The next time Sherlock remembered waking up he was hooked to an IV, lying drowsily on a movable bed in his bedroom. He turned his head to the right to see John in his chair, his sleeping head propped up by his arm. There was a side table set up on his other side with a cup of tea, likely from Mrs. Hudson, and two get-well cards: an elaborate card with precision handwriting and another bought from a drugstore that sold cheesy cards. The first was likely from Molly; the later was probably from his parents, since he had received the same one from them multiple times with Mycroft's name added in his mother's handwriting.
On the other side of the side table Lucy's crib had been set up. The little girl looked through the bars with her wide blue eyes at Sherlock as she sat up and reached out for him with her chubby hands. He smiled, noting how tiring the simple action was to his weakened body. "Durla," she called out to him, and he couldn't help the straining smile that appeared on his face as she tried to say his name the best her young voice could manage.
"Hello, Lucy," he whispered back, barely lifting a trembling hand in an attempt to connect with the baby.
"Durla! Durla!" She squealed, clapping her hands together. The noise startled John, whose hand moved with the sudden sound as his head jerked awake.
"Sherlock," John said, half asleep and likely responding to a dream rather than the man before him. He shook his head and let his eyes focus before looking over and exclaiming, "Sherlock! You're awake!"
"Yes, it appears I am. I have to say, John, these near-death experiences with you are getting quite tiresome," he grinned.
John gave a faint smile back. "Or it could be the poison in your system making you tired."
"Poison?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"Your nicotine patches. They were poisoned, slowly leaking the toxins into your bloodstream. I guess that morning pushed you over the edge."
"John, that means... that means," he stuttered.
"That he was here. Moriarty. Here in the house where my little girl sleeps. Yeah," John replied.
"Oh, fuck," Sherlock whispered. It was one thing to have Moriarty show up and make demands. It was another for him to pop in while neither adult was home to supervise baby Lucy, left alone with a babysitter. The babysitter...
"Fire Susan," Sherlock said immediately.
"What?"
"Fire Susan."
"Because..."
"Because she let him in the fucking house, John! This is our... this is your daughter! No more babysitters. We can't leave her alone with strangers, or anyone incapable of defending his or herself against potential threats."
"I... uh, yeah," John replied, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "You're right. We can't."
"We'll have to figure something out. A schedule of sorts. Maybe..."
"Sherlock, Harry's coming to stay."
"Harry? Who the bloody hell is Harry?"
"My sister, Sherlock. And her fiancée. I've asked them to stay with us, just for awhile. To watch Lucy. So we can stop Moriarty once and for all."
"Right, Harry. The alcoholic Harry?"
"She's been sober for over a year now," John defended.
"And what are her qualifications when it comes to childcare?"
"Dammit, Sherlock, she's my sister. She's family. What qualifications do you have to watch Lucy?" John retorted.
Sherlock stared back blankly.
"Oh. Oh shit, Sherlock, I didn't mean..."
"No. No, you're right, John. I don't know anything about babies. I don't know much about caring for any human, in fact."
"Sherlock, I... I didn't mean it like that. I didn't. I was just... Things have been so damn stressful lately, Sherlock. And I'm scared as hell." John looked into Sherlock's gray eyes, pleading for him to understand with the desperation they conveyed.
Sherlock looked back into John's eyes. "I know, John. I know." He rested his head on his pillow and shut his eyes, trying to withdraw himself from the world completely. In that moment, he didn't want to be Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to be a genius or a detective. He wanted to know what it felt like to be normal. To not worry that a psychopath was on the loose, threatening to take away everyone he actually gave a damn about. If he was normal, he wouldn't be a target. John wouldn't be a target. Lucy would be safe in the arms of both of her parents.
He had never before wished to be normal. He couldn't understand how normal people were satisfied in their boring, oblivious minds. And they always seemed to be going on about dull things like love and emotions, areas he had always deemed unimportant. He was correct in logic when he told Irene Adler that sentiment was found on the losing side. But Sherlock didn't lose. He refused. Yet he could place no other name but sentiment on his feelings for John and Lucy.
Moriarty. He was able to throw out any and all feelings. Did that make him the winning side?
"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.
"Yes, John?" He didn't move a muscle, still closing his eyes on the pillow.
"What did those people mean, they were sent by you? The ones who saved us."
Sherlock opened one eye and peered at his friend. "I hired some people to trail you. And Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson as well, of course, but yours proved to be the most valuable under the circumstances."
"You... I was being trailed?" John spluttered.
"Yes, and may I say, the amount of time you spent at the bar during your depression was quite worrisome. I was debating whether or not to drag you to an alcoholics meeting."
John breathed out a huff. "Normally I would hate you for a few days, but since you saved our lives, I'll let this one go."
