Dedicated to Hucklebarry in honor of her birthday! (Also, it's my very first Johnlock one-shot! Woohoo!)

'John, why is it that Americans are so stupid?' bemoans Sherlock, and I chuckle lightly as Rosie scampers into the room from the kitchen and hops on my lap. I sit back in my beloved armchair to give Rosie more space, and she snuggles into my chest as Sherlock resumes complaining.

'The radicals over there refuse to wear a mask and claim it's a violation of their human rights. It's so stupid! In their self-righteousness, they're killing other people in the process and increasing the worldwide death toll!'

'I wouldn't say killing, Sherlock', I reply, amused at my friend's latest rant about the Americans' refusal to comply with their government's guidelines. 'Most people recover from the coronavirus. Besides, it's not like everyone is refusing to wear a mask.'

'But they have the highest number of cases', Sherlock retorts petulantly. 'If they would just take the time to put on a mask, which isn't that hard to do, we'd all be out of this pandemic quicker and we'd get more cases. It's because of them that we're in more of a mess than we should be.' Rosie giggles at my friend's response, and I hug her tightly.

'There are people who can't wear a mask, you know. One of my patients has asthma. If she wore a mask, she'd suffocate.'

'Then tell her to not go outside. Problem solved.'

'What about groceries?'

'Get them delivered.'

'Bills?'

'Pay them online.'

'Invitations?'

'Decline them. You know this, John', he adds dispassionately. I, on the other hand, roll my eyes.

'Appointments?'

'Schedule them virtually. Don't you meet up with your patients on Zoom?' Sherlock smirks at this latest rebuttal. Rosie cranes her little head around and smiles in agreement.

I sigh, trying futilely to think of something that would stump Sherlock, but I know it's a moot point when he predictably tells me that whatever I come up with will easily have a valid argument.

'Fine', I concede good-naturedly, accepting my defeat. 'You win, as always. Listen. I'll be back in a bit. I've got to put Rosie to bed. It's her bedtime.'

'But Daddy! It's only seven!' Rosie whines, speaking for the first time since joining us.

'Rosie —' I start warningly.

'Oh, let her stay up a little more', Sherlock says with a dismissive wave of his hand, and I smile at how far my friend has come since the whole ordeal with his sister. I know my friend has a soft spot for Rosie, but I never mention this to him. Especially since her fifth birthday, he's been involving her more and more in his oftentimes questionable science experiments. He usually tries to get her to solve different beginner-level logic puzzles (which to my surprise she does brilliantly). He doesn't realise that I notice these little things, but I do. I notice how his eyes light up whenever she sits in his lap or when she makes little, almost tiny but helpful deductions whenever we're discussing a case at length in the main room. I notice how he never shoots holes these days in the wall with his revolver out of fear of scaring Rosie. I notice how excited he gets when Rosie somehow understands what he's thinking or when she reads someone's intentions so well that it blows him away. I notice how he gets upset whenever there's something wrong with her, and I notice how worried he gets whenever Rosie's sick. I notice how protective he is of her, going as far as to wash his hands at least thrice when he comes home, and I notice when he immediately rushes to her aid when she gets hurt.

I notice how Sherlock has come to regard Rosie in the same way he's regarded me for all these years: with an unyielding, undying love. In a daughterly way, of course, and in a brotherly way in my case.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock, Rosie', I say apologetically, looking into Rosie's chocolate-brown eyes, 'but the answer's no. I will not allow her to develop a bad sleeping pattern. Especially as I am a doctor.'

'Hmph!' Rosie huffs, and I fight to not laugh at her small form as she jumps down from my knee and crosses her tiny arms across her chest, sticking out her bottom lip adorably as her hair feathers onto her shoulders and sticks out at odd ends. That bit alone makes my struggle with my laughter worse.

'How about —' I begin, but Sherlock beats me to it.

'How about', he interrupts, 'I show you one of our old cases tomorrow morning in exchange for a good night's sleep?'

At this, Rosie lights up, and this time I don't hold back my chuckle.

After about a minute of thinking, she yields, 'Fine', and I sigh in relief as I stand to pick her up.

