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Open doors

"Another suicide," Lestrade said while Sherlock was on his knees next to the victim, examining the body. "Ryan Norton, 32. Computer system engineer. Lived alone. Owns this place apparently," Greg said, his eyes on the ceiling and on the expensive and trendy decorations of the flat. "No credit cards, no bills. We found his identification, though," Greg handed it to Sherlock. "You might want to call your brother."

Sherlock examined the victim's ID. This man was one of the recruits from the secret service who had gone missing last year. It looked like a suicide: the victim had a gun on his right hand (was right handed) and his brains painted the walls. The killer knew what he was doing – he, yes.

"He didn't commit suicide."

"Someone killed him?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Ryan Norton was right handed." Sherlock examined the bloodstains on the walls. "The killer's left handed."

"Left handed?"

"And trained."

"Why making it look like a suicide?"

Sherlock looked at the victim's hand and the gun. "The shot suggests the victim had enemies. Dangerous enemies."

Dangerous enemies indeed.

Someone wanted this man – the victim, dead… for some reason.

There was nothing else they could use to start the investigation. The man had no job, there were no papers, no computers, nothing that could suggest what might have killed him, who had been his enemies, etc. The only thing they knew was that he was a computer system engineer. Looking for information, they noticed the victim had no criminal records, no previous job, there was nothing on the system.

They were dealing with a ghost.

There were no further developments regarding the case of Ryan Norton. Sherlock confirmed he had worked, as Mycroft said, for the National Security Council and he was one of the three agents from the secret service who had gone missing the previous year. Yet, the mystery grew when no one claimed his body. No family members claimed his body or his belongings.

Having no clues to start a proper investigation made Sherlock anxious, to say the least. He barely ate and spent long hours staring at the photographs of the crime scene, reading the forensics report and so on. The detective barely ate and he only did it when they had supper, because the three of them were together and he loved to listen to his daughter's account of her day, her laugh.

"What are you up to, dad?" Sophia asked one afternoon, sitting next to her father and peering over his shoulder. "Case?"

Sherlock handed her a photograph. "What's missing?"

"How can I tell?"

"Observe."

One minute later Sophia was pointing at several elements she thought were missing. "His computer, dad! Everyone has a computer."

"There was no computer."

"The killer might have taken it. You said Ryan Norton worked for the secret service... maybe he had had important information stored there so the killer took the computer."

Sherlock stared at the photograph of Ryan Norton's desk for long seconds. The victim had a computer and, yes, he should have noticed that.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Am I right?"

"Yes, Sophie," Sherlock let her daughter curl against him. "You're very clever."

The eight year old smiled. "I wanna be clever like you."

"You already are."

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

Sophie adjusted her glasses. "When is mummy coming home?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied as he headed to the kitchen. "She's covering for a colleague. Chinese or Indian?"

"Dim sum!"

Dinner was eaten between stories of friends, the latests Doctor Who episodes and Sophia mostly asking him if she could spend the summer at her grandparents'. Later, when the girl was in her pyjamas, when she had already brushed her teeth and when all the school homework was done, she took her favourite book downstairs and asked her daddy to read it for her.

Sherlock put the evidence, the photographs, the files and so on aside and started reading his daughter her favourite tale.

Walking the seventeen steps from the front door to her flat seemed like a long path with no end. What started like a eight hour shift ended up being a sixteen hour shift. The only thing she wanted to do right now was to take a shower and sleep. No food, no. Jane felt she could not even have a glass of water, though she was sure she was dehydrated. Water, tea more likely, was what she needed but no. Jane truly wanted nothing. Nothing.

One thing, though.

The door was ajar and everything was dark but for the soft light of the lamp in the living room. Jane slowly, but very slowly, opened the door and found her husband sitting on the sofa with a book in one hand and a young girl curled next to him, resting her golden head on his shoulder.

Sherlock, of course, knew she was there, but kept on reading.

"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him. Dragons may not have much real use for all their wealth, but they know it to an ounce as a rule, especially after long possession; and Smaug was no exception."

The child next to him was falling asleep. Her eyelids finally fell, and her soft snoring filled in the silence of the room.

Jane left her bag and moved close to her husband. She pressed a kiss to his lips and caressed her daughter's golden fringe. "Sophie."

"Mummy..."

"It's late, darling. Come on, let's go to bed," Jane whispered softly. Sophie slowly stood up and leaned against her mother. "Have you washed your teeth?"

Sophia yawned. "Yeah."

"Okay. Come on, let's go to bed."

Upstairs, once Sophia was in bed, she took off her glasses and smiled a bit. "Daddy was reading The Hobbit for me."

"My dad read me that one when I was your age," Jane commented, sitting next to her daughter. "How was school today?"

"Good."

Jane kissed her daughter's forehead. "Good night, darling."

"Night, mummy."

Half an hour later Jane was sitting on her chair, she was holding a cup of tea in one and and finishing some paperwork before going to sleep. At least she had two days off and she knew once she finished those papers, she could sleep for as long as she wanted to.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing you should apologise for."

"No, Sherlock." Jane said, placing her cup and the papers onto the table next to her. "I... every time I tried to leave something happened and apparently the entire population of London had cardiac arrests, broken arms or had been shot at."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her. He spoke no word.

