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Act I - The Last Day of Summer
John moves back to Baker Street on the last day of summer.
It’s a scorching hot Friday; the air around them thick as treacle. Sherlock stands glued to the wall watching sweat dripping from John's nape in the middle of the sitting room. Just a single drop, dripping slowly down John’s sunkissed collar. He’s surrounded by luggage, baby tucked securely against his hip, surveying the place as though it’s his first time there.
“What do you think?” John whispers to Rosie. “Your new home.”
It’s only been nine months since they buried Mary. That’s all the time it took to leave the locum doctor nigh on broke. Which is why, as they celebrated Mrs. Hudson’s seventy-second birthday the previous week, Sherlock was forced to sit through one of John’s most inane conversations to date. John hemmed and hawed, switching Rosie from one leg to another, before the question finally arrived.
“Sherlock,” John cleared his throat. “Listen. I… I know this is a lot to ask—”
Sherlock didn’t really listen to the remainder of that question, what with Mrs. Hudson standing behind John with Rosie in her arms and a glare that any innocent bystander would mistake for pleading, but really meant he would be condemned for eternity if he dared refusing John.
“Sherlock?” John was staring.
“Hm?”
“Would you…” John licked his lips uncomfortably. “Would it be alright if Rosie and I moved in?”
Sherlock blinked. Then frowned.
Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrowed.
People are ridiculous. As if he could ever deny John anything; as if he ever would. “Of course it would.”
Presently, back in the last day of summer, Rosie lays a tired head on her father's shoulder, her eyes shutting with exhaustion. The enormity of this new development seems to evade her young psyche. She’s at once the most wonderful and most terrifying creature he’s laid his eyes on - ironic, given that’s exactly how he felt about her father the day he’d met him. Must be a Watson thing.
Said Watson’s voice tears him away from his thoughts as he turns around to look at him. “Promise?”
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock stares emptily. It’s far too hot to do anything else.
“I need you to promise me,” John says. “That you'll tell me as soon as you’re sick of us. We’ll figure it out.”
Sherlock says nothing; after all, people are ridiculous. John just might be the most ridiculous of them all.
“We agreed, remember? No more secrets.” John implores. “That this will only work if we’re honest with each other from now on.”
Oh John, he doesn’t say. We’ve never been honest before. What’s the point of starting now? What he does say instead is this: “Of course.”
This seems to appease John; a good, solid ‘of course’ always does.
Rosie sighs, cradled against her father’s body. And even though Sherlock had made a vow never to make another vow, he can't help but make one more as he watches Rosie turn Baker Street into her home. A real one, this time.
Act II - A Visit
It’s the dead of winter; she’s just a week shy of her third birthday when she hurdles into the sitting room like a small, ruddy-cheeked tank. Mrs. Hudson isn’t far behind, carrying her nursery bag up the stairs.
Her birthday party is bound to be a modest thing, with only a handful of Rosie’s classmates whose parents Sherlock -based on meticulous research- deemed just sufferable enough. It’s their first time celebrating with people who don’t call Baker Street their home, and the novelty of the idea hasn’t worn off. It’s all she’s been talking about for weeks. Now’s no different, as John helps her wash up for dinner in the kitchen sink.
It takes both Sherlock and John a few minutes to notice Mrs. Hudson’s uncharacteristic silence amidst the usual afternoon chaos.
“Alright, Mrs. Hudson?” John asks as he wipes Rosie’s hands with a flannel.
Mrs. Hudson tuts and waves John off. “Why don’t I make some tea?”
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks.
“It’s nothing,” Mrs. Hudson waves it off, but the trembling in her voice gives her away. “I’m just being silly.”
“Mrs. Hudson—”
“Alright, alright.” Mrs. Hudson sighs. “Rosie, tell Sherlock and Daddy what you told Ms. Woodbridge at school today.”
Sherlock and John turn to look quizzically at the little girl, who reads the mood of the room and corks up.
“Rosie’s been talking about her birthday party quite a lot,” Mrs. Hudson says. “She’s been telling Ms. Woodbridge that her mummy will be there.”
And just like that, time in Baker Street stops.
If John had ever mentioned Mary to Rosie, it was never around Sherlock. Nor could Sherlock conjure up a conversation they might have had about Mary around the baby; it’s an open, blistering wound still, and they’re hardly the type to open up on such matters. As far as Sherlock knows - and he’s a detective, he’d checked - the only thing of Mary's that John had brought back in his suitcases from their old home was a framed photo of hers in her wedding dress. Wordlessly, John had placed it on Rosie’s changing table on their first week back. Since then he’s never heard Rosie mention her mother.
