Chapter Text
*
The air was cold, but John walked home at an unhurried pace.
The streets were busier than usual, bustling with last-minute shoppers and merrymakers. Storefronts and windows were strung with twinkling fairy lights, warm and inviting against the bracing chill.
He did not wear gloves. The tips of his fingers had gone red, and then white, and he clenched his fists to keep them warm.
The walk was doing little to clear his head.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He did not take it out to look at it.
He was late, he knew. Not terribly so, not yet, but later than usual. He had not taken the tube. He'd bundled his thick winter coat close and had put his head down and walked. And walked. And walked.
John. Hi! This might seem out of the blue, Sarah's voice on the phone, a ghost from the past. Her little self-conscious laugh that brought to mind the way she used to look down when she smiled, the way she used to tuck her hair behind her ear.
It had startled him, badly, that voice. He had not spoken to Sarah in years. Had not thought of her in years. He had been a different person, back then, when he'd known her.
Sarah, wow, hi, he'd said. He'd smiled, though he'd been alone in his office. He had mostly finished his paperwork. He'd been finishing his last sip of lukewarm tea and reaching for his coat when the phone had rung. It's been—um. It's been a long time.
They'd exchanged brief, stilted pleasantries. She was married now, she told him. Had two small daughters. She was happy.
We've actually—well, John, it's why I'm calling, she'd said. Your name came up the other day and I've got—well. I've got a bit of a proposition for you.
And he'd sat and he'd listened while she told him about the practice she and her husband had set up in Bristol, and how they'd discussed recruiting a third doctor, and how her thoughts had turned to her old friend John Watson, and she'd wondered how he was doing, if he'd ever consider leaving his insanely adventurous life in London behind in favour of something a bit quieter.
He'd thought of his little room in Baker Street, cluttered up now with his and Rosie's things. Thought of Sherlock in his dressing gown, who, just that very morning, had leapt from the kitchen table, seized his violin and engaged in forty-five minutes of the most frantic and unsettling medley of Christmas music John had ever heard.
Quiet was not something that John had ever wanted. Not really.
But, then again, he'd proven himself fairly shit at making decisions. And when had getting what he wanted ever brought him anything but trouble in the end?
So he'd told her he'd think about it. And then he'd rung off and had sat at his desk, staring down at his left hand for a good long while. And then he'd gotten his coat, and he'd bundled up against the cold, and he'd gone outside and he'd walked.
Baker Street was warm. The hallway smelled of fresh-baked cookies and peppermint. He hung his coat, went up the stairs into the flat.
Sherlock was sat in his chair, a book in his hand, Rosie in his lap.
John glanced at the title. "Teaching her about poisons?"
"How to avoid them," Sherlock said. "Two days until Christmas. Do you have any idea how many poisonings occur at holiday parties?" He shut the book, looked up. Frowned at what he saw.
Rosie reached for John and he took her, lifted her into his arms. She was warm and heavy where she settled against his chest.
He thought about the little house he'd shared with Mary, with its tasteful color palette and orderly tidiness. Thought about the chaotic cosiness of Baker Street. He knew where he was happiest. The thought was not always comfortable.
There was Rosie to consider. Rosie who would, eventually, need her own room. Her privacy. Who might benefit from a garden to play in, or sleep that was not periodically interrupted by explosions or masked intruders or a father who ran off to play hero. His lifestyle had already cost her a mother, after all.
"I sent texts. We have a case," Sherlock said. His voice was tentative, questioning. Whatever he'd seen on John's face had discomfited him. "Mrs Hudson said she'd be happy to take Watson for a few hours."
"Not tonight," John said, holding Rosie close, bouncing her a bit in his arms. He could not quite bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. He turned away, climbed the stairs to his room.