Shaking his head, he felt the glaze slowly life from his eyes. He saw what seemed to be concern evaporate from Sherlock's face, being replaced by a surprisingly timid smile.

That was one word that he'd never expected to use to describe his friend.

Oh, God. Friend? Were they friends? After all of these years, was it healthy how quickly John had forgotten what had torn them apart?

At the moment, he realized he utterly did not care. Let them cross that bridge when they came to it.

He smiled once more when he saw Sherlock tug at… Sherlock's coat. Oh, God. That would take some getting used to.

At the look of dread on the man's face, he dismissed that issue as well. He knew what his son would want, and he knew what his namesake would think. Or, at least he had a guess.

Sure enough, he saw the mess of dark curls shake sternly, and small shoulders slumped. He frowned, worried about a tantrum. He'd taught him not to whine. He was fairly relieved when he saw the tiny form brighten at something the other had said.

Only to grow suspicious. What could Sherlock have said to make a little boy smile?

He received his answer in the form of a blur of blonde hair as his son ran to him and took his cane.

"Sherlock, what do you think you are doi-" The answer hit him. He looked up to glare at the chuckling detective, who responded with a too-innocent shrug.

John huffed angrily for a moment before hobbling over to stand beside the other man. "What on earth did you tell him?" he growled.

The pale man shrugged. "Only the truth: that his mother is right and that you don't need the cane. Also, sword fighting may have been mentioned…." A thoughtful look overtook the amused smirk. "Perhaps he'd enjoy fencing – I could teach him, you know."

The thought of Sherlock and his son with swords forced a shudder through him. "I think we'll hold off on that, thanks. Meanwhile, I need that-"

"Oh, stop lying to yourself, John. You and I both know that your limp is and always was psychosomatic."

He frowned at the honest statement. "That still gives you no right to tell him that," he argued, knowing already that it was pointless.

The man before him was suddenly quiet. "Yes," he spoke softly. "I suppose you're right. I'm sorry, John."

The weight of his words was too much for the light conversation, and they both knew it. That apology wasn't merely for his wrongdoing with the youngest Watson – it was for the past seven hellish years they had both endured. He was sorry for the pain, the confusion, the destruction of the lives they had both known. It was for interrupting his life now, so many years later. He was asking not only for forgiveness, but for acceptance.

Sherlock Holmes had just placed his heart in John Watson's hands.

He couldn't bear to break it.

Instead of words, he slowly moved forward, warning him with his eyes. Wrapping his arms around the taller man, he pressed forward, reveling in the familiar smell. He smiled as he felt the wiry arms wrap around his shoulders gently. And suddenly it wasn't John hugging, it was Sherlock, and he was crushed against the other's chest in the tightest embrace he'd ever endured.

Wheezing, he coughed, "Uh, Sherlock, I know it's boring and all, but c-can't breathe."

The younger man froze and stepped back immediately, a light tint coloring his pale cheeks. "Right, well, yes. Sorry, for, uh, that then." John stared, agape, as the brilliant man stumbled over his words. He obviously was not used to showing affection.

And John was perfectly okay with that.

Despite the fact that they would still have to talk about everything at some point, he shrugged the matter off once again. Right now, they were together, and everything would work itself out.

He hoped.

"So, why the name?"

John held back a laugh. He wasn't at all surprised to hear the slight tone of annoyance in the question. He knew Sherlock loved the uniqueness of his name, and would hate for anyone else to have it.

He counted that as a small victory.

"Long story. Though I'm sure you can work it out."

The icy glare was definitely justified. The man had earned it for tattling to his son about the limp.

"Why did... Sherlock pick you out, anyway? He doesn't usually talk to strangers. He's actually a bit antisocial." This similarity hadn't occurred to him previously. He frowned a bit.

Sherlock scoffed, looking pleased. "Actually, he came to ask if my injury was real." He grinned fiercely.

His injury? Sherlock had hurt himself? He hadn't noticed any hobbling... Wait – real?

"What do you mean, real? I've never told him why I got mine!"

"Apparently, his mother has," he shrugged, disinterested.

John fumed. Part of the agreement was that the separate parents would not talk down the other during their week. That Mary would have crossed the line like this rubbed him the wrong way.

"By the way, when did it return? It was most definitely cured... before," the uneasy voice said. He would not meet his eyes.

