The clouds were threatening to break. Heavy and grey, yet so soft it was as if rain could dissolve through them at any point. The late-August breeze was not harsh or cold. Instead it carried a warmth, clinging to the last few days of summer that would soon give way to dying leaves and cooler mornings. Sherlock stood looking out across the London skyline, his arms folded and resting in front of him on the safety railing of the rooftop. He could see Magnussen's building in the distance, and the scar on his torso began to ache. The breeze fanned his dark curls, lifting them out of his eyes, allowing the gloomy clouds to dull their blueness. He glanced over the edge, looking down to the pavement below; the Bee Gees Stayin' Alive played on loop in his head and he felt Moriarty's breath against his ear – the smell of his cologne. He stepped back, shaking away the unwelcome memory, before looking behind him to the group of excited children running back and forth, the monotonous hum of chattering adults and the faint beat of pop music.
Margaux placed a tray of sandwiches on the picnic table, gesturing for the group of mums to help themselves. She looked across the rooftop garden, past the small nook of grass and flowers where the children played, past the seating area where Rose was introducing herself to Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mr and Mrs Holmes, past the posts strewn with birthday banners and balloons, to the far corner where Sherlock stood. Alone. She made her way over and stopped at his side, leaning her arms on the railing as he did, looking out over London.
"I should mention that when I decided to have Vaughan's party on the roof of my building, I swear the symbolism of your untimely death didn't cross my mind," she said "Well maybe it did. Just once." She looked up at him. "Could have called it a Moriparty."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"It's like Moriarty and Party–"
"Yes, Margaux I got the joke. What I find funnier is how easily you're able to amuse yourself."
She bit her lip to suppress a smirk. Sherlock looked down at her, trying not to smirk too.
They looked over their shoulders to see John and Mary walking through the door from the stairwell, watching as they made their way over to Mr and Mrs Holmes, never once speaking to each other, not even walking side by side. Margaux turned her attention to the table of mothers as they looked in her direction and whispered to one another.
"Oh by the way," said Margaux, turning back to Sherlock. "I was wondering if you could maybe… crank up the sociopath, just for a few hours, and charm the hell out of the mums from the nursery. For me?"
"Certainly, what tier of charm would you like?" He replied before snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her in close, using his other hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Hm, a few notches down."
He released his grip of her waist, instead placing his hand gently on the back of her neck and rubbing his thumb softly back and forth against her skin. He slipped the other hand in the pocket of his trousers, looking down at her and smiling kindly.
"That's perfect." She smiled back as they began walking slowly across the rooftop. "I'm only asking you to do this because they're all snobs–"
"Well we should introduce them to Mycroft."
"Sh." She nudged him gently. "But really, I just need them to see you and like you and then maybe they'll stop thinking of me as that woman who had a secret love affair with that detective–"
"Say no more." He gave the back of her neck a reassuring squeeze before letting go and allowing her to walk ahead.
"How is everyone?" She asked as she approached the table, noticing their eyes landing on Sherlock as he stood a few steps behind. "Oh, I don't think any of you have met Vaughan's father; everyone this is Sherlock."
Sherlock stepped forward and extended his arm smoothly, allowing just the right amount of smile to reach his eyes. "Pleasure."
"Oh, hello." One of the women shook his hand. It was as if Sherlock's touch had melted her, just a little. "You know, it's funny. Whenever I see it in the papers, I always think what a strange name Sherlock is. But now I've met you, I think it suites you well."
Sherlock smiled. "Well, what can I say," he began, placing his hand on the small of Margaux's back. "We're partial to a unique name in this family."
Margaux looked up and laughed politely at his perfectly friendly, perfectly charming, perfectly delivered joke. Trying to ignore the shudder she felt as she watched him so easily pretend to adore her; touching her, enjoying her, calling them a family. She wondered if it was killing him. If he couldn't wait to drag his hand away, if his face was hurting from smiling, if he couldn't wait until it was all over.
III
The children sat in a small circle on the false grass, tucking into birthday cake and sporting their colourful, pointed party hats. It was the first time Sherlock had watched Vaughan in the company of other children his age, and it was the first time he had truly realised how advanced his two-year-old son really was. Vaughan sat amongst the other toddlers talking to them in full, clear sentences while they stared back at him blankly, he ate his cake neatly, using a napkin to wipe icing away from his own mouth, and he was quieter than the other children; calm and reserved.
"Our son is a genius," Sherlock said plainly, as if he were stating a fact as absolute as the colour of the sky.
