The pale false-dawn swathed London, pierced through the secondary near-sheer linen curtains of the parlor to fall upon a dark haired man and his godchild. John had awoken maybe half an hour before the light had really begun to filter in, had watched his son sleep peacefully cradled against Sherlock's chest. Up John got, he needed a stretch and by God, he needed coffee. Sherlock, Mols and Greg would be needing something as well.

In the kitchen, it wasn't what he would call bare, that was certain.

Kettle set to brew, he pulled a large pan and began setting up a scramble. This he could do. It felt good to be cooking breakfast, something akin to normal. Bread, jam, butter all laid out on the counter ready to go as his friends filtered into wakefulness by the hiss and ding of mornings that promised to be full, busy in a good humming sort-of way. The buzz of the city not yet quite up to speed, later would become a heavy thrum of traffic and people and decisions, but now... no now was his, and theirs. Quiet home, simple breakfast, simple joys to balm the multitudes of hurts they were all feeling.

Contentment settled around John as he heard Hamish fuss shortly answered in Sherlock's baritone a soft lulling melody being plucked from the air around the two one room over. Mols could be heard shushing Greg through the hall with something of the promise of possible caffeine and sugar and food.

"Morning, you two lovebirds." He had to take the piss just a bit, it felt good but he'd have to keep from becoming manic with it, he could feel the bubble expand into almost panic, took a couple of inhalations of the air around him, his focus on the yeast, and the tannic scent of black tea brewing, the eggs and milk mixing just right in the heated metal of the pan.

Better... he could do this.

He could, he'd hold it together today, with help he wasn't an idiot.

"Morning John," Molly came behind him for a good squeeze, headed to the kettle to see to the tea. "Coffee instead Greg? Tea, right John?"

"Yes, that'd be great Mol." Greg ascended as John bobbed his head in affirmative. "Is Sherlock really-"

"Singing to Hamish?" John grew rosy and could feel the rise of emotion. "Yes, I believe he is." Damn, today was going to go to fuck all in short order. "Actually, I might need some help... you know today..." Is that really the way he sounded? "Bloody hell, I'm a right mess, yea? I'm sorry... I just feel like I'm not-"

"John." His voice was a careful sentiment full of concern. "Gregory take Hamish please, he needs a change and fed." Sherlock walked over to hand the baby to their friends, then turned. "John, come with me, please."

"I'm fi-"

"No. You. Are. Not."

The words were not unkind, just concise. John left the rest of breakfast to be finished to follow Sherlock out of the kitchen, down the hall to end in Sherlock's room. Sherlock closed the door gently behind them then offered the bed for John to sit on, he himself settling on a plush bohemian chair, before he pinned John with his gaze.

"Please, let me help... I need to discuss some things, and I'm fairly horrible, but I'm trying John. You know that don't you? Is there anything you require?"

"I... well I'm not fine, my wife just died." John ran his nails hard through his short hair, anger brilliant suddenly in his throat. "Fuck! God damned bloody kosefil! I can't even..." With a loud groan he threw himself back onto the bed. "Sherlock, I'm losing my mind."

"No, you aren't, you're just at war is all."

It was true, John could feel it. "How?"

"It's written plainly," Sherlock seemed pained to even say it. "But it's expected, it's understandable. Just, this may not make it easier, but I would like to extend a comfort to you. It's not been done, but I know Mycroft is fine with the idea, you're the unknown variable in this."

"In what, Sherlock?" Sherlock moved off of the chair to sit beside John on the corner of his bed. He looked wary and more than a little lost, but there was an achingly genuine demeanor to the man it startled John a bit. "Tell me... God you aren't... you're alright aren't you?"

"I'm perfectly sound, this is not about me. It's about Mary... and you... eventually." The words looked as if they were physically painful for him. "I want to extend our family's grounds to you, the small chapel as well, if you'd like. The vicar said he'd come for the burial and if you chose, he'd stay on for Hamish's baptism if you wished."

"And me... eventually...ok. What about you? Would you be apart of this eventuality Sherlock? We need to speak plainly as much as it... bloody well kills me... I'm not starting off on any assumptions."

"If you wish, yes. We can provision our wills... I don't want you to not be, your body to not be beside hers if it is what you wish. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like that honor as well, but it is in no way-"

"Yes, Sherlock." John heard the tightness in his own voice. "Yes, you as well. I... please..." When was this going to stop, he had always had an iron grip on his emotions. They were scattered to the bloody four winds and he could not get them tethered, he felt listless. "It is kind of the vicar to stay on, yes to that as well. I want Hamish baptised as soon as possible actually."

"Well, good then, it's alright John. You've not only lost a love, but gained one. You're bound to be off balance for some time, it will work out."

"Not gained one love, not only, Sherlock. Hamish is not an only, I gained you as well... Mary loved you both so... she'd never admit it to your face you know, but she would fret and man handle you if you'd ever needed it. She knew it was the only sign of affection you'd ever allow... oh, she was damn bright that woman."

Sherlock laced their fingers together and rested them on his knee. "Alright, never an only."

"That's right, which means you also have to start thinking of us, the three of us, as a unit. That's going to take a hell of alot of adjustment. I'm having a hard go of it myself... Blessed Lord... could you go fetch him for me? I need to... feel him."

"To know he's here. I understand the sentiment... I'll bring him in then fetch breakfast. Give you two some time?"

Sherlock kissed his hand, then bent and kissed his brow taking leave of the bed and moved toward the door, opened it, then stopped his hand still rested on the doorknob, as if unsure to speak further.

"I may not be able to stop what is coming," Sherlock looked down, as if to memorise the grain pattern in the hardwood under his feet, as they moved to pin John once again, his gaze was even though it was much softer than before. "But I can try to shield you for awhile."

The weight lifted in John's chest, a small reprieve he knew.

"Yes... I... thank you, Sherlock."