John woke up with the distinct feeling of being a hot dog pressed between two very warm sides of a bun.

He opened his eyes to see red hair fanned out in front of him, and his brain was trying to process the idea that Sherlock had somehow dyed it when he felt an arm around his waist tighten.

"Mary's still sleeping."

Sherlock's voice behind him was low, and he shifted minutely to be able to look behind him. Sherlock looked as awake as he ever did. John's head turned back and he realized...

Oh...

Mary. Mary was here. In his bed. Mary was curled up in front of him, her back pressed against his front. She was sleeping, breath even and deep and comforting. It was still something of a shock, seeing her there.

"Sherlock." John turned his head back to stare at the man behind him. "What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock shrank down a bit, as though trying to hide himself. "I... I had a nightmare. Mary told me... She said it was OK, she said-"

John nodded, cutting Sherlock off. "Yes, yes, it's fine... I'm just... tired still. Sorry." He slumped back down, head burying itself halfway into the pillow as he tried to remember everything about last night.

It had been his and Mary's third, "proper," date. They'd gone to a movie, and afterwards come back to 221B. John had opened a bottle of wine...

He frowned, the chanced a peek under the duvet. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of thin pajama bottoms. Mary was wearing a camisole and a pair of shorts.

He sighed, relieved. Well at least Sherlock hadn't come in when they'd been...

Mary shifted, rolling over and blinking. She smiled lazily at John. "Morning."

He grinned. "Morning to you." Then he canted his head backwards. "You should say good morning, Sherlock."

There was a mumbled greeting from John's back, and Mary laughed quietly. "Good morning, Sherlock. Feeling better?"

"Mmfyesss."

John nuzzled his nose into Mary's cheek. "So. Nightmare, was it?"

Mary looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I think he just... missed you."

John sighed. Over the last few weeks, life had become a balancing act he wasn't entirely certain he was ready for, but I'll be damned if I give up either one of them, and some days it felt perfect and right and natural, and other days it felt like his every step was wrong, even though neither Mary nor Sherlock complained.

That was always the worst of it, really. The quiet acceptance of his short comings. The smiles and head shakes and murmurings of No, it's fine, don't worry about it, next time.

It was days like that which made mornings like this something special, something to hold onto for the rest of his life.

He stretched his legs out a bit, groaning in relief. "God, I could go for some coffee."

"Sounds lovely." Mary leaned over, kissed his cheek, then sat up, stretching her arms over her head as she got out of bed. "Be a dear and make us some. I need a shower."

John laughed, letting his hands rest on Sherlock's for a moment. "Come on then. What do you want for breakfast?"

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Pancakes."

John nodded. "Right. Let's get to it then."

They made their way downstairs, and Sherlock walked straight into his room to grab his blue housecoat. John started the coffee, and then grabbed the ingredients for pancakes. "Why don't you play something for me?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not that good yet."

John smiled at him. "Humor me? I don't care how good it is. I just want to hear what you've been doing at those classes you've been taking. Mycroft was impressed." John gave him a mock-hurt expression. "How come he gets to hear you play?"

Sherlock tried to look indignant, but it gave way rather quickly to a smile. "Alright."

He stepped through the kitchen and into the living room as Mary walked in, towel and robe in hand. She kissed John once more, then strode into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower started, and John grinned at the eggs he was cracking into the mixing bowl.

A few moments later, just as he was heating the griddle and double checking the pancake batter, the soft sounds of a musical scale wafted through the open doorway. He closed his eyes as he listened to Sherlock drawing his bow across the violin's strings for the first time since...

He wiped at his face. It wasn't Bach, or Vivaldi, or Tchaikovsky. But it was definitely the most beautiful sound in the world, right then.

He set to work pouring the batter out, just the way his mum had shown him when he was little, a Watson Family Sunday Morning Tradition he was happy to be able to put to use finally. Sunday mornings in the Watson household had been good, once. Before his dad was laid off, and took up drinking like it was his next paying job. Before his sister had been Harry, back when she was Harriet, back when they'd gotten along and had cared about each other more than anyone else in the world. Before his mum had been in that accident, the one that put her in a wooden box six feet deep.

The music cut off suddenly, and John looked 'round to see Sherlock staring at him.

"You're crying."

John swiped at his face - he was indeed. "It's... it's nothing, Sherlock. Don't worry."

"You're sad."

John licked his lips. "No, I'm actually quite happy. It's the sad memories that make me realize how lucky I am right now."

Sherlock stepped closer, fidgeting a bit. John set the mixing bowl down, then held out his arms.

Sherlock was in them within a moment, clinging tightly.

"I don't want you to be sad."

"Everyone's sad, sometimes."

"But I don't want you to be."

"I know." John rubbed little circles on his back. "If it helps, your music makes me very happy."

Sherlock pulled away a bit, smiling shyly. "Then I'll play for you. Every day."

John smiled and let a hand come up to Sherlock's cheek, his thumb brushing over the almost comically pronounced bone there. "Only if you want to."

Sherlock nodded, then stepped away. He raced back to his violin, picking it up and grabbing his bow. He cocked his head, nodded to himself, and got into position.

The sound was lovely, and not something John recalled. It was simple but beautiful, and was definitely something Sherlock would have deemed beneath his use before. But now, it was perfect.

Mary stepped out of the bathroom as John was dishing up a large stack of pancakes, towel wrapped around her head to keep her hair out of her face and bathrobe pulled tightly around her. "Oh, John, that smells divine."

He grinned as she made her way through. "There's coffee, too."

"You're a saint." She winked at him, then paused between the kitchen and the living room, watching Sherlock. When he finished the piece, she clapped. "That was lovely."