'That's a good girl', I praise as I lift her into my arms, and Rosie grins triumphantly at me. As I go up to my room to put her to sleep, I can't help but feel Sherlock's satisfaction at his small victory ebbing throughout the flat. I'll hazard a guess and say that he even felt pride in his success.

I open the door and go inside, setting her down on a little cot by my bed. I turn on the nightlight by my window, making sure the room would still be dim enough for Rosie to sleep in. I walk back to the cot and kneel in front of it, taking off her shoes and removing her socks, stuffing them back into her shoes. I help her get under the covers and card my fingers through her hair until I hear her even breathing, signalling that she has fallen asleep. I brush some hair away from her forehead and kiss it lovingly.

I leave the room and go back downstairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, writing furiously on a piece of paper.

'You're always doing something', I tell him bemusedly as I sit back down in my chair.

'Well, quarantine is making me bored. Very bored. I think Lestrade is starting to run out of cold cases for me to solve. When that happens, what am I to do?'

'Relax?' I suggest, feeling at a loss on how to help him with his latest predicament.

'Relax?' he repeats, starting to chuckle. 'Relax? You know me, I don't relax.'

'You haven't even eaten dinner today', I state flatly.

'I don't need it, it slows down my thought process.'

'You don't need to think right now', I insist. 'We are in quarantine, as you kindly pointed out just now. We're in isolation from the world. Now would be a good time to relax.'

'But I'm not tired', argues Sherlock. 'I never am.'

'Tell that to the bags under your eyes', I reply, pointing my finger at him. 'C'mon, Sherlock. Give it a rest.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'You're starting to sound like Mrs Hudson', he drawls.

I chuckle, 'Well, that's a good sign.'

We fall into a companionable silence. Looking at Sherlock's knee, I remember the night we both became hopeless drunks. The way that I not-so-hesitantly placed my hand on it. The way Sherlock's face lit up at my touch. The way we slurred our incoherent sentences as we played Headbands. It was, to be frank, not as embarrassing to remember as I thought it would be. I don't know about Sherlock, but I remember that night fondly. We were being ourselves that night. Both of our personalities were let loose by the alcohol we consumed. I noticed how Sherlock's eyes dilated quite a bit when he looked into mine, but neither of us paid any mind to it then. We just carried right on with our drunken laughter.

'That debate last night on TV was horrendous', Sherlock says suddenly, sending me a look that makes it seem he's staring into the depths of my very soul.

'You watched it?' I ask incredulously, sitting upright and leaning forward. 'I thought you weren't the political type. Especially not the American political type. And besides, wasn't it past midnight when it aired?'

Sherlock ignores my question as he replies, 'I just needed a laugh, and I figured that watching two old men debating about useless issues would do the trick. Turns out that I was wrong, for once. All they did was bicker and I ended up concluding the moderator the winner. It was boring. Absolutely boring.'

At that, I bark out a laugh.

'I did predict the bickering part', Sherlock continues, 'but I had hoped that I would be wrong and that there would be some intelligent arguments for once.'

'This is quite unlike you, Sherlock', I say as I scratch my head. 'Normally, you'd be in the kitchen, not noticing the day changes, focused completely on either a science experiment or a case.'

'2020 is not a normal year, John. Even I couldn't predict the chaos the coronavirus would bring to the world.'

'Well, on that note, I say we should have some fun', I reply.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow as I try to smile pleasantly at my friend.

'Fun? We are in quarantine, John, and there are no new cases. Unless Lestrade called you up instead of me today? We should get going, then, shouldn't we?'

I laugh again, softly this time.

'Sherlock, the definition of "fun" isn't "solving cases". There are other ways to have fun. For example, you never taught me how to waltz. I supposed that tonight would be a good night to do so.'

'Really?' asks Sherlock disbelievingly.

I nod fervently.

'Yes, really! I even got my dad's old record player and my favourite waltz record!'

'Which is?' Sherlock questions, a smile growing on his face at the prospect of doing something.

'You'll see', I huff impatiently. 'Just let me get the stuff.'

After getting the record and the record player from Mrs Hudson downstairs, I bring it back to our main room and set it down on the table by Sherlock's laptop.