Until today.
“Right. Yeah, alright.” John manages, just barely. “Did you really say that, love?”
Rosie looks hesitantly between the three of them, nodding slowly. “Prudence said.”
“Prudence?” John asks. “What did she say?”
“She said mummies always come to birthday parties.”
“I wish mummy could come to your party, love, I really do,” John shakes his head, tight-lipped. “But she won’t. She can’t.”
“No?” Rosie shakes her head too, mirroring her father.
“No, love.”
The little girl thinks, then thinks some more, considering John’s words. For a brief moment she seems to accept them, their finality, but then she turns to look pleadingly at Sherlock. He’s her partner in crime whenever her father’s being unreasonable. Surely, he has a solution to this mystery. No? her blue eyes ask, and something inside Sherlock cracks, something he didn’t even know was there.
It’s not his place to defy John’s choices, after all. He’s not her father. He’s nothing more than a roommate, an appendage of their little family.
And so he says nothing, nothing at all.
But it lingers, that nothing. It lingers on, for a long time, after they’ve finished their teas and their dinners and the nightcaps. Mary’s specter looms over the quiet of the night, haunting their strange, domestic lives.
Later, when Rosie’s finally fast asleep, John takes it out on the dishes. Glasses clink in distress. The flannel squeaks as John mercilessly dries wet plates. It’s been so long since the doctor’s anger came sweeping through their kitchen like a tidal wave, and Sherlock hadn’t missed it - not one bit.
Sherlock bites his upper lip, turning the unmarked CD in his hands. The envelope he’s been keeping it in has long since yellowed with time and soured memories. He rubs his index finger nervously against the sticky cellophane as he weighs one option against another.
Emerging from his bedroom, he finds John in a staring duel with the sink.
“John.”
“I’m alright,” John says tightly. “I’ll—” He sighs. “I’ll be alright.”
Sherlock just nods; he’s long since learned that a well-placed silence will melt the iceberg of John Watson’s denial. All he has to do is wai—
“It’s just—” John scoffs at a misplaced fork. “I’ll never be enough, will I? I could be… I could be the greatest fucking father in the history of the world, and it still won’t be enough. Ever.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but in my understanding that's a common worry among parents.”
This earns him nothing but an unsympathetic glare and a rage sniff. “Christ... Have you ever felt… inadequate? Like, no matter what you do, you’re just not good enough?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” he says, somewhat distantly, and John scowls. “You’re being ridiculous, John. Not enough? You’re everything to her.”
John’s lips press together, his eyes searching the floor. “‘M sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“‘Reckoned I had a few more years before the difficult questions began,” John says. “Ms. Woodbridge said she’s far too young to understand any of it.”
“To be fair, she didn’t ask any questions.״ Sherlock says. “Not yet.”
“No, I suppose she didn’t.” John scoffs, rubbing a hand over a tired face. “What’ve you got there?”
Sherlock’s head tilts wordlessly, apologetically, and John’s hand tightens into a ball.
“I threw that out,” John says. “I put it in the ‘throw’ pile.”
“You did.” Sherlock straightens his spine proudly. And I threw it straight into my coat pocket. He may not have a say in Rosie’s upbringing, but he owed her this, at the very least.
“Why-” John’s jaw tightens. “Why would you do that?”
Because I knew we’d be here at some point, Sherlock doesn’t say, placing the CD on the worn –though presently sparkling-clean– kitchen table. After staring at the CD like a bomb, they exchange grimaces, each for his own reasons.
“For what it’s worth, John…” Sherlock hesitates. “If I were a betting man, I’d say Mary never felt quite enough, either.”
Looking up, John's eyes are wide with surprise.
"One doesn't leave his loved ones to chase bad people around the world feeling adequate," Sherlock says quietly. "Not in my experience."
He can just about see the air leaving John’s body.
After a silent moment Sherlock nods a good night and quietly shuts the bedroom door behind himself. Wouldn’t want to wake Rosie up, after all. She’s in for a lifetime of rude awakenings, all thanks to her mother.
The birthday party goes… well, just about as expected.
For ninety minutes, tiny creatures communicating at an extremely high pitch roam Mrs. Hudson’s flat, since parents tend to frown upon skulls, knives, and chemical paraphernalia in the vicinity of their children, as John insisted on explaining.
