The Watsons were having a quiet breakfast when Sherlock flew into the kitchen the next morning, blue dressing gown flapping behind him.
"Coffee, I need coffee", he muttered and stared at the counter with wild eyes.
"Sorry, we only have tea. Water is still hot. You could make some instant coffee if you like", John said around a spoon of cereal.
"Instant? Pah! I might as well drink tar", Sherlock muttered in disgust but he still made himself a cup with twice as many spoons of coffee beans as a normal serving would use. He stirred the brown mush vigorously, and then he spun around and fixed John with his calculating stare.
"Are you sick?" he snapped.
John looked a bit surprised.
"Noo... Do I look sick?"
"You're not frying eggs."
"Again: no. I'm eating cereal. Why? Do you want eggs?"
"You always fry eggs on Sundays."
"I didn't feel like it today," John shrugged and took another mouthful of Cheerios.
"You're supposed to fry eggs!"
Sherlock's voice had a touch of hysteria to it. John carefully put down his spoon.
"How many patches?"
Sherlock bounced up on down on his heels, absentmindedly scratching himself along neck and shoulders.
"Hm? What? Oh, eight."
"Eight!?"

John's sudden cry made Ham look up from his massacre of a half a dozen biscuits, eyes all curious.
"Yes. Eight. I do hate to repeat myself: eight!"
The doctor bolted up from the table and caught Sherlock in his stride, the blue dressing gown billowing out behind them.
"Ouch! What are you doing?"
"Off! Take the sodding dressing gown off!"
They struggled for a minute, all aggravated huffs and ungraceful shows, before John managed to drag the silken fabric from lanky arms. He dived in and managed to get Sherlock into a headlock. They got Ham's full attention now. The little boy laughed loudly and clapped his hands at the show.
"There's only six on your arms. Where's the rest?" John panted.
"Let me go! Have you gone mad?"
"Where are the rest, Sherlock?" John repeated with stress on every word. Ham cheered.
"On my chest", Sherlock managed to squeeze out, "All right? Aaaaah!"
The surprised cry echoed around the kitchen as John (with little to no calms about comfort) tore off five nicotine patches in rapid succession. Left in their place were angry red spots on milky skin.
"Are you always this violent with your patients?" Sherlock spat out and rubbed at the sore spots when John had released him.
"Only the barking crazy ones."
"I need those, I'm on a case!"
"You'll need a pulse better. What were you trying to do? Poison yourself? No! Wait, don't answer that one. I don't want to know."

John pushed him down into a chair and handed him a piece of cotton and a small bottle.
"Soothing lotion. Use it while I fry you some eggs."
"I don't want eggs!" Sherlock said with an irritated huff while he opened the bottle.
"And yet, you're going to eat them", John answered with his Stern Voice.
A small and sticky hand patted Sherlock's arm. He looked up into Ham's friendly face studying him.
"Biss-kitt?"
A half-eaten, soggy cream cracker was offered to the detective. Absentmindedly he accepted it and popped the whole thing in his mouth, chewing twice and gulping it down. He was awarded another sticky pat on the arm and a wide smile.
"Like eggs, Schlock."