I hear Sherlock muttering to himself, and I grin as I see him clearly trying to deduce the entire history of the small thing. I set the record disc on the side of the box and open the player to set it up, and I take out the disc from its record sleeve, placing it carefully on the now-opened record player.

'The Blue Danube?' asks Sherlock neutrally, crossing his arms.

'Harry and I would listen to it all the time with our mum when Dad wasn't home', I reminisce, remembering the days when my sister and I were pure and innocent. 'Harry had always dreamed of becoming some sort of dancer or classical musician before alcohol took her down a different path.'

Sherlock attempts to show sympathy by placing a hand on my shoulder, and I don't say anything as the attempt is working.

'Well, then, John', says Sherlock after a while. 'Shall I teach you how to waltz, or shall we stand here for the rest of the night to wither away to skin and bones?'

'Right', I say, 'I'll turn it on.'

I fumble a bit in my haste, but a warm feeling forms at the pit of my stomach once I hear the music start to play.

'Come on, then', says Sherlock, holding out his hand, and I sigh as I position myself.

'Just follow my lead', he adds, 'and you'll do fine. It's not too difficult to master.'

I scoff, and it's only now that I realize how close we are, but I'm strangely not uncomfortable with being in this close proximity with my best friend.

'Ready…and NOW!' cries Sherlock, and I'm caught by surprise as I'm pulled into the 1-2-3-1-2-3 movement that I had only seen in movies.

'Give me a moment before I step on your shoes!' I grumble, but Sherlock ignores me and continues to take me all over the main room, elegantly avoiding the messy stacks of paper and different, vibrantly-coloured toys strewn on the ground while helping me avoid them too in the process. I really should have cleaned up the area before suggesting this, but oh, well. Nothing I can do to change that now.

As we dance, I stumble and fall into Sherlock, but he just rights me and keeps going. Until now, I didn't realise just how relaxed I'd feel or how giddy dancing would've made me, but now I feel like I have no limits. I feel freer than I have felt before.

Taking the dance more seriously, I make an effort to follow along with Sherlock, and I don't care about the butterflies that are elicited as my friend smiles in approval. I take care to not fall over my armchair as Sherlock spins me around in an extravagant twirl, and we ignore Mrs Hudson's smothered chuckle as she checks on us and leaves.

'You're doing a good job, John. Especially for the first time', comments Sherlock two minutes later.

'Maybe you're a good teacher, Sherlock. Ever thought of that?'

'No, but now you mention it —'

I let out an undignified yelp as I trip over Sherlock's feet and fall. I feel my cheeks heat up as Sherlock catches me and rights me a second time.

'It's fine', I mutter, turning away in my embarrassment. The giddiness I was feeling just now drains out of my system completely. 'It's not like I was cut out for dancing anyway.'

'But you were doing so well, John!' says Sherlock, his encouragement sounding a bit uncharacteristic to my ears. 'Besides, we've still got three minutes left.'

'But I tripped!'

'And I don't care. You should know me by now after almost eleven years of friendship.'

Eleven years? Has it already been eleven years? God.

'Eleven years…' I trail off in awe. 'We've been best friends for eleven years —'

'Ten years, eight months, and one day', corrects Sherlock reflexively, using this opportunity to get me into a dancing position again.

'You — you've been counting?' I ask, my eyes widening as Sherlock starts leading me across the room once more.

'Of course not, do you think I have time for it?' replies my friend dismissively, his face flushing at his accidental admission. 'I have better things to do than — than count. I just happen to have a superior memory recall.'

At that, I snigger.

'Admit it, Sherlock! You've been counting!'

'I have not.'

'You know you have. I think that's nice, to be frank.'

'Whatever you say, John.'

I look into Sherlock's eyes once more, and I see that they're burning with affection. I smile at my friend warmly, gradually losing sight of my surroundings as I focus on his ice-blue irises.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm pressing my lips onto his own, and I hear him gasp lightly. For a moment, I'm afraid of what Sherlock will think of my forwardness, but as I try to break away, I feel his hand slide into my hair and keep my head in place. It's not until the music stops that I realize exactly what I'm doing.

I jump off of Sherlock like he's a hot iron, and I start apologizing to my friend profusely.