Which, to be perfectly honest, suited Sherlock just fine, relegated as he was to the back office of the party - e.g standing in the back to watch over Rosie and her sugar intake while texting Lestrade about the increasing levels of idiocy amongst London’s most corrupted minds.
It's blissfully quiet in the flat now. A tangle of cables and adapters is blocking his path between the telly and the wall. Sometime over the last few years DVD players have become obsolete, so naturally Sherlock, a life-long idiot, made a whole song and dance about using one, consequences be damned. Said consequences are right behind him on the sofa - father and daughter, seated in his lap, waiting wordlessly for Sherlock to untangle himself and turn around.
His heart flutters thunderously in his ears. He wonders if they can hear it.
Once the cables are tamed and the CD makes its signature wheezing noises, Sherlock hands John the remote control and heads for the mountains.
“Where are you going?” John asks, gripping Sherlock's arm.
“Giving you two a moment.”
"Sit down," John says, handing Sherlock the remote and pulling him to sit beside them.
Sherlock nods, swallows, and sits on the sofa gingerly, keeping a safe distance. Rosie’s blue eyes are as light and carefree as only a three year old’s can be.
He presses the Play button. The DVD player whirls, bringing the images to life. Moments in time memorialized by Molly: John in a suit shaking the vicar's hand. A careless smile from Mrs. Hudson. And then… then, there’s Mary: the brightest blue eyes, wavy curls and a smile that sends a painful shockwave through Sherlock's sternum.
“Look at that, love,” John says tightly, instinctively patting the little girl’s hair. “There’s Mummy.”
“No.” She says quickly and stops chewing on her thumb. An eerie, expectant silence fills the room. The video zooms in on Mary, clad in a white jacket, dangling pearl earrings and rocking the sleeping baby in her arms.
“Yes, love. That’s Mummy right there,” John soldiers on bravely, pointing at the screen. “And that’s you. You’re the baby, look at that.”
There is a brief, blessed moment during which she says nothing, does nothing. Suddenly she turns to look directly into Sherlock's soul and, with unexpected gravitas, explains: "Mummy."
“Mmm,” Sherlock nods tightly. “That’s right.”
She giggles uncomfortably at that; the sound grates on Sherlock's nerves. The barometric pressure in the room drops and turns to John, his dark-blue eyes darker than usual.
Is it too much? Sherlock doesn’t ask. Was this a mistake?
Onscreen Molly pans the camera to the left, revealing Sherlock staring gloomy outside the parish church’s window. Rosie blinks at the sight of him. “‘Shlock,” she looks up at John, pointing at the screen. “Daddy, ‘Shlock”.
Her laughter is a rolling thing this time, golden and warm. Sherlock can finally breathe again.
The video ends as abruptly as their old lives did that day at the Aquarium. A sigh escapes John as he kisses Rosie’s marigold curls, mumbling about bedtime and blankets. Sherlock stares at the black screen for ten whole minutes, listening to John’s hushed murmuring as he puts the birthday girl to sleep.
His mind is empty and his body numb while he showers. Burning hot rivulets leave a trail of red splotches down his skin, slowly unknotting strings of guilt and anxiety. He welcomes the pain tonight, in a way he rarely does; it’s either that or smoking three whole packs of cigarettes.
A hesitant knock on the semi-open loo’s door interrupts his mindless humming while he flosses.
“She went down like a light,” John says, opening the door slightly farther.
“Consuming your body weight in sugar would do that,” he replies, provoking a tired scoff from the doctor.
"Thank you for today," John rubs a hand down his thigh. "For helping, and... you know."
“Of course,” he says while flossing. Moments later, he realizes John hasn't moved an inch, staring unnaturally at him. “John?”
"It, erm," John says, clearing his throat. “It occurred to me that I owe you an apology.”
This earns John a raised brow. “Whatever for?”
“I've been harping on about how I’ll never be enough,” John says. “Should've pulled my head out of my own arse, I suppose, because… I should have realized. She has you.”
Sherlock shutter-blinks.
"We just..." John glares at the ceiling. "We just showed up one day and you took us in without a second thought and..."
“It’s been my pleasure,” he says, his voice deep. “Surely you know that.”
“I never thanked you for it,” John says. “For any of it. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”
Sherlock stares at his own reflection in the mirror, his own familiar features suddenly so harsh and unforgiving under the yellow light. “You could stay,” he blurts quickly before his courage wanes. “You should stay. Here. With me.”
