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Chapter Text

  Official cover for Tango Between Broken Hearts

Inverness (Scotland), Christmas Day, 2017

No matter how many times Mycroft had to beg his superiors to assign him some substantial filing work during the Christmas holidays, in a vain attempt to avoid the newly family tradition of spending Christmas all together, Mrs. Holmes claimed her two children to spend the holidays with their parents. Christmas remained a very, very special occasion in the household, and this time was not different from the past. 

It was only 8 pm when the irresistible smell of turkey and baked potatoes spread throughout the Holmes household, filling every corner with their scent and creating a quite irresistible welcome to anyone who would step inside. Mrs. Holmes, as an added bonus, had prepared a soft panettone, made with raisins, dark chocolate chips, toasted hazelnuts, chestnut honey, vanilla and just a couple of drops of rum. It was a jealously guarded family tradition passed down through the generations, a recipe that, if it had conquered the demanding palate of a young Sherlock at his own time, it would surely capture little Rosie’s heart as well. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson volunteered to set up the dining room, setting the table with a lilac tablecloth and porcelain dishes decorated with lilac and white patterns, which Mrs. Holmes reserved for special occasions. Mrs. Hudson could already hear Sherlock and Mycroft's exasperated mutterings at the mere sight of such useless items.

Mr. Holmes was sitting on the sofa, watching - rather amused - little Rosie, who was excitedly playing hide and seek with Sherlock, who was pretending to be a very evil and child-hungry monster. Her favorite hiding place was behind the light blue curtain, not far from the sofa and the Christmas tree. She had crawled under the table and reached the curtain, which started to move slightly as she stood up.

“Where are you hiding?” Sherlock’s deep voice echoed in the corridor. “Step into the light!” he ordered. 

Rosie realised how close he was, so she began to slow her breathing so as not to be discovered. Through the thick fabric of the curtain, she could clearly see Sherlock’s tall figure. He had stopped for a moment, starting to sniff air with exaggeration. “Hmm… the table has been moved from the edge of the tile.” he muttered thoughtfully, raising the volume of his voice to be heard by the little girl. Then, without adding anything else, he turned to one side and walked away. “Who knows where she ended up… I’m so hungry…” he said again, pretending not to know where she was hiding.

Sherlock seemed to have been walking away for quite some time, but then… with a sudden change of direction, he leapt towards the curtain and, dramatically, he grabbed the edges with both hands and slid them to the sides. “There you are!!!” he screamed, moving his tongue over his lips.

Rosie gasped, putting her little hands in her mouth. She leapt forward and ran as fast as she could to escape him. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and watched her run away on her little legs. “Run, run!” he urged as he began to chase her. “You won’t get away from me, you little criminal!” he shouted in a funny and lower voice, waving his arms in the air with exaggerated movements. The chase continued, with Rosie laughing her head off as she got closer and closer to her safest hiding place and Sherlock pretending to get caught on door handles or tripping over imaginary obstacles, just to give her a head start.

As she ran, Rosie kept turning to check how close he was. Not paying much attention to where she was going, she didn’t notice that she was back in the living room. John had just finished hiding the last Christmas presents behind the Christmas tree. He’d taken advantage of Rosie’s distraction to make sure she didn’t find them too soon. He’d barely stood up when his little girl slammed loudly into the back of his thigh, bouncing off the carpet on the wooden floor. John, taken aback, turned in confusion to find Rosie clutching his trousers, as if asking him to protect her from the monster that was just a few feet away. “Take it easy, you two!” he said to them both, laughing, as he squatted down to pick her up. He ruffled her blonde hair and kissed her cheek, making her giggle again. 

“There you are again, you little criminal!” Sherlock exclaimed, slowly approaching. “Wise choice to hide in such a place, little one. But nothing! can save you from me!!!”

Rosie, in her father's arms, felt safe and stared at him defiantly. Then, she blew a raspberry at him.

“Dinner is ready, everyone!” announced Mrs. Holmes happily, as she carried the steaming turkey to the table. Mrs. Hudson came in after her, carefully bringing the other dishes.

Sherlock almost put his hands near his eyes and stared at his fingers with desolation, pretending to lose some power. “Rest. You're safe. For now.” Sherlock agreed with a dramatic tone, stepping back and raising his hands in surrender. “But just because it's dinner time. Don't think this is over!!!” he concluded, giving a wink that made Rosie burst into laughter.

John smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, little one, time to go wash our little hands.” he said, holding her tighter to his chest.

Rosie replied with a squeal, clearly disappointed. 

“You'll keep playing with dada after dinner.” he said, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s right cheek.

“NO! PWESENZ! PWESENZ!” cried the little girl, beating her little hands onto John’s right shoulder while facing the other side of the room, where the Christmas tree was placed.

“Not now, sweetheart. It’s time to fill our little tummies with food.”

As everyone gathered around the table, Mrs Holmes took her place at the head of the table, Mr Holmes at the other end; Mrs Hudson, Sherlock and Mycroft on one side, John and Rosie on the other. During the meal, Rosie seemed to turn the food on her plate into an unintentional work of art, staining the tablecloth with pieces of food which were flying out of her mouth or, even worse, staining it with bubbling splashes of coke. 

Miracle on 34th Street was playing in the background, and nobody seemed to care about, except for John, who was occasionally captivated by it. He spent most of the time trying to teach table manners to Rosie, but his attempts ended up being unsuccessful. 

The life of the party, if you can even ever believe it, was Sherlock, who seemed almost over the moon, beside himself, his eyes lighting up as he was telling his mother about all the cases he and John had solved. Mycroft, however, remained mostly silent. He occasionally interjected into the conversations, and each of his interjections was soaked with sarcasm and dry humour. 

Rosie had been waiting all day, impatient, fidgeting, and screaming at the top of her lungs that she wanted to open the presents at all costs. After dinner, the awaited moment finally arrived. She was almost about to give up on dessert as she was in the throes of euphoria. She'd been sitting in the chair throughout the meal, squirming and trying to escape from the table without being seen by her father, and when caught, she would return to her seat, cross her arms over her chest while sadly staring at the wrapped packages in the distance, carefully placed under the Christmas tree illuminated with a thousand lights.

The little girl devoured her dessert as quickly as possible and then she asked her father if she could go and open the gifts. John looked at Sherlock seated across from him. 

