his penis already leaking, and he knew he wasn't going to last long. He bucked his hips, thrusting into his hand, turning his head into his pillow and moaning louder.

His fantasy changed to John being curled behind him, bulge pressing against the cleft of his arse. Sherlock bit his pillow and thrust faster into the tunnel of his large hand, squeezing, the friction blissful and drawing out a low whine from his mouth. He let himself imagine it was John's hand on him, pleasuring him from behind, thrusting against Sherlock, whispering filthy curses into his ear, and Sherlock felt his balls draw up. He threw his head back, hissing, and fucked his hand hard until come spurted from him, covering his hand, hitting the mattress.

He lay there for a long moment, breathing, eyes closed, cock softening. He let go of himself and took off his shirt, wiping his sticky hand on it and throwing the clothing on the floor. He rolled away from the wet spot on the mattress and stared at the wall. That was satisfying for all of five minutes, and yet he felt worse than before. John was in a bad situation, and there was Sherlock, masturbating and feeling sorry for himself. He was selfish. He should have waited for his erection to go away.

He tried to relax, and he hoped his stupid heart would let him enjoy a restful, dreamless sleep.

Over the next four days, Sherlock spent his time around the flat with his phone in his hands, waiting for John to text him again and fighting his feeling of an odd combination of frustration and panic. He had to remind himself that John was taking care of a newborn, and would not have a lot of time to stop what he was doing and text his pathetic, lonely friend. Still, Sherlock was on edge for days. He felt like a damned fool moping around the flat, but he couldn't fully commit himself to taking cases when his mind was somewhere else. He occupied himself for a few hours with some cold cases which did not require him to leave the house, but even then, he was worrying about John. He called Mycroft and ordered his people to keep surveillance on Mary and John's house. Mycroft obliged, but if something were to happen inside of the house, the cameras wouldn't pick it up.

By the fifth day, Sherlock texted John six times, and received no answer. He started to panic, and he grabbed his coat and thundered down the steps. He was about to open the front door, but stopped. What the hell was he doing? If everything were okay, he would look like an absolute idiot. He couldn't burst in and say, "Hello, John, I'm just here to make sure you and the baby are alive. You two are still breathing? Good. See you later."

He needed an excuse. He leaned against the wall and thought. If he came over with something for the baby, he would be welcomed. John might be suspicious, though. Sherlock never bought gifts for anyone. He could lie and say Mrs. Hudson bought it. He smiled. Yes, that could work. He went upstairs, grabbed his wallet, and took a cab to the nearest department store.

He spent a grand total of twenty-five minutes picking out a couple outfits for the baby, and Sherlock detested every last second of it. He felt awkward buying tiny pink outfits, and he hated the patronizing smile the cashier gave him. It's for John, he told himself repeatedly, and managed to get through it.

He took a cab to Mary's house (it would never be John's). It was Saturday, so John wasn't working, but Sherlock didn't know if Mary would be there. He hoped not.

He knocked on the door, and to his relief, John answer. He's okay.

John looked even more exhausted than he did a few days ago in the hospital, and his stubble had grown into five o'clock shadow. It...wasn't a bad look on him, minus the dark circles under his eyes. He was in an old, white T-shirt with pajama pants and a dark blue dressing gown. John really must have been tired, then, because he hated not getting dressed.

John looked surprised and pleased to see him. "Sherlock," he raised his eyebrows with a slight smile, "what are you doing here?"

He held up the bag in his hand. "Mrs. Hudson bought the baby a couple outfits, but her hip was bothering her, so she asked me to deliver them to you."

John bought it. He grinned warmly, "Really? Ah, you'll have to thank her for me. Come in."

Sherlock didn't like being in there. He didn't like being in the place where John shared his life with Mary, with the reality of their partnership unavoidable and suffocating. The house was boring, too, not half as interesting as the flat. It was generic as a house could be, from the furniture to the wallpaper, and that got under Sherlock's skin. But, he went in.

He looked around. "Where's Mary?"

John's shoulders tensed. "Out," he said. "She said she needed some alone time."

"It hasn't even been a week since the hospital," Sherlock said, nose scrunching in confusion.

