Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.

             ― Confucius

John packs his suitcase on a Friday.

It’s dark outside, the only light in the room coming from the still open window, the flat  deadly silent, and there is a weight on his chest as he folds each item of clothes. He’s been willing himself to fall asleep since he had gone up to bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to find a meaning to the day he was about to start in less than three hours. The same dull, boring day he’d been living for the past year, busying himself in the vain hope to forget about his empty flat, empty bed, empty life.  A few years back, he could have used Rosie as an excuse for his own cowardice to do something about it. He could have pretended she needed him there, either cooking breakfast, walking her to school or, later on, reminding her to wake up in the morning in the first place. In a sense, she had needed him like any child whose life revolves around their parents, but that had ended months ago now, when she had packed her own suitcases and went all the way across the country to study in the best boarding school there was, and he continues to get up everyday wondering what exactly he’s supposed to do now .

I’m retiring, John.

I’m leaving London.

“Stop,” John commands to the silent room, and he doesn’t bother cursing against the too familiar voice in his head. He reaches for the pile of jumpers on the lower shelf, placing them carefully on top of his shirts and finally closing the suitcase. He stares down at it, his fingers shaking and the ache spreading throughout his chest making it hard to breathe.  

I need something different, John.

Something new.

“I said stop,” John breathes, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “Just stop.” He lets the silence surrounding him fill his mind again, his breathing slowing and his head spinning just a little less. It’s packed now. He can’t back up, can’t pretend he hasn’t been thinking about leaving this town too full of memories and start new. He can’t do this anymore, can’t fool himself and let time take all he ever wanted from him. Rosie would be the one pushing him out the door if she was here, and John can’t help but smile at the thought. She’s been begging him to leave for weeks, to finally get a grip on himself and do things right. As if it was that easy, John had replied, closing the discussion once again but his energy to fight the inevitable growing weaker.

A car passing through the street startles him, and John looks back down at his closed suitcase, and then the clock on the bedside table. 04:36. He could catch the early train and be there by ten if he hurries, having learned the train schedule years ago. He glances around the room, taking it all in one last time, this room he had hated with all of his being the first time he slept here. The room that had been the silent witness of his dreams for more and his tears when facing reality. Still, he smiles when his gaze stops on the drawing Rosie made when she was five, still spending all of her free time trying to improve her art skills, and decides to pull it off the wall and fold it into the suitcase. Sherlock always loved this drawing. In the end, he only need to reach into his pocket to find the small piece of paper that could have changed his life years ago, the edges frayed and the ink used to write down the address almost dried out.

“I’m coming,” John whispers, silence the only answer to his promise.

Chapter Text

Sherlock wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing, lying on the other side of the bed. He doesn’t reach for it just yet, rolling to his back and stretching lazily. He takes his time, flexing each toe and working the muscles of his legs slowly, the years he’d spent running all around London finally starting to catch up to him. Raising both arms above his head, he stretches them carefully, rolling his shoulders and arching his neck backward. He can’t exactly remember when he started this routine, but he can’t imagine beginning his day another way now. He’s perfectly aware that the state of an average male body begins to deteriorate approaching sixty years old, and he intends to assure his own good health for as long as he can manage.

His phone chimes again, and this time Sherlock searches for it blindly by his side. It’s probably Montgomery inquiring about the cold case he gave him two days ago, and Sherlock isn’t surprised to read two different curses in each text, the man having lost patience a long time ago it seems. He replies quickly, assuring him that he’ll make sure to come by the office later today. He puts his phone away, one hand rubbing his eyes, and makes another mental note about going to the ophthalmologist as soon as possible.

A bark downstairs stirs him from his thoughts, and Sherlock accepts that today is going to be an early morning. He rolls to his side, grabbing the dressing gown at the end of his bed and putting it on as he gets up, going for the door immediately. Toby greets him at the bottom of the stairs, barking happily until Sherlock finally gives him some breakfast, patting his head softly, “There, there.”

Tobby forgets entirely about him as soon as he’s eating, and Sherlock puts the kettle on before opening the glass doors to the garden. He collects the newspaper Thomas left there earlier, the boy having agreed to deliver it directly to his garden table in exchange for some detailed stories of some of his cases. Sherlock sometimes looks at him and sees Rosie at his age instead, always asking questions about all the things John couldn’t write down on his blog. She wouldn’t stop until either John or himself started explaining some complex case and all the details that had lead them to solve it, drinking in their words with wide eyes and impressed sighs.

The sound of the water boiling brings him back to reality, and Sherlock pours himself a mug of tea, eyes still on the local newspaper. Nothing new it seems, two articles about the degradation of the beaches, one about a local carpenter and some news from London. Sherlock saves the crosswords for later and sets the paper aside, taking his mug with him to the garden and sitting down on one of the chair. It’s still quiet this early, and for just a second, Sherlock forgets about anything else. He closes his eyes, the morning sun warming his face and the light breeze making the leaves swirl on the ground.

He allows himself a second more before truly starting his day, enjoying the last sip of his tea and starting up at the sky. He wonders, just for a moment if it’s just as blue in London right now and if John is looking up too, thinking about the day ahead of him and maybe, maybe , about him too.

Toby licking his hand makes him jump, and Sherlock looks down at him, “You’re right, it’s too early for these kind of thoughts.” Toby barks, tongue wetting his hand again before going to look around the garden. Sherlock goes back intp the kitchen, grabbing the few letters he left on the table yesterday and opens the first one on his way back outside. He sits down, recognizing Rosie’s handwriting, and lets himself smile as he begins to read.

Pa’,

Thank you again for letting me stay at yours the other day, I really needed a week end away from here. The school is great, I’m not complaining, but the other students can be so dull. I understand now why you didn’t bother completing your degree, but don’t tell Dad or he’ll kill me. Not that I plan on dropping out, but a break really was welcomed.

How’s Toby? Is he missing me already? I bet he is (give him a pat from me, ok?)

And your bees? Got stung again? You should really be more careful, it only takes a few seconds to suit up before taking care of your hives, you know. I’m sure Dad would be all over you every morning just to make sure you’re taking every precaution, and probably running after you all the bloody time too.

I was thinking that you should invite him. It would be good, for the both of you to finally see each other again. I can see you miss him, and I know for fact he misses you (keeps asking if I’ve talked to you whenever I see him, it’s getting rather boring!) He’s got no one now that I’m gone and it makes me sad to imagine him eating alone in that empty kitchen. Please, can you at least consider telling him he can come one more time?

I’ll try to write again soon, I know how much you hate phone calls.

Love you,

Rosie.

Sherlock closes his eyes, one finger stroking the paper still in his hand, and he resists the urge to write her back. He can’t put down in words the thoughts rushing through his head right now or he’ll regret it later. She only means well, and it’s not her fault John never seems to find the time to come visit him. He puts the letter down the table carefully, grabbing the next one and breathing in and out deeply to loosen the knot forming in his chest.

Mr. Holmes,

We received your first letter, but allow me to renew my offer one last time. We are certain that the cases you solved over the years of your career as a consulting detective will interest a lot of our readers. It really wouldn't be an issue to send you someone to write them all down, no matter how long it takes. You would, of course, have the final word on what we’ll publish.

We would appreciate if you would reconsider your answer once more.

If you have any questions, you may contact us at the number at the end of this letter.

Cordially,

Jeremy Bretts, Dorling Kindersley Edition.

Sherlock doesn’t bother to finish this one, tearing the paper apart with a lump in his throat now. He clenches his hands into fist, chasing the memory of short fingers hovering above a keyboard, typing slowly. Most likely scenting his sudden distress, Toby comes to rest his head on his lap, looking up at him. Sherlock smiles, one hand stroking his ear, “Yes, alright, let’s go check the bees,” he says, and Toby is already running towards the end of the garden.

Sherlock gets up, setting his mug down and puts on his shoes before joining him. Attending to the four hives he had acquired four years ago is the brightest moment of his day, and Sherlock takes the time to protect himself before going to the first one, thinking back on Rosie’s words. Toby is playing with some of the bees, having gotten used use to being stung, and Sherlock lifts the lid carefully. He inspects each one slowly, collecting some honey in the third and fixing the last. Toby has long deserted him when he’s finished, and he puts his equipment back in the shed before walking back toward the house.

“Time to shower now,” he tells Toby who has found his rightful place on the couch.

The first step of the stair squeaks even louder than the day before, and Sherlock sighs just thinking about fixing it. He should have known such an old house would require work, but he was getting bored, and tired, of having to do it all by himself. Ignoring the problem for now, he heads up to the shower, letting the hot water relax his remaining sore muscles, and by the time he gets out, he can hear a car parking outside. He gets dressed quickly, checking his now greyish hair in the mirror before going back downstairs just as the bell rings.

“Mr. Holmes,” a voice calls. “Are you there?”

“I’m coming Mrs. Blondeau,” he replies, opening the door to face the familiar worried face of the local shopkeeper.

“I’m sorry to come so early,” she apologises, “but I was wondering if I could get some more of your honey, we sold the last jar yesterday.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock smiles, stepping aside to let her in. “I’ll go fetch some.”

“Thank you Mr. Holmes,” she sighs, patting Toby’s ears. “Hello, good boy.”

Sherlock leaves her in the hall, heading for his laboratory and placing a dozen jars of honey in a box. “Should I carry it for you to your car?” He asks when he comes back.

“No, it’s alright, don’t worry,” Mrs. Blondeau replies, already taking the box out of his hands. “Your honey is really quite special you know, everyone seems to adore it.”

“I’m glad they do,” Sherlock replies. “I should have more soon.”

“I’ll have Charles come and get it later this week,” she says, already walking back to her car quickly. “Sorry again. Have a good day, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock waits until she’s driving away before closing the door, Toby’s head stroking his leg in a clear invitation and Sherlock smiles, “Alright, let’s go out, too.”

He turns back to close the glass doors in the kitchen, remembering to get his phone upstairs before letting Toby out for his daily walk. With the closest house three miles away, Sherlock doesn’t have to worry about leashes, and Toby is already happily running ahead of him when Sherlock closes the front door. He checks his phone quickly in case Montgomery has replied, but his lock screen is empty except for the most recent photo Rosie sent him of her on campus. He smiles, thinking about her call two days ago and remembers her voice as she explains just how dull the lab’s mandatory schedules were. She seems to like boarding school a lot considering all the excited texts Sherlock receives regularly, and he’s glad she had found her way despite the nightmare that had been convincing John to let go.

Forcing himself to put his phone back in his pocket before getting too emotional, another consequence of his old age apparently, Sherlock focuses back on Toby who has found their favorite bench. “Tired already,” Sherlock smiles as he sits down, slipping both hands inside his pockets and enjoying the calming view. He tries to come here every morning, just to watch the sea and let the silence fill both the air and his head. He had found this spot right after moving in, a year before getting Toby, and they both enjoyed the view ever since. It was rare to meet anyone here, and for just a second, every day, Sherlock forgets about the empty space next to him.

Chapter Text

John arrives at Sherlock’s house only to find it empty. It had taken him a long minute only to knock at the door, thinking Sherlock must have probably heard him already anyway and was waiting on the other side to open it. But the door still remains closed and not a sound echoes inside the house when John tries the doorbell a third time. He picks up his suitcase, looking around and noticing the small gate that most likely leads to the backyard. He calls out Sherlock’s name, his voice sounding hoarse even to his own ears, but no one answers and he finds the garden just as empty as the house. He doesn’t linger, somehow feeling like he’s invading Sherlock’s privacy just by standing there, quickly going back to the other side of the house. He considers calling Sherlock for a moment, but finds that he doesn’t have the courage to be just a voice on the line when he’s about to face him after all these years.

He decides to go explore instead, thinking Sherlock might just be out and that he could come by the house later to try again. His shoulder is aching from the weight of his suitcase, but he takes a right and heads towards the cliffs, walking slowly as he tries to calm his pounding heart. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the train despite having tried to, and more than once he had thought of taking the ride back home as soon as he got out the carriage. But the train station had been filled with life and noise, and suddenly John couldn’t continue to run away any longer. He had come all the way down here, and he’s going to at least try to take a shot at the life he had dreamed about for so long before giving up.

It almost doesn’t surprise him to find Sherlock barely twenty minutes into his walk. He’s sitting on a bench, staring at the quiet sea, his back turned to the world he tried to understand so many times and for a second John is afraid to even disturb his peace. He recognizes him immediately of course, despite the gray hair and lack of suit, and he wonders for a moment what he’s thinking about. He realises he has stopped breathing entirely, and inhales deeply as he sets his suitcase down on the ground again. He takes a first step forward, noticing the dog jumping around and vaguely remembering Rosie talking about it. Christ, has it really been that long ?

“John,” Sherlock calls, and John freezes. He watches as Sherlock stands up slowly, still staring at the sea for what seems an eternity before finally turning around.

I’m sorry , John thinks, wishing the words weren’t stuck in his throat. I’m sorry, please, don’t push me away. Sherlock’s eyes drop to his suitcase and John’s breath catches, speaking before he can think twice about it, “When you moved out, you said there were a room for me in your house.” Sherlock looks back at him, the years having marked his face and yet having only reinforced his beauty, and John forces himself to look away. Realising Sherlock isn’t going to reply, John inhales deeply before adding, “If that’s still the case, I’d like to take you up on that offer.”