“What do you say, dada Lock? Should we give Rosie her presents?” he asked in a doubtful tone, while winking at him.

Sherlock looked at John and then at Rosie, his eyebrows furrowing, as if in thought. Rosie, fearing having to wait any longer, lifted her plate and, with a look full of pride, showed the empty plate, just raised above her head with her tiny arms. 

John gave her a hearty kiss on her hair and told her that she had been a good girl. 

“You can go, Ros.” was Sherlock's verdict.

Rosie screamed with so much joy that Mr Holmes jumped in fright and had to rush to take his pills to immediately lower his blood pressure.

The little girl ran towards the Christmas tree, shouting at the top of her lungs. Once there, John followed her, helping her figure out which gifts Santa had left for her. She began to scrutinise each package in excitement, as if she were scanning the barcode of a supermarket product. She took one in her hand and passed it to John, asking him with a questioning look if it was meant for her.

“Ahhh, let's see what we have here.” murmured John as he grabbed the emerald green-wrapped package, sitting next to her. He then pretended to struggle to read the name on the label. “Santa Claus can't write at all.” he murmured in disappointment, furrowing his eyebrows while increasing the aura of mystery around Santa Claus’ figure. “Maybe Daddy Sherlock can read Elven language.” he suggested.

Rosie whirled around, momentarily resembling the possessed girl from The Exorcist. “DADA LOCKKKKKKK.” she shouted, breaking the sound barrier and possibly causing John's eardrum to tear apart. Sherlock immediately jumped up and rushed to her. One by one, everyone took their places on the three sofas around the tree. Sherlock began sorting the packages by colour and size, increasing Rosie's impatience. She made it very clear that he had to focus on her by pulling at his curls with her little hands.

 “Let's see… OUCH! This is for Grandpa Siger.” Sherlock said, one hand clutching the package and the other one pressed against his wild curls undergoing a torture. 

“This is for Uncle Myc.” he continued, passing the package to his brother.

“ME! ME! MEEEEEE!” shouted Rosie, jumping around him as if she were about to summon Santa Claus himself.

“And now…. uh, aha! Here she is, our Rosie.” Sherlock sped up, desperately avoiding the risk of an eardrum perforation.

Rosie squealed with joy and unwrapped it in less than ten seconds, revealing its content. “BARBIEEE CAR!”

The poor Mycroft found himself so overwhelmed by all those festive shouts that he had to get up and take refuge in another room, trying to prevent an impending headache. And, of course, growing his hatred towards the entire human race.

“And this is for… Daddy John!” said Sherlock, handing him the gift.

“It's quite strange that you don't already have a PhD in Old Elvish.” John joked, standing up just to get his gift. Returning to sit on the sofa, he unwrapped it and found the latest electric toothbrush.

“Whot it, daddy???” asked Rosie, momentarily putting her blue car aside and approaching with curiosity.

“It's a toothbrush. Santa thinks I don't brush my teeth, apparently.” he murmured more to himself while turning the package over in his hands, thoughtfully.

“Looks like your dentist had a little chat with Santa Claus, John.” Sherlock interjected, making it clear that the gift was from him. “He probably told him that he's tired of filling your teeth whenever you make an appointment.”

The poor doctor felt so humiliated in front of Mrs Hudson and Sherlock's parents that he almost considered following Mycroft into the other room. But he ended up deciding he would be ashamed later.

Sherlock looked away, continuing reading the names on the presents as if nothing had happened, while Mrs Hudson and Mrs Holmes were trying not to burst out laughing like two teenagers.

“And this beautiful, huge gift in bright pink paper is for… ROSIE!” Sherlock announced, causing the little girl to burst into delighted giggles. The unwrapping revealed a magnificent Barbie castle, directly from The Princess and the Pauper.

The little girl was thrilled and shouted “IHIHIHIHIHIIIII”, jumping in excitement at the realisation that the gift was for her as well.

“I think Santa Claus went bankrupt this year.” commented Mr Holmes, leaning over the sofa to help Rosie open her package.

“This one is for Mrs Hudson. This one is for Grandma Violet, and…” Sherlock almost threw the presents intended for Mrs Hudson and his mother into the air. He froze for a moment, clutching the package with his name written on it.

“This is for me.” he uttered in a small voice, shocked by the idea of receiving a gift for Christmas.

After finishing unwrapping all the presents, Rosie's overexcited voice seemed to have reached an unbearable level for the entire family. To everyone's astonishment, Mycroft offered to look after the little girl, proposing to teach her how to play chess. Mrs and Mr Holmes couldn't believe their ears and Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft's move had its own touch of genius. The real reason behind it was that Mycroft’s brain required silence. He, armed with patience and a genuinely kind smile that was more than rarely seen, sat down in front of Rosie and began explaining chess strategies. The little girl listened and tried her best to understand what she could and, being only three years old, she seemed quite confused. The high pitched screams turned into silence. With the little girl occupied, the adults could finally return to a conversation free of hysterical screaming and giggling.

“Since Sherlock and you got together, I've noticed a positive transformation in him.” said Mrs Holmes to John with a warm voice, as she continued sipping from her glass.

“Well, I-” started John, his voice trembling even though he was genuinely flattered by the compliment. “I think we've had a good influence on each other.” he continued, feeling a touch of embarrassment crawling into the conversation. “But I have to say that your son is quite a good man, Mrs Holmes. And a great dad to Rosie.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks getting warmer. Sitting in front of John, he shifted slightly, trying to appear nonchalant. John glanced at him and couldn't resist teasing him a bit more, since it was quite a rare opportunity to see him get embarrassed. “Oh, come on, Sherlock. Don't keep avoiding compliments!”

“Indeed, Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson had just joined in. “If I were you, I would listen to John.” she said with a smile while pouring more wine into her glass.

Mrs Holmes nodded in agreement. “Mh-hm. Your fiancé has a point, my dear.” she added, giving Mrs Hudson a conspiratorial wink.

Both Sherlock and John got caught off guard by Mrs Holmes’ comment.

John cleared his throat, ready to clarify things. “We’re not engaged… yet.” he managed to say, keeping it intentionally vague. Sherlock's blush worsened and he quickly attempted to change the subject. “Shall we discuss our recent case, perhaps?” he suggested, trying to avoid making eye contact with John. 

