Sherlock's lips parted and he blinked rapidly, heart beating hard. He stopped breathing. His lips quivered and he closed his mouth, swallowing. He tried speaking, but only a cut-off, embarrassing whimper came from his throat. He swallowed again, a fierce blush blooming across his face. "You," his voice shook, "she's…" He looked at the baby-Billie. He had a baby, John Watson's baby, named after him. "You named her after…" He trailed off. He couldn't say it. It felt like his heart was trembling, if that were possible. He didn't finish his sentence, but pointed his trembling index finger at his own chest.
John's smile was nervous, his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yeah," he nodded. "You did suggest to name her after you. I know you were joking," he added before Sherlock could say it, "but the idea really warmed up to me. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I didn't say it at the time, but I like your full name. Why don't you go by 'William'?"
"It's boring," he responded automatically.
John laughed. "Of course it is. 'Sherlock' suits you better, anyway." He chewed his lip again. "Are you okay with this?"
Sherlock nodded silently, dumbly. His stomach rolled. He needed more food, but he couldn't move. He blinked some more, his eyelids the only part of his body cooperating. He stared at the little bundle in a pink bunny jumpsuit that was now Billie Watson. This innocent child was named after him. He blinked away moisture which he could not explain.
John's smile slowly lost its anxiety and became softer. "You're doing that thing again, like you did when I asked you to be my best man."
Sherlock remembered that clearly. In fact, it was one of his most treasured memories. He was surprised John remembered his reaction.
John chuckled. "Are you always like this when you're caught off guard?"
He took deep, slow breaths. He had to speak sometime. "John."
"Sherlock?"
He stated the obvious, as he normally did when he was overwhelmed. "You named her after me."
John giggled, his nerves back. "Yeah, I did."
Best friends didn't name their children after each other, did they? This was a sign of something more, right? "Why?" he asked.
John, bless him, took no offense, knowing Sherlock just needed answers. "Because I didn't want Mary to have any say, or any permanent mark on her. Her full name is Billie Hannah Watson."
"Hannah, like Hamish," Sherlock realized.
"Yeah. I don't know if there's some kind of female equivalent of my god-awful middle name, but I like 'Hannah', it sounds a little bit like 'Hamish', so there we are."
Sherlock was still processing. "How...How were you able to name her without Mary's say?"
John sighed. "Like I said, we fought after you left a couple months ago. I knew she upset you somehow, and frankly, I didn't like that one bit. Things got out of hand and we fought about everything under the sun. At a certain point, I said I deserved to name her, considering all the shit she's done. She eventually agreed. I think she just got tired of Billie not having a name, to be honest. Couldn't name her after Mary, because that's not even her real name, anyhow," he added bitterly.
"But she doesn't know my full name," Sherlock clarified.
"No, she doesn't. Imagine her reaction when she finds out," he smirked.
Sherlock didn't smile back. The thought made him uneasy. "What if she does something?" he asked, trying to conceal his rising panic.
John's face fell. "Like what? Sherlock, are you okay? You're getting pale." He looked down at Sherlock's half-eaten sandwich. "Eat more. A few bites of a sandwich isn't enough."
Sherlock picked up the sandwich and ate, thankful for a distraction. He loved the idea of John's daughter being named after him. It warmed his heart more than he could say, and the more he thought about it, the more tears threatened to sting his eyes, but what if that pushed Mary over the edge? He hated feeling this way. The last person who had gotten into his head this badly was Moriarty. He needed to voice his concern, though. He didn't want Mary to harm John or Billie for this. "John?"
John was settling Billie down on the couch between them, letting her sleep on her back, her little arms bent at the elbows, hands curled into fists near her head. "Yeah? Sorry, I'm just gonna set her down for a bit. She was on my bad shoulder."
"It's fine." He put the empty plate on the table.
John was looking at him expectantly.
He pressed his lips together. "What if Mary has a violent reaction to Billie's name?"
John's brow furrowed. "What?"
He sounded like an idiot. "I mean, what if she retaliates in some way?"
The wrinkle between John's brow smoothed out. "Oh," he said sadly. "That's what you're afraid of."
"I'm merely concerned," he reached for the water bottle by his feet, unable to make eye contact.
"No, this is it, isn't it?" John shifted so he was fully facing Sherlock, careful not to disturb Billie. "You're worried Mary is going to do something, ever since I brought up the possibility in the hospital. Jesus, is this why you're so upset?"
"A large part of it," he admitted, looking down at his lap. John was still missing the whole being desperately in love with him bit, but Sherlock would leave it. He expected John to reassure him, because that's what John did; he was a caretaker, an occasionally hot-headed caretaker, but a caretaker nonetheless.