John looks shell-shocked. Sherlock, for his part, uses everything in his power to not roll his eyes. How is it that after all these years, John can still be surprised by Sherlock's perception, of how attuned he is to every single one of John's fears and worries? Like how troubled John has been recently by how small the flat has become for the three of them, and how convinced he's been that they're encroaching on Sherlock's privacy?
“Yeah?” John blurts with a smile. “You sure?”
Sherlock’s eyes– they finally roll. He can’t help himself. “Of course.”
He’d expected a smile, obviously. He knows John well enough by now. What he wasn't expecting is what happens next: John takes a deep breath, the kind that fills your lungs, then steps into the loo and gives Sherlock a peck on the cheek. The warmth from his lips lingers for far too long and not quite long enough.
Another huff, another devious smile, and John leaves Sherlock behind.
Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night.
“Now I blow the candles, I guess?” John asks coyly and proceeds to do exactly that. “Help me, love.”
It has been ninety-five days and twelve hours since Rosie's birthday —since John kissed him in the loo, of all places— and spring has finally sprung. Slowly but surely the world is thawing. They're kitty-corner by the kitchen table; the smoke from the candle fills Rosie’s nostrils and she sneezes. John chuckles sympathetically, age lines crinkling like elusive sunbeams.
When Sherlock hands John Rosie’s gift, some horrendous self-help tome Mrs. Hudson picked, John chuckles warmly. “Very insightful, Rosie. Thank you.”
Sherlock’s index finger gingerly rubs the tasteful wrapping paper on the gift he had painstakingly picked himself at an antique store on Strand Street. John stares eagerly at the rectangle box, his eyes bright. As Sherlock watches him unwrap the box, he wonders, not for the first time, how his life turned out so painfully, undeservedly, domestic.
He’s the happiest he’s ever been.
He wonders if Mary will ever forgive him. Why should she, when he never forgave her for it?
“Oh my God, Sherlock—” John says, low, choking. “You remembered.”
(Of course he remembered. How could he not remember the tale of John’s childhood fascination with kaleidoscopes?)
“I wasn’t even sure you were listening…”
(Of course he was listening.)
John looks up and their eyes lock after gently removing the Victorian kaleidoscope from its case. “Where did you—”
“I have my connections.”
“Wow, Sherlock. This is…”
It’s only fair, he started it, Sherlock thinks as he leans forward over Rosie’s head to kiss John; a proper one on John’s chapped lips, long and meaningful and all-encapsulating. And then he doesn’t need any more justification because John kisses back, and when he tries to pull away because he can’t breathe, John chases his lips and doesn’t let go.
Sherlock opens his eyes expectantly. They’re face to face, forehead to forehead, and John is wearing the stupidest smile in the history of man.
“What?” Sherlock asks.
“Eight years we’ve been doing this,” John searches Sherlock’s eyes. “And you do this with Rosie on your lap?”
Sherlock shrugs. Rosie murmurs something intelligible.
“Stay here,” John says, picking Rosie up from Sherlock’s arms. “And don’t. Move. Time for a nap, love. Off we go.”
Fifteen minutes later, John clears his throat somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock is keeping exceedingly busy staring at nothing down the microscope.
“You moved.” John says.
Sherlock bites a lip anxiously.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?” Sherlock looks up from the microscope to look at the man. He finds him with his hands on his hips and both brows raised as high as they could possibly go. And if brows could speak, he reckons, they’d say something very similar to ‘you’re being an idiot’ and ‘don’t you dare’ and ‘kiss me now, you bloody moron’.
Sherlock’s lips tighten but smart John, clever, clever John reads him like an open book. Soft hands cup Sherlock’s face gently as he arches forward to kiss with all the might and bravery of a soldier. Sherlock places hesitant hands on John’s waist, pulling him closer and closer to him and into the space between his legs.
When they finally come up for air John’s eyes are glazed and hazy. He smacks his lips loudly before finding his words. “So, um. Rosie’s up in my room.”
Sherlock stares emptily.
“Just saying… if this were a date I’d, er…” John starts. “I’d invite you up to my room, but—”
Oh. “Oh!” Sherlock jumps from his chair, nearly dislodging John from his place. “Come.”
“Sherlock—”
“Come along, John!”
John’s cake is as good as spoiled by the time naptime is over.