One cup of actual coffee, two toast and a generous helping of scrambled eggs later Sherlock had almost stopped shaking. If it wasn't for the fact that the thing John did to his shoulder hurt like Hell itself, he would have stopped shaking entirely.
"Is this really necessary?" he panted and tried to keep still.
"Yes," John replied absentmindedly, frowned and bent lower over the stubborn splinter embedded in pink flesh, "We don't want you to get a serious infection. Ha! I think I've got it now!"
"Aow! Leave some skin for me, if you please!"
"Look at this fellow here!" John said in triumph and held the splinter in the tweezers next to Sherlock's nose.
"Gorgeous, I'm sure. Can you please let me go now?"
"Yup. I'm just gonna clean this up, put a patch over it and..."
There he was rudely interrupted by someone knocking on the kitchen door twice and then entering without waiting for an answer.
" Hi Sherlock, did you pinch..." Greg Lestrade cut himself short and froze on the threshold.
" Oh, John! Hello mate. Long time, no see."
The initial shock of a surprise guest wore off after a second and John straightened his back.
"Hello Greg", he said calmly.
"I didn't know you would be here. Sherlock hasn't said anything. I haven't seen you since..." Greg made a vague movement with a file in the air. They both knew exactly when they last saw each other: on Sherlock's funeral. They had both been devastated but John had refused to talk to, or even look at, Greg. The consulting detective's reputation had been torn to shreds and Greg had watched that happen without interfering. As far as John was concerned it had been a betrayal: the DI had not stood up for their mutual friend at a time when he needed it most. They had not talked since. Greg had tried to call him a couple of times. He had sent a card with condolences after Mary died. John had never answered. The air in the kitchen grew very uncomfortable very quickly.

Greg scanned the scene before him: Sherlock seated at the kitchen table, dressed only in his pyjama pants and John hovering behind him in full doctor mode. A little boy seated under the table, at Sherlock's feet, playing with some plastic cups. He saw the dishes on the counter and the frying pan next to the stove. He saw the folded newspapers in the corner and the blackboard on the wall. All of it felt right. It warmed his battered old heart. Things were right in 221B this morning. He had to keep himself from smiling as wide as he wanted. He straightened up a bit and took another step in.
"Since forever, basically", he said in a cheerful tone.
"John is back", Sherlock announced in an uncharacteristic attempt to point out the obvious.
"So I see. And who is this little fellow then?" Greg said, crouched down and peered under the table. Hamish peered back and smiled at the newcomer.
"'Ello", he piped.
"Are you Hamish by any chance?"
"Djess!"
"He is two years old", Sherlock supplied. John had resumed work with his shoulder, but it hurt much less now, "He is named after me, you know."
"Really?" Greg unfolded to his full length again, "Congratulations. He is a beautiful boy."
"Yes", Sherlock said and made John give him a surprised glance.

They stood in silence as John finished with Sherlock's shoulder and handed him two small pills and a glass of water. Sherlock swallowed both pills and water without question or comment and thereby managed to baffle both Lestrade and his flatmate. They looked at each other before quickly looking away again.
"So why did you come? Not to have breakfast, I assume?" Sherlock drawled.
"What? No, no. I wondered if you had the earrings from the Trepoff case?"
"Couldn't you just call me?"
"I could, yeah, but you don't answer my calls."
"I've been thinking."
"Wonderful. I still need those earrings."
"They won't look good on you anyway."
"Sherlock!"
John had put away his medical bag and disposed of the remains of the morning's light surgery. Now he scooped Hamish up and made for the door.
"I leave you to discuss important jewellery. We're off to mrs Hudson. Sherlock, dinner at six if you want it."
"Bye bye Shlock!" Hamish called and waved over his dad's shoulder.
Grey was utterly astonished to see Sherlock smile and wave back. God, he better buy a lottery ticket on his way home!
"Bye John", he said, "And John, mate..."
John actually stopped on the threshold, with his back turned.
"It would be nice to have a pint some day. You know, just chat for a bit? Catch up?"
For a few seconds John stood completely still. He pursed his lips and reached a conclusion.
"We'll see. Bye Greg."
At least that was not a definite "no". Greg exhaled and waved back at Hamish.

John and Hamish had an unusually busy Sunday, including errands for mrs Hudson, lunch with Clara and a long excursion to the aquarium. They did not come back to the flat until it was time to start making dinner. John was rather tired at this point and shuffled slowly after his son as the toddler insisted on climbing the stairs on his own. They were halfway up when John realized what it was he was hearing: violin music coming from 221B. For a second he stood stock still and just listened with bated breath. One corner of his mouth travelled upwards without asking for permission. When was the last time he had come back to violin music? It must had been years. It must had been before Hamish was even born... He caught himself, cleared his throat and shifted his focus back on the climbing boy.