John didn't do that. Instead, he looked down, eyes on Billie, and cleared his throat. "I'm worried, too," he confessed.
That wasn't reassuring. "You are?"
He nodded, and his eyes remained downcast. "The day when you were supposed to go into exile, when the plane turned around, Mary made it very clear she wasn't pleased you were back for good. She said that to me as soon as we got back home."
That doesn't surprise me, Sherlock thought, but kept quiet, letting John speak.
John wore a grim frown, looking older than he had a mere minute ago. "I was furious with her for that, having the audacity to even say that to me!"
Billie whimpered, and John stroked a finger over her cheek. "Sorry," he murmured.
Watching him be so gentle with her flooded Sherlock with emotion. "What else?" he asked.
John looked up at him. "That was our first big fight. She was livid that I was happy that you, my best friend, were not going away forever. She acted like I was completely unjustified." His expression darkened. He was visibly holding back to the urge to shout. His left hand shook and he clenched it into a fist, and he took a deep, calming breath.
Sherlock wanted to tell John everything was all right and that he should calm down, but he didn't think John would like being coddled. He always suffered silently. Sherlock did want to help him, always, but didn't want to step over any lines.
John huffed, eyes flickering up to Sherlock's. "She said if I file for a divorce, or cheat on her in any way, she'll run away with Billie."
Sherlock's stomach dropped. "What?" he asked in a fraught whisper.
John looked utterly melancholy, and on the edge of despair. "She said she'll take her, and promised I wouldn't be able to find her. I don't know what to do," he confessed, demeanor positively dejected. "I hate her, Sherlock. I fucking hate that woman, but I can't let her take Billie," his voice cracked, and which startled them both. John turned around on the sofa, feet on the floor, rested his elbow on his knee, and put his hand over his eyes, shaking his head.
Sherlock felt like his world was crashing down on him. "John," he said emphatically, getting up and kneeling in front of John, his despair replaced with blossoming fury. Under any other circumstance, he would have leapt for joy upon hearing John hated her, but not this time. He put on hand on John's knee and used the other to grip his forearm. "Listen to me, John. I will not allow that to happen. She will not take away your baby," he promised in a vicious whisper, "not over my dead body."
John removed his hand, eyes glassy. "You know she can arrange that," he said, voice like shattered glass.
In that moment, Sherlock decided he never wanted to see John Watson cry again. His heart cracked into pieces, knowing John had to have been at his absolute breaking point to be in such a state around any other person. This is what Mary did to him. In a fit of compassion, he lifted himself off the ground and hugged John, arms around his shoulders, his head nestled against John's.
John gasped and Sherlock felt it. He kept his arms around him, hoping John wouldn't push him away, both literally and figuratively.
Let me help you.
He was about to feel uncertain when John hugged him back, exhaling slowly.
Sherlock wanted to nuzzle John's shoulder and kiss the side of his neck. Having him this close, so warm and solid and real, was dangerously tempting. He breathed deeply. This was good enough for now. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth from John's body quiet his mind. "She won't win," he murmured. "I won't let her. I promise, I won't let her," he said over and over, wanting to make John feel safe. He stopped talking after a while, and they embraced for a long, tender moment, the rhythm of their breaths slowly synchronizing. Once he felt John calm down, he took a risk, "I want to get rid of Mary."
"I do, too," John said sadly, his breath warm against Sherlock's ear. "I'm sorry I ever went back to her. I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
"No," Sherlock dismissed, "you did what you had to do. I know that." He knew now.
John held him tighter, and Sherlock would have loved it if John weren't so upset. "What do we do, Sherlock? I don't want her to hurt you or Billie."
John's concern wrapped around him like a warm blanket. "Mycroft is keeping watch on your house," he revealed, "but we do need a plan."
"Wait," John pulled back, but kept his arms around Sherlock, "since when?"
"Since you got home from the hospital," he admitted with a shy smile.
John smiled, too. "Yeah? You told him to keep watch for Billie?"
"You and Billie, yes."
John snorted. "This is the first time I don't want to smack your brother for invading my privacy."
Sherlock wasn't normally this close to John, and never, before this point, had his arms around him. He wanted to go back to hugging John, hold him against his chest. It was hard not to stare at him, taking in his golden lashes, deep blue eyes, and thin lips.
John noticed him staring. "Sherlock, you there?"
"I spoke to Mycroft about this," he brought John's attention away from him. "I don't think she would be able to get away with Billie as long as we have the British government on our side."
"Yeah, but how long can he keep watch? Ten years? Fifteen? I can't raise my daughter in constant fear her mother will take her away."