"Yeah, I know," he said tiredly, not seeming up for the conversation. "She insisted. I don't mind, though. It's nice to get the house to myself. Well, except for the little one."

Sherlock decided to drop it. He set the bag of clothes down on the coffee table. John took out the outfits and said they were great for her.

"It was kind of you to bring this here," John said lightly.

Sherlock savored the compliment. He received them so rarely anymore. "Yes, well, I apologize for showing up without warning, but I tried to text you."

"You did? Sorry, I haven't looked at my phone much. I'm trying to catch up on sleep."

That made sense. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and realized, belatedly, that the baby was not in the room.

"Where's the baby?" he asked.

"In her crib in our room. Actually," he looked at the clock on the wall, "it's time to feed her, so I've got to get her up anyway. Do me a favor and fetch her bottle from the fridge?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, wanting to help John as much as he possibly could.

"Ta," he smiled and disappeared into the bedroom.

Sherlock got the bottle and followed him into John and Mary's bedroom. He looked at the bed and his stomach rolled. There was the place Mary had the privilege to sleep beside John, to feel his hands on her. There was the place he held her and whispered sweet-nothings into her ear. There was the place the baby was conceived…

"Sherlock?"

He looked up.

"You okay?" John asked, rocking the whimpering infant.

"Absolutely," he held out the bottle. "Why is she upset?"

"I think because she just woke up," John explained, holding her with one arm and holding the bottle with the other. The baby started drinking, and Sherlock stared at them. John had a small grin on his lips, and he somehow seemed less tired when he looked at her, the lines on his face smoothing out. Sherlock could admit to himself that he didn't think John wanted this, and maybe that was true at first, but now that the baby was here, he appeared to enjoy fatherhood.

"You're happy," Sherlock noted.

John looked up and cleared his throat. "Right now? Yeah, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Should he say this? "It's just, when I told you Mary was pregnant, you didn't seem-thrilled."

He expected John to get irritated, but he snorted. "Well, it was a hell of a shock. That whole day was a bit overwhelming, getting married and an arrest and you…" he trailed off, cleared his throat, and looked back down at the baby.

"What about me?" Sherlock asked.

"You just deducing the pregnancy like it was nothing," John said, but Sherlock knew that wasn't what he was originally going to say. "I was scared, yeah, and I'll be honest, I wasn't sure I could do it. But, I dunno, it's all right. Granted, I've been a father for less than two weeks."

"I've often heard infancy is the most difficult stage to get through," he said.

"Hm, yeah, the crying for no reason at four in the morning isn't fun." He set the now-empty bottle down on the foot of the bed and held the baby over his shoulder, patting her back. "And it'll be nice when she actually starts registering the things around her and when I could play with her."

The baby released a tiny hiccup, and the sound made Sherlock's chest twist in a weird way. "Why is her crib in here?" he asked.

"We're still clearing out the storage room and moving stuff to the attic. I know she'll have to learn to sleep in her own room, but I kinda don't want to let her out of my sight for long."

Sherlock knew why.

The doorbell rang.

"Damn," John swore, "I forgot I ordered food. Shit, where's my wallet?"

Sherlock wanted to ask if Mary wasn't making dinner for him, but he knew the answer already. He also found it highly amusing that John was swearing in front of his newborn, and decided to keep that to himself, too. "I can get it," he offered.

"No," John declined. "You always paid for my meals back at Baker Street. Just-hold her," he handed the baby to Sherlock. "I'll just be a minute. I left my wallet in my coat pocket." The doorbell rang again. "Coming!" John called as he walked briskly out of the room.

Sherlock was alone with John's child. John had given her to him quickly, not giving Sherlock enough time to properly cradle her in his arms, so her tiny body was pressed against his chest, her head turned sideways and resting on his shoulder. Her dark blue eyes stared in the absent way infants do, brain not developed enough to really see what was in front of her. It was always weird for Sherlock to think that he was once like that, too. An even weirder thought was Mycroft as an infant. He couldn't picture it.

