The next day, a package came for Sherlock with a note attached: It would be wise to make use of these. I provided one for Doctor Watson just in case. -MH

Inside of the box were two bulletproof vests. He took them out of the box and placed them on the coffee table. John, who was seated on the floor with Billie, playing with her toes (which seemed to confuse and amuse her), frowned.

"From your brother?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

He let go of Billie's feet. He picked her up and placed her in one of her toys, on a little mat with zoo animals printed on it, with an arch hanging above the mat, and large, plastic toys hanging from it. Billie, on her back, stared up at the toys and reached out to touch one.

Sherlock accepted that his flat would be cluttered with baby toys for the foreseeable future.

John looked at the vests glumly. "He gave us two. Does he think she's going to go after me?"

The thought nearly made Sherlock sick. He couldn't entertain it. "I don't see why she would. She hates me, not you."

John looked up at him, his eyes troubled. "You think she'd kill you simply for revenge? It's not like if you're gone, I'd go back to her."

"I think she would kill me simply for revenge," Sherlock said stiffly. "We were alone in this room for about a minute, and she used every second to harass me." It was weird to say, but that was what she did. She verbally harassed him.

"Yeah," John sighed, looking back at the vests. "We didn't even consider these with Moriarty," he said glumly.

"Moriarty would have never tried to kill us without putting on a show first," Sherlock said. "Mary, however, isn't one for theatrics."

"She's one for killing without question," John said darkly.

"Well, I wasn't going to say it."

John cracked a smirk. "Hm. Are you going to wear one every time you leave the house?"

"That's a little excessive," he snorted.

"No," John cut him off. "Do it. You just said she's going to go after you. Wear a bloody vest, Sherlock."

"All right," Sherlock said, but more for John's sake. "I can't imagine her killing me in public." He swallowed. "Mary would want me to know she was going to kill me. She wouldn't shoot a sniper rifle from a building across the street or anything of that sort."

"Sherlock," John said, pained, "can we not talk about you dying?"

Sherlock's features softened. "I'm sorry, John."

John looked down at Billie. "Should we wear them in here?"

Sherlock wanted to say no, but would that really be a bad idea? They decided to keep their doors locked at all times, only letting Mrs. Hudson in, but could she find a way to get in? Sherlock didn't think lock picking was one of her skills, but then again, he barely knew her. "I don't know." He didn't want to have to wear a bulletproof vest in his own damn home. He couldn't wait until he could just live in peace. Were they both being paranoid? No, no Mary showed up just yesterday. But they would have been prepared if they kept track of their stupid phones. Plus, Sherlock had a feeling Mary wouldn't come here again.

"I think, if Mycroft ever calls us because Mary is on her way here, we should put them on. However, I don't think it'll be necessary to wear these around the flat. If Mary is to hurt us, it won't be here."

"How can you be so sure?" John asked.

"Because we're expecting her to come here," Sherlock explained, "and she'll want to catch us off guard."

John looked resigned. "Yeah, you're probably right. So, wear these outside?"

"Yes. While I believe I'm her target, it wouldn't hurt for you to wear one."

"Yeah, okay. Doors are locked, right?"

"Of course."

"Then let's forget about that woman for a little while and play with our daughter, okay?"

Sherlock smiled. "Okay."


The week somehow went on. They constantly kept their phones charged and in their pockets, the ringers on, but Mycroft didn't have any news. When Mary left her house, it was to go to shops. She didn't go anywhere near Baker Street.

That put Sherlock on edge more than if she had tried to get to the flat again. John insisted that Sherlock shouldn't leave the flat unless absolutely necessary, but he, himself, insisted that he needed to go to work.

"Babies are expensive, Sherlock," he said patiently. "We need money."

"I don't care," Sherlock said, but knew he was fighting a losing battle. "I want you here."

"I need to go into work today, Sherlock." He looked at Sherlock, and then sighed. "Would it make you feel better if I wore the vest to work?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll wear the vest."

"Take your gun, too."

"Fine."

That day, John came home safe and sound.

John walked over to Sherlock and kissed him soundly, cradling his face in his hands. "I'm okay," he had murmured. "I'm home."

Sherlock hadn't even realized he was trembling.

John had texted Mary about settling the divorce, and she responded with a curt text message, saying she needed space before she could see him again, or talk with him on the phone.

"Acting like she's the victim," John snarled, throwing his phone on the bed. "You know what? Whatever. That means I won't have to see her for a bit."