Sherlock was standing by the windows, swaying slightly with the music. He was dressed in his suit and red dressing gown. The sight made some of the thousand pieces of broken ex-army doctor heart to clench. Hamish ran straight for Sherlock's legs and threw himself at them.
"Schlock! Ello!"
"Hello Hamish. Hello John."
"Ham! Come here! We got to hang up you jacket and take off your shoes."
Hamish ran back to the door and Sherlock picked up the melody again. When the toddler was divested of his outdoor gear he went straight for his toys. John sauntered up to his flatmate and sat down on the sofa.
"Case solved then?"
"Yes. Two hours ago. We caught him with a booth full of unfolded five pound notes. Hopkins is writing up the report as we speak."
"Right. Hrrm. Congratulations."
They were silent for a few bars.
"And Greg got his earrings back?"
"Yes. I told him they wouldn't match his eyes, but he just wouldn't listen."
This brought forth a childish giggle from them both.
"Soo..." John said, leaned back and crossed his legs, "I'd never thought I come back to the flat to find you playing Dire Straits."
"Playing what?" Sherlock got that wrinkle between his eyes that he always got when other people were speaking Idiot and he could not follow.
"That thing you're playing, it's Dire Straits."
"Is it?" Sherlock looked at the Strad as if it had invented the melody on its own.
"Yeah, didn't you know?"
"It's just some song I've had in my head for weeks and can't seem to delete."
"It's the song I played that night when you tested my combat reflexes and told me not to listen to sentimental dribble. Remember?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and put the violin back on his shoulder.
"Well, some of the music has a certain complexity that is not without merit", he said quickly. He played a few bars in order to drown out John's chuckle.
"Now! Food!" he said suddenly and put the musical instrument down in its case, "Are you planning something special for dinner?"
"What? No, not really. Just some chicken and pasta..." John replied somewhat startled.
"Good. Let's go to Angelo's tonight."
Sherlock was already halfway to the door, reaching for his scarf.
"Now? With Hamish? Hang on!"
"Hamish will be fine. I'm sure Angelo will be overjoyed to see him."

Angelo was overjoyed to see them all. He beamed and hugged and fussed until John became embarrassed. Hamish was placed in a high chair and treated like royalty, with half the kitchen staff coming out to pinch his cheek and slip him treats and ice cream. Hamish himself basked in the glory and gracefully ate every sugary thing he was presented with. The rest of the patrons shot them curious glances. John did his best to ignore them. A bit helpless he looked over the candles and complimentary bottle of wine at Sherlock – only to see the detective smiling benevolently and eating a spoonful of mushroom soup. Okay. He must have fallen through the rabbit hole, but if that rabbit hole contained a Sherlock that seemed at peace with the world – a Sherlock that ate mushroom soup – then he was prepared to live with it.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was wonderful. It was dark and restful. Lights swished past them as the driver methodically worked his way northwest. Hamish snored lightly as he slept in John's arms. The grown ups looked out through their respective windows, wrapped in companionable silence. They were just a few streets from the flat, when Sherlock broke the peaceful bubble.
"John?" he mumbled quietly.
"Yes?" John shuddered off the thin cloak of near-sleep and turned to face his friend.
"That moustache? It will have to go."
John's free hand flew to his lip, lightly touching the outcome of his attempt to grow a beard.
"What? Why?"
"It makes you look ancient."
"It does not!"
"It does. I can't be seen walking around with an old man. It will have to go."
"Piss off."
"I can lend you a razor if you need it."
"Shut up."
John's face might have pouted, but the bits of his heart that had sprung to life earlier clenched again. Sherlock did not want to be seen walking around with an old man. That meant that he could consider walking around with John again. John hoped and prayed that this was not a rabbithole, but wonderful reality. Yes. God, yes. Let it be reality.