They had never celebrated their anniversaries. The first one went unnoticed. The second one, when Jane remembered it, Sophia had been ill and the dinner she had planned had to be forgotten. All the following anniversaries were spent taking care of their daughter, Sherlock working on a case, Jane working long shifts, Sophie falling ill and so on.

This time they were having dinner at a very fancy restaurant and Jane felt she had ruined everything. Sherlock was not the let's-celebrate-our-anniversary type, let alone the kind of husband who buys flowers and chocolates. But this time, he did it. This time Sherlock got her flowers and made reservations at a very nice restaurant. They had talked to Mrs Hudson and she was looking after their daughter while they were out. But nothing of it happened: they didn't go out, they didn't walk their favourites streets together, they didn't hold hands, as they started doing every time they went out. They didn't have a nice dinner and Sherlock was sleeping on their bed and Jane was sitting in the living room, doing paperwork and writing medical reports.

Jane had to admit they had quite a good marriage. Eight years together, as a married couple, and they still were together. The doctor never thought they could make it that long. They were doing well as friends and marriage seemed pointless to her but it was convenient since her baby was fatherless and Jane feared something might happen to her and Sophia would be left alone with no one to look after her.

The day they got married Jane thought they would be filling in a divorce petition in less than a year.

Yet, eight years later, they were still together – they were still married.

Their relationship had been in constant change ever since they got married. For instance, Sherlock was softer. Before, if he had to call her 'stupid', he would have done it without thinking about it for a second or two. Now the detective kissed her, and he would have never done it before, when they were just friends and shared no legal status.

The one who had really changed Sherlock was Sophia. Jane couldn't believe it when she found him signing to Sophie to sleep, or when he changed her nappies and fed her and cuddled her and loved her as if she were his real daughter. Jane beamed when she remembered Sherlock signing lullabies, scaring monsters away, helping Sophie walking her first steps, then nursing her when she was ill...

Sophia was four when she got chicken pox. It was a very, but very hot summer and Sophie wouldn't stop scratching. No matter what they told her, she wouldn't stop complaining, scratching and crying. Jane had lost all her patience. However, Sherlock stayed up with Sophia, making anti-itch cream for her and explaining her how it worked. Once the chicken pox was gone, Sophia had no scars left.

"Look, mummy! Daddy make special cream!"

Sherlock looked at the pile of clothes left on their bed. He took the garment on top and inhaled its scent. Jane's scent. It was a mixture of her own perfume and disinfectant – that horrible scent from the hospital she worked at. He looked at the discarded piece of clothing. He couldn't help but wonder how is it that a woman had changed him so much. Before he met Jane Watson he could barely bear having a woman near him. Now he could barely survive a day without one; without Jane.

The detective took his shirt off and added it to the pile of clothes when he felt her warm palm against his chest, the pads of her fingers caressed, softly, the scar Matthew Morstan left when he shot him. It was late, he knew it. Her hair was still damp and he knew she hadn't finished writing those medical reports she brought home. She was wearing his blue gown, and he also knew she was wearing nothing underneath. Her pink lips were dry, still inviting.

Something in her eyes made him realise.

He pulled at his own dressing gown, which she was wearing, and revealed her nakedness. Sherlock looked into her eyes, but there was no shyness. She had no desire to cover her body and he had no desire to see it covered.

"Sherlock..." she whispered.

He silenced her with a kiss. Nothing else was said. No permission was asked, nor was needed. They touched, kissed, explored each other bodies, looked into each other's eyes and followed their feelings. Sensations were discovered. New sensations and feelings filled in Sherlock's mind. There was a whole new room for everything Jane was giving him, for all she was making him feel.

Sherlock discovered Jane was not what he thought she was. Jane was not only an excellent mother, a good woman, a faithful friend, companion, and wife. Jane was also a woman and the only onew ho ever made him feel this way. Such carnal instinct he had always thought he lacked of was there and Jane was doing nothing more than proving him wrong: he had always wanted this. Sherlock had always wanted her and he regretted delaying this moment for so long.

"You're beautiful."

Jane blushed. She knew that even in the darkness of their room, he could see her blushing. Of course he could. Sherlock Holmes had super powers. He was not every man. Of course he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective in the funny hat was tender and loving and everything Jane thought he wasn't. Sherlock was warm. He knew where he had to kiss her, where he had to touch her, what he had to do to make her feel special. God, Sherlock knew how to love her.

She would have never realised how much she missed being loved, in such an intimate way, if it hadn't been for her husband. If it hadn't been for Sherlock Holmes. If it hadn't been for the father of her daughter. Sherlock was unique in every sense of the word and that night was to change their lives forever because if they had always loved each other, if Sherlock had always loved her and if he had never professed any desire for her body, now this was to change.

Jane was so fragile in his arms. Sherlock feared he might break her. It was driving him crazy. Both danced and moved in unison. Their mouths were never apart. Their hands never stopped exploring their bodies. He never stopped moving and her mouth never stopped calling his name.

His name because Jane was his.

Only his.

The moment came. Sherlock looked into her eyes and saw himself there. He was there. In her. In Jane.

Jane gave him a smile Sherlock swore he had never seen before. She pressed a last kiss to his lips and rested in his arms for the rest of the night.