His focus went back to her. She was so warm for such a small thing. Sherlock's hand was able to cover her back, and he found himself fascinated by this. She gurgled and his eyes widened, but she settled. She blinked lethargically, golden lashes shining, and her eyes slowly closed. He could only stare at her. He noticed that she smelled nice (was this what people called that "new baby smell"?). He gently put his nose into her silky blonde hair, inhaling. He wondered if her father's hair was this soft. She frowned and whined and Sherlock re-positioned her so that her face rested higher on his shoulder.

He knew that in reality, she was just fine, but he didn't like seeing her troubled. He lifted the hand that wasn't holding her and ran his thumb delicately over the tiny furrow of her brow, smoothing it out. The human contact seemed to comfort her, and her features went slack and she rubbed her eye with a tiny fist. His chest tightened. He couldn't get over how tiny she was. He felt like she could slip away, fall out of his grip with ease. Anxiety clutched his chest. What if he dropped her? He carefully shifted her so her head was tucked under his chin, and he wrapped both arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other supporting her lower back and bum.

"Sherlock," John called softly.

Sherlock nearly spun around, but remembered the infant in his arms just in time.

John was giving him that same fond, sunshine-filled smile he had given when Sherlock held her the first time in the hospital. Sherlock's face filled with heat. He wasn't sure how to feel being seen this way.

"I got Chinese," John said, voice still soft. "You can have some."

He shook his head. "I'm not hungry, but thank you." He could have gone for something to eat, but he didn't want to let go of her. He could always eat at home. "I can take care of her while you eat," he said. "I imagine you haven't gotten a lot of help around here."

John's expression darkened, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for breaking the tender moment.

"It's not exactly that," John said gruffly. "Can we talk about it in the kitchen?"

"Certainly."

Sherlock held the baby as John spoke between bites of wonton soup.

"Mary has been taking care of her," John confessed, eyes stormy at the mention of her name, "but she's acting like I don't do enough. She never outright says it, but it's always there. It's only been a handful of days, and she's acting like she's the mother of the year and I'm not on her level, or some rubbish of that sort. It's…" He swallowed, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

The baby started fussing and Sherlock subconsciously rubbed her back.

John sighed. "She's just as insufferable as she was when she was pregnant. I thought she would soften up once she was born, but fuck, was I wrong. I shouldn't have expected any better, so I guess that's my fault."

"None of this is your fault," Sherlock told him quietly.

That struck John somehow, and he looked down at his lap. Did Sherlock say something wrong?

But he looked back up, eyes weary. "You can read people in seconds. How did you not know about her?"

The question threw Sherlock off guard. His lips parts and he blinked. "I…" It was really because he only wanted to make John happy, especially after putting him through grief for two years, and he thought a nice wife would be good for him. "You know how deceptive she can be. She fooled me." He would have rather admitted her outwitting him than exposing his heart.

John sighed. "Yeah, you're right." His eyes darkened.

Sherlock felt uneasy. "John, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said shortly, and winced at his tone. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sound like a prick. I'm just stressed. I'm a new parent with a-less than happy marriage."

Sherlock's heart kicked in his chest. This was the closest John ever got to saying he despised his marriage. They were getting somewhere. "John-"

They heard a key in the lock of the front door. Mary entered, and Sherlock screamed internally. Must she ruin everything?! She didn't look as exhausted as John, but there were notable signs of stress on her face. She had dark circles and the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced than usual.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Sherlock, clearly shocked to see him.

Sherlock felt like a deer in headlights. He hated feeling like she had the upper hand.

"Hello," she said warily, a cautious smile creeping up her lips. "What brings you here?" Her eyes went to the baby.

"I came over to bring a gift from Mrs. Hudson," he said, nodding to the bag on the coffee table.

Mary looked at it. "What's in it?"

"A couple outfits," John said, his hand clenching around his spoon.

She looked at John. "You ordered? I could have made dinner."

"I was hungry and couldn't wait," he said coolly, and Mary's lip twitched.

"You didn't order anything for me?" she asked, getting testy.

John shrugged and stuffed another spoonful of wonton soup into his mouth. "You went out. I thought you would've gotten something," he said, mouth full.

Sherlock felt extremely out of place, right in the middle of their tension, sticking out like a sore thumb in the atmosphere. He didn't belong there. Neither does John, he thought stubbornly.

Mary laughed through her nose, "How'd you rope him into holding her?"

"He offered," John said sternly, in no mood for her quips.

