Sherlock P.O.V.
It's been two weeks since the doctors released John from the hospital, but we never actually left. Everything changed in those last couple of weeks.
Just the day after John saw Rachel for the first time, everything had already changed. John had to face Mary's funeral arrangements and it seemed as if for the first time, he actually understood what happened.
And everything had been awful ever since.
John refused to talk, he refused to acknowledge the existence of anyone who wasn't Rachel. Even after we returned to Baker Street. Even though John was officially released from the hospital, we only came home to shower and sleep.
Those entire two weeks were agonizing and far more complicated than they should have been; they were filled with grief over Mary, annoyance with Mycroft and Harry, and anxiety over little Rachel.
John and I barely left her side at the hospital, monitoring her every breath. Even though she wasn't actually my child, I promised myself that I'd act as if she were, for John's sake.
John refused to show any sign of weakness near her, as if she would be affected by his stress.
But at nights, he screamed in his sleep, gasping Mary's and Moriarty's names, kicked the mattress and cried out for help. Every night.
I often tried to wake him up, bringing him a glass of water so he could calm down, but even then all he did was stare at me.
He barely talked, not to mention eat or sleep. It seemed as if he finally realized what had happened, and was taking his time to grieve, which was completely understandable, but hard nevertheless.
Yesterday was the first time he made any gesture acknowledging my presence, which I know he was grateful for. He grabbed my hand and held it tightly, just because I thanked the doctor when he said we can finally take Rachel home with us today.
Yes, today is the day.
Walking in Baker Street with a baby in my arms is frankly the weirdest thing I've yet experienced. Rachel is lovely, she is beautiful and perfectly healthy, according to the doctors, and I can't be more proud of the fact that I'll help raise this baby. It is probably the closest I'll ever get to having a baby of my own, not that I ever really considered it as an option.
We walk into 221B, and Mrs. Hudson is standing outside her flat, with a big red velvet cake in her hands. On the cake is written beautifully "welcome home, Rachel." John smiles at her, with his so-rare-those-days- genuine smile. He thanks Mrs. Hudson and she just smiles back at him and starts going up the stairs to our flat without another word.
When she pushes the door open, both John and I are standing there completely stunned, because there's a huge 'welcome home' sign in our living room. It feels like "welcome to the beginning of a new life," rather than simply "welcome, Rachel."
A new life with John, a baby and no future cases. At least not the kind that I used to do with John.
I really hope it will be better than how I picture it in my mind.
"Mrs. Hudson, you're a star. Thank you so much." John hugs her and kisses her cheeks, but her attention is completely devoted to the little baby in my arms.
"Mrs. Hudson," John starts again, "I know it might be a bit crowded in here for some time, but we'll find a bigger flat-"
"John Watson, don't you dare. You're not raising this child anyplace other than right here. I wouldn't have it any other way, is that clear?" John hugs her again, taking in all the comfort our mother-figure has to offer.
He whispers something that sounds a lot like 'thank you', over and over again.
"Oh, Sherlock," she says, "you look like you are her father. And it suits you deeply." I feel more flattered than I would like to admit, and John notices, so he gives me a reassuring smile to make it clear to me that he agrees with Mrs. Hudson.
Mrs. Hudson is walking toward me and stands on her tip toes so she can kiss my cheek and Rachel's forehead.
She wipes a tear of excitement and joy from her face and gives the little baby a wide, genuine smile, as if she's her own real granddaughter.
Neither John nor I disagree with that thought, of course. We wouldn't want it any other way.
Mrs. Hudson walks out of the flat and John lets himself crash brutally to the couch. He sighs heavily and throws his head back, clearly relieved to be alone with us at the flat, being able to relax and just think.
I recognize the signs of another desperation attack, and take Rachel upstairs, to John's room, where Mycroft placed her new crib.
Mycroft was determined to show us that he can be a good uncle-figure, and brought us a lot of baby clothes, the best formulas and all other manner of weird baby equipment.
I really think that Lestrade forced him into it though. He has more influence on my fat brother than anyone else I've ever known. Maybe with some luck, he could actually make him less annoying.
One can only hope.
I put Rachel in her crib and head back down stairs to see John snoring on the couch.
I smile and let myself feel the joy of being around him, even though he's having a rough time. There's something so incredible about being around him after all that happened in the last few weeks. There were so many occasions when I could have lost him, so many times when I had to start picturing my life without him.
And now, even though I have to give up on interesting cases for a while, I can't be more grateful for the presence of the man who's now sleeping on my couch.
I make myself coffee and sit in my armchair, but not before I cover John with a blanket and fight against the impulse to kiss his forehead.
I'm drowning in thoughts about the new life I'm about to have and the outstanding man sleeping on my couch. The quiet breathing that I hear from the baby monitor and the snoring I hear next to me makes me feel relaxed, and it doesn't take another minute before I feel the stress of those weeks fade away as I close my eyes and let exhaustion take me to a dreamless, relaxed sleep.
The next morning I wake up and John is nowhere to be seen; the blanket I put on him a few hours ago is now covering me, and a new, fresh cup of coffee is on the table in front of me. I try to move but my neck hurts. No wonder, after sleeping 7 hours in an armchair.
I get up from the chair and stretch my back when John comes into the living room with Rachel in one arm, and a bottle in the other.