'Oh, God', I say, running a hand over my face. 'I am so sorry. I don't know what the hell came over me, but it was an accident, I swear.'

Sherlock smirks, placing a finger under my chin and tilting my head up.

'Didn't mean to? Hmm. Then I suppose that this will be an accident, too.'

Sherlock moves forward and kisses me again, effectively washing away any doubt I had before.

I don't know when I stopped caring about whether I was straight. It just happened. But now, as Sherlock holds me close to him and explores my mouth, I'm happy that the burden of my insecurities no longer exists.

Once we pull away, Sherlock rests his forehead on mine. We stand there for a long time, and it's now that I start to think about what my impulse will mean for the future.

'This won't change things', says Sherlock after a while, voicing my thoughts. 'People won't be surprised. Mrs Hudson will be very happy.'

'Yeah, she definitely will be', I reply with a smile.

'But I thought you weren't gay, John.' Sherlock doesn't sound confused as he tells me this. It's more knowing; it's as if he knew that I wasn't straight long before I did (which he probably did, knowing the bastard). There's even a hint of an accusation in there. Lord knows how many times I said the words, 'I'm not gay!' when someone suggested I was.

'I'm not', I say because the point still stands. 'I loved Mary.'

'Yes, your love for her was undoubtedly real. There's no question about that. Which means that you're bisexual.'

I roll my eyes.

'Does it matter, Sherlock? Does my sexuality really matter? Does any of it matter?'

A sigh escapes Sherlock's mouth as his arms dangle lazily from my shoulders.

'No, it doesn't. But are you sure?'

The question catches me off guard. Since when does Sherlock ask things like, 'Are you sure?'

'Sure about what?' I ask, starting to feel confused at what he's alluding to.

'This', he says, gesturing to our current position.

My eyebrows furrow.

'Why wouldn't I be sure?'

Embarrassment starts to creep up my veins again as I add, 'Do you not return my feelings?'

'No, I return them', my friend replies. 'I have for a while now.'

'Then? There's nothing more to it.'

Sherlock steps away from me as he runs a hand through his thick curls.

'I…'

I cross my arms, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

'Mary. What about Mary?'

'What does Mary have to do with this?' I ask slowly, not knowing where this is going. Sherlock seems to struggle with his answer as he paces back and forth, and I don't know what to make of it. It's a rare occurrence for my friend to be so unsure about something.

'It's my fault she's no longer alive. If it weren't for me, she wouldn't have done what she did.'

I walk over to my friend and place a hand on his shoulder. In an extremely rare show of vulnerability, Sherlock hangs his head in shame; this shakes me to my very core.

'I can't replace her, John. I don't want to replace her', Sherlock admits, his voice slightly shaky. It reminds me of how his voice wavered when he faked his death.

'You were so angry at me after she died…you refused to speak to me for days, and when I came to see if you were all right, Molly sent me off, saying that you didn't want to see my face. How could I take Mary's place when it's my fault she's dead? When I was the one who broke my promise to protect her? Because of me, Rosie doesn't have a mother. I know you'll be surprised to hear this, but I do understand the importance of a mother in a child's life. Sometimes, when I'm with Rosie, she says that she wishes she could've met her mother. She misses Mary and she doesn't even have a proper recollection of her.'

In that moment, everything clicks into place. I finally understand why Sherlock takes such good care of Rosie and why he's always so loving towards her. It's why he's taken every precaution to make sure she doesn't get hurt. It's why he hasn't picked up his revolver in almost a year, even when we were solving cases, and it's why he's started to make an effort to be emotionally understanding towards her, more than anyone else.

His motivation, I realise now, has always been sheer guilt.

For the past five years, it was because of guilt.

I don't know why it's such a shock to me when I come to this realisation. Of course he felt guilt. I'm so stupid! Just because — according to him — he's a high-functioning sociopath, doesn't mean he actually is one. Goddamn it, he was probably feeling this way even after he saved his sister. Even after we got back to our normal lives, the guilt must've been persistent.

Fuck, maybe I'm the one who's clueless about emotions.

I turn Sherlock towards me and pull him into a fierce embrace.