“Oooh, look at my poor son, Martha! He’s turning even more red!” exclaimed Mrs Holmes, unable to contain her laughs. Mrs Hudson joined her while pouring herself another glass of red wine. After a good laugh - which awakened Mr Holmes, who had fallen asleep in his armchair, Mrs Holmes regained her composure. She had poured herself another glass of wine, her hands still shaking in excitement. “Never mind, never mind.” she sighed, waving her left hand in front of her in an attempt to sweep away some drops of wine. “I’ve got a more important question for you.” She leaned forward, placing both her elbows onto the living room table while staring at Sherlock straight into his eyes. “When are you two planning to… you know, getting married?” she insisted, the curiosity getting the better of her.

It was obvious that both Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hudson were enjoying the evening more than usual. On the other side of the table, Mycroft seemed irritated. “For Heaven’s sake, stop it, Mum, you’re making him feel uncomfortable.” he exclaimed exasperated, and an annoyed expression landed on his face. 

Sherlock turned towards his brother, rather surprised. He was curious to know why Mycroft had chosen that exact moment to defend him. He had even interrupted his vain attempt to teach Rosie how to play chess. 

“Oh, come on, Mikey, let me enjoy these important little moments!” insisted Mrs Holmes, a fake pleading look appeared on her face. Mycroft let out a desperate sigh, regretting for the second time in his life letting her have more than one glass of wine.

“Gramma, no mek unca Myc angrrry.” muttered Rosie, beating her tiny hands on the table.

“Uncle Mikey is not angry, sweetheart.” she murmured in a soft voice. “He’s just envious.” she continued, maintaining eye contact with Mycroft, who held the gaze for way too long. “You can’t bear the fact that your brother is in love for once.”

Mycroft didn’t move a single muscle. “I’m allergic to love, I’m afraid.” he said with a sarcastic grin.

Mrs Holmes’ eyes widened in an exaggerated surprise. “You’re not allergic to love, my idiot boy!” she exclaimed. “You just haven’t found the courage to ask that handsome inspector out yet.”

Mycroft gasped and hesitated for an instant. A slight tension could be seen spreading throughout every single muscle of his body. Then, rather unexpectedly, he stood up and pushed his hands over the table. “Now this is enough! I will not indulge in this frankly ridiculous conversation any longer.” he declared, making his way through the corridor.

Rosie waved him goodnight. “Nighty nighty unca Myc.” 

As soon as Mycroft had left the living room, a loud silence fell, only interrupted by Mr Holmes, who had started snoring again.

John thought it was best to intervene. He cleared his throat and managed to get back in control of the situation. “By the way, we don’t need a piece of paper to show our love to the world, Mrs Holmes. We have Rosie, and nothing is more precious than raising her together.” he said, trying to shift the focus away from the topic of marriage. “We’re already a family.” he reassured with a smile. Rosie gurgled happily in response. Mrs Holmes seemed taken aback, realising that that topic had really come to an end.

Outside, the snow continued to fall slowly, burying all the houses in the neighbourhood.

The gentle and warming glow of the flames kept creating a magical atmosphere, typical of Christmas and, while the wine sweetened the old ladies and embarrassed others, everyone in the house - except for Mycroft - enjoyed the holidays for the rest of the week. 

221B Baker Street (London), January 2018

When they came back home, the familiar chaos of London engulfed Sherlock and John’s lives once again. It was snowing heavily outside, and every street was covered with a thick white layer. It was as if the holidays hadn’t completely passed yet, and the entire flat was filled with a warm, yellowish light coming from the street lamps and from the Christmas lights hung around the Christmas tree and the fireplace.

The calendar still marked the 5th of January. Sherlock had been playing ‘Chaconne’ by Bach for a while now and, while his fingers continued moving his violin bow, he slowly made his way to the window. There, he looked at the snowflakes slowly making their way to the ground.

Luckily for Sherlock and John, they still had another day for their little one, and especially for themselves.

Rosie was sitting on the crimson carpet with her legs crossed, loudly playing with her Barbies, making them live in the castle she had received for Christmas. Meanwhile, comfortably sitting in his armchair, John was enjoying the rest of the evening, sipping his amber drink and smiling every time Rosie burst into laughter for whatever reason.

When John’s wristwatch struck midnight, he glanced at it and let out a sigh, leaning his head back. The following day would officially be the last day of relaxation before diving back into the gruelling shifts at the hospital. The prospect of having to wake up at 6am again and having to face very long shifts in the hospital was not exciting at all. His patients were capable of draining every bit of energy from his body. The only good thing about the upcoming day was that it would be Sherlock's birthday, and John really couldn't wait. They had already made a reservation at Angelo's, and John desperately hoped that Sherlock hadn't yet guessed his secret intention to propose to him, because he was determined to make it the most special day of all for such an extraordinary man.

As he realised he was getting more and more anxious about it by the minute, John couldn’t sit still any longer, hence he forced himself to get up from his cosy armchair. A shot of pain immediately hit both his neck and back. After standing for a few moments to relieve the bloody stiffness, he could feel Sherlock's gaze upon him. After muttering a curse or two to his agonising back, he left the living room for the kitchen to wash the dishes. When he came back after a few minutes, he found Rosie asleep on the carpet.

“Oh, look at this little messy girl.” he whispered to himself, gently lifting her in his arms, ready to put her into bed. As he carried Rosie away, Sherlock followed him with his eyes on his way up to the stairs.

When John came back, Sherlock was still waiting for him. “She has finally fallen asleep.” said Sherlock, setting his phone aside.

“Yeah, we probably shouldn't have let her stay up so late.” replied John with a muffled yawn. “You didn't even have to tell her the bedtime story.”

Sherlock let out a smirk and they both smiled. Without saying a word, Sherlock stood from his chair and stepped closer to him, his fingers gently brushed John's stubble. “You need to shave.” he pointed out, frowning in disappointment. “I don’t want prickly kisses at my birthday, you know that.”

John's stomach twisted at the mere mention of the event. “Yes, my love.” he reassured with a smile, but the tension in his voice betrayed him. “But I'm afraid you'll have to put up with it for tonight.” he continued, trying to look nonchalant.  

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, knowing something was wrong. His eyes quickly ran over every millimetre of his face, looking for clues. “Are you sure you are all right?”