Sherlock blushed and mumbled his thanks, looking quite chuffed. Mary grinned, then went upstairs to get dressed.

Sherlock placed his violin back in it's case, carefully making sure everything was just so. He flopped into a chair at the table and pulled the plate of pancakes closer. John handed him butter and syrup, and he smiled as he set about fixing them precisely as he liked them. John readied another plate, and a cup of coffee, and set them out before turning back to ready his own plate.

A moment later, Mary had joined them, her hair brushed and pulled back, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans. They ate quietly, John getting up every few minutes to check on the pancakes still cooking, and flip them as needed.

Sherlock ended up having a second large helping, which made John extremely happy. He'd lost a bit of weight after John's time in the hospital, so seeing him regain his appetite was rather pleasing.

Mary giggled as Sherlock tried stuff what John would have described as an astronomically absurd helping into his mouth, and Sherlock had to chew very, very carefully as John chided him and tried not to laugh too much. Sherlock was, of course, entirely unrepentant.

When breakfast was finished, Mary insisted on doing the washing up, and John argued only a little before he finally gave in and went to grab their paper. Headlines were rather boring, but the crossword was always something he could find enjoyment from.

His phone chimed just as he stepped back into the sitting room, and he wandered over to find it sitting on the desk next to his laptop.

[Domesticity suits you all, John. -MH]

John shook his head. [You're welcome to join us next Sunday morning. -JW]

He waited, thinking that the reply would come fast. It didn't, and he shrugged, bringing it with him to the couch. He settled in with a pencil, ready to have Sherlock - or possibly Mary, even - telling him every answer. His phone chimed before he'd even finished reading the first clue.

[I can't tell you how touched I am by that invitation, John. I do sincerely appreciate it. I may even take you up on it. Are you free? I'd like to talk for a moment. -MH]

John looked around. Sherlock was detailing to Mary his recent findings on the effectiveness of dish soaps in conjuncture with their relative viscosities and concentration of natural agents. He sighed softly, then stepped out and went downstairs.

Once he was outside, he pressed the call button.

"John, how good to hear from you."

John snorted. "You asked me to call, I'm calling. What can I do for you?"

Mycroft was quiet a moment, and John pulled the phone away from his ear to check that he hadn't dropped the call somehow.

"I wanted to thank you."

"What for?"

"For... allowing me the chance to continue being a presence in Sherlock's life."

"I... what? Why wouldn't you, I... Mycroft..."

"I was... concerned, at one point. You had made... suggestions, that if I didn't back down-"

"No, hang on, that's not, no. You were... you were trying to get me to sign paperwork that took me out of Sherlock's life!" John grit his teeth and tried not to yell. "I was angry and defensive-"

"And not once were you even the least bit tempted, were you?"

John took a deep breath. "Of course I was. But only the least bit. Sherlock... he's special. He's worth every ounce of aggravation."

"He looks to you as though you are God, John."

John licked his lips. "Well... I'm practically his parent, these days. What's the saying? 'Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children,' or something like that?"

"Indeed. And his faith in you is exactly that - he has faith like a child in everything that you are, John Watson."

John was silent as the words sunk in. "Do you think... Mycroft, can I do this? Really?"

There was quiet on the line for several moments as John waited for a reply.

"I believe, John, that you are capable of anything. You've proven as such in the time since Sherlock's fall-" And there it was, the one thing John had avoided naming as much as possible, though it made no real difference. And now that Mycroft had said it, John realized it no longer carried the weight it had held once. "-and were I not one hundred percent certain of you before that... well. No need to think on that."

John nodded in silent agreement.

"I hope you don't mind, but I'll be by this evening. I have a few more papers I would like you to sign."

"Which are?"

"Guardianship paperwork."

John's eyes went wide. "What?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Really, John, are you so surprised? You have rights to obtain medical and legal assistance in Sherlock's name, and you have access to his trust fund. The only thing left, really, is to sign over full guardianship of my brother."

"But why-"

"Because you are his guardian, John, do keep up. There is, of course, one small proviso."

"Alright."

"I still wish to be permitted a chance to spend time with my brother."

"You... you want visitation rights?"

"Precisely."

John sniffled a bit and ran the back of his hand over his eyes. "Of course, you prat."

Mycroft laughed out loud this time. "Your use of such terms never fails to amuse. I'll be by at... shall we say seven tonight?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Come and stay for dinner. Bring Cherise, or the whole thing's off."

"You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Watson."

"Same, Mr. Holmes."

The line went dead, and John sighed. Full guardianship. Was he ready for this?

Before he could move, the doorbell rang. He heard Mrs. Hudson's door opening. "I'll get it, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh, John! Thank you!"

He opened the door to see DI Lestrade standing on the stoop.

"Oh, John, sorry, you're..." Lestrade took in John's appearance. "...not dressed."

"Come in." John stepped back, and Lestrade hurried in. "What's wrong?"

"Got a case I thought might interest you and Sherlock." He handed John a folder. "Locked door murders, four of 'em. And at each one, we found these." Lestrade plucked several photos from the folder. John looked at them. In each, there was a ripped-off corner of a playing card: A, 2, 3. "We found the fourth one this morning." He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a picture. A ripped 4 was on the floor near the body.

"Serial murderer?"

Lestrade gave a half-shrug. "Looks like. But I was hoping..."

John nodded. "Yeah, course. Let me get dressed. Text me the address."

Lestrade nearly bowed. "Thank you."

John let him out, then smiled.

"Sherlock! We've got a case!"

His life was mad, hectic, dangerous, and certainly not what he'd ever expected.

But he could have this. He could have all of this. And he could make it work.


FIN.