They informed Mrs. Hudson of the entire situation, and she admitted to John that she hadn't liked Mary for a long time, but this news, her trying to kill Sherlock and threatening to kidnap Billie, made Mrs. Hudson hate her.

"What kind of woman would endanger her own child?!" Mrs. Hudson threw her hands in the air. "Why, I feel terrible for ever offering her a cup of tea!"

Sherlock always knew she was an intelligent woman.

Friday night, Sherlock volunteered to put Billie to bed. He was still getting used to being able to interact with her, not only because they hadn't spent much time together in the grand scheme of things, but because he never spent this much time with a baby. He was her father, though, and he wanted her presence in his life to become as normal as John's.

After they bathed her (which was something Sherlock let John do; he was afraid he would scrub her too hard or be too soft and not clean her well) and she drank her last bottle, Sherlock brought her into their room. They were alone now, with John watching the news in the sitting room. Sherlock found himself most comfortable with her when they were alone. He loved having John there, but if he did something stupid, it was better if John didn't see.

Sherlock held her against his chest, his arm around her, the sleeve of his dressing gown serving as a blanket. Her chubby cheek rested on his collarbone, and she yawned, making neutral sounds in her throat. Sherlock's heart sped up. She was wearing a pink onesie with an elephant pattern and her golden hair was sticking up from her bath. She was precious.

Sherlock slowly rocked side to side, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of her head. "Time to sleep," he told her, his voice rumbling deeply in his chest. He wanted to play a song for her on his violin, but that would require letting go of her, and that was unacceptable. Maybe when she was a little older, and less fragile. He looked out the window, at the cars passing down the street. He imagined Mary on the sidewalk, looking up at the flat. "She won't get you," he spoke softly. "I promise." He stared at the sky. In moments of quiet like this, he always got emotional. Before he got together with John, these were the times when he would feel the most lonely and heartbroken. Now, he felt fearful and protective at the same time. "I never thought I would be a parent," he confessed, "but I never anticipated the impact your father would have on my life."

She made a little sound.

"Yes," he said, "your papa. You're fortunate to have that man as your father. He will do everything in his power to make you happy, I know he will, as will I." He looked down at Billie and saw her eyes closed. He stopped rocking and carefully put her in the crib on her back.

She frowned and whimpered at the loss of contact.

Sherlock ran a large finger over her cheek, holding back his rising panic. "Shhh, Billie, Daddy's just putting you to bed," he whispered.

A few seconds later, she calmed.

Sherlock removed his hand from inside of the crib and stood up straight, brow furrowing when he felt another presence in the room. He spun around and saw John in the doorway, face soft with a big smile.

Sherlock flushed. "John."

John placed a finger to his lips and beckoned Sherlock to come to him.

Sherlock did, and followed him out of the bedroom.

John quietly shut the door. He gazed at Sherlock, eyes misty, expression so full of affection it nearly took Sherlock's breath away. "Sherlock, did you hear yourself just now?"

"That-depends. How long were you standing there?"

"A couple minutes." He placed his hand on Sherlock's chest. "Just now, putting her in her crib?"

"I don't remember saying anything in particular," he said, enjoying the warmth of John's hand through his T-shirt.

John gave him a beautiful lopsided smile. "You called yourself 'Daddy.'"

Sherlock's face burned. He did? "I…"

John wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, lips warm and soft. "God, I love you." He let out a dreamy sigh, breath hot on Sherlock's face, "You're such a good man."

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders, needing to hold onto something. "John."

John kissed the tip of his nose. "Are you tired?"

Sherlock was thrown off by the non sequitur. "Not particularly. Why?"

"Good," his voice dropped. "I've been dying to touch you all day."

A pleasant shiver cascaded down his spine. "Is that so?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yeah," John smirked against his lips, stealing a quick kiss. "Are you up for it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said urgently, cringing at his eagerness.

John licked his lips. "Great." He stepped back. "Why don't you go undress and lie on the sofa while I get the lube?"

Sherlock's mouth went dry. Over the past few days, their anxiety and Billie had prevented them from having sex as often as they wanted. They were both frustrated, because they finally knew what they were to each other, but the mood was either zapped by any mention of Mary, or by Billie's cries. Sherlock and John loved Billie dearly, but they wanted to explore each other's bodies, and be close in a way that was new, and fresh, and thrilling. The sexual encounters they did have had been limited to reciprocal hand jobs and frottage, which felt amazing, because it was John and simply being allowed to touch him was enough to make Sherlock harder than was probably normal, but Sherlock wanted to do everything. He didn't want to do it all at once, though, and he was hesitant to suggest anything new, letting John take the lead. He could tell by the glint in John's eye that he was planning for something new tonight.