Sherlock remains silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on him, and John does his best not to flinch. He focuses on his breathing, on the soft lines around Sherlock’s eyes, and tells himself that his friend has every right to tell him to go away, to tell him he’s missed his chance, and John would walk away with the confirmation he has ruined everything once more.

“Toby,” Sherlock says finally, looking around him. “We’re going home.” The irish setter comes ruining towards them, going to Sherlock and lapping at his hand. “Do you need help with that suitcase?” he asks, and John smiles, looking down.

“No, I’m fine.”

Sherlock nods, taking a step toward him, “I assume you’ve come by the house already.”

“Yes,” John replies, picking up his suitcase again and following Sherlock as he passes by him. “I still had the address you gave me. It’s a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies, and John wishes he would just look at him.

“I never asked,” he continues, desperate not to let silence settle between them,  “but how did you find it in the first place?”

Sherlock glances at him, “Irene sold it to me.”

John doesn’t reply immediately, throat suddenly dry and his fingers tightening into a fist at his side, “Oh, I see.”

“She had been trying to sell it for years, after moving to Chicago, and I remembered her mentioning it once when I started looking for something myself,” Sherlock adds, taking a turn left and John follows, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue.

“You two keep in touch, then?” is the one breaching his lips, and he regrets it immediately.

“The occasional texts, yes,” Sherlock replies, not commenting on John’s insistence on the subject and John thanks him silently. “And she came to visit once, with Kate.”

It takes a long minute for John to place a face with the name, “That’s nice.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, the house now in sight, and they walk the rest of way in a somewhat comfortable silence. Toby heads for the garden directly, and John realises he hadn’t closed the gate earlier. Sherlock doesn’t mention it, opening the front door and slipping off his shoes. “You can leave your suitcase here for the moment while I show you around the house.”

John nods, having no idea what to reply and deciding it’s for the best if he remains silent for now. Sherlock doesn’t waste any time showing him around, opening door after door, stating one or two facts apparently worth mentioning, and John promises himself to explore each room more thoroughly another time. They linger in the garden, John unable to repress a smile when he notices the hives in the back, “Bees?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, sounding just a bit softer. “I bought them after I moved in.”

“I always knew you’d get some one day,” John says, memories of the numerous books about apiology standing on their shelf in 221B rushing back to him. “Are you producing honey?”

Sherlock nods, walking back inside the house, “I sell it to a local shop, people seem to like it.”

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” John says, and for just a second, Sherlock looks at him as if he was seeing him for the first time.

“I’ll show you your room now,” he declares, taking John’s suitcase on his way, and John choses not to comment on it. They climb the few steps upstairs, Sherlock pointing to the different doors, “Bathroom is here. That’s the guest room, where Rosie sleeps when she visits, and over there is my room.” He stops in front of the last door, “And here’s yours.”

John pushes the door open, his breath catching at the sight of the double bed perfectly made. He wonders if Sherlock takes care of it himself, if he comes to this room regularly to clean everything and make sure the sheets are perfectly made just in case he showed up. No , he thinks, shaking his head slowly. He probably has someone cleaning this entire house for him .

“That’s perfect,” he says, moving to the window overlooking the garden.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Sherlock says behind him, having remained in the hallway the entire time.

John turns around, “Sherlock, I… Thank you. I know it’s been a long time.”

“Rosie’s fifteen's birthday,” Sherlock answers.

Two years , John thinks, his stomach in knots again, but does his best not to let it show.

“How long do you plan on staying?” Sherlock asks, his tone tense and John realises he must have been wondering ever since he saw him on that cliff.

“I don’t know,” John replies honestly. “Is that alright?”

Sherlock nods, lips parting as if to speak but he turns around without saying another word, and John remains standing there, in a room made for him, and that had remained empty for the past four years. Not anymore , John tells himself with a determined sigh, and he begins to empty his suitcase, placing his clothes in the wardrobe carefully. He can hear Sherlock walking around downstairs, and for a moment he’s back in Baker Street, unpacking his stuff in the upstairs bedroom all while wondering who his new flatmate is exactly. A lifetime ago , Rosie would say, teasing him about his age all the bloody time lately.

He takes out his phone, sending her a quick text to tell him he’s staying at Sherlock’s for an undetermined amount of time, and places the phone on his bed, knowing it won’t take long for her to call. He heads for the bathroom, placing his lotions and toothbrush in the tub and on the sink, taking the time to look at all the bottles already there, trying to learn more about Sherlock’s new life in the details of his house.

His phone ringing brings him back to his room, and he smiles as Rosie’s name on the screen, “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Are you really there?” Rosie asks right away, her excitement barely hidden.

“Yes,” John replies as calmly as possible. “Took the morning train.”

“And you’re staying? Like staying staying?”

“That’s the plan, as long as your Pa’ allows it,” John says.

“Oh come on,” Rosie replies, laughing, “You know he couldn’t ask you to move out even if he wanted to, which he really doesn’t.”

John rubs a hand against his nape, replying carefully, “We’ll see about that. It’s been awhile since we last lived together you know.”

“It worked just fine when I was little,” Rosie says as a matter of fact.

“Things happened since that time, sweetheart,” John says, sitting down, the weight of all the years that had gone by suddenly too much to bear.

“Promise me you’re going to try and make it work,” Rosie pleads. “You two deserve to be happy.”

John closes his eyes, breathing out deeply, “I should go.”

“Promise me, Dad,” Rosie asks again.

“Yes,” John breathes, “I promise.”

“Ok, says hi to Pa’ for me,” she replies.

“I will. Bye, sweetheart,” John smiles, and he hears her own smile in her voice when she tells him goodbye before hanging up.

He remains sitting there for a long moment, phone in hand and the promise he just made making his head spin. He knows Rosie is just trying her best, and that she never really recovered from when they left 221B to have their a flat of their own. With the years she had understood that the upstairs bedroom was getting too small for the two of them, but she had never fully accepted leaving her Pa’ behind, and had resented him ever since. John wishes he could have told her that he would have loved nothing more but to stay in Baker Street all these years, would have love to the find the courage to ask Sherlock if there was just the smallest chance that he could move to his bedroom instead and remain there.

Three knocks on his door pull him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, “I have to go out for a hour or so. We can have lunch when I come back, if you want.”

“Yes, alright.”

Sherlock gives him a sharp nod, saying “I’m taking Toby with me” before turning his back to him again and disappearing down the hall.

It occurs to John that it might be harder than he thought to keep his promise.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, wait!”

Sherlock stops in the middle of the stairs, his hand clenched around the railing and his voice almost too quiet as he replies, “Yes?”

John is standing on the top of the stairs, and it takes all of Sherlock’s will to turn around and act as if his entire world just hadn’t been turned upside down. I love you , he thinks, unable to stop himself as his eyes once again take in all of John’s figure in front of him.

“Is there anything in particular I should cook while you’re out?” John asks, eyes fixed on something just above Sherlock’s right shoulder.

It takes a long moment for Sherlock to focus enough to reply. “I believe there are some leftovers in the fridge.”

John smiles, lips parting a few times as if he’s trying to search for the right words before finally saying, “Will I find a severed head in there too?”

“I have a special fridge for those now,” Sherlock replies, forgetting for just a second that this John Watson has aged two years, seven hundred and thirty days, since he last saw him.

“Too bad,” John replies, still smiling but Sherlock finds that he can’t face those lips any longer.

“I won’t take long,” he says, turning back around and not waiting for John to reply before climbing down the rest of the stairs.

He all but flees his own house, leaving behind the only person he wished had been there all along. Toby follows him reluctantly, probably not understanding why they’re going back out so soon, and Sherlock even forgets about his coat on the way out. It doesn’t matter, he can’t go back in. John is there, in his room, unpacking his clothes and settling in, looking radiant and so very himself . John is here, in his house, and there isn’t enough air outside to breathe properly anymore. Of all the scenarios Sherlock had imagined over the years, none of them involved such a sentiment of despair. He has no idea what he is supposed to do, what he’s supposed to say to this man he’s been in love with for so long that he can’t remember a time when John wasn’t there . It isn’t fair for him to just appear out of nowhere, to stand on that cliff still as strong, still as beautiful and expect Sherlock to just function and think and breathe.

He stops, standing in the middle of the road and looking back behind him. What is he doing? He needs to get back there, to find John and trace each new line on his face with fingers and lips. He needs to get back there and tell him he can never leave again, tell him that this room has been waiting for him to arrive for too long and that it wouldn’t survive his departure. He needs to get back in there and collect John’s compact figure into his arms and not let go until they’ve made up for all the time they’ve lost.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, watching his neighbor waving a hand at him, but doesn’t bother to reply. None of this matters because John is here , and the chaos inside his own head is threatening to ruin everything. His phone chiming makes him jump, or for just a second he’s certain it is John telling him he’s going back to London on the first train. His hand is shaking as he retrieves it from his pocket and he barely holds back a sigh of relief when he sees Rosie’s name on the screen.

received / 11:02

Don’t let him leave, Pa’. It’s your chance, don’t let it slip away.

received / 11:02

Oh, and try not to jump on him right away ;)

A bright peal of laughter escapes his lips, and Sherlock types back a reply quickly,

sent / 11:04

I’ll do my best.

He puts his phone away, breathing in deeply and resuming his walk to the station. He needs to think this through, needs to decide on a plan of action before going back to John. Besides, Montgomery will be pleased to see him this early, and will probably not let him leave without taking another two or three files, but Sherlock finds that he’s looking forward to keeping his mind busy. Toby barks happily next to him, and Sherlock smiles, thinking back on Rosie’s texts and perfectly picturing her state of mind at the moment. He could still remember the day she had come to visit him at Baker Street, having just turned fourteen and spending almost all of her free time with him. She had sat down next to him at the kitchen table, playing with one of Sherlock’s jars and blurted out all of the sudden, “I know you’re in love with Dad, and I’m sorry we moved out.” Sherlock hadn’t tried to deny it, simply smiling and assuring her that she didn’t need to worry, and that she had nothing to apologize for. Her dad had made his decision, and he understood it entirely. She had broken down into tears, and Sherlock had held her through it, his own vision getting more and more blurry.

Time had passed, and if Sherlock is certain Rosie still hasn’t given up hope, they don’t usually talk about it. He has no idea if she ever told John, and for a time he had wished she had, just to know, just to finally be sure if he had been imagining all the small signs and quiet affection that had remained between them. But John had never mentioned their discussion, and with time, Sherlock had given up on talking about this too. He sometimes thinks that it’s what they do best, ever since their first few months of living together, simply not talking about the things that mattered, the things that could have changed everything else.

They have come close, Sherlock is painfully aware they have. He can still remember long evenings spent by the fire, Rosie sleeping upstairs and their whispers filling the air as they enjoyed just one last drink. There are times when it’s all Sherlock can think about, closing his eyes and seeing John facing him, his lips curled into a smile and his entire body open and trusting. It would have been so easy, in the end, to just reach for him and let their mouths meet, let their lives collide in every sense of the word, finally . So easy, and yet the distance between their two chairs had seemed too big to cross at the time, a gap neither of them had dared to close. In the end, it didn’t matter that they were raising a child together, didn’t matter that they were living together, that they were a family. None of it ever mattered enough only because he had been to afraid to only ask for more .

Toby starts to bark as soon as they’re at the station, and as expected, Montgomery is smoking outside. Sherlock watches as Tobby goes directly to him, the DI patting his ear immediately, “It’s about bloody time,” he tells Sherlock, finishing his cigarette quickly.

“That last case was too easy,” Sherlock replies. “I’m sure even you could have solved it!”

“I would have if people stopped bothering me with useless matters all the bloody time,” Montgomery groans, opening the door to the station for the both of them, and Sherlock steps in first, smiling. “Don’t tell me anything, just put your notes there,” he says, pointing at his desk, and Sherlock sits down on one of the chair, doing as told. “I’ve got some more for you.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, keeping an eye on Toby who seems to have decided to say hello to every man in the station.

Montgomery snorts, searching through the files on his desk and Sherlock can’t help but remember the first time this grumpy old man had rang his door and said that since the great Sherlock Holmes was now living in his neighborhood, then he could make himself useful. Sherlock had of course welcomed the distraction of cold cases with open arms, and they had kept in contact without actually acknowledging their friendship in any way. There are days when Sherlock looks at him and wonders how Lestrade is doing, if he’s retired yet and if he has finally quit smoking. Maybe John would know, he thinks, and just the realisation that he’s actually going to be able to ask him makes Sherlock’s entire body shiver.

“There,” Montgomery exclaims, handing Sherlock two heavy files. “These two shouldn’t be as easy.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sherlock replies, one finger stroking the cover. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to bring them back, I had an… unexpected visitor.”

“Your daughter?”

“No,” Sherlock smiles, still not quite yet used to people assuming Rosie is his. “Her Dad, actually.”

“John Watson is at your house?” Montgomery asks, eyes wide, and Sherlock nods. “Don’t bother coming back to give me those, I’ll come by myself. I always wanted to meet the man behind the blog,” he smiles, winking at him.

Sherlock shakes his head, replying carefully, “I don’t know how long he’s going to stay.”