"Oh, good, you're up," John smiles wryly, "I've made you some coffee, you fell asleep last night before you had a chance to drink yours."
"Yours is better anyway," I say and take a sip of the coffee John made, which is splendid as usual.
"Glad you like it," John says while he's feeding Rachel, and he's making the face again. The 'Rachel is too cute' new expression.
John turns toward me and smiles broadly, "What?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're... smiling," he chuckles and moves his gaze to his daughter again.
"And is that so unusual?"
"No, I was just wondering what could be the reason." John shrugs and puts the empty bottle on the kitchen counter.
He gives me a slight nod before he goes upstairs and vanishes into his room.
I take this opportunity to pick up my violin, which I missed terribly over the last few wees. I play Chopin's Nocturne No. 3 (Opus 9) in Mary's memory, soothing, sad music, which was the only classical piece Mary loved.
In the middle of the piece I hear John behind me, and he asks, "Why are you doing this?"
Normally I ignore John when he bothers me while I'm playing, but this time I stop and turn to see John practically sobbing.
"I miss her," he says and takes his seat on the couch. He covers his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself.
I join him on the couch and pat his back in the most soothing way I know. John leans into the touch and turns his face so he can look me in the eyes. His eyes are still glowing from the tears he already wiped and he looks... broken.
I feel a stab in my chest just from seeing him like that. He turns his head again and covers his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." I pull him against me and hold him as close as I can to my chest.
"There's nothing you should apologize for, John," I say and kiss his head, hoping he won't actually notice.
John pulls away from the hug and looks me in the eyes fiercely.
"Of course I should apologize to you, Sherlock. Just two weeks ago I told you about my feelings for you, and I... We haven't even..." John lets out a frustrated sigh and leans his head on my shoulder.
"John, for you I have all the time in the world. I know it must be hard on you right now, and I'm here to help, not to be another burden. Even if you try your hardest, you can never let me down. I'm staying right here." I hold him tightly and hope he really comprehends everything I just said. I don't want him to worry, even for one bit, that I'll walk away if nothing happens between us.
There's knocking on the door, and John raises his head from my shoulder, giving me a questioning look. I shake my head to the unspoken question. So he rests his head again on my shoulder and I hold him even tighter.
"Sherlock, open up, I know you're in there! It's important!" The knocking becomes louder and I really start losing my patience. John sighs and gets up from the couch, exactly what I didn't want him to do, and opens the door.
"To what do we owe the pleasure, Mycroft?" John rolls his eyes and blocks Mycroft's access to the flat with his hands. Mycroft ignores him, narrowing his eyes in annoyance.
"Sherlock, we need to talk," he looks at John for a moment and adds "in privacy."
"Everything you wish to say to me, you can say in front of John. I thought you might have understood that already."
"I really think we better not," Mycroft says quietly and eyes John closely.
"You heard the man," John says, while he is trying to win his battle of the eyes with my brother. "Talk."
Mycroft is the first one to give up on their little battle and he sighs annoyingly. "May I at least come in?" John moves away from the doorway and lets Mycroft into the flat, and returns to his seat next to me on the couch. Mycroft remains standing in the doorway for a few more seconds before he steps into the living room and sits in John's armchair.
"Sebastian Moran," Mycroft starts instantly. "One of Moriarty's minions, the closest one to Moriarty. Our research shows that he was his right-hand man and even that they were having some kind of a twisted relationship. His records tell us that he is the best sniper Moriarty had. As you might guess, he's after you two." Before he lets us respond to this not-at-all-shocking news, he pulls something out of his pocket and puts it on the coffee table. Three passports and flight tickets. "It wasn't easy to get those, but I think they may come in handy. Take Rachel to America until my people find Moran and-"
Mycroft got interrupted by John's hysterically, bitter laugh.
We both look at him; he has fire in his eyes, fire that reflects the sorrow and anger he is now dealing with.
"Do you really think that my wife just died so we can run away for the rest of our life? What if Greg had died? What if Anthea had died? Would you just run away, give up on all those memories and what they did for you? Or would you fight for your life and protect the ones that are still alive? Not by running away, but by being exactly where you're supposed to be and destroy anyone who's going near them."
John is breathing fast now; he has almost lost his self control and he holds my hand so tight, it actually hurts.
Mycroft looks like he's about to disagree with John's little speech, but he says nothing. Probably the comment about Gavin and Anthea made him shut up. Instead, he just asks for my approval about what John said.
"If John wants to stay here, then we'll stay here. We can take care of ourselves."
"But it's not just the two of you anymore, you have a baby," Mycroft mumbles quietly.
"You think I don't know that? I know that I have a god damn baby! And I'll protect her till the day I die, and that's a bloody promise!" John gets up from the couch and opens the door to our flat, gesturing with his hand toward Mycroft to get the hell out.
Mycroft understands the unsubtle meaning and also gets up and walks to the door.
Before he leaves, he turns around and eyes John closely.
"They will come after you all," he warns us again.
"Let me see them try," John laughs a bitter laugh again, and judging from the way Mycroft has started shifting his weight from one leg to another, I can see that he feels uncomfortable.
"John, think about it. It will be dangerous." John lets out another cynical laugh and says, with a sharp, almost deadly voice: "Bring. It. On."