"Okay," he said weakly. Sherlock went over to the sofa and stripped hurriedly, his cock twitching from sheer anticipation. He gingerly lay on the cool cushions, feeling self-conscious. John called him beautiful, but Sherlock hadn't been naked in front of anyone until earlier in the week, and he was still adjusting. He looked down at his penis. Should he touch himself until John got back? He folded his arms over his stomach. He didn't really know what to do.

John came in, lube in hand, and eyed him. "You don't have to look so apprehensive. I don't have anything complicated in mind."

"I'm not apprehensive," he said, blushing under John's gaze.

John patted his knee. "Spread your legs for me?"

Sherlock gulped and obeyed, exposing himself fully.

John's eyes darkened. He sat on his knees between Sherlock's legs, putting the bottle of lube against the back of the couch. John leaned up and kissed Sherlock sensually, his wet tongue slowly swiping across Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock opened his mouth and let John's tongue in. The wet slide should have been off-putting, but Sherlock loved it, and he couldn't think of any logical explanation why. John pulled his lower lip between his own lips, sucking it, causing Sherlock to squirm.

John's hand smoothed down Sherlock's chest, stopping to roll a hard nipple in a circle with his thumb. Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, the twin sensation of his lip being bitten and nipple being played with making him quiver. The pad of John's thumb rubbed his hard bud, then pinched it gently, so gently, just enough to make Sherlock harder. John's hand left his chest and trailed down, past the thick patch of hair, and his fingers wrapped around his dick.

All the blood that was not spread across Sherlock's face and chest in a blush traveled to his groin. Sherlock wanted John to feel good, too, so his unsteady hand blindly reached and found John's prick, beginning to get hard in his boxers, and Sherlock palmed it. John's breath hitched and he stopped kissing him, staring down at Sherlock with stars in his eyes, his hand still stroking him from root to tip.

"I'm going to do something," he said huskily. "You can tell me to stop anytime."

"Okay," Sherlock said. He trusted John.

John moved back enough so Sherlock could no longer reach his growing bulge. John leaned down and, only pausing to lock eyes with Sherlock, engulfed the head of his cock with his soft, wet lips, and all of the air left Sherlock's lungs in a long gasp. Oh. Oh, this was good. This was a good idea. John had good ideas. He was pretty damn smart. Sherlock's legs found themselves over John's broad shoulders as his hot, wet, maddening tongue swirled around Sherlock's tip, bringing him to full hardness. Sherlock's mouth fell open. He could come from just this, and John's mouth was barely even on him. He couldn't form words, only broken off moans, as John's mouth took more of him in, the velvet heat of his mouth causing Sherlock's cock to throb gently. He could hardly believe John wanted to do this to him, cared about him enough to do this. It was touching. No, don't get emotional during a blow job.

John began giving long sucks, soft enough not to overwhelm him, but hard enough for it to feel like he was sucking the sheer arousal right out of Sherlock.

Sherlock threw his head back on the arm of the sofa, groaning deeply, Adam's apple bobbing. His thighs shook and his toes curled. John's mouth felt so hot, and Sherlock's hips bucked after a particularly hard suck. John's hands came down on his hips, holding them as his head began to bob. Sherlock foggily wondered how John knew how to do this, but he didn't care at the moment. He never wanted to choke John, but hell, he wanted to thrust. He never felt the need to fuck so badly before. He needed something more. He was hard and aching and he was pretty sure he was leaking. His cock pulsed as his nerve endings sung, intense pleasure swirling from the tip of his cock down to his aching balls. Sherlock looked down, and one look at John's perfect mouth around his cock made him bite his lip to prevent a moan loud enough to alert Mrs. Hudson. He closed his eyes tightly, his fringe sticking to his forehead.

"John," he whined, throwing an arm over his eyes. "John, please, more."

Sherlock heard the cap of the lube open and liquid squirt from the bottle. He wanted to look down, but was sure he would climax if he saw John sucking his cock again. Sherlock's eyes shot open in surprise when a wet finger stroked around his hole. He panted out of his open mouth. "John?"

John pressed against his perineum and his tongue caressed the underside of his shaft, and Sherlock almost choked. Then, John's slick finger gently but steadily slid into his entrance.

Sherlock gave a high-pitched whine, brain overwhelmed with pleasure, his cock in the tight, wet, delicious heat of John's mouth, and John's finger inside of him, solid, real, touching his inner walls, and Sherlock's balls tingled sharply. "John, I'm-!"