“You know,” Montgomery says, leaning back against his chair, “I always assumed the two of you were together, just from reading that man’s blog, so I’d say he’s here to stay.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, looking down at the files again and not letting himself believe in the man’s words. He’s far from being the first to assume such things, people always had, especially after John moved back in with him with Rosie, but with the years, it had started to hurt more and more each time someone mentioned it.

“I’ll come by your house next Wednesday so make sure he’s still there when I do,” Montgomery adds with a pointed look.

“I can’t make him do anything,” Sherlock replies, standing up and calling for Toby. He needs air, needs to think, to order his thoughts before he has to face John again.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” Montgomery smiles, watching him leave. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock leaves the station without another word, not sure how he could explain to the man that John Watson was still to this day the only mystery he hadn’t been able to solve.

Chapter Text

John closes his eyes as the door downstairs slams shut. Idiot, I’m a complete idiot . Did he really believe Sherlock would stay just because he asked a question about bloody lunch? Just because he had arrived without notice didn’t mean Sherlock was going to change his entire schedule just for him. He had been the one to avoid him all these years, to stay in London when he could have been living here all along. Sherlock has his own routine now, his own life to live, and if John is lucky enough, he’ll find a way to be a part of it again.

Breathing out deeply, he looks back at the empty hall down the stairs, considering going through Sherlock’s fridge already. Maybe he could find something else than leftovers and cook for the both of them, just like before. Surely Sherlock would enjoy that. Deciding it was at least worth a try, John climbs down the stairs to the kitchen, opening the cupboard quickly and laughing warmly at the sight of the empty shelf. “I should have known,” he smiles, shaking his head and peeking at the fridge for the said leftovers. “I guess a trip to the shop is inevitable.”

“I should start a spreadsheet on all the things we buy for her.”

“She’s still a baby, Sherlock, of course she needs milk and nappies and toys!”

“I’m not complaining, John, only saying that since we’re going to the shop almost every week, we could start a comparative spreadsheet.”

“Comparative spreadsheet?”

“Yes, find out where to buy to best of everything.”

“You know, you don’t have to come with me every time I go shopping, right?”

“I know. I want to.”

“Oh, alright. Tell me more about that spreadsheet then.”

Feeling just a bit more at ease just by the prospect of dragging Sherlock to get groceries, John decides to take advantage of the next hour to discover more of the house. He starts by exploring the laboratory just next to the kitchen, the room filled with all the science equipment that used to be on their kitchen table, and yes, even a fridge in the right corner. Not sure he actually wants to know what’s inside, John looks at the notebooks spread on one of the tables, opening one slowly and smiling at the small and still elegant handwriting there. It seems that Sherlock is experimenting on his own honey, searching for perfect taste and formula, and John wonders if there’ll be some for lunch. The rest of the notebooks are filled with notes on various experiments, most of them involving body parts and John shakes his head, thinking that some things truly never change.

“ I can’t keep my experiments here any longer.”

“Your bedroom?”

“The flat.”

“What do you mean, the flat?”

“I should look for somewhere else, maybe a lab at Bart’s.”

“And go there in the middle of the night?”

“You’re right, not the most efficient solution.”

“What about 221C?”

“Yes, brilliant, why didn’t I think of it first?!”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“You should know by now this is a compliment, John.”

“I know.”

Moving to the sitting room next, he’s almost surprised to find photographs in frames all around the room. He recognizes Rosie in most of them, from her birth to the most recent one last summer. He takes the time to study them all, memories floating through his mind and a lump in his throat at the thought of his little girl living her life now far from him, from them. He can’t help but notice all the pictures with him in them as well, either during birthday parties or events, but also just the three of them in Baker Street. Sitting down on the sofa, he grabs the closest one, looking down fondly at Sherlock and Rosie reading a book in her old bedroom. He remembers clearly taking this one, watching the two of them for several minutes and thinking that this, right there, must be happiness.

“How many times have you two read this story already?”

“Twelve, Daddy! I’ve counted myself!”

“Aren’t you getting bored of it, sweetheart?”

“No, it’s the best, and Pa’ does the voices too!”

“I’m sure he does, yes.”

“Even the princesses’ !”

“I’m truly impressed.”

“It was challenging at first, but I’m getting better each time.”

“Read with us, Daddy!”

“Is there a place for me on this little bed?”

“Yes, yes! Next to Pa’, yes!”

Refusing to let himself drown in memories, John sets the frame back down and stands up again. He heads upstairs, opening the door to Rosie’s room and laughing again at the several books and papers on the desk by the window. She had told him that Sherlock had gathered a lot of ressources for her after she chose to apply for science classes, but he hadn’t expected this. He peeks at the different notes Rosie had taken, smiling at the doodles on the side and imagining Sherlock sitting next to her while she studied. She loves to come here, and John had never said anything when she cancelled week ends in London to visit Sherlock instead, thanking her silently for doing what he couldn’t. He wonders what her next visit would be like, the three of them not having been together for months, no, years.

“Dad, have you called Pa’ today?”

“Sent him a text this morning.”

“It’s his birthday, can’t you just call for once?”

“He prefers to text, you know he does.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. He’s been asking about you, about when you’ll come visit with me one day.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, with the clinic and everything. I don’t know.”

“Those are just excuses, and you know it.”

“Rosie, I just can’t.”

“Did you get him something at least? I could give it to him next week end.”

“We’re a bit old for gifts, don’t you think?”

“You two will be the end of me, I swear.”

Sighing, John sets the notes down on the desk again, turning around to head for the last room. Sherlock’s. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he’s entering Sherlock’s private space but the temptation is too strong to resist. He had spent months not entering Sherlock’s room in Baker Street, turning the place into something almost sacred, and had regretted it for a long time afterwards. Sherlock had rolled his eyes at him when he had broached the subject, and John had almost told him just how many times he had dreamed of not only going inside his room, but in his bed too. His hands are shaking as he turns the door handle, and the room he finds is nothing like he had expected. Walking inside slowly, John puts both hands in his pocket, not wanting to disturb anything. The large double bed takes up most of the room, and the small desk next to the door is perfectly ordered, a laptop and some papers lying there. So much to explore, and yet John can’t stop staring at the frame on Sherlock’s bedside table. The only picture in the room. The first thing Sherlock sees every morning. Rosie, blowing out her candles with wide eyes. Himself, holding her in his arms, laughing. Younger. Happier.

“It was a good day.”

“Yes, Rosie loved it.”

“That’s because you bought her a microscope. She asked me if she could sleep with it tonight.”

“Not really what I got it for.”

“You know she’s not going do anything else for weeks.”

“I know, and I find that I cannot wait to teach her how to use it.”

“Just promise you’ll keep the body parts for when she’s older.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, really, for taking care of everything today. She’s lucky to have you.”

“She’s lucky to have us, John. “

“Or maybe it’s just the other way around. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Let’s just agree on all of our luck, then.”

“You’re right. Well, I should go to bed, she’s going to wake up early tomorrow, that much is certain.”

“I’ll keep her busy.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” he whispers, tears pooling. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Unable to stare at the plain evidence of Sherlock’s feelings right in front him, John closes his eyes and leaves the room, closing the door quickly before leaning against it. “No more,” he breathes, forcing himself to regain some composure. “No more.”

Refusing to let it all overwhelm him, John hurries back downstairs, busying himself with setting the table and reheating some of the leftovers. He’s not sure how long he remains there, staring at the two plates and empty chairs, trying to shut down the voices inside his head, but Toby is the one pulling him out of his head, coming to greet him with loud barks. Sherlock is not far to follow, and John straightens up, clearing his throat, “You’re back.”

Sherlock eyes him carefully, “Yes.”

“I got everything ready,” John replies, wishing he could stop babbling nonsense. “If you’re hungry.”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to decline but sets the files he’s got in hand on the table instead before sitting down. Breathing in slowly, John places the food on the table and sits next to him, looking down at his plate. “Cases?”

“The local DI gives me cold ones,” Sherlock replies, starting to eat.

“That’s nice, keeps you from getting bored.”

“I’m rarely bored here,” Sherlock shrugs.

John nods, swallowing with difficulty as he realises he has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that. Were you bored in London, then? Is it why you left? Weren’t we enough?

“I saw Greg last week,” he says, smiling. “He’s retiring at the end of the year, actually. He asks about you every time.”

“He came to visit last summer, with his new wife,” Sherlock replies, eyes fixed on his food.

“Oh, that’s good.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything but John doesn’t need him to.

“Did Molly come by too?”

“Twice, with her sons,” Sherlock replies. “They like Rosie a lot.”

“Yes, they sure do,” John smiles, remembering all the times Molly asked for Rosie to babysit them.

“She bought a house two months ago actually, it’s really ni- Sherlock?” John drops his fork as Sherlock stands up abruptly, taking his own plate and throwing its contents in the trash. He keeps his back turned to him, and John refuses to panic yet. “Is everything al-”

Sherlock’s voice is breaking as he says, “I can’t do this,” and John feels his world crashing down once more.

Chapter Text

His hands are shaking as Sherlock holds on to the edge of the kitchen counter. He can’t face John, can’t listen to a second more of his small talk. He had ordered his thoughts all the way back from the station, deciding to give fate a chance, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. For some unknown reason, John had decided to come live with him, and Sherlock was going to take advantage of his presence for as long as possible. But this, no.   Small talk about their friends over lunch. No. He can’t let them become this again.

“What-” John begins, his breathing loud inside the room and Sherlock’s head. “What do you mean, you can’t do this?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes tight, the words he wished to speak so many times on the tip of his tongue and the same fear he’s experienced all these years spreading throughout his entire body. Is this why John had come then? To be friends again? To continue just like they had done all this time?

“Is that why you’re here, John?” He asks, his voice sounding weak and desperate even to his own ears.

He hears John sighing, and then the sound of his elbows hitting the table. Face in his hands? Afraid? Angry? Tired?

“I don’t understand, Sherlock. I’m trying to-”

Sherlock can’t help but laugh, a nervous sound filling the air and making the knot in his chest tighten. “Trying to what? Bring me news about our mutual friends? See if I’m eating well? Make sure I’m alright before taking off again?”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, standing up this time, but Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Why are you here, John? Why did you come all the way down here after four years?”

“I know I should have come soon-”

“Then why didn’t you?” Sherlock explodes, realising he had been holding onto this anger, to this feeling of abandonment for too long. “Why did it take you four years to find my address?!”

John sighs again, and this time there is no doubt about his state of mind. Just like he expected, Sherlock has manages to ruin it all again, to make John angry, to give him a reason to leave .

“Sherlock, could you look at m-”

“I don’t need you here, John. I managed just fine without you until now,” Sherlock snaps, abandoning the dishes in the sink and walking toward the garden.

“No,” John stops him, grabbing his arm and making him turn around before taking a step backward. “Shit. Sorry, I didn’t meant to- Fuck.”

Sherlock watches, breathing heavily, as John rubs a hand over his face, shaking. He needs to move, needs to go before he says anything else that might damage what’s left of them for good.

“What do you want me to say exactly? Do you want an apology, then alright, I’m sorry,” John exclaims, waving both hands in the air. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner!”

“I don’t want your apology, John,” Sherlock sighs, a thousand replies flittering through his head, a thousand ways to stop this fight before it becomes a real one, a thousand escapes to allow them to pretend they’re just fine . It could be easy to end it now, to drop it and let John go back upstairs and pack the suitcase he just put away.

“Then what do you want? What do I need to do?” John asks, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“I want you to face it,” Sherlock breathes, closing his eyes. “You didn’t come to visit once during the past four years when you could have, multiple times. What should we deduce about that, John?” No reply, and Sherlock shakes his head, looking back at this man he has loved for so long and yet doesn’t know how to keep by his side. “You’re afraid to be here with me, always have been. You moved out of Baker Street because you were afraid, you let Rosie visit me alone because you were afraid, you can’t talk about the things that matter, even now, because you are afraid. But John, we’re too old for this now, and if you could just face that fact, then I’m sure we can both go back to our respective lives.”

“I don’t want to go back,” John breathes, shaking his head slowly. “That’s the whole point of leaving it all behind to come here. I don’t want to go back.”

“Well I don’t want you here talking about banalities,” Sherlock snaps, hating how John can still make all of him ache.

John smiles, a sad curl of his lips that makes Sherlock’s heart drop inside his chest, “I see.”

Sherlock panics, alarms ringing in every room of his Mind Palace and John’s voice announcing he’s leaving all over again making it harder and harder to think. He can’t watch, can’t witness what he’s just done, what he’s just destroyed. He flees the room once again, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the door John is shortly going to close behind him. It’s for the best , he tells himself over and over again. I can go back to being just friends, I can’t have him within my reach, right there, and not be able to  touch, to stroke, to taste. It’s for the best. It’s for the best. It’s for the best .

He stops at the end of the garden, sitting down on a bench and looking up at the still too bright sky, breathing in deeply. It’s for the best . He can do this, can learn how to make John’s absence tolerable again, can try to forget about all the what if and if only. He’s been doing just that for so long now, it’s only a matter of time before he can get used to the empty space following him around.

“Sherlock.”

Please, don’t go .

“Sherlock, please, look at me.”

Please.