Aside from his stomach, John's heart began to beat faster than usual, and he thought it best to escape that inquisitorial look by pressing his lips onto Sherlock's. Their tongues met fiercely, and John's immediately fought for dominance, emerging victorious.

As the fire continued crackling in the background, Sherlock quickly freed himself with a groan, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not here, John. Our little devil may wake up again.”

“You know what? I don’t care.” John replied in a sharp tone as the excitement gradually began to increase, trying again to rush back to Sherlock's lips, but Sherlock’s instincts got the better of him, thinking about the possible consequences.

Pulling away from the wet kiss, Sherlock cupped his face in his hands. “What if Mrs Hudson hears us? The door is still-” he tried to say, but John closed the living room door with a loud kick before he could even finish the sentence. He had no intention of letting anything ruin that moment. With his arousal truly reaching unbearable levels, he threw his full weight back onto Sherlock's body, his desire for him was really starting to cloud his mind. After getting a little too close to the fireplace and realising that the atmosphere in that room was starting to get hot, Sherlock broke away from the kiss and gently placed his forehead against John's. He swallowed and recovered a couple of breaths. “In our bedroom, Captain.” he whispered.

“At your commands, Doctor.” John murmured in response, his mouth thick with the taste of Sherlock. Increasing the distance between them, John reluctantly pulled away from the kiss and made his way to the bedroom, while pulling his sweater over his head and unbuttoning his shirt in the dark hallway.

Sherlock stood still for a few moments to catch his breath back. John's stinging kisses were his weak point. Regaining the aristocratic composure he was proud of, he walked through the kitchen and reached the landing to see if Mrs Hudson had come upstairs to snoop. He silently descended the two flights of stairs separating them from Mrs Hudson's flat. There was no sign of her, everything was silent and dark. The warmth of the lit fireplace enveloped him again as soon as he came upstairs to the living room. He knew he had to hurry to the bedroom, otherwise John would unleash his frustration upon him since he was most likely making all his accumulated excitement disappear. He let out a chuckle and approached the fireplace with caution to turn it off, letting the heat dissipate and the ash dominate the fireplace.

When Sherlock entered the dark bedroom, his entire body started shivering, and it was so cold that it looked like he’d just stepped into a fridge. After all, the thermometer marked 2°C that night. Walking the perimeter of the room and reaching the far end of the bed to switch the bedside lamp on, the door suddenly creaked and closed with a soft thud, revealing a beastly excited John behind it. A thrill of magically rediscovered excitement ran down Sherlock's back as he struggled to focus on John's total nakedness. The room was freezing, and he wondered if perhaps they should reconsider doing it that night, fearing they might freeze to death. But he immediately realised that John was not of the same opinion and that he had different intentions. The doctor leaned against the door and reached for the latch, locking it. “No one will disturb us, here.”

A surge of adrenaline reached Sherlock's heart, making it beat a bit faster. Moments of silence followed, when suddenly John started walking towards him, his powerfully erect cock facing his direction.

As if they were roleplaying the hunter and the prey, John approached Sherlock to the point where the latter lost his balance and found himself sitting on the edge of the bed. John gently climbed onto his lap, his erection wildly pressing against Sherlock’s chest. Their lips met again in a hungry kiss, and Sherlock's resistance crumbled without restraint under the fury of John's passion. Not wanting to limit themselves to just kisses, John delicately removed Sherlock's jacket, which awkwardly flew to the other side of the room. His hot breath tickled Sherlock’s left cheek, intensifying his waves of desire, and his frozen fingers freely roamed on his neck, until they found their way between the buttons of his purple shirt. Unbuttoning it with deadly slowness, Sherlock placed his hands behind John’s back, bringing his torso closer to his abdomen, being able to feel John's pre-ejaculate slowly leaking out of his penis and sliding along his entire length.

When the last button of the shirt was released, John licked his lips at the sight of Sherlock's swollen nipples and exposed skin. He lifted Sherlock's right arm and freed his whole chest from the shirt, letting it fall with little grace and all crumpled next to the jacket.

Sherlock's hard nipples only increased the amount of precum out of John. The air became much thicker around them, and the scent of lavender wafting from the sheets began to mix with the smell of their desire. John made him lie down with his back against the sheets and lay on top of him, starting to kiss him slowly. His hands gripped the sides of his face, as if to make sure Sherlock couldn't escape him. Still kissing him, he reached his left hand down to Sherlock’s trousers, trying to get past the waistband of his underwear.

Once John found Sherlock's penis, he massaged it avidly. Sherlock gritted his teeth and lifted his head back, letting out a small moan. John continued to kiss him fervently, exploring his mouth as his hand tightened around his balls. Sherlock felt like every nerve ending in his cock and balls was suddenly super-activated, and every touch from John was starting to drive him nuts.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice came out barely above a whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from letting out a groan of pleasure. Thank Goodness he’d suggested doing it in the bedroom because, if Mrs. Hudson had found them looking like this, she’d definitely invite the whole street over next time. The sound of their wet tongues was interrupted by another groan of pleasure from Sherlock.

John decided it was time to get serious, so he raised himself up on his elbows to undo Sherlock's trousers, and their hearts started beating even faster when he finally freed Sherlock from his underwear. The mere sight of Sherlock's swollen cock made John feel extremely wild about the whole situation, and he realised that his desire was ready to explode at any moment. But the poor doctor had gotten distracted, and soon Sherlock's hand slowly slid between his legs, reaching his hard and throbbing cock. As he returned the soft massages, John began to release small moans through their tongues, which had met again.

Sherlock felt his cock slowly coming on his abdomen as their moans increased, and he decided to take over: he grabbed John by his arms and turned him to his right, throwing him on the bed. John's nipples started sending shockwaves of pleasure through his brain as he felt Sherlock's hot breath against his left cheek, and he knew that now that Sherlock was in charge, he wouldn't last much longer. Sherlock smirked, happy to be in charge now, and he tightened his grip around John's wrists. The poor doctor was trapped now, unable to move or fight back against whatever was going to happen to him. Sherlock fell onto his neck and began kissing him hard. John protested in response to another kiss, feeling his balls and cock throbbing like never before, sensing that his balls were ready to explode at any moment.

Sherlock’s free hand moved to his pounding cock. “I know you like this.” said Sherlock, whispering in his ear.