Sherlock grinned. "Really I should be thanking you. They came because you were in danger. No one was coming because I was in danger. Fortunately, my best friend stayed with me because I was in danger. Thank you, John."
John opened his mouth to reply, but no coherent thoughts could come to mind. By the time he thought of a reasonable response, he could hear the slowed rate of Sherlock's breathing and see the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"How is he?" Molly Hooper asked as she pulled drugs from her coat pockets.
"He's..." John rocked his head in thought. "He's getting there. Still really weak. Did you bring what I asked for?"
"Yeah, it's all here," Molly said, pointing at the jars and containers of medicines she had placed on the table before her. She brushed a stray auburn hair from her face. "And how are you, John?"
"Life with Sherlock... It's not easy, Molly."
"But I'm sure it's worth it."
John was silent for a moment. "Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly. Maybe before, when I was a bachelor. When I could afford to be carefree and reckless. But now, now I have a daughter to take care of. I can't leave her alone, but I put both of us at risk every day just because we're associated with Sherlock Holmes. And Mary..." He took a ragged breath before finishing, "and befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."
Molly was stunned for a moment. "I thought... childbirth?"
John shook his head. "Moriarty likes collateral damage," he whispered. "We're all in danger. Me, you, Lestrade. Because we decided to associate ourselves with a man named Sherlock Holmes."
Molly bit her lip. "Why do we love him when he claims he's incapable of love?" she whispered.
"Because we know it's a lie," John answered, equally silent.
They stood in silence, contemplating the complexities of their lives that centered around a singular man with an unusual mind and attraction for trouble. Molly then went into Sherlock's room, to check on his progress and chat, but he was sound asleep. She brushed his curls away from his eyes and planted a kiss on his forehead before leaving and sharing a glance with John as they both wondered whether love was enough to keep them connected to the one who claimed it was a disease that could not penetrate him.
"But I'm sure it's worth it."
"Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly."
The words sliced through Sherlock like razors. John Watson was uncertain whether or not he wanted to remain connected to Sherlock. Of course, logic said that even if John moved across the world he'd still be in danger. It didn't matter that he liked Sherlock. It mattered to Moriarty that Sherlock liked him. But John, his best friend, his one true friend...
And then salt was poured on Sherlock's wounds: "Befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."
There it was. John was still harboring blame for Sherlock in his wife's death.
As he heard footsteps approach he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, trying to keep his mind away from the conversation he had overheard so as to appear calm while inside he was screaming. He could smell the perfume and knew it was Molly who stroked his hair and bent down to kiss him. Molly always gave more compassion to him than he ever deserved or returned. He thought again about what it'd be like to live a normal life. Maybe if he had been destined for that life he would've settled down with Molly and raised children of his own, who he could honestly claim as his own, unlike Lucy.
No. He was kidding himself. He wanted to feel something for Molly because he genuinely cared about Molly. But even if he was average, he'd settle down with a nice bloke like John, not a woman like Molly. Janine had noticed. Sherlock knew too, although he wasn't very in touch with his sexual side. But if he was going to be average and start a family, it would be with another man, not a woman.
It wasn't even something he'd really considered until he met John. He remembered their first days together and telling John that he wasn't interested. He was married to his work. And back when he said it, it had been so true. His work was all he cared about. And then this man named John Watson entered his life and saved his life and changed the way he saw the world. Eventually it became harder and harder to ignore the feelings awakening within.
When he returned, after his fake death, John was the first face he wanted to see. The only face he wanted to see. The only face he needed to see. Sure, there was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, but they hadn't been on his mind every day for two years. They hadn't been in his dreams or his thoughts, and they hadn't been in the nightmares that woke him for quite a few months. Nightmares of Moriarty holding a gun to John's head, and firing.
He returned to London to a John that had not jumped to his feet and rushed to hug him, as he had expected. Fantasized, really. Instead he returned to John and Mary. Mary, who snapped him back to reality. Whose presence reminded him that he was not a normal man who could expect normal joys in his life. And John Watson had not waited two years for him, like he had always thought in his head. John moved on with his life, bringing Sherlock scrambling backwards to his.
Mary. He truly cared for Mary. She made John happy. If she had been just another girlfriend, Sherlock would have cast her aside as insignificant. But she wasn't. She had been John's fiancée, and she loved him. It was so obvious how her pulse quickened around John and his responded in the same way. She made John happy, and that made Sherlock happy. He willingly went back to routine of marriage to the job.
Now there was no Mary. There was only Sherlock, John, and Lucy. And it was becoming clear that Moriarty's antics were soon to leave it as Sherlock, alone with Mrs. Hudson on Baker Street.
He was losing his family.
Moriarty had to be stopped.