"Of course he is, we all think so," said Mrs Holmes.
"No, mother, I'm not talking like the parents who are so blinded by love that they believe their positively average child is extraordinary. Vaughan is a genius. We should have him evaluated."
"Should have you evaluated," Mary muttered under her breath.
"Hm?"
"Nothing." She smiled.
"You were always so very bright, Sherlock," said Mr Holmes. "But with that came a lot of emotion – such a sensitive child."
"What? Sherlock? Really?" John quipped.
"Oh yes, he was a lovely boy," said Mrs Holmes.
Margaux turned to the children, noticing Rose's four-year-old daughter wedging a Skittle up Vaughan's nose. She looked over at Rose who had noticed too.
"Lila, no sweets up Vaughan's nose please," she called over.
Lila pulled the Skittle out of his nostril and placed it in the palm of his small hand. Vaughan looked down at it for a moment before popping it into his mouth and eating it.
Margaux leaned in to Sherlock "Yeah, your son's a genius," she said.
Sherlock grimaced.
"Oh, have you two given any more thought to marriage thing?" asked Mrs Hudson.
The others turned to Sherlock and Margaux with confused faces that seemed almost choreographed. He rolled his eyes and she cleared her throat.
"What marriage thing?" said John. "Marriage like… to each other?"
"No, John, she's asking our opinion on marriage as a concept, she wants to know our political and socioeconomical stance," said Sherlock.
"Really?"
"No, John, it's Mrs Hudson! Of course she's suggesting that Margaux and I get married!"
"Oh, what a lovely idea," said Mrs Holmes, turning to Mrs Hudson. "I agree that would be so wonderful."
"Hush, mother."
"Why are you so against marriage?" Asked Mary.
"Because marriage is a man-made concept, a social construct. It is the institutionalisation of monogamy which, in itself, does not coincide with innate human behaviour. It is a commercialised trap designed to involve the government in making two people's intangible 'feelings' contractually binding for legal benefits."
Margaux sat awkwardly, her lips pressed together as she stared blankly ahead, catching eyes with Molly who also sat quietly, feeling equally as uncomfortable with the conversation. Margaux feared if she looked up at Sherlock she may scream; he was embarrassing her, making it clear to everyone close to them that the thought of marrying her was preposterous.
"I don't understand you, Sherlock," said Mrs Hudson.
"Forgive me for not feigning surprise."
III
The mothers and their children began to leave, thanking Margaux for inviting them and wishing Vaughan a happy birthday one last time.
"I'm off too," said Rose as she stood with a child under each arm.
Margaux laughed as the children wriggled to break free from their mother's grasp. She gave her a quick hug and walked them to the top of the stairwell, watching as they made their way down the steps carefully.
Vaughan was sitting on his grandfather's lap, tearing through the wrapping paper on his last few presents. He held up his new violin, examining it carefully as the adults beamed and cooed over Sherlock's thoughtful gift. Margaux smiled, looking to Sherlock for his reaction, but he wasn't there. She placed her hand on Mary's shoulder.
"Where's Sherlock and John?"
"Work stuff," Mary replied, rolling her eyes.
Margaux huffed, looking over to the far corner of the roof where Sherlock and John stood huddled over Sherlock's phone.
"I bet you it's that bloody Magnussen guy. He just can't let this one go."
Mary's eyes dropped to the ground immediately as she tried to force a half smile.
"It's this," said Sherlock as he showed John a document on his phone. "I have to get it to Magnussen."
"Sherlock, you can't–"
"No rest for the wicked, I see," said Margaux as she approached the two men, her arms folded, hair blowing gently in the breeze. "You just missed Vaughan opening his violin."
"Hm? Oh… Did he like it?"
"I think so. He'd probably like it more if he had his dad to show him how to use it."
"I'll be over in a moment. First, I just need to–"
"Can it not wait?"
Sherlock turned to John, taking in a deep, slow breath. "You see," he began. "I'm already hen-pecked, why would I need to get married?"
"Sherlock," John scowled.
"Wow, the charming act sure wore off fast," said Margaux as she pivoted on her heels and walked back over to the group.
III
The rain eventually won, pattering down onto the rooftop and soaking the decorations and half-eaten plates of food. Margaux rushed around, clearing everything away as the others showed themselves out, shouting their goodbyes from the echoing stairwell.
She made her way down to her flat with Vaughan on her hip and a heavy bin bag in her other hand. Sherlock followed behind, his arms full of gift bags and unwrapped presents.