Sherlock only has to look down to realise John is sitting right next to him without any suitcase by his side. He’s still smiling but it’s brighter now, more honest, more open, and Sherlock has no idea what do about any of it.

“I don’t agree,” John begins. “We’re not too old, far from it even. Christ, you barely have any wrinkles,” he laughs, the sound filling Sherlock’s head and infiltrating the chaos there. “We both have two legs that can carry us wherever we want, whenever we want. We both have clear minds and strong hearts allowing us to continue to fight stupidity once again.”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, desperately trying to find the words to make him stay.

“You wanted to know why I’m here, right?” John asks, and Sherlock can only nod, the words stuck in his throat. “I want to do things right this time,” John says, his smile growing wider. “Because you’re right, I’ve been afraid for too long, and it can’t go on any longer. I came here because that’s what I’ve wanted to do since you retired, and I don’t plan on going anywhere if you agree to let me stay.”

Sherlock looks down at his hands, fingers clenched in the hem of his shirt, “Of course you can stay.”

John sighs next to him, “I meant it, Sherlock. I’m sorry I didn’t come after you left. I should have listened to Rosie, should have listened to myself, really.”

“You’re here now,” Sherlock says, breathing out deeply. “And as for myself, I didn’t mean what I said when I told you I didn’t want you here. You’ve always been welcome here, you have to know that.”

“I know,” John replies, leaning into him, and Sherlock’s breath catches.

They fall silent and Sherlock closes his eyes again. He needs to regain some composure, to calm his pounding heart and accept the fact that John is still here, that somehow he has chose to stay and do things right.

“Rosie called me this morning,” John says suddenly, forcing Sherlock to focus back on the two of them again. “She couldn’t believe I was really here, I can’t remember the last time I heard her so excited.”

“I’ve received a text on my way to the station,” Sherlock says, choosing to keep for himself the exact nature of the said text for now. “She did seem happy.”

“You know she’s going to come here as soon as she can, right?”

Sherlock glances at him, finding John still smiling at him. “I count the days between each of her visits.”

“We’re really the lucky ones to have her,” John breathes, closing his eyes, and Sherlock can’t look away. He needs to remember him like this, relaxed and lost to his own thoughts, the years having only brought out the smiling lines around his eyes, ones Sherlock finds himself now desperate to trace softly. “I looked through your cupboards by the way.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile, shaking his head, “What were you expecting? Getting older didn’t make shopping more interesting.”

“I’m sure it didn’t,” John laughs. “You said that you sell your honey to a local shop?”

Sherlock nods, drinking in the sight of a relaxed John a little longer, “Yes.”

“Then I guess I’m gonna head there, fill your kitchen with some food.”

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock replies, watching as John opens his eyes again, looking directly at him.

“I know I don’t have to,” he says, “I want to.”

Sherlock smiles, unable to look away from John’s eyes as he lets it all sink in, their bodies pressed from thigh to shoulder, the sun shining over John’s skin and the simple and yet breathtaking fact that he’s here to stay.

Chapter Text

On his fourth day since he came back to Sherlock, John wakes up to the sun just risen. He remains in bed, eyes closed and hands on his stomach, breathing in the silence of the house and the certainty that Sherlock is just a few rooms away. It still amazes him sometimes, to think he actually did it, actually left the life he couldn’t find any meaning to anymore and had the courage to come and face the man he had loved for so long without never really succeeding in making happy. For a time, he had thought that they were, happy. When Rosie was growing up, running around Baker Street and making the two of them laugh with each new mischief. John would only have to look up to Sherlock to find him smiling, to find him beautiful and right there , and he would think that they were good together, that even if he didn’t have him per se , they still had this, the three of them, together.

“We really were idiots,” John whispers to the silent room. Dancing around each other without ever entering the other’s space, making it one of those waltzes Sherlock had taught him a lifetime ago. But it’s alright, John thinks, because we’re here now, and I intend to truly make you happy this time, Sherlock Holmes.

The sound of Toby walking around the house downstairs finally forces John out of bed, and he makes sure to put on one of his jumpers before leaving the room. Walking silently down the stairs, he quickly puts the kettle on and opens the door to the garden for Toby. He watches him for a long moment, running around the garden before coming back to him, and John smiles, “You took care of him when I didn’t.” Toby barks happily, shaking his head and laying down next to one of the chairs. “Thank you.”

He remains there, looking at the garden he’s slowly learning to love, and thinking about the days that just passed. The tension that had filled them both during lunch that first day had dissipated during the afternoon, Sherlock going about his usual business while John had tried to help without getting in his way. In the end, they had both went to the local store, Sherlock remaining mostly silent as John filled their trolley, but it had felt good just to have him there. Sherlock had skipped dinner that day, and John hadn’t said anything, eating on his own in the garden while watching him attend to his hives. Strangely, he hadn’t felt alone a single instant, sitting there with all the other chairs empty. He had slept perfectly that night, a quiet night without any nightmares or insomnia to disturb him, and he had woken up long after Sherlock did.

Slowly, John had found his place inside his house, back in Sherlock’s life. He made sure to take care of his flat and belongings still back in London while Sherlock went on his daily walk each morning, putting it all behind him for good. The second day, he asked if he could help him to take care of the hives, and Sherlock had agreed with a small, honest smile that had warmed John’s body for the rest of the day. He had been pleased to realise that Sherlock now ate more often than he didn’t, even if Sherlock had rolled his eyes at his smug smile at dinner just the night before. John knows Sherlock is still testing him, still watching out for the signs that might prove he is going to leave again, and John makes sure to be within his sight when he can feel the tension filling Sherlock’s shoulders again.

But then, there are the moments when John forgets about the four years that have gone by. Just last night, the two of them sitting on the sofa, John explaining the hell that had been the summer before Rosie went to boarding school, Sherlock had laughed, real, bright laughter that had filled John’s chest with something very, very warm.

John smiles, breathing out deeply at the memories, and he’s just about to pour himself a mug of tea when he hears the gate opening. With a deep breath, he goes back outside, old habits dying hard. He only has to wait a few seconds before a boy appears with his bike and a newspaper in hand. “Oh, hello,” he says when he notices John.

“Hi,” John replies, the two of them staring at each other.

“I’m Thomas. I’m bringing Mr. Holmes’s newspaper,” the boys explains, raising it as  evidence. “He asked me to bring it here directly.”

“Go ahead, don’t mind me, he must have forgotten to tell me,” John smiles, stepping back inside to fetch his mug.

Thomas is still there when he comes back, kneeling next to Toby and patting his ear, “Are you a friend of Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” John replies, sitting down.

“I wish he was my friend too,” the boy sighs, “he tells amazing stories.”

“I’m sure he does,” John says, shaking his head. “He always said I was rubbish at it.”

The boy stands up abruptly, “Oh! You’re John Watson!”

It takes a moment for John to reply, surprised by the look of pure joy on the boy’s face, “Yes, I am.”

“Mr. Holmes talks about you all the time!” He says, sitting down too. “He always says you are the reason he solved all those cases!”

“I’m sure he’s exaggerating,” John says, taking another sip of his tea.

“Once he told me about the time you two had to drive all the way to a small town in Wales because all the children kept disappearing,” Thomas continues, eyes wide. “There were almost no more children at all when you arrived and it took you barely a day to find them again!”

“That’s a good one, yes,” John laughs. “But finding out that people were smuggling the kids out of town to give them a better life really was all Sherlock’s doing. I was just putting it down into words afterward.”

“Mr. Holmes says you’re his conductor of light,” Thomas objects, “that without you, he couldn’t think properly enough to solve any cases.”

John looks down at his mug, swallowing with difficulty while trying to repress a smile, “He said so once, yes, I remember.”

“Could you tell me stories too?” Thomas asks, sounding all too excited. “I could bring you something too, anything you want.”

“I don’t need anything, thank you,” John smiles, shaking his head. “But I’d love to tell you my own version of these stories.”

“What’s wrong with my version?”

John and Thomas jump at the same time as Sherlock’s voice echoes behind them, and John turns around slowly. Looking at a Sherlock with his hair still wild and sleep in his eyes, John decides he needs to be the first one to wake up more often. “Good morning,” he smiles.

“Good morning Mr. Holmes,” Thomas adds, but Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on John, and John can’t seem to look away either. “Mr. Watson was saying he’s gonna tell me stories too!”

“I have a feeling you’ve been adding more than there was when you told him,” John says, not sure when exactly Sherlock had woken up and what he already heard.

“I simply tell all the facts, John,” Sherlock replies, sitting down next to him, glancing at Thomas. “Why don’t you come for lunch Saturday?”

“Oh yes!” Thomas exclaims, getting to his feet. “I’ll be there! Goodbye Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes!”

John waves at him, waiting until the boy disappears before saying, “He wants to be your friend.” Sherlock smiles, not saying anything, and John looks back him. “You always had a way with kids, did you notice?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, finishing his tea. “Doesn’t mean I understand why.”

“We should ask Rosie, she couldn’t get enough of you even when she was just a toddler,” John says, the memories coming back to him nonstop ever since he got here. “There were days when she didn’t even care about me at all when you were in the room.”

“You’re her father, John, of course she cared about you,” Sherlock replies, leaning back against his chair, still not looking away from him.

John holds his stare for as long as he dares to, finding that even after all these years, being under Sherlock’s studying eyes still makes him feel like the center of the world, “And you’re her Pa’,” he breathes. “We both know perfectly well she never truly called you Papa because we didn’t correct her, didn’t teach her the full word when she began to use it, and so the nickname stuck with her. But you were always her father too, not just on paper.”

Sherlock’s smile widens, his gaze turning into something more thoughtful, and John himself is brought back to the day Mycroft had come to have them sign the papers which made Rosie just as much Sherlock’s as his. An insurance , John had said, barely holding back tears. Just in case. He wonders now if Sherlock had known back then what it really meant, to become the parents of this little girl who had been through enough already, the parents that would make her happy.

“I need to go walk Toby,” Sherlock says after a another moment of silence. “Or he’ll sulk all day.”

John laughs, following Sherlock’s stare to the dog, “Can I come with you?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, nodding slowly before standing up and taking both of their mugs back to the kitchen. John waits for him outside, trying to remember the last time he felt so at ease with himself and the world around him, and by the time Sherlock is coming back, John has made his decision.

“Ready?” He asks, getting to his feet and following him to the small gate. Sherlock doesn’t say a word all the way to the bench where John first saw him, sitting down just as silently and staring at sea. John closes his eyes, knowing his own stare would be attracted more to Sherlock than he landscape anyway. He lets the presence of Sherlock next to him fill his every sense, making his head spin with something close to bright happiness.

I love you , he thinks. I’ve been in love with you for so long, Sherlock Holmes, and I want to spent the rest of my days coming here every morning with you. I want to sit here and watch the sea knowing we’ll both come home afterwards, hand in hand. I want to wake up in your house, our house, knowing you’ll be the first thing I see when I do. I want to kiss you, every second of every day, to show you just much I’ve craved you all these years, how much I still do. I want to be the reason you get up, the reason you smile and laugh just so I can taste it directly from your lips.

I love you , he thinks and with a confidence he hasn’t felt in years, John laces his fingers with Sherlock’s slowly.

Chapter Text

Sherlock is not sure what he had expected when John had asked to come with him, but he’s certain it wasn’t that . He tries to remain as still as possible when John slides his hand in his, his thumb stroking Sherlock’s palm softly before lacing their fingers, and Sherlock can’t seem to be able to breathe anymore. He keeps his eyes on the sea, desperately storing the exact feeling of John’s skin against his, and cursing himself for not having properly ordered John’s room in his Mind Palace for so long. He needs more space, more time to memorize the softness of his palm, the strength of his grip and the feeling of his calloused fingers pressed against his.

He’s not sure how long they stay there, staring at the sea while holding hands, but when Toby begins to demand a return back home, Sherlock can’t help but squeeze John’s hand, suddenly afraid to let go. He hears more than he sees John laugh softly, and there is a luminous smile on his lips when Sherlock finally dares to look at him. “Home?” he asks in a whisper, and Sherlock can’t answer, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at him and feel this irresistible urge to lean in and taste that smile.

John is the one to pull them up, not letting go of his hand for single second, and Sherlock breathes out deeply. “Come on,” John says, smiling lines around his eyes. “Your bees are waiting.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile at this too, and John is the one to squeeze his hand this time, silent questions dancing in his eyes.

“Toby, let’s go,” he calls, turning to walk back home.

John’s thumb is stroking his palm again as he says, “What do you have planned for today?”

“Montgomery said he’d come by today,” Sherlock replies, realising just how slowly they’re walking, and not doing anything to quicken their pace. “I believe he’s a fan of yours, even if he will never admit so.”

“Two in one day,” John laughs. “Lucky me.”

I’m the lucky one here , Sherlock thinks, none of the words making it past his lips.

“Didn’t you say someone is going to come to get some honey too?”

“Hm, yes, Charles,” Sherlock replies, sighing. “His wife said at the end of the week.”

“Another fan of mine?” John asks teasingly, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Not sure he’s even heard about you, sorry,” he replies.

John bumps their shoulders together once, “Too bad, I was thinking I could start a fan club.”

“No you aren’t,” Sherlock replies, shaking his head. “You’d hate it.”