Sherlock's hand tightened ever so slightly around the baby's back. He glanced back down at her. She was so fragile. He didn't want to leave her with Mary. While the logical part of his brain told him Mary would not harm her, his instincts told him to shield the baby. He felt an argument bubbling between John and Mary, likely to erupt after he leaves, and he worried their shouting would upset her. Of course, the baby would have no memory of any argument John and Mary had at this point, but...still. He felt so ridiculously illogical.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. This is what happened when he cared for someone. He got illogical. He turned into an idiot. It happened with John long ago, and it already happened with his child, in less than two weeks. How did this happen so quickly? His heartbeat was heavy. This baby was not his. He should leave.

"I should get back to the flat, actually," he said stiffly. "I left an experiment to boil, and if I don't check on it soon, it could explode."

"What the hell are you boiling?" John asked worriedly.

Mary stared at him. I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing.

He would keep up the lie. "Nothing that should concern you," he told John "It'll be fine. I have enough time to take care of it." He walked to John and cautiously handed him the baby. "Here." There was no way he would willingly give the baby to Mary.

John held out his arms and took the baby. The baby started crying in John's arms and he shushed her. Did Sherlock do something wrong? Did he handle her incorrectly?

"I think she needs a change," John said, standing up. "I did just feed her. I'll go check." He went into the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone with Mary.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Mary blinked at him, a patronizing smile slowly forming on her lips. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

He put his face into a mask of indifference, or at least he tried to. "I already told you."

"And I think that's a load of shite."

Sherlock almost visibly reacted to that. Mary rarely swore.

"I'm here for the baby," he said, monotone. He couldn't let Mary know he was affected by her. He would try his damned hardest not to give her any satisfaction.

"You don't care about her," she stated.

Anger brewed in his stomach and he took slow, measured breaths. "Stop acting like you know me."

"But I do," she said with a short laugh. "I know why you're really here."

His jaw clenched. "Your assumptions are false."

Suddenly, her amusement vanished and her voice turned cold. "Are they really?"

His eyes bored into hers, and she stared back, unwavering. "You don't know me," he told her again, voice rough with the effort to hold back his anger.

"I see how you look at him," she replied immediately, head tilting imperceptibly. "As soon as I met you, you gave yourself away." Her lips pulled up, but it looked more like a grimace than a smile. "You weren't expecting me that night at the restaurant. No time to put on your facade, hmm?"

He was humiliated. He was in love with her husband, and she knew it. His mouth worked, and no sound came out. She was straight-up confronting him, and he wasn't prepared for this conversation. This is why he had sworn off love for decades. He always wound up on the losing side.

"I'm sure you had fun playing house, but maybe you shouldn't come back here," she said nonchalantly, walking over to an armchair in the sitting room and planting herself in it.

His pulse spiked. Was she going to say it? Was she going to threaten him? Could be tell Mycroft?

John came back into the room and Sherlock wanted to shout at him to leave so Mary could finish her thought.

"I was right, she needed a clean diaper. She's sleeping again."

He looked at them, eyebrows furrowing. "Everything okay?"

"Of course," Mary smiled sweetly.

Sherlock wanted to vomit. "Yes, I was just leaving. Goodbye, John," he nodded.

"Bye, Sherlock," he said uneasily, knowing something was wrong.

Sherlock didn't bother saying goodbye to Mary.

He left, hailed a cab, and sagged into the seat when the cabbie started driving to Baker Street. He hadn't done much that day, yet he felt exhausted. He just wanted to go home and sleep, which wasn't a common feeling for him. Sherlock felt the need to curl into a ball. He didn't want to go back there ever again. He was blatantly unwelcome in Mary's domain, and that was where John was. If he wanted to see John, it would have to be at his flat. He doubted John would accompany him to a crime scene for a long time, but he couldn't simply call and invite him to the flat. John would wonder why Sherlock wanted him, alone. Mary wouldn't wonder; she would know.

His phone buzzed, and he was surprised to see a text from John.

Sherlock, what's wrong? What happened? -J

The answer would have revealed his heart. He put his phone away.

He just wanted her gone already.

I'm enjoying writing Sherlock soft with the baby more than I should.