"Where do you want these, Margaux?" he asked as he stepped into her hallway.
She didn't answer, instead she placed Vaughan down and walked off into the kitchen to clean up.
"Margaux, they're getting rather heavy…" he followed into the kitchen. "Margaux…"
"Put them anywhere, Sherlock, I really don't care."
He dropped the bags and boxes where he stood. "Is this a bad mood? I feel I've gotten better at detecting them but I'm still not sure."
"Yes, this is a bad mood."
"Why?" He asked, genuinely puzzled.
Are you–" She scoffed. "It doesn't matter."
Vaughan walked into the kitchen and sat at his pile of new toys.
"Is this because I was working on the Magnussen case?"
"No. Well, I mean, I'd rather you hadn't. But I don't care about that."
"Ah, well okay then." He pulled up a stool and sat at the kitchen counter, pulling out his phone and returning to the Magnussen case.
Margaux stared at him, her mouth open.
"I…" She began, trying to quell her anger before it boiled into rage. "You didn't have to be so bloody cruel."
"About what?"
"About the marriage thing. You made me look like an absolute idiot in front of everyone."
"No I didn't."
"Yes, Sherlock, you did. You acted like you'd rather pull your own teeth out than marry me."
"You thought Mrs Hudson's suggestion was ridiculous too. You laughed when she first said it."
"I laughed at the idea of getting married for the sake of convenience. Not at the idea of marrying you."
Sherlock blinked a single, exaggerated blink.
"And once again I've made a fool of myself. Putting more cards on the table when you haven't even… sat down at the bloody table."
"So, what are you saying? You want to marry me?"
"No, Sherlock, I actually don't. Because heaven forbid I enter into the institutionalisation of monogamy with you."
"Then why are you angry with me?"
Why was she angry? Margaux thought about it for a moment as she stood with her arms full of dirty paper plates and half empty cups.
"Well…" She began.
Vaughan glanced up from his toys to watch his mother stammering. He turned to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, as if he understood her awkwardness. Sherlock raised an eyebrow back at him.
"Well, because…" she continued. "Because it would be nice to think that you're not completely opposed to the idea of… I- I don't know, to the idea of… being with me. One day. Maybe."
Vaughan gave a soft sigh before taking one of his toys and toddling off into the living room.
"I never said I wasn't," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly.
"Okay then."
She returned to cleaning up while he unlocked his phone again. Their comfortable silence filled by the gentle rainfall on the window and the clanging of dishes in the sink. She lifted the clean cutlery and slotted it away neatly into the drawer, turning to him suddenly.
"Oh," she began, startling him slightly. "I completely forgot, I got you a gift."
"Me? I thought gifts were reserved for the person whose birthday it is. Isn't that the whole point of the birthday tradition? A celebration of the self? Christmas for narcissists."
"Did you just imply that our two-year-old son is a narcissist?"
"In the making." He gave a slight smile.
Margaux rolled her eyes as she rooted through the drawer. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him tentatively. He opened it and slid out the paper carefully, taking a few moments to read over it.
"I know it probably seems superfluous to you," she said quietly, almost nervous. "But it's sort of a big deal. I mean, it matters y'know? So, I… Well…"
"Yes." He cleared his throat. "This is. This is… Yes. Thank you."
Margaux nodded and smiled. "Okay."
He placed the paper down on the counter. A letter certifying a legal name change. Vaughan Cave was now Vaughan Cave-Holmes.
He had never thought about it before, he was certain it hadn't mattered. But seeing the name in front of him, printed onto paper, he felt… warm.
Margaux picked up the rest of the dirty paper plates and carried them to the bin. She threw them in, swiping her hands together to clean them off, and turned around. Her heart fell into her stomach and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. On the kitchen floor was Sherlock, down on one knee, looking up at her.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know."
"Sherlock, come on, get up."
"I feel like I get it now."
"You get what?"
"Why it would be more efficient… better." He looked around, reaching over to a piece of tin foil that had fallen on the floor. He twisted it up and curved it to shape a ring, holding it up to her with a shrug.
Margaux smiled before kneeling in front of him, bringing them face to face. "Sherlock, this time last year, I thought you were dead. This; the fact that you're even here right now on my kitchen floor, the fact that I can take my hands and put them here on your shoulders, the fact that I can touch you, see you… shout at you for being a bloody idiot." She laughed gently. "That's better."
"So, the answer's no?" He asked, a hint of relief laced in his tone.
"Mhm, the answer's no. For now."