John’s mouth tightened, but no moan escaped.

Sherlock’s grip tightened as well, squeezing him mercilessly, almost as if he were forcing him to ejaculate. “I want to hear you moan, John. I want you to give yourself over to me." he ordered, using his thumb to stimulate his red, swollen glans.

John's back arched involuntarily and a loud moan left his lips, while the rest of his body moved against his hand. "AHHHHHHH - GOD!!!" he groaned, in agony. The onslaught was so unexpected and the jolts of pain so violent that his cock finally broke free. Sherlock found himself hit by John's torrent of pleasure, and he leaned slightly to the side, watching him come everywhere.

When John was done, Sherlock hummed in satisfaction, releasing him from his grip. He sat up, reaching for his underwear that had been thrown off the bed when John's hand stopped him. "We're not done yet." he said, trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock turned around and his eyes wandered for a moment before he looked into John's eyes. "Of course we're not done yet, we're just getting started. Turn around and see what you've done."

John raised his eyebrows in fear as he turned his head to look around. Embarrassment took over at the sight of the mess he had made, both on Sherlock and on the bed. Still sore, throbbing, panting and shaking, he tried to think of a way to distract Sherlock, but before he could say anything, his face began to burn with shame as he looked down at his abdomen, all wet and sticky. He felt like a thief, knowing he’d ejaculated and stained the new sheets. And Sherlock was there, looking at him with a judging, amused look.

The poor doctor was already scratching out his mental note to propose to him tomorrow.

"It happened - uh, I, um..." he tried to say, but the words came out in a jumble. "I should’ve gotten some towels…" he managed, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to hear that her beloved tenant has left a sperm stain on the wall and ruined her new linen sheets, which now need to be thrown away."

John shivered at the mention of Mrs. Hudson. He knew she would be angry because he had already ruined her red carpet once, and now he had done it again. "I'm sorry." was all John could say, still lying naked and completely helpless on the bed. He was already struggling with his conscience, thinking that he had not only ruined Sherlock's curls but, more importantly, was starting to worry that he wouldn't be able to remove the stain from the wall. He turned to his left to look for her. "Which direction did I splash?" he asked, looking at the wall, completely ashamed.

Sherlock burst out laughing. "Come on, idiot! I was joking."

John's heart lightened and he let out a nervous but relieved laugh. "Well, it looks like we should only apologise for the sheets." 

Sherlock started pacing the room, his erection still alive. "I don't think so. She had to call that cleaning company to get the bloodstains off the table, carpet, and wall when you killed the taxi driver in our living room, so there's no way she's going to make such a fuss about this lovely mess." said Sherlock, pausing as he imitated Mrs. Hudson's voice. "If this had happened at my parents' house, my mother's screams would have been heard all the way to Peru." 

John chuckled in relief and sat up, staring at his sticky abdomen and legs.

"You're still going to have to clean up the mess you made, you know?"

John nodded, still feeling a little humiliated. "I'll do whatever it takes to get this all fixed before tomorrow comes. Or at least before she finds out, I promise." 

He stood up, ready to get to work.

"Who told you we had to do this now ?" asked Sherlock, glaring at him. "And, more importantly, who gave you permission to get out of bed?!"

John felt dismayed and lay back on the bed, watching as Sherlock opened the next drawer to get out a bottle of strawberry-flavored lube and the lilac cock ring he'd bought him for Christmas.

"We're not done yet, Doctor, and I think these things are going to come in terribly handy before long."

John laughed heartily, ready to endure a second, third, fourth sweet agony from Sherlock.

Everything was going to be great.

Chapter Text

"Life is made of so many moments that mean nothing . Then, one day, a single moment comes along to define every second that comes after.”

- Sabaa Tahir, An Ember in the Ashes

That wasn’t the right moment to panic. 

Sherlock remembered very well the first time he set foot in the analytical chemistry lab when he studied at the University: he was young, full of enthusiasm, and his heart was light like never before; he resembled a child on a Christmas morning, anxiously waiting to unwrap the Christmas presents. But such a magical moment got immediately broken by his Professors, who started making them anxious while instilling the fear of using certain chemical substances. Some had the potential of being carcinogenic, while others, if used without precautions, would lead to very serious injuries. But the atmosphere turned even more eerie when they showed them the sink to wash their eyes. It was known as ‘the evil sink’, just because it seemed to have been built by Satan himself.  

When he was in his first year, whenever Sherlock happened to walk outside those labs, the curiosity got the better of him: he couldn't wait to move on to the next year to be able to enter those and start experimenting with acids and stuff. 

But, after his first day in the analytical chemistry lab, everything changed: all students, slightly frightened, were invited one by one to understand how to use it in case of emergency. As Sherlock contemplated it, a shiver of discomfort ran down his spine. He couldn't imagine anything other than his burned skin, which was slowly starting to melt by the power of the acid. He realised he definitely didn't want to pursue a career in analytical chemistry. Over time, he understood that if he handled the acids with caution, there was no risk of burning himself. 

But Rosie wasn't him. And he didn't even know what she had spilled over herself. 

Warren Street, London, 6th January 2018
 

John had just left a jewellery store. He was heading to the nearest supermarket when he stopped after a few steps. A light spread across his face as he carefully placed the blue velvet package into his doctor's bag. He was so happy with his new purchase that his vibes could be perceived through the streets. 

He had to do extra work and night shifts in the emergency room to be able to afford that ring. But, now, that same ring had repaid every single hour of extra work. He couldn't wait for 9 pm to arrive. And there were still three damn hours to go. He couldn't wait to enjoy the amazement on Sherlock's face once he had proposed. 

As soon as he started daydreaming, his phone rang. It was Sherlock. 

"John." said Sherlock. He kept talking, but John wasn't able to hear the rest because Rosie's screams drowned out everything. 

“What- why is Rosie screaming?”

“Uhh- there's been an accident and I…, I genuinely don't know how to tell you."

John felt like he was somehow going to have a heart attack. “What the hell are you babbling about?!” he screamed out of his lungs, slightly panicking.

“Rosie was playing and she… she got hurt.” Sherlock continued, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he were a journalist reporting something on the news.

John froze in place and his medical bag slipped from his hand, falling onto the pavement. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, the world around him seemed to slow down as a wave of terror smashed against him. The voices of passers-by, the sounds of the street… everything became an indistinct background noise. 

