John wakes with a start, looking frantically around himself as though he's lost something but can't remember what. He sits up too quickly and blearily peers into Rosie's cot. Empty. His brain struggles to fight through the morning grogginess to remember where she is – could she be with Molly or Mrs Hudson? No – then remembers that Sherlock spent the night in his bed. He's probably taken her downstairs, John thinks, and he sits very still and listens. He makes out a barely perceptible low voice – Sherlock's – then Rosie's unmistakable squeal of delight.

He smiles to himself and relaxes back into the pillow, feeling guilty for wanting five more minutes. But his alarm clock tells him that it's still early and his foggy mind reminds him that yet again he didn't have the best night's sleep. He heaves a heavy sigh, wondering how long it will be before he stops feeling so broken. He knows he's come a long way from where he was just after Mary's death, but he's exhausted from the nightmares, from the guilt that still gnaws at him, from the effort of trying to be a better father, friend, doctor…and whatever role it was that he played in his work with Sherlock. He's beyond grateful for all the help that everyone has given him and he knows that his support network will be there for him through anything he needs. But he's not even sure what he needs anymore.

He can't deny that Sherlock's presence the night before had helped him immensely and he finds himself feeling slightly disappointed when he can tangibly feel the empty space beside him where Sherlock had laid. It had been one of the worst parts of adjusting to life without Mary – the empty bed that they had once shared may as well have been as vast as the ocean. He had to admit that having a warm body beside his for the first time in months had been wonderfully comforting and pleasant, even if that body did belong to one Sherlock Holmes. He thought of Sherlock's strong arms around his shoulders as he'd battled through the throes of his panic attack, and how much it had grounded him. Amazing how powerful touch can be, John reflects. He's never been an overly tactile person himself, not one who's often prone to extended cuddling and certainly not public displays of affection. But in recent months he's come to crave it more and he has to admit that being closer to Sherlock again is probably at least partially to blame.

He remembers quite clearly one of the first times Sherlock had touched him. They'd been at Baskerville and were still cooling off the morning after their blazing row, in which Sherlock had vehemently informed him that he doesn't have friends. John had been stalking away through the graveyard after a half-hearted apology from Sherlock. Then Sherlock had suddenly and very deliberately grabbed his arm and it had shot through him like an electric shock because Sherlock had never done that before. Sherlock had always seemed determined to avoid any kind of touch, any kind of emotion, yet here he was breaking all of his own self-imposed rules. For John. He had tried not to look too pleased but had felt a definite change within their relationship – now they were officially friends. After that there had of course been the odd casual touches, the handshakes and pats on the back here and there. The strong urge he'd felt to pull Sherlock into a hug before he boarded that plane when they'd both thought he was leaving again, this time forever. But that would have made their predicament too real, and he doubted that either of them were prepared to face the reality of the situation. Thank god they hadn't needed to, in the end.

John's wedding had been the catalyst for a few more surreal moments. It had allowed John to see a side of Sherlock he hadn't even known existed – for example, who would have thought that Sherlock was such a skilled dancer? But then of course he was, the posh git. But Sherlock was nothing if not unpredictable and John (mostly) found it fascinating to learn more about his enigmatic best friend. He fondly remembers their first dancing lesson. Sherlock had first demonstrated the movement as John had stood there somewhat awkwardly, already feeling clumsy and inadequate compared to the other man, who somehow managed to look impossibly graceful whilst wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.

"Alright, take my hands," Sherlock had instructed, coming to a standstill in front of John.

John had done so without hesitation and with only the slightest blush, and Sherlock had easily swept them into a rhythmic pace. As he did his best to keep up with Sherlock's effortless steps, he couldn't help but feel a tiny bit lucky that he – and only he – got to see this side of Sherlock. He kept his eyes trained on his and Sherlock's feet, mind struggling as it willed his body to follow along.

"Don't look at your feet, John, look at me," Sherlock had commanded smoothly. "It'll be easier that way, trust me."

John did, and Sherlock's eyes were particularly extraordinary that night – clear and pale jade as a polished gemstone – the shadows from the warmly lit room accentuating the cheekbones and porcelain skin, framed by the intricately wild curls. He understood, admittedly not for the first time, why so many people admired Sherlock's physical appearance. He really was rather beautiful. The thought had popped into John's head before he'd been able to stop it, and John had felt himself blush, furiously registering that Sherlock had almost certainly not missed it. He had hoped that Sherlock had interpreted it as John's embarrassment over the awkwardness of the situation and his own ineptitude and not the far more humiliating truth.

Practicing the dip had been by far the most entertaining part of the whole endeavour. Several attempts had them laughing so uncontrollably that they'd needed to stop and collect themselves before continuing. Then – finally! – John had nailed it, dipping Sherlock low and deep. He'd held him there for what could be considered a moment too long when the front door of their flat and swung open and Mrs Hudson blustered in, already mid-way through a sentence. She had stopped abruptly, not bothering to hide her grin at the scene, and John had almost dropped Sherlock in his rush to disengage from him.

"Oh gosh, sorry dears, didn't realise I was interrupting your-"

"Not interrupting anything, Mrs Hudson" John had said quickly, clearing his throat. "We're just having a little dance practice…you know, for my wedding."

"Of course, don't mind me loves, I'll let you get back to it and come back later."

But neither of them had missed her suggestive wink as she left, and as soon as the door had closed behind her they'd burst into another fit of giggling.