“Yeah,” John sighs, their shoulders brushing more solidly this time. Sherlock forces himself not to lean into the touch. “You really have built a life here.”

Sherlock contemplates this statement for a long moment, not exactly certain what John is trying to say, and decides to reply carefully, “I’m still in the process of doing so, yes.”

“Told you,” John almost grins, “We’re not too old.”

Sherlock hides his own smile, finding that there is some truth in John’s words but not being sure what exactly. Whenever he takes the time to look at John, truly look at him, it takes a few seconds for Sherlock to see the ways the years have changed him. Yes, there are now wrinkles around his eyes and he has the tendency to wince whenever he gets up, but all Sherlock can see is his John right here, compact, strong, handsome in all the same ways he had been twenty years ago.

“I guess I’m going to need something to do too,” John sighs, looking up at the sky for a second. “I’m tired of the clinic, and besides, I’m sure the closest one is a long way from here.”

“Forty minutes,” Sherlock says. “I looked it up when I moved in.” John squeezes his hand, the two of them knowing perfectly well why he had done so. Sherlock shakes his head, ignoring the pang of regret in his chest and saying instead, “A publishing company has been asking for months to turn my cases into a book.”

John looks at him, smiling, “Really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods. “I’ve told them I’m not interested, but maybe you would.”

John seems to consider it for a moment, eyes roaming all over his face and Sherlock realises they have stopped, the house in sight now. “I’ll think about it,” he finally replies, something warm and bright on his face, and for a moment, Sherlock is certain he’s going to get kissed. But John looks away, clearing his throat. “I had thought about it a few years ago, when Rosie kept on asking us questions about each case she read on the blog.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies, keeping to himself how he had searched for the best agency to sell the book to at the time. They stare at each other for another long moment, only being reminded that they can’t stand in the middle of the street much longer when Toby barks, waiting by the front door. Sherlock takes advantage of the few minutes left before he has to let go of John’s hand to catalogue its warmth, and he’s almost prepared when they break apart.

“I need water,” John says, letting him go to the garden. “Do you want any?”

“I’m good,” Sherlock replies, already focusing on taking care of the hives. He lets John in the kitchen with Toby, still amazed by how alive the house has become with John’s return, and he can’t help but cast a quick look behind him. John is kneeling next to Toby, laughing happily as the dog tries his best to lick every inch of his face. Sherlock’s breath catches, his entire chest expanding with love, and he has to close his eyes to regain some composure, breathing in and out slowly. The bees , he tells himself, and then, John . He manages to remain his focus while taking care of the first two hives, collecting honey and making sure everything is alright without once thinking of John’s hand in his again, but it only takes a second for his mind to supply him with the memory of the first point of contact of their skin, John’s index finger sliding down his wrist slowly, as if tracing each vein.

Sherlock finds himself closing his eyes, desperately trying to hold onto the memory and flexing his own fingers slowly. He needs more data, he realises, looking up sharply toward the house.

“Told you he wasn’t listening!” Montgomery exclaims, walking toward him with John. “We’ve been calling you for the past ten minutes!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the obvious exaggeration, noticing John’s own amused smile. “Finished?” he asks once he’s close enough, and Sherlock nods. “I was telling Montgomery that he could stay for lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replies, not having even thought about eating yet.

“It’s barely ten, no one’s bloody hungry,” Montgomery remarks, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, and Sherlock doesn’t miss the quick look John gives him. “Anyway, I can’t stay for long. Someone tried to break into the Blondeau’s shop.”

Sherlock’s head snaps back toward him, “Tried to?”

“They didn’t get past the door, yeah,” Montgomery sighs, “but I still have to take care of it, make sure these idiots don’t try again.”

Sherlock is about to ask more about the attempt when John begins to laugh, eyeing the two of them before saying, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for lunch, I’m sure Sherlock can solve it by then.”

Sherlock truly hopes he isn’t blushing as John’s eyes focus on him only, and he replies quickly, “I’ll have to study the scene, or at least have pictures.”

“Got those,” Montgomery declares.

“Come on,” John smiles, “I’ll leave you two to it while I take care of brunch.”

“Only if Holmes solves it by then,” Montgomery replies, already walking back to the house with John, and Sherlock watches them both go, wondering if one day this sight will be ordinary. John, taking care of their guest, in their home. “Come on, Holmes, the case won’t solve itself!”

In the end, it only takes a hour for Sherlock to reduce the list of suspects to two names only, having only three good enough pictures to help him. John spends the entire time walking between the kitchen and the garden table, taking the time to look at one of the pictures when Sherlock asks him, leaning over his shoulder for long minutes. Montgomery, smoking cigarette after cigarette, ends up staying until after one. Sherlock tries his best to remain focused on the conversation, John answering all of Montgomery's questions patiently. But there is John’s foot brushing his under the table each time he moves, and Sherlock finds he’d rather focus on that instead.

“I’ll let you know when I make the arrest,” Montgomery finally declares, stretching in his chair before patting John on the shoulder. “Watson, thank you for the brunch and the details this lad never seems to want to share.”

“I already solved the case,” Sherlock replies, “John wrote all about it on his blog, I don’t see why you need more details.”

The two man start laughing, John getting up to walk Montgomery out, but Sherlock doesn’t move. He stares at the different plates on the table, reliving in the ordinary he had hated for so long. 

“You’ve been quiet,” John says as soon as he comes back, coming to stand next to him. “Everything’s alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, closing his eyes. “Didn’t sleep much last night.” He jumps as he feels John’s hands on his shoulder, pressing down just enough to force him to release the tension there. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, fearing John might stop otherwise, and lets himself relax under John’s touch.

“We could watch a movie,” John offers, fingers sliding up his nape. “I saw you brought the Bond collection I got you here.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies absently, his entire body shivering with each of John’s movements.

“Come on, then,” John breathes, the smile obvious in his voice. “I’ll take care of all this later.” Sherlock repress a sigh of protest when John’s hands move away, only to let out a gasp of surprise when John pulls his chair out from the table, smiling down at him, “Go lie down, I’ll join you.”

Sherlock resists the urge to invite John to his bed instead, just to curl around him and let his breathing lull him to sleep, a much better alternative really, but he gets to his feet without a word. John is still smiling when he watches him go to the sitting room, and Sherlock all but lets himself fall onto the sofa. He only has to wait a few minutes before John is putting the DVD on, moving toward the sofa and saying, “A place for me?”

Sherlock slowly sits back up, letting John sit next to him and barely holding back his surprise when he feels a hand on his shoulder, “You can lie back down, if you want.” Sherlock eyes him carefully for a long moment before slowly lying back down, his head now resting on John’s lap. He doesn’t say a word as John presses play, barely allowing himself to breathe, but a soft whimper escapes his lips when he feels John’s fingers threading through his hair, massaging softly.

Already on the verge of falling asleep, Sherlock hears himself say quietly, “You are a mystery, John Watson.”

“Am I?” John replies, one finger playing with the curls on his temple.

“Hmm,” Sherlock moans, too relaxed to care. “I have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I thought it was fairly obvious,” John whispers, and Sherlock can only remain awake long enough to hear the rest of his answer before letting sleep overtake him. “I’m doing it right this time.”

Chapter Text

It takes four days for John to start wondering if he’s going too fast.

Since Sherlock had woken up just as the movie ended that day, John had been trying to let him see all that he had kept hidden for so long. If it turned out not to be as easy as expected, the habits he had developed over the years to keep it all inside were hard to forget after all, and John couldn’t help but wonder if he’s doing it wrong. He had watched Sherlock get to his feet, mumbling that he had to go check on an experiment before leaving him alone in the living room, and now four days later, they still hadn’t talked about what John had confessed in a whisper. At first John had thought he might need time to think, and he hadn’t pushed the matter further even when Sherlock had declared he wasn’t hungry and spent the entire evening (and night) working on his experiment. John had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying his best not to let second thoughts overwhelm him.

But now, as he watches Sherlock take care of his hives, glancing at him now and then, John can’t help but feel the knot in his chest tighten. He sighs, considering once more for a way to ask without letting Sherlock know that he had snuck into his room and made his own deductions. Because he couldn’t let himself believe that he was wrong, that the picture on Sherlock’s bedside table was just that, a picture. It has to hold more than just a cherished memory, more than a reminder of a moment shared over fifteen years ago.

“Stop,” he whispers to the empty chairs around the table.

He can’t start to back away now. Not when he has been touching Sherlock again, just like before , the time when anything could have happened, when a simple brush of their fingers held the promise of more . Not when Sherlock has started to laugh again, truly laugh, head thrown back and wrinkles crinkling around his eyes. Not when they were sharing comfortable silences again, filled with all the words John isn’t ready to speak out loud and yet surrounding them as the seconds tick by. He can't back away now, won't allow himself to doubt everything once more.

He looks back at Sherlock, unclenching his fingers and standing up, "Sherlock," he calls, waiting for him to turn around and face him. "Will you have any breakfast?"

Sherlock shakes his head, his focus already back on his hives, and John swallows back the bitter taste of disappointment. Never mind breakfast. They're going to look at an old crime scene in just a hour, a cold case Sherlock was certain he could solve if only Montgomery agreed to let them in the victim's flat. John had been surprised at Sherlock's insistence to follow procedure, but he hasn't said anything. He isn't going to complain now that Sherlock is making sure someone knows where he is and what he's doing. Still, this crime scene means that they'll get a taste of what they used to be, just like before , John thinks for a second before realising just how different everything is now.

"Remember, Montgomery will be here soon," John calls one last time before taking his plate and glass inside, leaving them in the sink as he heads for a well deserved shower.

The hot water almost makes him miss 221B and all the private, silent moments the four falls of the bathroom bore witness to. Unable to stop himself, John is already thinking back on the first time he took himself in hand, barely a week after having moved in. He doesn't dare to think about the last time, the mere thought making something ache inside his chest. He stares down at himself, his flaccid penis showing no signs of arousal despite the few images going through his mind, and for just a second, John wonders if Sherlock hadn't been right, if they're not too old for some things after all.

"You’ve had your share of sex, Watson," he breathes to himself, closing his eyes as the regrets come flooding to his head. "Just not with him."

He's not sure how long he remains there, eyes closed and the water making his skin redder and redder. It's only when Sherlock calls his name on the other side of the door that he remembers he can't just stand there, wondering what it would have been like to touch Sherlock in all the right ways at least once.

"John, are you finished?"

"Yes", he replies quickly, clearing his throat. "Coming."

Sherlock is still standing outside the door when John opens it, having wrapped himself in his towel and for the briefest of seconds, he catches Sherlock's eyes wandering down his chest. "Sorry," he manages to say, finding it hard to breathe all of the sudden.

"Montgomery called, he just left the station," Sherlock says, eyes now fixed somewhere above John's right shoulder. "I should shower too before he gets here."

"Yeah, sure, sorry," John finds himself apologizing again, and it takes them another second or two before he remembers he needs to move out of the way for Sherlock to get in. "Go ahead."

Sherlock thanks him with a nod before closing the door behind him, and John breathes out deeply. He heads to his room quickly, letting the towel fall and he can't help but grin as he finally notices the beginning of a erection making itself known. With no time to linger on the matter anymore, he changes into his clothes for the day, and he ignores another pang of disappointment when Sherlock exits the bathroom fully clothed.

"Ready?" He asks, unable to stop himself from letting his eyes detail all of Sherlock's figure.

Another sharp nod and they're heading outside, Montgomery parking in front of the house just as Sherlock explains to Toby they'll be back soon. They leave him behind, and John doesn’t miss Sherlock's several concerned glances back towards the house as they drive away. "He'll be fine."

"I know," Sherlock replies with a sigh. "Doesn't make it easier."

John smiles, resisting the urge to take his hand, not certain how Sherlock would react with someone else being there. "We won't be long."

"You don't know that," Sherlock says, a small smile on his lips, most likely the prospect of a good case helping chase away Toby's memory.

Sherlock looks back out the window, and John glances at Montgomery, entirely focused on his phone. Shifting closer, he lets his hand rest near to Sherlock's, a clear invitation that can either be ignored or accepted. "Is everything alright?"

Sherlock's eyes find his again, frowning, "Obviously."

"I don't know," John shrugs, hoping he's not making a fool of himself. "You seem a bit... distant lately."

He watches as Sherlock's teeth begin to worry at his lower lip, "I haven't noticed I was."

John nods, remaining silent for a moment and pondering what to say next. He allows himself a deep breath before finally saying, his voice barely above a murmur, "If it's about what I said the other day, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it all awkward, or make you feel uneasy."

Sherlock's entire body reacts at this, his hand suddenly wrapped around John's and his eyes searching John's face quickly, "No, no, that's not it at all."

"All right, yeah," John can't help but smile, squeezing Sherlock's hand in the hope of calming him. "I just wanted to put it out there."

Sherlock stares at him for another minute, his entire face relaxing as he replies, "I just... wasn't sure you knew I was awake when you... told me."

"I knew," John replies simply, finding it hard to stop smiling now.

Sherlock looks away for a second, something close to a blush creeping up his neck, "We could -- if that's what you want of course, we could talk about it once we're back home."