Had his little girl gotten hurt? 

That very thought hit him like a punch to his own stomach. The images of a happy Rosie got replaced by one in agony, like the screams he was hearing on the other end of the phone. 

"How bad is the injury?!" he asked, but his voice came out broken, almost like a whisper, as he tried to gather the strength to move.

“We're almost arrived at University College Hospital.” replied Sherlock instead. Then, he hung up the phone.

John clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead, only he could see nothing but Rosie in agony. “Pull yourself together, John Watson! You're a fucking soldier, for Heaven's sake!" he yelled to himself, gritting his teeth. Still staring straight ahead, he nodded, picked up his bag from the pavement and his legs began to move on their own, making him run towards the hospital. 

Good thing he was nearby. And that he worked there. He had to reach Rosie as quickly as possible because he had to make sure she would be okay. He couldn't let God take her away with Him.

University College Hospital, London, 6th January 2018

When he finally arrived outside the hospital, John had reached the limit of his strength. Since he couldn't take it anymore, he almost collapsed against the building behind him. He saw an ambulance park a few metres away from him and gasped when its doors opened. His heart leapt into his throat as soon as he saw Sherlock step down from it, with Rosie held tightly in his arms. His little girl was wrapped in a wool blanket with pink unicorns all over it. Her screams echoed in the air, and it was so heartbreaking to watch that he wanted to scream and cry with her too.

Sherlock's face looked pale and extremely destabilised. His eyes were so dark that even Tim Burton would have considered him for his new film.

“Sherlock!” exclaimed John in a trembling voice, moving closer. "How is she???"

But Sherlock seemed to have temporarily lost the ability to speak. He looked at John with a tormented expression, perhaps trying to convey to him with his gaze what words couldn’t tell.

“Well, I guess you’ll tell me later.” he replied, giving him a quick kiss on his unshaven cheek, trying to maintain a calm voice despite the upcoming heart attack. He moved to take Rosie into his arms; she was so small, so in pain, and the blanket was covering her entirely. He had to be honest, she smelled a little. He mentally added to his list he would give her a nice bath once they got home.

Regardless of everything and everyone, he rushed towards the emergency room reception shielding every single negative emotion. Instead, he managed to focus on the fact that he would be the one to take care of her. But he couldn’t help but to feel anger starting to grow inside of him. But he needed to think like a doctor now.

The medical staff had been informed by the paramedics during the rush to the hospital. The poor girl got abruptly torn from John’s arms, causing the blanket to fall onto the floor. John was used to working there; he was used to the hustle and bustle that came with difficult patients and emergency codes. But now everything seemed unreal, with his baby still crying so desperately, wriggling in the nurses' arms. 

John found himself frozen in the centre of the waiting room, experiencing everything from the patients' point of view. Now he too hated those bright lights, the smell of the disinfectant, the white walls, the screams, and the noises in his head. Now his mind had become one with all those screams.

But John wasn't entirely okay with all of it. He was a doctor, he was her doctor. His legs jumped like springs and he threw himself into the fray of doctors and nurses. He had almost reached the other end of the corridor when Dr Suzanne Coleman, a colleague of his, blocked his path, standing across the doorway. “John… you can't come in here.”

“I certainly can come in, I work here.” he growled.

“You're not on shift today.” replied Dr Coleman, already knowing that he would explode with anger at any moment.

John's face took on an angry expression. “I'm her doctor, let me through!” he screamed, even though his voice trembled.

“No, John, you’re not her doctor right now.”

"Oh, really?!" he yelled, feeling his blood boil in his veins. Regardless of what might happen, he pushed his way into the gap between her and the door, determined to do as he wanted. Nobody had the right to stop him. 

But he had certainly underestimated Suzie, who grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him against the wall. "John, now you are just the father of a little patient who needs immediate care. You’d let yourself be carried away by feelings.” 

“Bollocks!” he screamed, trying to escape her grip.

“You'll get a suspension for this, and I’m sure you don’t want it.” 

John was now breathing heavily, and his heart was beating wildly. He could sense his inner struggle between the doctor who didn’t let himself be carried away by his feelings and the desperate father. But the latter was prevailing.
“Suzie, please.” he murmured after a few seconds, his voice about to crack. “I have to stay there with her. I can't wait outside."

Dr Coleman stared at him for a few moments, searching for the right words. “I understand how difficult it can be, but you are just a father. I can't let you in, I’m sorry.”

John closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to calm the turmoil inside him. 

“You know our standards, you just have to trust us.”

With a sigh, he gave up and let Suzie take him back to the waiting room.

“Here, sit down here. I'll keep you informed, I promise.”

John sat down and ran his shaking, sweaty hands over his face. After a few moments, he heard Sherlock's shuffling footsteps approaching. His face was still pale and he was clutching the blanket that had fallen earlier. His hands were shaking. Then, not sure what to do, he sat down next to him, hoping that the astonished looks of the people waiting in there would soon subside.

“There has to be something I can do. I can't stay here and do nothing.” muttered John to himself, trying to calm all those unhealthy thoughts in his head.

“I’m sure she'll recover." murmured Sherlock under his breath, clasping his left shoulder.

John froze momentarily, taking his hands away from his face. He stared at him with bloodshot eyes. “What happened, exactly?”

Moments passed, and Sherlock found himself scanning his blue eyes, trying to find the right words. But John was faster: his eyes widened so quickly that Sherlock almost jumped in fright. “Was the babysitter there?” he asked, quite agitated.

Sherlock nodded slowly, not really knowing what to do. He didn't know how to tell the truth. John shook his head violently and slapped his thighs. “Maybe it was him who did all this. Maybe he came into our house with the intention of harming our daughter!”

“John, maybe I should-” Sherlock tried to say, but John hit again with the words. “We’ll find out why he did this.” he said, vengefully. "And I’ll make him pay for every single moment of pain he’d inflicted on Rosie." he continued, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him.

“John, perhaps you shouldn't jump to such hasty conclusions.” murmured Sherlock, his heart beating faster and his stomach clenching with nervousness.

“I will strangle him with my own hands. He won't get away with it!” he promised.

Sherlock couldn’t find the courage to move a single muscle now. He was paralysed with fear, and that threat wasn't helping. 