"I agree," Sherlock said sympathetically, "which is why Mycroft's surveillance is only a temporary solution. According to him, we need more than our suspicions to lock Mary away for good. I don't want you to have to worry about her for the rest of your life."
John nodded slowly. "Yeah, if she got out of jail, you know she'd come looking for me. Both of us, probably, 'cause she'd know you had something to do with it."
Sherlock had a vision of Mary, years from now, breaking into the flat at night, and firing one final, fatal bullet into his head. He shivered.
"I do want that," John's voice interrupted his stupor, "what you said. I want her out of our lives." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I picked a real winner, didn't I?"
"You mustn't blame yourself," Sherlock told him. "She preyed on you during a vulnerable time in your life."
John looked at him pointedly.
Sherlock gulped, eyes flickering down, remembering that John had apparently blamed himself for his jump. "Sorry again," he apologized, almost inaudibly.
John just shook his head again, his expression closed off.
"We know what she's like now," Sherlock took the subject away from his faked death. "I won't let her take Billie, John."
"I won't either," he vowed, tone intense. "That's the only reason why I'm still with her." His arms slowly dropped away from Sherlock's body, so Sherlock reluctantly stopped hugging him. He sat on the coffee table, and they let tense silence take over the room for a few minutes.
Sherlock looked at the steady rise and fall of Billie's stomach as she slept. She was blissfully unaware of the danger she could be in. He would protect her with every fiber of his being. His mind went through what John told him, and one thing stuck out like flashing headlights. "You said Mary would take her if you filed for a divorce or cheated on her. You would cheat?"
John shrugged, clearing his throat, the tips of his ears suddenly red. "It's not like I plan on going out and shagging random women, but I think it's something she's always feared."
"Why?" John was a loyal man.
"I don't know," he shrugged once again.
Sherlock knew he was still hiding something. If Lestrade was correct and John did have feelings for him, did that mean Mary feared John would cheat on her with him? He wasn't sure, but that would actually explain a lot of her animosity toward him. The notion of John choosing him over Mary made him weak in the knees (thankfully, he was sitting down). He normally considered cheaters vile people consumed by their libido. This was not a normal situation. Mary was not a normal woman. They did not have a normal marriage. Still, Sherlock would much prefer John all to himself, without any worry of an angry, ex-assassin spouse. If John kissed him, he would obviously kiss back, but something would still feel wrong about it.
"I hate living with her," John spoke. He was staring absently into the middle of the sitting room. "I wish I could leave. I hate sharing a bloody bed with her." He rubbed his eyes. "Feels like I haven't slept in months."
"Billie's sleeping, so you could rest for a while," he offered.
John huffed, "I feel like I've done nothing but whine and be exhausted around you. I can't be good company."
"John, please, you're fine. You have every right to feel as you do."
John's mouth twisted unhappily. "Here I am, talking about myself, when you've been over here, with your own problems. I'm sorry."
"John," he insisted, "I am fine-"
"No, you're not," he retorted. "If I didn't come in, when would you have eaten?"
He shifted uncomfortably, the coffee table creaking under him. "I would have eventually. I'm not withering away."
"Your face has gotten thinner, Sherlock. I just-You're worrying too much about other people that you're not worrying about yourself."
He felt his old, defensive walls slam back up. "Pardon me for caring." He shot up from the coffee table, but John grabbed his arm.
"Sherlock, stop," he held him in place, frustration growing. "That's not what I mean, you prick. Listen," he let go of his arm, "I'm glad you care. More than, glad, actually, I really, really appreciate it. But I don't want you getting unhealthy in the process. Understand? I don't want to have to worry about you, too."
Sherlock sighed. He was being moody. He nodded. "Yes. I understand. Apologies."
"It's okay." He held back a yawn behind his fist. "How about this: I take a power nap, and you shave in the meantime?"
That sparked a laugh from Sherlock. "Is my facial hair really that much of a concern to you?"
John held up his hands in mock-defense. "Well, what can I say?" Perhaps it was Sherlock's imagination, but it sounded like John's voice dropped ever so slightly. "I prefer my detectives clean shaven."
The call-back did not go unnoticed. I prefer my doctors clean shaven. Sherlock was half-joking, half-flirting at the time. Was John flirting? Sherlock's smile dropped, but John's didn't. John patted his shoulder and winked. "Hop to it."
Sherlock's mouth opened, and he scurried away to the bathroom when no words formed. He shut the door behind him and looked in the mirror, a hand over his heart. He was overreacting. It was probably nothing. He groaned in frustration. He hated being so confused. He wanted an answer: did John want him, or not? What Lestrade told him and certain things that had happened between them over the years led him to one conclusion, and his own insecurities led him to another.