"Yes," John breathes, holding on tighter to Sherlock's hand, and wondering how he managed to stop himself from kissing this brilliant man all these years. He waits until Sherlock is looking back at him, making sure to let all of what he's feeling in this very moment show on his face as he says softly, "I'd love to."

Montgomery clears his throat as they park, and John proceeds to ignore his smirk entirely as he gets out after Sherlock, not letting go of his hand. "I'll be back in a hour," Montgomery reminds them. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"We'll try," John smiles, earning himself a deep sigh from the DI. "This flat is empty, nothing dangerous to fear."

"I've heard that before," Sherlock comments, "Remind me how it turned out?"

John shushes him with a pointed look, waving goodbye to Montgomery and waiting until the car is gone before tugging on Sherlock's hand, bringing their faces much closer together, "You were the one who chased a cat all around the house, and the neighborhood if I remember correctly."

Sherlock's breath is strangely warm against his skin as he replies with a grin, "I caught him, didn't I?"

"In an alley, flat on your stomach," John replies, the two of them staring at each other for a second before bursting into giggles. Sherlock's continues to hold tightly to John’s hand as he leans backward, putting a safe distance between them again, and John looks away to regain some composure before saying, "Come on, let's go."

Leading the way, Sherlock goes over the details of the case one last time,  and John listens carefully. An old woman died in her bed a month ago, all doors and windows locked and yet the death had been noted as an homicide. The Police had tried to determine how she had been murdered for weeks, but when her children decided to ask for a second autopsy it was determined it was in fact a natural death. Still, Montgomery had kept the file and the second Sherlock had seen the picture of her bedroom, he had declared they needed to go.

"I still have no idea what we're looking for," John says when they reach the right door. Sherlock fidgets with the key for a second, but John can't bring himself to point out it'd be easier with both of his hands free. "The first report was right, then, a homicide?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replies, finally getting the door open. "The family must have payed for the second to be done as they pleased."

"Probably for the money," John mutters, following Sherlock inside.

They don't talk much after that, Sherlock looking at every piece of furniture, every painting, every object in silence. John follows closely, realising only long minutes afterward that he's now stroking Sherlock's palm with his thumb slowly, and a gentle squeeze when he stops makes him smile like a bloody teenager on a first date. He resumes the stroking absently, focusing on what Sherlock is rambling about, more to himself than to him anyway.

"That's what I thought," he finally declares forty minutes after they arrive.

"Found it?" John asks with a smile, finding that he rather prefers when Sherlock's eyes are fixed on him than on some painting of a dark horses on the wall.

"The picture striked me as odd the moment I looked at it, something not quite adding up with all the rest," Sherlock begins to explain, detaching his hand from John's to examine the painting. "Every piece of furniture in the room is perfectly aligned, every object in its place, everything planned consciously. Expect this one."

"Looks right to me," John replies, eyeing the horses while wondering just how anyone could look at this painting and wish to buy it.

"Look closer," Sherlock commands, pointing to a part of the wall right next to the painting. "What do you see?"

John leans in, "Is that a mark?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiles, now showing the other three on each angle of the painting.

"She placed marks on the wall for the painting to be perfectly placed," John murmurs in admiration. "That's some serious controlling."

"Some people like order," Sherlock simply says, now removing the painting. "Others chaos."

John rolls his eyes, not daring to ask how Sherlock would describe Baker Street in a middle of a difficult case. He watches as Sherlock turns the painting around, letting out a small cry of victory as he takes out a needle hidden there. "Poison?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replies, setting the painting down on the bed. "Call Montgomery, we're finished."

"But why did they leave it here?" John asks, taking his phone out. "Why not get rid of it?"

"The killer couldn't," Sherlock explains, he most likely killed her while she was having people over. He chose a slow poison, so that she would have the time to lock every door once everyone was gone, and even go to bed and die peacefully in her sleep."

John looks up from his phone, something very warm spreading through his chest, "Brilliant," he breathes as he hits dial, not saying a word as Sherlock's cheeks turn just a little redder. He quickly tells Montgomery to come get them, and when Sherlock laces their fingers together again, they both hold on just a little tighter than before.

It only takes twenty-five minutes for Montgomery to arrive, take the painting and drop them back home. John is already feeling the first signs of sleepiness as Toby greets them both with loud barks and happy jumps.

"I'll take him for a quick walk," Sherlock announces. "You can go lie down."

"Am I that obvious?" John smiles, letting their hands break apart once again.

"Just to me," Sherlock replies with a smile, already getting Toby ready. "When I come back," he begins, looking down at his now free hand, "We could have that talk."

John makes sure to sound as natural as possible as he replies, "I'll wait for you in my room."

Sherlock nods, looking as if he's about to say something more, but sighing instead. "I'll be back soon."

John waits until he sees him disappear around the corner before closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath, "It's all right. Everything is going to be all right."

Chapter Text

Sherlock walks all the way to his usual bench with the strange sensation of doing it all wrong. John was right there, in his home, ready to go lie down with little hope of falling asleep, and here he is, taking Toby for a walk he could have waited to take, just because the prospect of lying down on the same mattress with John is making it hard to breathe properly. It was doomed to happen, one way or another. Somehow, either by luck or fate, Sherlock is going to share John Watson's bed. There was no other option at this point, really. Everything that he read on John's face for the past four days has been nothing but bare trust, want and affection.

No, Sherlock thinks, forcing himself to inhale deeply. Not affection. Love.

Toby barks happily next to him and Sherlock pats his head softly, staring back at the sea. For a second, he's back to a time where the seat next to him always was empty. A time where the only person he wished would be there was miles away, living a life he wasn't a part of anymore. A time where everything had been slipping through his fingers for so long that it seemed impossible to find a way to fix it. A time that was now only a memory, years that now belonged to the past and that it was best to forget.

It takes another deep breath before Sherlock finally manages to say it out loud, the three words that had been dancing in his head without never breaching his lips. "John loves me."

He lets them resonate in the air for a moment, filling the silence without making it easier to wrap his head around the veracity they hold. Sherlock isn't sure how many times he hoped for this simple and yet breathtaking fact to be true. Ever since you met him, a voice supplies for him, but he ignores it. It doesn't matter, in the end. The truth is he's been in love with John Watson for too long to put a date on it, and now that it was all within his reach, Sherlock finds himself being too scared to even move from this bench.

He's not sure how long he stands still as his ringtone fills the air, but when his brain catches up on the fact, his phone has stopped. He takes it out quickly, fearing for the briefest of seconds that John might be in trouble, but he's surprised to read Mycroft's name on the screen. His hesitation lasts barely a second before he's calling him back, focusing back on his breathing as he waits for his brother to answer.

"Sherlock," comes Mycroft's voice, sounding properly exhausted.

"Mycroft, there was a time you would have sent a text," he declares as a reply, seeing Mycroft's smile over the phone.

"There was a time you wouldn't have bothered to call back," Mycroft counters.

"One more thing to blame on our old age."

"Let's say it is, yes," Mycroft agrees.

Silence settles between them, and Sherlock looks down at Toby now sitting at his feet. "I'm guessing you had a reason to call," he says after another second.

"Dr Watson has moved in."

Sherlock laughs lightly, "I'm worried, Mycroft. Did it really take you that long to notice."

"Obviously not," Mycroft replies with a sigh. "I thought I'd wait until it was certain the good doctor wasn't leaving before calling."

"He's not leaving," Sherlock breathes, almost more to himself than anyone else.

"Doesn't look like he ever will," Mycroft replies, and the words wash over Sherlock like a sudden rush of bright happiness.

Silence, again. And then, "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what I told you when you moved out of Baker Street?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, not giving Mycroft the pleasure of hearing him sigh over the phone. "I'm old Mycroft, not senile. I remember perfectly."

"Since you didn't take my advice at the time," Mycroft continues, sounding all too serious now. "I was wondering if you would consider it once more, now that the two of you are reunited."

"I believe it's none of your concern," Sherlock replies, hating just how weak his voice sounds even to his own ears.

"Your well being and happiness have always been my concern, brother mine."

Sherlock doesn't reply, doesn't trust himself to say anything really, and for another long minute, they both remain silent. Trying to regulate his breathing, Sherlock focuses back on the feeling of John's hand in his, on the sound of his laughter earlier, and the certainty that he'll find him waiting back home.

"I still stand by my words, Sherlock," Mycroft suddenly says. "You should have told John a long time ago."

"It was never a good time," Sherlock replies, not sure why exactly.

Mycroft doesn't reply just yet, and Sherlock hears in his silence all the lies he told himself over the years. "What could have been done before doesn't matter now, don't you think?"

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock can't help but ask, the words out before he can stop himself.

"I'm afraid it does," Mycroft replies, something close to softness in his voice. "But, contrary to what you might think, you're not yet old Sherlock. Time is still on your side."

Sherlock doesn't repress a sigh this time, massaging his temple slowly. "Did you really call just to tell me I should make a move on John?"

He hears Mycroft snorts, "Make a move, really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiles, finding that he wouldn't mind having Mycroft sitting next to him right now. He can't remember the last time they were in the same room together, or even the last time they called each other. Some days, he wonders who will call to tell him that his brother has died, who will be the faceless voice on the other line.

"Go home, Sherlock," Mycroft declares, startling him.

"Are you still watching me, after all these years?"

"Go home," Mycroft simply says before hanging up.

Refusing to let himself over think it all once more, Sherlock gets to his feet immediately. He was going to go home, lie down in John's bed and face the consequences of all they still have to tell each other. Toby is already running ahead of him, stopping here and there to wait for him, and the moment the house is in sight, Sherlock feels his entire body suddenly ache for John's touch. He fumbles with his keys, teeth grazing at his lower lip with worry until he finally manages to get the door open. Only silence welcomes him in, and he closes it carefully behind him, removing his coat and shoes just as silently. Toby is heading for the kitchen but Sherlock's head is already somewhere else entirely, each step he climbs to John's room making it harder and harder to breathe.

He stops dead in front of John's door, listening for any signs of him being still up in there, but hearing nothing. He closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over his aching chest and finally, finally, closing the other around the door handle. John's eyes find his as soon as the door is open, freezing Sherlock where he stands. As expected, John is lying down on his bed, hands resting on his stomach and only his face turned toward him. He's smiling, Sherlock notices immediately, and he finds himself smiling back, a semblance of courage filling him.

"Coming in?" John asks in a whisper, and Sherlock nods sharply, leaving the door open behind him.

John is already scooting over on the bed, leaving enough space for Sherlock to lie down next to him, and neither of them say a word as he does so. Silence fills the room once more, and John's quiet exhale next to him makes all of Sherlock shiver again. He feels John's stare on him again and with a deep breath, he allows himself to turn his head, facing him.

"Hi," John breathes, a smile on his lips.

For some reason, Sherlock chuckles, "We've seen each other already."

John shrugs, "I know."

Sherlock's eyes find the wrinkles on his face, witness of the years they have spent apart. He represses another shiver, not letting this ever so familiar ache spread through his chest.

"You're beautiful," John suddenly says, and Sherlock's eyes snap back to his. John's smile widens. "I should have told you, all those days when I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

"John..." Sherlock murmurs, unable to form another word.

John raises one hand, brushing away a curl from his forehead, "When I first got here, finding you on that bench, that's all I could think about. How beautiful you still are."

Sherlock closes his eyes, already feeling overwhelmed, "I'm old, John. I'm far from being bea-"

"No," John cuts him off, another brush of his finger, this time against his cheek forcing Sherlock to open his eyes. "I don't want to hear any of this," John continues, and Sherlock closes one hand around his. "There's so much more I want to tell you."

Sherlock releases a loud breath, "I have so much to say as well." John licks his lips, Sherlock's eyes following the movement before he can stop himself. "Things I should have told you a long time ago."

"I meant what I said the other day," John says, lowering their joined hands to the empty space between them. "I want to make it right this time. I've wasted too many opportunities, and I don't want to let this one go too."

"Why now?" Sherlock asks, the question having tempted him for too long.

John looks guilty all the sudden, "I might have peeked through your room."

"My room?" Sherlock frowns before realising what it means. He looks away, feeling himself blush. "Oh."

"I saw the picture," John continues softly. "The one on your bedside table."

Sherlock inhales deeply before meeting John's eyes again, "It's my favorite picture of the two of you."

"Christ, Sherlock, I..." John sighs.

"I can remember the day I took it perfectly," Sherlock breathes, wishing nothing more but to erase the sad lines all over John's face. "You insisted we celebrate her birthday even if we were in the middle of a dangerous case. Just the three of us."

"She only ever needed her family," John points out, smiling again.

"I kept the same photograph in Baker Street, just better hidden," Sherlock confesses. "I placed it in my bedroom after moving in here."

John shifts closer, taking him by surprise, and places their still laced fingers against his heart. Sherlock can feel it pounding and he stares down at John's chest. "That's the reason why now," John declares, so very close. "There's no more hiding now."

Sherlock lets one last worry slip out, "Isn't it too late?"

John shakes his head, bright hope blooming on his face as he says ever so softly, "I don't think it's ever too late to tell you just how madly I am in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, the words echoing inside the room for what could be an eternity. "John," he murmurs, out of breath.

"I should have said so when I first realised I couldn't spend another day without you," John continues, shifting ever closer.