Minutes passed, and John was so nervous that he was almost tempted to tell him the truth.  But then, what would John have done to him?  

“I need to smoke a cigarette.” John announced, getting up from the uncomfortable chair that had bruised his butt. "Are you coming with me?" he asked Sherlock, sniffling. Sherlock slowly looked up at him and nodded.

Once in the back garden, John took the pack of cigarettes from the pocket in the back of his trousers, took a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. After a couple of puffs, he turned to Sherlock. “What were you saying before? 'You shouldn't jump to conclusions.'” he asked, frowning. Sherlock was shocked when he felt called into question. 

“Is there something I don't know?” insisted John.

“It's not important, really.” murmured Sherlock, looking for an escape route. But there was no escape. No one, not even him, could escape when John was determined to find out something. 

“No, Sherlock. We must report this person. You have to tell me exactly what happened.” 

But Sherlock was too scared of what John would do to him once he’d discover the truth. Now he was truly trapped, even though they were in an open place.

"Sherlock!" John insisted, gently clapping his hand on his cheek. "You have to tell me what happened. It's an order."

Sherlock looked at him, his face drawn into an expression of guilt. "I…" he began slowly and hesitantly. “Actually… It's no one's fault. It was an accident."

John's eyes widened. "An accident?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Rosie was with the babysitter, he was feeding her but, at one point, she started throwing food in all directions and got dirty. I decided to give her a bath. I left her playing with the ducks and her Barbies. Then, I heard a thud. It was a moment, John. She started screaming, and I feared she might have a concussion. So, just to be safe, I called an ambulance.” Sherlock spoke quickly, hoping to convince John, which stared at him, the cigarette limp in his fingers and his eyes scanning Sherlock intently.

Sherlock swallowed nervously; he felt getting smaller and smaller by the moment, under John's gaze. Human relationships were always so complicated.

John stood silent for a moment, resuming smoking as if he had never spoken. Sherlock felt the tension rising, and turned to look around. "I'll get you a coffee." he announced, walking away without waiting for his response.

He returned to the waiting room clutching two steaming coffees. He approached John, who had sat down again, but this time he was bowed forward and had his hands clasped, his face marked by desperation. Sherlock sat down next to him, handed one of the two coffees to him, who accepted it without saying a word.

In the meantime, the number of people coming to the emergency room had increased and the news had spread in no time: a little girl had badly injured herself and all the paediatric doctors were busy treating her.

Sherlock sighed, rested his back against the chair and took a sip from his coffee. He almost spat it out as he couldn't contain the disgust. “There's too much sugar in this one.” he complained, turning the cup over in his hands with disappointment. 

“I could give them a hand, I don't want to be useless.” murmured John to himself, staring into the void.

Meanwhile, Sherlock continued tasting his coffee with increasing reluctance. John clenched his jaw and his fists, trying to stay calm. The worry for his daughter was already too heavy, and Sherlock's useless babbling was starting to annoy him. 

“No, really, how can you get wrong with the amount of sugar in a coffee?!” 

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! Stop complaining about this fucking coffee!” he snapped. His voice came out more violently than he had planned. “We have more important things to worry about right now!”

Sherlock's eyes widened, surprised by the intensity of John's reaction. With no intention of speaking anymore, he bowed forward and placed his coffee on the floor next to John's.

It was going to be a very long evening. And even a tougher night.

An infinite amount of time had passed. The door opened and a nurse walked towards John. “Doctor Watson.” he called.

John jumped up, hitting his now frozen coffee cup with his shoe, without spilling it onto the floor. 

“Your daughter is in pretty bad shape, but we’re stabilising her. We’re doing everything we can."

John nodded, his throat dry as hell. "Can I see her?"

The nurse looked a bit uncertain. “I’m not quite sure, doctor. But I’m sure we can make an exception."

John was so relieved that he almost knelt down and kissed the tip of his shoes. He followed the nurse, stopping after a few steps. “Can my husband come in as well?” he asked, pointing at Sherlock.

“Yes. But you’ll be able to see her just for a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you, Paul. They will be enough." said John, gratefully. Then, he walked towards the paediatric ward again, putting his hand around Sherlock's shoulders, which now looked like a man condemned to death, with each step bringing him closer to his bitter fate.

Rosie had been sedated, and her screams had finally subsided. As he stepped into the room, John's heart ached to see her like this: lying in a little bed with light blue sheets and colourful sunflowers, Rosie lay helpless, with a pale face, and with a series of needles into her veins. Her breathing was so shallow that she seemed dead. 

John tried to hold back his sobs and wondered why they were doing that to her.  Sherlock had entered the room with them, hesitant and at a safe distance from John, who reached out to Rosie to take her hand. It was frozen. After kissing it, he went to the end of the bed, ready to read her medical record, but Dr Coleman entered the room and interrupted him in his intent. “Ah, John. Here you are.”

John looked at her with a worried look and his eyes filled with tears. She took Rosie's file from his hands and opened it, not allowing him to peek. 

"How is she? What is her condition?"

Dr Coleman looked up and responded in the same tone John used to talk to patients when there was nothing left to do. “She was uncooperative, so we gave her intravenous morphine, 0.75 mg.”

John frowned at her, wondering why they'd given her opioids for a simple fall.

“We treated the area with specific medications. However, we must monitor her carefully throughout the night to avoid the development of infections."

“Infections?!” asked John in amazement. “It was just a fall!”

Dr Coleman raised a questioningly eyebrow at Sherlock who, behind John's back, signalled her not to say anything to him. But she wouldn't support him. “Ah, is this what he told you?” she asked John, slightly concerned.

John turned back and looked at Sherlock, who didn’t say a thing. He then glanced back at Suzie. “What the hell is wrong with you two?!” he asked angrily, fearing he was losing his lucidity.

“Let's say that we are managing to avoid surgery for now. The burns are quite serious.” 

At the word 'burns', she almost made John faint. “What do you mean ‘burns’?!” he yelled, running towards his daughter. He violently pulled the sheets off her to understand the gravity of the situation. It took him no time to realise that her burns lay hidden beneath two gauzes that had been applied to her neck.