Trying to push away the guilt over Sherlock's discomfort, he huffed. This would only make it worse. "About a year after you... yeah. I'd been dating Mary for almost a month."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I see."

There was a familiar pause between them, and for a moment, as he watched his son romping about with the cane, he forgot that this was new. It all felt so natural – watching his son, beside his best friend. Together forever, Holmes and Watson.

He glanced at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes. To any bystander, he would appear disinterested and bored – a casual visitor dragged to the park to play babysitter with his mate.

Only John could have noticed the hint of a smile ghosting at the corners of his lips.

Seeing him there beside him – remembering that this wasn't a dream, that Sherlock was really, truly here – was more than enough to boost his spirits once more.

"Coffee?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes, I think so," the detective replied with a smirk to match his own.

"Sherlock!" John called to the boy. He grimaced as he noticed that his cane was currently being used as a sword. The user of the "weapon" groaned and shuffled reluctantly over to his father. John held out a hand expectantly.

The boy immediately protested. "But it's my sword!"

John raised a brow. "And just what would you possibly need a sword for?"

He brightened at the question. "I'm gonna be a pirate!" he chirped.

John couldn't restrain his laughter when the other man's eyes lit up. Both Sherlocks promptly glared at him. The doctor just went into another fit.

Sherlock defiantly ruffled the boy's hair, keeping a hand on his head possessively. "I think it's a brilliant aspiration," he said with a defensive look toward the father.

"See, dad," he argued smugly. He crossed thin arms over a small chest.

With a huge smile, he suddenly scooped up his son, and in one swift motion, perched him atop Sherlock's shoulders. The man flinched, but managed to refrain from throwing him off.

He shot John a look of distaste. "Take him off. Now," he growled.

John only laughed in response.

"Or he's coming down my way," he threatened, raising a brow. It wasn't a bluff.

Just as John reached up to retrieve him, Sherlock grabbed onto the sooty curls. Their owner grimaced.

"Please can I stay up here, Dad? It's higher than when you do it."

That earned him a chuckle from his pedestal. John gave him a hopeful glance, and the sound turned to a resigned sigh.

"Only until the shop," he amended, frowning. "And only because he was intentionally clever."

"Sure, of course," he agreed. John's eyes danced with mischief. This could be fun.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a small cafe. John sat opposite a grown man acting like a disgruntled four-year-old.

Most likely due to the actual four-year-old situating himself on his lap.

Sherlock had crossed his arms across his chest and was leaned as far back in his chair as possible in an attempt to avoid contact. His lips were well on their way to being permanently turned down.

Meanwhile, there was a bouncing blonde boy babbling excitedly to his father. John nodded and occasionally asked for Sherlock's input with a grin.

He was in the midst of doing so again when he was interrupted.

"We need to do something about the names."

John raised a brow. Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"Your son and I. Our names... name." He frowned. "Because for some reason, you felt the need to share it with him." He gestured toward the child with his chin.

"It was-"

"Sentiment. Yes, yes, I'm sure." It did not evade John the way that Sherlock carefully avoided stating the cause of the sentiment. He was more than willing to oblige. "Does he have a nickname? No, of course not," he interrupted himself.

John sighed, not bothering to ask how he'd known.

The object of the conversation suddenly spoke up. "Nana calls me Benny!"

Sherlock sent a questioning look at the nodding John. "Benny?"

"His middle name. Short for Benedict."

He brightened. "Benedict. Proud name. Good. Benedict it is, then."

"But she calls me Benny-"

"Benedict," he said firmly. The tone of horror at the idea of using a nickname made John chuckle.

The startled boy looked hopefully at his father. "You won't call me that, will you, Dad?"

"Of course not, Sher- Ben," he corrected at Sherlock's glare.

The child gave a giggle. "I like Ben. It's not as weird."

"And off you go," Sherlock responded, immediately removing him from his lap.

John burst into laughter and Ben looked up at the man holding him at arm's reach with an expression of betrayal. John took him into his own lap before the now-standing detective had a chance to drop him. "Don't feel bad. To be honest, I'm surprised he even went along with it in the first place." He noticed the empty chair. "And just where do you think you're going?"

He gave a smirk. "I'm going home." And with a dramatic twist of a Belstaff coat, Sherlock Holmes was off.

AN: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews – they really help to feed the story! Sorry for being so slow to update – I've been writing it as I'm going, so patience is much appreciated. Thoughts are wonderful, so feel free to share!