"You have to know..." Sherlock begins, struggling to find the right words to express what is happening inside his head right now. "You have to understand that I've also..."

"Shhhh," John breathes, this time closing the remaining distance between them and letting Sherlock melt against him. "I know. I've been an idiot this whole time, but I know now. I can see it, in everything you do, everything you ever did."

Sherlock breathes him in, all of him. "I love you." He feels John's entire body shudder against his. "I can't say when or how it happened, but I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember not feeling this way."

"Sherlock," John whispers, forcing him to look back up. "I'm so sorry."

"I wanted to tell you," Sherlock continues, having no idea how to stop now. "I almost did so many times, but it always felt impossible, it always felt as if it would only make it all... worse."

John shakes his head, "There were days when I wondered how you couldn’t see it, days when I couldn't keep it all at bay, when I only wanted to hold you close and forget about everything in your arms."

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, reading all of it, now bare on John's face, "I couldn't trust myself. Couldn't let myself believe what I was seeing," he breathes. "What if I had been wrong? It could have ruined what we already had."

John squeezes his hand, smiling softly, "We can't live in the past, not with all we already wasted."

"Doesn't it make you mad?" Sherlock asks. "Knowing we could have had it all."

"I'm certain there'll be days when the weight of it all will be hard to live with, yes."

"But?"

"But," John continues, his breath warm against Sherlock's lips, "I won't mind because I'll only have to search for you and know I don't have to keep it all inside anymore."

Sherlock holds his breath, "Tell me."

"What?" John asks, still smiling.

"All the time you kept it all inside," Sherlock says, feeling desperate for more, more, more.

"Oh," John breathes, seeming to consider the question for a moment. "Well, there was that first night we spent together. If I'm being honest with myself, I thought about kissing you a dozen times that night."

Sherlock feels himself blush again, finding the courage to say, "I wouldn't have minded."

"Really?"

Sherlock nods, "Really."

"What about when you came back?" John asks. "Despite Mary, despite the anger, did you wish to kiss me too?"

"Maybe one day I'll tell you about all I dared to imagine while I was away," Sherlock promises, watching as John's eyes light up with curiosity.

"One day?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, smiling. "Tell me more."

"Alright," John chuckles, pretending to think intensely. "When Rosie and I moved back into Baker Street, I couldn't sleep and I found you sitting in the dark when I came downstairs. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, "I couldn't sleep either. You were there again, in our home, and I had no idea what to do. I thought about joining you upstairs, even if I had no idea what I would do once I got there."

"I was coming down to see you," John whispers.

"Idiots, both of us," Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes.

"But I liked talking to you that night," John says, one finger tracing the line around his eyes. "It allowed me to realise I was truly back, with you."

"I was happy you came back home," Sherlock breathes, refusing to meet John's eyes again. "But the years that followed only made it harder and harder to remain silent."

"I know," John replies, taking Sherlock by surprise as he presses his lips to his forehead slowly. "But I'm glad I had those years with you. I'm glad Rosie got to grow up surrounded with love. I'm glad I got to go to bed every night knowing you were safe."

Sherlock looks back at John, finding him so very close, "But you wouldn't have minded sleeping in the downstairs bedroom."

"I wouldn't have minded at all, no," John smiles, eyes dropping to his lips, and Sherlock inhales deeply. "But we're in the same bed now."

"We are," Sherlock breathes, slowly letting it all sink in.

"I should say that I'd rather lie in yours next time," John points out, smiling.

"Is that so?"

"Hmm," John nods, eyes fluttering closed and Sherlock follows his example. They remain still for a small eternity, the prospect of all that might happen now making it hard to focus, but Sherlock forces himself to register the exact feeling of John's breath against his lips, so very warm.

"John," he whispers, already desperate for more.

"Now. I really want to kiss you now."

Sherlock is about to do just that when the sound of the front door slamming shut makes them both jump, quickly followed by an all too familiar voice, "Daddy? Pa'? Anyone home?"

Chapter Text

"Is that...?" John finds himself asking, frozen in place, just centimeters away from Sherlock lips.

"If you mean Rosie, then yes," Sherlock replies, eyes fixed on his mouth and it takes all of John's will not to just kiss him already. "I didn't know she was coming," Sherlock continues, the previous edge of desperation in his voice now gone.

"Pa'?" Comes Rosie's voice again. "Are you there?"

"Better go meet her," Sherlock declares, already pulling away.

John nods slowly, "Yeah, right." He studies Sherlock for a second, unable to stop worrying, "But we're alright?"

Sherlock sits up, glancing down at him, "We're alright."

They both get to their feet as they hear Rosie climbing up the stairs, and the moment she appears in the doorway, John realises he's been way too long since he last saw her. "I've been calling you," she says, not really complaining.

"We heard, yes," John replies, walking to gather her into his arms. "What a nice surprise, sweetheart."

"I thought I'll drop by, yeah," she replies, hugging him back. "It's not as if I've been waiting for you to move here for years after all."

"Your father is an idiot," Sherlock comments from behind them, and John turns to glare at him. "Even old age hasn't changed that."

"Pa'!" Rosie exclaims, hugging him too.

"You should have told me you were coming," Sherlock says, wrapping both arms around her waist. "I would have prepared your bedroom."

"I can take care of that," Rosie replies, pulling away to look at them both, a wild grin on her lips. "So, how is it going?"

John rolls his eyes, "It's fine Rosie, just fine."

"Oh come on," she sighs, "I haven't come all the here just to hear just ‘fine’."

Sherlock is the one to walk out of the room first, their hands brushing as he passes next to him and John has to repress a shiver. "I'll go get your room ready," he declares.

"Nice escape," Rosie calls after him, and John can't help but laugh, not quite missing Sherlock's own amused smile.

He waits until Sherlock is inside the room next door before turning to face Rosie again. "What?" she asks immediately, sounding way too innocent.

"I know what you're doing," John says, walking out with Rosie following close.

"Can't I just visit my parents?"

"Of course you can," John replies, heading back downstairs. He stops in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water before sitting down. Rosie imitates him in silence, one finger tapping against the table, and for a long moment John studies her. She's grown, that much he can tell. She almost seems more mature, her hair shorter and a little something in her eyes different.

"Pa' is usually the one staring in silence," Rosie finally says, smiling.

"He's busy right now," John replies, smiling back.

They stare at each other for a long moment, challenging the other to say something, and John has to hide his smile when he sees Rosie's eyes suddenly widen, "Wait," he breathes, now grinning. "What were the two of you doing in the same room?"

John checks that he isn't blushing as he manages to reply a weak, "Absolutely nothing."

Rosie bursts out laughing just as Sherlock finally joins them, walking all the way to the sink without meeting his eyes, and John has to stop himself from staring too much. He can't be the one to give them away when Sherlock is so obviously trying to keep it all a secret for now. After all, they haven't even discussed everything yet, Christ, they haven't even kissed.

"Pa'," Rosie exclaims, stating up abruptly, "You once told me that you would never lie to me, remember?" She doesn't give Sherlock the time to say anything, leaning against the counter next to him and beaming, "Why were you and Dad in the same room when I came in?"

"Talking," Sherlock replies after a second, sounding all too in control when John still feels as if he could either explode or implode at any moment.

"About?" Rosie asks, leaning ever closer.

"Things that don't concern you," Sherlock cuts her off, walking away and into his lab without another word.

Rosie watches him go silently, "Is he mad about something?"

John shrugs, starting to wonder if he's somehow done something wrong. Or worse, if he's already doubting what they just said. "I'm sure it's nothing," he manages to reply, getting to his feet. "I'll go talk to him, why don't you take your things upstairs, and after we can go out for diner?"

"I'm in," Rosie smiles, walking toward him and kissing his cheek quickly. "I'm happy you're here, Dad."

"I'm more than happy to be here, sweetheart."

He waits until she's taking her bag upstairs before taking a deep breath and heading to Sherlock's lab. He knocks twice, softly, "Sherlock?" With no reply, he opens the door slowly and peeks inside only to find Sherlock lying on the sofa there, eyes closed. He hesitates just a second before stepping in, deciding here and now he's not going to doubt himself again, and walks to the sofa. "Sherlock, I know you're not sleeping," he says, brushing a finger against Sherlock's temple, "or even locked in there."

It takes another few seconds before Sherlock's eyes flutter open, finding his immediately.

"Our daughter is here," John whispers, kneeling next to him.

"I know," Sherlock breathes quietly.

"She has a lot of questions."

Sherlock studies him for a long moment before saying, "Do we have the answers?"

"To some of them, I hope, yes," John replies honestly. He brushes a curl off Sherlock's forehead, sighing. "I realise it's not the best timing, but I know for certain you're going to regret not spending more time with her. Especially to worry about something you really, really don't need to worry about." He leans in slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to pull away, and presses his lips to his forehead, lingering there for several seconds.

"John," Sherlock breathes, eyes closed again.

"Come on," John smiles, kissing over his eyelid. "I told Rosie we'd go out for diner, it's late already."

"There's this place I always thought you'd like not very far away," Sherlock replies, looking back at him with such softness that it makes John's heart beat just a little faster.

"Sounds like a plan." They stare at each other, not moving, and John can't do anything to stop the words from spilling out again, "I love you." He watches as Sherlock's eyes light up with something so very bright and it takes all the strength within him not to kiss him right now. "Let's go," he says instead, getting back up. "You really don't want Rosie to find us this way. Again."

"She's clever," Sherlock points out, straightening up. "She'll figure it out before the end of the night."

"So be it," John declares. "I don't plan on hiding any of it anyway."

Sherlock's lips curl into an amused smile, "You do know she won't stop fussing about it after that."

"Let her. I have a feeling she's been hoping for this for a very long time."

Sherlock laughs, following him out of the room, standing so very close. They find Rosie waiting in the kitchen, her phone in one hand but her eyes fixed on them as soon as they emerge from the room. She doesn't say anything, but it doesn't take Sherlock's genius mind to understand what her smile means.

"Ready?" She asks, putting her phone back in her pocket.

"I've been waiting for the both of you this whole time," Sherlock declares, dropping a smiling kiss on Rosie's forehead. "Now come on, I know just where to go."

 "Oh," Rosie smiles, glancing at him and John can't help but frown at her obviously delighted face. "Of course."

 "What is it?" John sighs, having learn to be careful when both Sherlock and Rosie seem way too content with themselves. "I thought this was just a simple restaurant."

 "Sure," Rosie replies, shrugging. "Let's go."

 "Rosie," John calls, using his best dad voice and failing miserably at getting her attention as she opens the door and steps out. Sherlock remains where he is, still looking at him, his smile much softer now. "Please, tell me they serve actual food there."

 "They do," Sherlock replies, looking uncertain for a moment, eyes darting down for the briefest of seconds. "You'll like it, I assure you."

 John takes the few steps sill separating them, sliding his hand along Sherlock's hand and squeezing, "I am ridiculously happy right, do you know that?"

 Sherlock squeezes back, his smile widening, "Old age?"

 "No," John smiles, finding it harder and harder not to kiss him. "Just you. And her."

"What are you doing in there?!" Rosie's calls, once again forcing John not to crash Sherlock's lips against his and kiss the breath out of him. "Let's go!"

Rosie is waiting for him by the cab, having apparently take care of everything, and John locks the door behind them after patting Toby's ears one last time. Sherlock is already climbing inside, and Rosie winks at him as she lets him in first.

"You could have taken the passenger seat," John remarks, taking the middle seat. Rosie only shrugs, and with a quiet sigh, John tries not to focus too much on the feeling of Sherlock's thigh pressed against his own. He looks down at his own hands, flat on his lap. "So," he says after another long minute of silence, "How long are you staying with us?"

"What?" Rosie smiles. "Already trying to get rid of me?"

"Your father is being an idiot," Sherlock replies with a roll of his eyes when John glares at him. "You are."

"Am not," John protests, kicking Sherlock's foot with his own.

"Just look at the two of you," Rosie mocks gently, bumping John's shoulder while laughing. "I'm only here for the weekend, I have to go back Sunday afternoon."

"That's too short," John replies.

"She'll come back for the holidays," Sherlock says, not a question.

"I'll try," Rosie smiles, "I promise."

It seems to please Sherlock because he looks back out the window and John is finally able to concentrate on his breathing. it doesn't really matter where they're going, or what this mysterious restaurant is. None of it matters, only Sherlock and Rosie, his family. He can't dare to think of all the times Sherlock must have wished for just that, to have them both in his home, and John can't help but glance at him again. He licks his lips nervously, knowing perfectly well Sherlock wouldn't care if he were just to lace their fingers together right now, even with Rosie's shining eyes on them. But still, he finds himself hesitating to do just that, the novelty of it all making his head spin and his breath come shorter.

Sherlock, obviously, notices.

"Alright?" He asks, his voice almost a whisper, and John hurries to nod, even managing to smile. Sherlock studies him for another long second before shaking his head slowly, his lips curling in a so very soft smile, "You are an idiot, John Watson," he murmurs, and John is certain he can feel Rosie move next to him, turning toward the window as if to give them privacy. "Here," Sherlock continues, reaching for one of his hands and threading their fingers.