John's mouth moved farther down, taking all of Sherlock in and he thrust his finger in and out once.

Sherlock's orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. His thighs shook violently, his hole clamped around John's finger, and his balls expelled themselves with almost enough force to make him black out, his cock spurting into John's mouth. Sherlock threw both arms over his face, closing his eyes and riding his orgasm with red cheeks, the feeling so good he could have screamed. His mind shut off due to the white hot intensity, and when he came to, John removed his arms from his face and caressed his sweaty curls.

He opened his eyes, and noticed no semen on him. Did John swallow? Oh god…

John's face was a beautiful mixture of fondness and arousal. "Did you like that, Sherlock?" He wasn't teasing, Sherlock noticed fuzzily. He was genuinely asking.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you," he said, feeling bashful. His penis was in John's mouth. He never felt so exposed and vulnerable and safe and cared for.

John kissed his cheek. "You don't have to thank me. You were stunning."

Sherlock looked down and saw John's erection tenting in his boxers. "Let me take care of you," Sherlock said.

John looked down at his groin. "It won't take much," he admitted with a small giggle.

Sherlock smiled. "What do you want, John?"

John breathed heavily through his nose. "I want to-Here." He quickly shimmied out of his boxers.

Sherlock looked at his cock, completely hard and red at the tip. If he hadn't just had the most intense orgasm of his life, he was sure he would have been aroused at the sight. John actually looked a little nervous. "Can you…" He put his hands down on the cushions, holding himself up, hovering over Sherlock. "Hold on." He reached back and put a glob of lube on his palm, stroking it over his dick, his eyelids fluttering.

Sherlock would have helped out, but he was barely functioning after the blow job. Did normal people feel like this after blow jobs?

John lowered himself slightly. "Press your thighs together."

Sherlock did, watching John.

John slid his slick cock between the tight hold of Sherlock's warm thighs, groaning. He looked at Sherlock, "Can I? Is this okay?"

"Do whatever you'd like, John," he told him sincerely, and cupped John's jaw to bring their lips together. John began thrusting in between his thighs, his arms shaking, hips snapping quickly. Sherlock held John's biceps, kissing him deeply. After a few thrusts, John was panting too hard to kiss anymore, and curses falling from his lips Sherlock watched, transfixed, as John's mouth formed a perfect O, his eyes fell shut, and wet heat hit the inside of Sherlock's thighs. John's long, deep moan washed over Sherlock and he stroked John's arms, kissing his jaw. He felt the strength leaving John's muscles, so he wrapped his arms around him and lowered him to his chest, hand petting his hair as John caught his breath in the crook of his neck.

John said something muffled, so Sherlock asked, "Pardon?"

John turned his face toward Sherlock, a goofy, almost drunken smile on his lips. "I told you it wouldn't take long."

Sherlock chuckled, his voice rich and content. "You were rather fast."

"I may have touched myself while I was working on you."

The image of John touching himself made Sherlock's cock stir with interest, drawing both of their attention. They looked at each other blankly, then giggled.

"Already?" John asked giddily.

"Just ignore it," Sherlock said, his cheeks pink.

"I'm rather flattered." John rolled off Sherlock onto his side, just barely fitting. They were really too big for the sofa, but neither felt like moving. "I think I made a mess on you," John said, looking apologetic.

Sherlock spread his thighs and looked down at the sticky mess. He kissed John's forehead. "John, I love you, but if you wouldn't mind, I think I'm going to wipe this off."

John snickered. "Be my guest. Hurry back."

Sherlock got up, legs feeling a little wobbly, and wiped himself off in the bathroom. He checked on Billie, and upon seeing her safe in the crib, he went into the sitting room. John was pulling up his boxers and smoothing out his white T-shirt. With his hair sweaty and rumpled, he looked adorable and sexy, filling Sherlock's being with fire. "Can we go to bed? I nearly fell off the couch."

John's eyes roamed his naked body unabashedly. "That's because you're a bloody giraffe, but sure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not very tall. You're just short."

"Oi," John glared as he got up. "Don't think I won't kick your arse just because I sucked you off."

Sherlock giggled gleefully. "I love your height," he said, stepping forward. "It allows me to hold you completely."

John's faux glare turned into a soft grin. He laughed through his nose. "Okay. Let's go to bed, you sap."

"I am not," he denied halfheartedly.

"Yeah, you are," John took his hand.

They went to bed, kissing under the blankets and talking softly, aware of Billie's slumbering form just a few feet away. Sated from the blow job, Sherlock yawned and nuzzled into John's chest, letting sleep take him as John rubbed his back soothingly.