Sherlock looked in the mirror. His cheekbones were still pronounced, and the dark circles and facial hair were still there, but somehow, he looked better than he had early in the day. He shaved, and once he was finished, he had to admit it felt nice to get all of that off. He rubbed his hand over his smooth jaw. He glanced in the mirror again. He looked younger without a beard. Why did he let himself grow that thing?
Well, he knew why. He let his transport go. He had to take care of himself. For John. But, no, John would want him to take care of himself for himself. He stared resolutely at his reflection. He would try to be better. He couldn't support John and Billie if he didn't eat and have a proper sleep schedule.
He grabbed a comb and hair gel from the medicine cabinet and tamed his curls, thinking the whole time. He had to find a way to get John away from Mary permanently. It was a comfort to know John was fed up with her, although Sherlock hated his unhappiness. He felt so conflicted, being happy John didn't want her, and heartbroken John's home life was so unpleasant and stressful.
Sherlock set the comb and bottle of gel on the sink and was pleased with his reflection. He looked like he needed a nap and a couple pounds added to him, but he didn't look nearly as disheveled, closely resembling himself from before Billie's birth. Would John be pleased? He scrunched up his nose and shook his head. Foolish thought. What was he, a pre-pubescent idiot? So what if John may find his cleaned up appearance attractive? But then he thought of John flirting with him in that voice, and his heart skipped a beat.
Who was he kidding? He'd be happy for a solid week if John complimented his appearance. He had some people tell him he was attractive in the past when he turned on the charm for a case, but if John said he was attractive, that was a different story entirely.
He imagined John's arms around his waist, lips brushing against the shell of his ear, You're beautiful.
Sherlock gasped. Stupid brain. He locked those thoughts away and left the bathroom.
He walked back into the sitting room, and stopped in front of the sofa, heart in his throat. John was lying on his back, head resting against one of the throw pillows, asleep, his arms around Billie. Billie was on his chest, tiny fists grasping his jumper, her hood falling back over her head, making it look like John was holding a little pink bunny. Her body moved up and down with each slow, steady movement of John's chest.
Sherlock gingerly walked to them. Even in sleep, John's expression was troubled, a wrinkle between his brow. Sherlock smoothed it out with his thumb, which only made John turn his head to the side, facing the back of the sofa, and tighten his hold on Billie. Sherlock cautiously sat on the arm of the sofa, running a hand through his curls. He looked down at John and Billie, and felt a gush of protectiveness. Mary would have to kill him before she harmed John or Billie. He would give his life for them, although he wanted to defeat Mary. He didn't want to let her win. He wanted to have the honor of living his life with John and his daughter, if John would allow him. These were the two people he loved the most in the world. He could admit it to himself: somehow, defying all logic, he loved this baby.
Six years ago, he never would have believed he would find the love of his life, and grow to love a child. It seemed that Watsons always brought out the best in him.
Sherlock got his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown.
He sent a text to Mycroft:
Mary Morstan has threatened to take John's daughter if he tries to leave her. Insure that does not happen. SH
Understood. She will not be able to disappear with our surveillance. MH
Sherlock put the phone back in his pocket. Mycroft's help made him feel a bit better, but as he said earlier to John, this was only temporary.
Sherlock's head snapped to the door when he heard steps on the stairs.
The door opened.
Mary came in, her eyebrows rising at the sight before her.
"Who let you in?" Sherlock asked. This was his domain. He would not bow down to her.
"Mrs. Hudson," she answered, eyeing John and Billie. "Are they all right?"
"They're fine, just tired." His eyes narrowed. "You know why John's worn out."
She quietly shut the door behind her.
John shifted at the sound, but didn't wake up.
"Let's discuss in the kitchen," Sherlock said.
"Fine," she smiled.
Sherlock got up and they went into the kitchen. He felt much more comfortable in his flat, and with the knowledge that John was on his side. He couldn't get too cocky, though. She was still dangerous.
"Why are you here?" he asked, glaring.
"John wasn't answering his phone, and I got concerned. I knew he would be here," she said pointedly.
"Yes, he came to his friend's house. What a shock!" his eyes widened in faux-surprise.
She glowered at him. "He's been out of the house for close to two hours. What have you two been doing here?"
Sherlock turned his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what have you been doing without me here?" she crossed her arms. "You can't have just been talking."
Sherlock blinked in genuine surprise. "You think I did something with your husband?" he asked in a whisper.
"Don't act as if you wouldn't," she whispered back, taking a step toward him.