'If it's the guilt you're worried about, Sherlock, you needn't worry. I forgave you a long time ago.' I try to emphasise the mention of forgiveness because I don't want Sherlock to feel guilty anymore. He doesn't need to carry this unnecessary strain on his shoulders.

Sherlock says nothing as he tentatively places his arms around me.

'You're my best friend, Sherlock', I add. 'It has nothing — absolutely nothing — to do with replacing Mary.'

I hug him tighter, for never has Sherlock been so open about his feelings before.

'Would she be okay with it?' asks Sherlock anxiously, and my heart breaks at my friend's concern.

'I'd like to think she would be', I reply quietly. I don't mention why, though, because I'm sure that Sherlock understands.

I'm proven right when he responds with, 'Because she didn't want me to die a second time.'

The reminder that Mary knew that I wouldn't be able to function without Sherlock makes tears sting at my eyes. God, Mary knew me better than I knew myself. She was the one who convinced me to forgive Sherlock after his unexpected return to the living. She was the one who pulled me out of my hole of despair, for Christ's sake. Of course she knew.

She always knew.

My stomach starts to churn as Sherlock places his hand on my cheek and brushes away a stray tear.

'Then can I kiss you again?'

Sherlock, for once, looks completely, undeniably human; his eyes are hopeful, and there's a hint of a smile playing on his lips. I feel a rush of memories as I get a better view of his face. I remember the day we met. The day we looked at our first crime scene. The day we had our first chase. The day 'we' became 'I'. The day 'I' became a different kind of 'we'. The day 'we' became 'three'. The day of my wedding. The day 'three' became 'four'. The day 'four' became a different kind of 'three'. The day we learned that there was a third Holmes. The day we nearly died because of this third Holmes.

No matter what was happening, Sherlock was there (except for the time he was 'dead'). Through it all, we were the only ones to not change. We stuck with each other through thick and thin. He was there when I needed him and I was there when he needed me. We had our spats and our arguments. Hell, sometimes we wanted to kill each other. But we managed to find the surface and be the best of friends once more.

The fact of the matter is that we do, in fact, love each other, and I don't know why it took me so long to come to this simple conclusion.

I make my decision. Looking at my friend, I murmur, 'Yes.'

As soon as his lips meet mine, I, quite literally, start drowning in my euphoria. It's different from the first kiss. It's less eager, and it's more accommodating. I can feel the lingering bits of Sherlock's fear because he doesn't try to take things too quickly. Our kiss gradually becomes more passionate, more ardent; he slips his tongue inside, and I find myself wondering how he managed to get so good at kissing. We soon find ourselves on the sofa with me on top of him.

We only stop whatever it is we're doing because I need oxygen. I take a huge gulp of air, and the sound it makes evokes a fit of giggles to start between the two of us.

I'm brought back to the night Sherlock and I shared a laugh — which was not too different from the one we're sharing now — at the bottom of the staircase after our first chase together. Had that really happened eleven years ago? I still can't wrap my head around it, for it feels like it was just yesterday that I had dinner with the mysterious man who could somehow tell my entire life story with a single glance.

'We've been through a lot, haven't we?' I ask with a reflective tone.

'Mmm', responds Sherlock. I feel an arm draped over my back.

'I can't believe it — eleven years.'

'Ten years, eight months, and one day', corrects Sherlock again, starting to rake his fingers through my hair. I can almost feel his smirk as his chin rests on my head.

'You know what I mean!' I say, getting up and throwing a playful punch at my friend. I smile when Sherlock laughs again.

'You can be so dull sometimes. Where's the fun in rounding up when you can do the math?'

'Not everyone is as easily bored as you, Sherlock', I counter, sending him a smug look.

'And not everyone is as understanding as you, John', Sherlock replies.

'And not everyone is as extraordinary as you, Sherlock', I say, deciding to keep up this little game that has somehow sprung about.

'And', says Sherlock, moving closer to me, 'not everyone is as — endearing — as you…John.'

My friend grimaces at his usage of 'endearing', and I shake my head in amusement as I pull him in for another kiss.

'I love you too, Sherlock', I tell my friend a little sarcastically as I break the kiss. I run a hand through his hair and rub his back affectionately.

'I love you, too.'

FIN.