"Love you," John murmured right as Sherlock was about to drop off.

Sherlock tried to say it back, but he thought it came out mumbled, because John chuckled after. No matter. Sleep now.


The days passed in a strange mixture of lazy anxiety; they didn't have much to do, hanging around the flat, but they never relaxed fully. Sherlock and John spent their time occupying themselves with Billie and kissing each other, when they were home. John went to work on Monday and Tuesday and all went well.

Sherlock was not reassured.

Around noon on Wednesday, Sherlock was home alone with Billie. He was standing by the window with her, pointing down to people on the sidewalk, and telling her all of his deductions. She clung to his shirt and sucked her fingers.

Sherlock saw a police car pull up and Lestrade exit the vehicle. "What's he doing here?" he asked Billie. "I told Mycroft to inform him of everything." He saw Lestrade knock on the door downstairs, and a minute later Mrs. Hudson let him in. Sherlock sighed and unlocked the front door, taking a few steps back.

Lestrade entered, a large file in his hand, eyes widening and brightening at the sight of Billie. "Hey, you!"

Sherlock groaned, "For god's sake, why are you here? Did Mycroft not inform you of my situation?"

"He did," Lestrade nodded. "Well, vaguely. He said you and John won't be taking cases because you've got to deal with Mary, and don't want to leave the baby alone."

"Pretty much," Sherlock said. "Shut the door and lock it, please."

"Oh, right," Lestrade turned around and did it.

Billie cooed.

Lestrade turned back. "Yeah, well, I have a cold case for you. I figured you'd get bored sitting around the flat, so, here." He held it out.

Sherlock shifted Billie so he was holding her with one arm and took it suspiciously. "Why? You never give me case files unless it's to shut me up because I'm bothering you."

Lestrade looked sheepish. "What, can't friends help friends?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"Okay," Lestrade sighed in defeat. "I just wanted to check up on you. You look a lot better than the last time I saw you, though."

Sherlock allowed himself to smile. "Yes, well…" He should tell Lestrade about his relationship with John. He'd want to know. "John and I-I think you would say-sorted out our shit."

Lestrade grinned. "Really? Is that why he's living here?"

"That, and for Billie's safety."

"Oh, is that her name?" Lestrade looked at her.

"Of course it's her name. Who else would I be talking about?"

Billie tugged on one of Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock gently removed her hand. "No, no, your fingers are covered in saliva."

Lestrade snorted. "Wow. You actually look...pretty natural with her."

Sherlock was pleased with this. "I should hope so."

Lestrade was smiling brightly in a way that made Sherlock a little embarrassed. "So," Lestrade put his hands in his pockets, "you're finally with John?"

"Please," Sherlock glared at him, and walked with Billie back to the window.

"What? I'm just asking."

"We're together," Sherlock confirmed, holding back a smile. "He…" His eyes widened. "You told him to come over here."

"I did," Lestrade nodded, "after you left my office. I basically told him he needed to get up off his arse and go see you, because you weren't well."

Sherlock wondered how much longer he and John would have been apart, how much longer John would have been panicking every day under Mary's roof, if Lestrade hadn't intervened. "Thank you," he said.

Lestrade waved a hand. "It was nothing. So, you two are officially, permanently together?"

"I hope it's permanent."

"I'm sure it will be." He looked genuinely happy. "I'm really glad for you, Sherlock. You're practically glowing."

Sherlock grinned. "It appears John has that effect on me. And Billie."

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock's phone rang in his trouser pocket. He tried fishing it out, but the trousers were tight, so he asked Lestrade, "Hold her for a moment?"

"Of course," Lestrade said, taking Billie and smiling at her. "Hello, dear."

Sherlock got the phone out of his pocket and blinked in confusion at the unknown number. He usually didn't answer unknown numbers, but something in his gut made him unlock the touchscreen and answer.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"You're Sherlock Holmes?" and unknown female voice asked.

"I just said so," Sherlock said tiredly.

Her voice went steadily on, cool and professional. "I'm from the Royal London Hospital, and you're the emergency contact for John Watson."

An ice block dropped into Sherlock's stomach.

"Come here, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson has been shot and is going into surgery."

His brain was frozen but his mouth spoke, "Where was he shot?"

"The thigh, near the femoral artery. He's lost a lot of blood, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade's hand was gripping his shoulder, and he was calling his name.

"I'll be there," Sherlock said into the phone, every vein in his body filling with panic.