"There's a baby here!" he said, affronted. "What, do you think John sat Billie down and we went and shagged on the floor?" It was probably the first time in his life he said shagged, but he was actually offended.
"You would take whatever he gave you," she accused.
That...was true, but he had standards. "John came over to let me see Billie," he said hotly. "It's not my fault your unstable marriage is clouding your judgment."
Her right eyelid twitched. "Unstable because of you," she pointed a finger at him.
"Me? I'm not the one who threatened to kidnap that child!" he pointed out into the sitting room.
She stood up straight as a rod, breaths heavy but controlled. "John told you."
"Of course he bloody told me. Listen to me right now, Mary Morstan," he intentionally used her maiden name, and took a step forward, leaving little distance between them. His fury was overriding his fear. Their eyes shot daggers at each other. "You will not harm that child in any way," he growled, "and you cannot keep me from seeing her. John is an adult; he chose to come over here with Billie. You can't stop him. She's his daughter, too. If you dare attempt to run off with her, I guarantee John and I will hunt you down with my brother's aid."
Mary looked like she was on the brink of explosion. Her face was red with anger, his hands balled into fists, her blue eyes piercing. She clearly had not thought John would tell Sherlock about her threats. Maybe she wasn't as smart as Sherlock thought. "I wouldn't hurt her," she snarled. "I do love my daughter, Sherlock. But, you will not take John from me."
"John can do whatever he wants." Their faces were close, noses almost touching, and Sherlock was disgusted with that. "If he ever decides to leave you, it will be your fault."
Something shifted in her demeanor. The boiling anger cooled, and a hard, calculating look took over her face. "I see."
Sherlock did not like that look. That wasn't the look of defeat. That was the look of adjusting a plan. He opened his mouth, but they were both startled by Billie crying.
They went into the sitting room and saw John, yawning and blinking, sitting up and rubbing her back.
"What's wrong?" he asked her. He looked up, and his eyes widened when he saw Mary.
"Hello, dear," she smiled.
"Hi, Mary," her greeted, sleepy and confused.
Billie kept crying.
"I think she needs a diaper change," John said.
"Where's her bag?" Mark asked.
"I left it in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Fetch it for me?"
She pursed her lips, hesitant to leave John and Sherlock alone again. "Of course." She went downstairs.
John looked at him. "What the fuck is she doing here?" he tried to whisper over Billie's cries.
Sherlock shrugged. "John, I texted my brother about what she's threatened to do," he said quickly. "He's on it."
Some relief washed over his face. "Really?"
They heard her coming back upstairs. She came in with a diaper bag. "Set her down on the floor, John."
Sherlock watched them change Billie's diaper, and Mary did really seem gentle and caring toward her child. It seemed to him that, if Mary did manage to run off with Billie, she would do just that, but not actually harm her. Mary wanted to keep a tight grip on John, but not harm her child. She wanted a happy little family with John Watson, and Sherlock got in the way of that.
Sherlock's mind flashed back to that calculating expression. She could be planning to kill him, get him out of the way.
He blinked and looked back at them, and John was putting Billie's jumpsuit back on. "There we are," he smiled at her. "No more crying, okay?"
Mary took the soiled diaper and threw it in a trash bin in the kitchen, and went to the sink to wash her hands.
John and Sherlock shared a look, but kept quiet.
"I was wondering where you were, John," Mary came back in. "I came back from the shops and you two were gone."
"Thought it would be nice to give her some fresh air," John said, standing and retrieving the carrier he had placed on the table. "I figured she'd like to see Mrs. Hudson and her Uncle Sherlock, too."
Uncle Sherlock. That stung. He looked at John, but realized he was just saying that for Mary.
John strapped the carrier back onto his body and picked up Billie, putting her back in so she was strapped to his chest. She kicked her feet happily.
"Well, text me next time," she said. "I was getting worried. We should get going, John. We should get out of Sherlock's hair."
Sherlock hated how she even bothered to put up a front. "I'm really not bothered," he said, "but I imagine this has been a long day for Billie."
"Right," she smiled.
John looked wary. "Erm, okay. Yeah, let's get going." He looked at Sherlock. "I'll talk to you later. Tell Mrs. Hudson I said 'goodbye'?"
"Sure," he folded his hands behind his back, sensing Mary's eyes on him.
John took Billie's hand between two of his fingers. "Say 'goodbye'?"
Her hand simply tightened around John's finger and she stared absently at Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled at her. "See you later, Billie."
"I'll see you around, Sherlock," Mary said smoothly.
He nodded to her, and the three of them left the flat.
Sherlock looked around the empty room and sighed. Mary wasn't going down without a fight, he knew that much. Sherlock just had to figure out what she was planning.