Weeks later, at the wedding itself, John had been moved to tears by Sherlock's speech, interrupted though it was by the need to solve a case and save Major Sholto's life. He'd pulled Sherlock into a hug without so much as a second thought, acting on an impulsive desire to show the man just how much he appreciated his words and the rare glimpse of Sherlock's genuine feelings behind them. Although he was marrying Mary and loved her immeasurably, he had never felt closer to Sherlock than at that moment and knew that, as far as matters of the heart were concerned, there were no limits to his love of these two people.

And then of course all that had been ripped away from him as Mary had died in his arms, as he watched the life leave her eyes, a large part of his going with it. Despite everything that followed, Sherlock was infallibly there, taking John's anger without protest and trying to put him back together when he inevitably fell apart. John remembers being slightly surprised that Sherlock had known just what he needed and had slowly and deliberately wrapped his hand around John's arm, drawing him close, the long fingers of his other hand coming up to curl around the back of his neck. Sherlock's presence so close to him had felt right and endlessly reassuring – he was safe here – and he'd finally felt something deep within him release as he'd clutched at Sherlock's clothing, face buried in his chest, and silently sobbed. Neither of them had spoken any further, Sherlock had simply wrapped both arms around John and stroked soothing circles on his back, his face titled down and towards John's, lightly brushing against his hair. They stayed that way for what felt like a long time, until John had gotten himself under control. Finally, somewhat reluctantly, they had parted. John had swiped his hand over his face, suddenly self-conscious now that Sherlock could actually see him.

"You know, for a self-confessed sociopath, you're not too bad at dealing with an emotional wreck."

John's voice had been slightly shaky but there was humour in his words, an attempt to break some of the tension. Sherlock had smiled and thrown him a wink.

"I should hope not, John. After all, I did learn from you."

Not long after that, John had given Sherlock the most heartfelt apology he could muster, then they'd all eaten cake. Looking back, John now knew that it was the end of the horrible misfortune that had separated them and the beginning of their next chapter together. From there the only way had been up, and the months since had seen them grow closer than ever.

John thinks with a pang about last night and what he had learned about Sherlock's time in Serbia. That Sherlock hadn't wanted John to know about it – was it in part to spare him the pain and guilt of imagining what he had been through? – makes his heart throb painfully, though he think he understands and appreciates his reasons. He hopes Sherlock isn't too sorry that John now knows his secret, or one of them at least. He allows the scene to play over in his mind once more, just as he had a multitude of times the night before as he lay in bed, waiting fruitlessly for sleep to claim him. He feels as though he's analysed the interaction a thousand times, going over and over it in his head to pick apart his actions. He remembers how his friend's warm skin had felt under his palm and how Sherlock had seemed to have found some small comfort in the way John had rested it there. He thought of how easily Sherlock had slipped into bed beside him. He couldn't deny that it had felt nice…new, yet somehow blessedly familiar. Could it be that, just maybe, these small displays of affection were helping them both heal? Could it be that they both needed this?

He forces himself out of bed with a sigh, deciding he's delayed the inevitable for long enough. At least it's Saturday and he can take his time getting himself and Rosie ready. Then maybe a visit to the playground, he thinks, if the weather is pleasant enough. He pulls on his robe and slippers and plods down the stairs to the kitchen. Despite his drowsiness, the sight he sees brings a genuine smile to his face. Rosie sits in her high chair, cheerfully dunking a biscuit in her "tea" – a special concoction of warm milk and a tiny bit of chai that he and Sherlock make especially for her so she doesn't make a fuss when they drink their own tea. She has her special plastic tea cup and saucer and is completely unconcerned about the mess she's made with her partially crumbled shortbread. So is Sherlock, it seems. He's leaning lazily against the kitchen counter in his silk dressing gown, his own favourite tea cup in hand, reading to Rosie from The Beekeeper's Bible. Of course, the language is too advanced for the little girl to really understand, and she's preoccupied with resolutely mashing a piece of biscuit into the tray in front of her, but she seems to be entertained by the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Morning, John," Sherlock says as he enters the room, "tea?"

"I think I'll need something a bit stronger today actually," John replied, flicking the kettle back on and reaching for the French press in one of the cupboards.

He kisses Rosie's chubby little messy cheek and ruffles her soft baby hair, then busies himself with preparing his coffee.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought Rosie down," Sherlock says. "You seemed like you could do with the extra sleep."

"Not at all, appreciate it. How's your shoulder?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"A little tender but otherwise fine, just as you said it would be."

"Good," John says with a satisfied nod.

The kettle boils and John pours water into the French press then pulls up a seat, noticing that Sherlock seems uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he's debating with himself about something. Knowing that he'll get nowhere if he pushes Sherlock, John flicks open the paper and waits for events to take their inevitable course.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Sherlock asks finally.

His tone is careful and measured, as though he's not sure he should be asking. John looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes with a reassuring smile.

"Better. Just a bit tired."

John pauses and clears his throat.

"Listen, thanks again for being there for me last night. It…helped."

"I'm glad, John," Sherlock replies quietly.

Now it's John's turn to feel unsure, but he finds himself speaking anyway.

"And if you…ever want to talk about it, anything I mean, you know where I am."

"I do," Sherlock agrees. "Thank you."

They eat breakfast together, their funny little dysfunctional family of a kind, as London wakes up around them.