John releases a quiet breath, squeezing and letting himself find comfort in the warmth of Sherlock's hand. He can't start to panic now, not now that Sherlock has confessed that he loves him too, not now that it's all within their reach.

He's startled when Sherlock leans closer, his mouth right next to his ear, and John can't help but shiver when his feels his breath against his bare skin, "I know it doesn't make sense, but I need you to say it again."

John frowns, and it takes another moment before he understands what Sherlock is asking. Smiling, he turns to face him more properly, their lips so very close, "I love you," he murmurs, this time actually not caring if Rosie, the driver or even the whole world can hear him.

Sherlock's face breaks into a grin, and he's about to say something when the cab comes to a stop. 

"Come on, love birds," Rosie sighs, her smile obvious in her voice.

She gets out first, and Sherlock holds him back when John moves to follow, "I do too," he says quickly, holding on tightly to his hand. "Love you."

"I know," John replies, marveling at the simple fact of being able to do so.

Chapter Text

My name is Rosie Watson-Holmes, and I've been waiting for this day a very long time.

I'm not sure when I've started to give up, when I resigned myself and stopped waiting for my dad to actually do something, but seeing the two of them exit the cab hand in hand makes me want to both scream and cry at the same time. Not that I can do either now, Dad would freak out and spent the entire week end worrying over me. And since I'm fairly sure I've already interrupted something just by coming here, the least I can do is make sure I don't ruin anything else.

I can't remember the exact moment when I realised the two people that count the most for me weren't entirely happy.

Pa' always had this sad look some days. I would come back from school and find him staring at Dad's chair, silent and barely breathing, and it always took him several minutes to realise I was there. He used to be good at hiding it, but with the years, it felt as if it had become too hard to simply pretend. I still have no idea how Dad managed to miss it, or if maybe he just didn't let himself notice it.

I'm certain I'll never truly understand what happened between the two of them, what the years before I was born were like and how they affected them. And maybe I'm not supposed to understand. Maybe I'm only supposed to do what I've always done. Hope that one day they'd find their way back to each other, and that somehow, it'd fix what I can't help but think is partly my fault.

Oh I know they'll both protest if I were to actually say any of this. I don't have enough fingers to count the number of conversations I had about this with Dad, about my mother and all that happened before and after my birth. I think I get who she was and what she did. Even if Dad and Pa' always made sure not to let their own feelings get in the way during those talks, I know what she did to them. How she tore them apart, how she destroyed what they build, still so fragile. Dad dried my tears many times, telling me over and over again he would do it all again just to have me in his life, and I've learned to understand that I couldn't change any of it, but just try to make them happy.

And I know I did. I remember perfectly each birthday, each school celebration, each evening spent laughing over dinner, each walk in the park and late-night crime scene. I had a childhood every kid in the world hopes for, and that is all thanks to them. These two grown men acting like teenagers, hiding their joined hands under a restaurant table in the hopes I won't notice. The wrinkles don't matter, nor the years that put them there. Right now, I only have to look up to know they both haven’t felt this young in decades.

It almost makes me forget about Dad's teary eyes after we moved out of Baker Street.

It's not that I don't want to remember. I do, truly. But growing up surrounded with unconditional love can turn you into a naive believer, and I had been hoping for a moment like this for years now. They deserve this much, and so much more too. I want them to be ridiculously happy, to whisper sweet nothings into each others ears in cabs, and barely restrain themselves from staring at each other. I want to be that kid, just for once, who's grossed out by her parents kissing in front of them and complaining without really meaning to.

So yes, there was a time when I almost gave up.

And yes, there was a time when I think they almost gave up too.

But now there's Dad's wide eyes at the sight of molecular food, and Pa's bright smile watching him.

My name is Rosie Watson-Holmes, and I've never been happier than I am at this very moment.

Chapter Text

Sherlock gets out of the cab knowing perfectly what is going to happen next.

It’s written all over John’s face, in each wrinkles around his eyes, in each smiles directed only at him, in each lingering brush of their hands. John Watson is going to kiss him, and Sherlock’s entire body is shivering with anticipation. He knows John is going to wait for Rosie to be in her room, unlikely to come out again, and then, he might even wait just a little longer just to be sure. But it’s alright, more than alright, because Sherlock has been waiting for this moment a very long time, and really, what are a few more minutes?

Still, he can’t help but squeeze John’s hand a little tighter when they get inside the house, as if to make sure he also knows what is going to happen, and John smiles that bright smile of his, so Sherlock lets go and breathes. He’s careful not to locked himself into his mind palace, fearing he might not be able to come back until he’s stored every seconds of the day they just have, and when Rosie announces she’ll shower first, he forces himself to offer, “Would you want a hot chocolate after?”

“Thanks Pa’, but I’m exhausted,” she replies, eyes going from him to John quickly. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” John says, going to kiss her.

“Night,” she replies, coming to leave a small kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and whispering, “love you.”

Sherlock watches her climb the stairs quickly, barely hiding her smile, and he can’t help but laugh, shaking his head.

“Are we so obvious?” John comments next to him, bumping their shoulders together.

“I think we’ve been for a long time,” Sherlock replies, “at least to her.”

“And that’s not a bad thing.”

Sherlock turns to face John, reading on his face a silent question, and he shakes his head slowly, taking a step closer, “No. It is not.”

John’s face breaks into a grin again, and it takes all of Sherlock’s self control not to kiss him right here and there. He reaches for his hand instead, holding on tightly and letting his own eyes express all he’s feeling. He smiles as John’s thumb starts to stroke his palm softly, a comfortable silence settling around them. If he focuses hard enough, Sherlock can hear Rosie walking around upstairs, getting out of the shower and into her room, and he wonders if he should ask John to his room directly.

But before he can gather up the courage to ask anything, John breathes, “Why don’t you get ready for bed, and I’ll make us some tea.”

Sherlock nods, unable to trust his voice to say anything.

“I’ll bring it upstairs,” John continues, “and after I showered too, we can continue our conversation?”

“Yes,” Sherlock manages to breath out this time, throat dry. “Alright.”

John sighs, a quiet sound that send shivers throughout Sherlock’s entire body, and lets go of his hand. “See you in a bit, then.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, realising how ridiculous they might look, saying goodbyes as if never to see each other again.

He shrugs it all off, turning around to head for the stairs, but can’t help to glance one last time at John, finding him staring back, and they both giggle at the same time. And when Sherlock finally makes it up the stairs and into the bathroom, he has never felt so light in his life.

He goes around his bedtime routine quickly, knowing there’s John waiting for him and that the night still has so many promises to fulfil. He makes sure to brush his teeth twice, looks himself over for long minutes and desperately tries to find a way to look ten years younger in just seconds. “Get it together, Holmes,” he whispers, closing his eyes. There’s nothing he can do about the years that have already gone by, nor about what they did to his body, but John doesn't mind. John finds him beautiful. John loves him. “He loves me.”

He decides against staying locked in there any longer and walks out before he has the time to change his mind. John is in his own bedroom, his mug of tea empty and his night clothes waiting on the bed, “I put yours on your bedside table.”

Sherlock looks up from the mug, remembering to breathe, “Thank you.”

“I’ll be quick,” John says, walking past him and letting their hand brush.

“Will you…” Sherlock clears his throat. “Will you join me directly in my bedroom?”

“Yeah,” John replies, tongue darting out to wet his lower lips. “Yeah, ok.”

Sherlock nods and walks away, knowing perfectly that the color of his cheeks had already betrayed him anyway. He waits until he hear the bathroom door closed before sitting on his bed and exhaling loudly. He eyes the still warm mug for a long moment before deciding against it. He’s not sure he can drink anything right now, not with his throat feeling this closed and his stomach full of knots.

He shouldn’t be this nervous, it’s only John. They’ve known each other for years, been through hell together and found their way back from there together too. And even if the last few years have brought them apart, the John currently in the next room is the same one he met all those years ago in many ways. So really, there is no reason to be anxious about it all.

No reason at all.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up quickly, frowning, “Something’s happened?”

John frowns, “No. You said I could… I mean, you told me to join you here directly.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, realising he must have ended up locking himself in his mind palace after all. “You said you’ll be quick.”

“I did, yes,” John smiles, standing in the doorway and looking all around slowly.

It takes another second for Sherlock to realise he’s nervous too, and desperately trying to hide it. Holding back a smile, Sherlock breathes in slowly and gets to his feet, moving towards John without saying a word. He reaches for his hand first, lacing their fingers softly until John’s eyes are finally back on him. They don’t say a word, barely breathing. With a tentative finger, Sherlock traces the lines around John’s eyes all the way to his mouth, tracing each lips slowly. He feels John’s exhales against his own, and they both look away when their eyes meet, the distance between feeling like too much and too little at the same time.

“Is it strange that I almost don’t want this to happen?” Sherlock asks in a whisper.

He feels John shake his head, “Not at all.”

“I wish we had more time to feel it built,” Sherlock continues. “I know I’ve been wanting to kiss you for decades, but it’s been barely a day since I realised it was actually possible.” He sighs, staring into John’s eyes again. “I’ve never felt more nervous, not in any of the cases we’ve solved, and it’s scaring me, John.”

John smiles, tilting his head to the side, and Sherlock realise he’s now cupping it in one hand, “I know exactly what you means, and even if I would have also love to let it hang in the air a little longer, I also know I cannot go another second without kissing you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, allowing himself to breathe this moment in, to engrave the exact feeling of John’s hand, John’s breath, John’s body so very close, and when he looks back at him again, he’s never been more certain of anything else in the world, “Then kiss me, John Watson.”

And John does.

There is nothing Sherlock can do about the desperate moan that echoes inside the room the moment their lips meet. Unable to do anything else, he holds on tightly to John’s hand as he lets him take his every breath away. And when John pulls away almost immediately, he can only protest weakly, “No, no, don-”

But John is brushing their lips together again, smiling and laughing and shining inside this room that has always been too big for Sherlock alone. So he kisses back, pours everything into the soft contact of their lips so that John won’t ever think about sleeping anywhere else, won’t never think about sleeping with anyone else by his side. He’s not sure who is the first to dare ask for more, but the instant the kiss depends, Sherlock knows he will never get tired of this. He kisses back with everything he can, his entire body shivering at the first touch of John’s tongue against this lower lips, but he barely has the time to register more that John is pulling away again.

“God, Sherlock, I…”

John sighs against his lips, and Sherlock realises he’s not the only one shaking.

“Is that… was that-”

“Brilliant,” John smiles, kissing him once more. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“Good, that’s… good.”

John frowns at him, “Just good?”

“No, no,” Sherlock exclaims, eyes wide, “more than good, more than anything I’ve ever imagined, more tha-”

“Sherlock, love, I was just joking.”

Sherlock releases a loud breath, a nervous laughter escaping him, and he seeks comfort in the only way he knows now, settling against John’s compact chest. He allows himself just a minute to actually let it all sink in, the memory of John’s lips against his own, his arms around his waist and the absolute certainty that it is going to last.

“I love you,” he breathes. “I love you and I’m going to try not to be scared of you leaving again, because this, right now, this is everything I’ve ever wished for, and I don’t know what I will do if you-”

“Then don’t think about it,” John cuts him, kissin the top of his head. “Don’t ever think about it again, because I’m never going to want to move from this bed ever again.”

Sherlock feels himself blush, and he’s glad his face is currently nuzzled to John’s neck. Of course it’s going to happen, he knows it’s going to happen, had been thinking about this happening for a long time. But at the same, Sherlock can’t be thinking about what is going to happen because it makes his stomach turns into knots and his breath goes short.

“I fact,” John continues, apparently oblivious to Sherlock’s inner struggle, “I’ll love nothing more but to slip under the covers with you right now.”

Sherlock swallows slowly, nodding and turning towards the bed before John can read the worries on his face. They don’t exchange a word as they both settle into bed, John’s hands bringing him closer and closer until they’re pressed together, and Sherlock holds his breath.

“There,” John smiles, warm and pliant against him. “Perfect.”

Sherlock waits, silent. He’s not sure what the first sign will be exactly, so he doesn’t move, doesn’t breath still. He waits, and nothing comes.

“Alright?” John finally asks, pulling away just enough to look at him. Sherlock nods, unable to speak. “You’re tensing up.”

“No, no,” Sherlock says immediately, suddenly fearing John might read it all wrong. “Everything’s fine.”

“Sure?”

Sherlock nods quickly, letting one hand slide down John’s back, hoping to be obvious enough, but John stops him, “Hold on, love. There’s no need for that now, is there?”

“But, I…” Sherlock begins before trailing off, having no idea how to explain it all.

“I’m quite happy with kissing you for now, more than happy actually,” John says softly, his lips coming to brush Sherlock’s forehead. “We have all the time in the world for all that come next.”

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh before he can stop himself, and John chuckles against his lips, and really, Sherlock had no other option but to kiss him. So he does, and more than once, just because he can.

Chapter Text

Hi everyone,

You've probably noticed that I haven't updated this fic in a long time, and I am very sorry for that. Truth is, I've started other projects and got too busy with work&life too. I feel like the end of the last chapter left John and Sherlock in a good place, and so I'm marking this story as complete for now. I'm sure I will end up going back to this story some day, I have still so much ideas.

Thank you for all the comments and kudos you took the time to left.

Love, Pauline.