“John, don't do that.” Dr Coleman admonished him, but John didn't listen. He took a pair of gloves, put them on and delicately lifted one gauze: there was a frighteningly large and irregular stain. The skin was inflamed, tight and swollen. There were also several blisters, some had exploded and were releasing a liquid that had mixed with blood.  “But this is…” John's jaw dropped open. “THIS IS AN ACID BURN!!!!!!!!” he screamed in horror immediately afterwards. Having applied the gauze to his place again, he realised that Suzie was gone, and he and Sherlock were left alone. “Can you explain to me how the HELL all this happened?!”

Sherlock swallowed and tried to move as far away from John as possible, but his legs couldn't move. They seemed to be glued to the floor. He really had done it. John would find out sooner or later anyway.

“Rosie was playing with dolls in the living room and I stepped away for a moment. That's when Molly phoned me, to give me the results of the autopsy. But she didn’t even finish the sentence when Rosie started screaming. They weren't cries of anger, hunger or anything."

John was staring at him intently with furrowed eyebrows and heavy breathing. He resembled a ram in heat. 

“I ran back into the living room, but she was no longer there. Then I noticed that the kitchen doors had been opened. I looked over and some beakers on the table had been knocked over, and all their contents had spilled over the table, the floor and Rosie.”

Sherlock's story came out almost robotically, but still every word was soaked with guilt. “I saw what was happening to Rosie’s neck, so I immediately grabbed her by her arms and took off her woolen t-shirt, which had already been soaked and the fibres were melting. I looked down at her neck… but it was too late, the acid had already done its damage. I grabbed a towel, wet it with water and tried as much as I could.”

“And where had the babysitter gone in the meantime?!” asked John, feeling the blind anger begin to rise inside him again.

“Actually… I called him shortly after you left. I told him we didn't really need him.”

John stared at him, horrified and devastated. Every single cell wanted to scream. “And why didn't you tell me right away, while we were on the phone?!” he asked, his voice coming out wild.

Sherlock didn't move, frozen in terror. He didn't even know where he found the courage to tell John the truth.

“Why did you tell me she was hurt?! You should have said: 'I'm Sherlock Holmes, I can't look after a 3-year-old child, and she got burned because I'm an unreliable prick!'”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked down. Seeing John so pissed off made him realise that he wasn't going to get out of there alive. 

John stared at him for a long moment, his gloved hands clenched into trembling fists. The idea that Sherlock had hidden something like that from him was driving him mad with rage. Everything around him was clouding over, and his anger exploded. Without even realising it, his emotions overwhelmed him and, with a groan of rage, he lashed out at Sherlock. “You're a son of a bitch!” he screamed, lunging at him. His hands clung on the collar of his coat and Sherlock, taken by surprise, staggered back. John didn't seem to let him go. He shoved him against the wall opposite the bed. "HOW?!" he shouted, his voice choked with anger. “HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME?!?!” he asked, slamming him again against the wall. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!?!”

Sherlock tried to defend himself, but John's grip had become too strong on his windpipe. “John!” he tried to say, but his words almost got lost along the way. The doctor loosened his grip on his neck and his right fist rose into the air and slammed into Sherlock's face. At that moment, Sherlock relieved those terrible moments which occurred three years earlier in the morgue. John hit him again and again, until a trickle of blood came out of his mouth and something fell onto the floor, making a bounce sound.

Sherlock lost his balance and fell to the ground, realising that John had just broken two of his molars. Sherlock knew that, after all, he deserved every single punch. These were things he had to endure. For love.

After what seemed like hours, some nurses, alarmed by the shouts and noises, came in and grabbed John by his arms, forcing him away from poor Sherlock, who lay helpless in a small bloody pool, his broken teeth clenched tightly in the palm of his hand.

“Get your hands off me!” growled John in uncontrollable fury.

“We need to call security!” cried a nurse, leaving the room to get help.

Sherlock, having regained his breath, raised a hand, not to defend himself, but to stop his rescuers. “Let him do it.”he said hoarsely. “Let him take out all his anger on me. I deserve all of this.”

John was breathing hard, his hair was dishevelled and his face was almost purple. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. He violently took off his gloves, threw them into a trash bin and left the room without looking back. 

'I will make him pay for every single moment of pain he inflicted on Rosie.' 

Yes, John had really hit the nail on the head. And you could always rely on John Watson: when he made a promise, he always kept it.

Chapter Text

University College Hospital, London, 6th January 2018

John Watson was a medical doctor. He always wore his white coat with pride, perfectly aware of the responsibility that his role entailed. But it was just a mask he carried with him to work. Behind it, he could see a shadow lurking in the dark. 

He had never felt he was a good person. He was a monster. He probably always had been. And soon everyone would label him as such. And the first one would be Sherlock.

He was a doctor, his hands were trained to save lives, not to harm them. And those same hands stained with Sherlock's blood hadn't stopped shaking for a single moment. His heart didn't want to stop beating, he could feel it fight in his chest. 

John felt destroyed and completely useless. All his professional training seemed to have vanished in front of the helpless body of his little girl. 

He was terribly lost, unable to find a glimmer of hope in that tormented night. 

Back in the waiting room, anger had certainly not abandoned him. He was angry at the world, because the most terrible things seemed to happen only to him. He was angry at God for allowing an innocent little girl to suffer that much. And, above all, he was very, very angry at Sherlock. 

Why did all this have to happen?! Why had Rosie had to pay the consequences?

His little girl should never have entered the kitchen, or rather, that unauthorised chemistry lab. And who knows what she had spilled on herself. Perhaps not even the doctors, and maybe not even Sherlock, could say it for sure. Those acid burns would later turn into visible scars, and she would carry them for the rest of her life. The very thought made John sick. 

Sherlock wasn't even justifiable. He hadn't made him pay enough.

John sighed angrily, knowing well that his anger wouldn't leave him for a while. Now the time had come to give priority to other thoughts: he had to try to be strong once again. For Rosie. He had no one else but her. She depended on him, and he was her pillar. 

But how could he pretend to be so stable when his own world was collapsing inside of him? 

It was 2:30 am, and Rosie still couldn't leave the hospital. The waiting room had emptied out a bit, so John took the opportunity to lie down for a while on the metal chairs that were killing his back and butt. He hadn't even slept for twenty minutes when someone shaking on his shoulder woke him up.

“It's about time, old man! We've been trying to wake you up for two minutes."

John opened and closed his eyes very quickly, trying to get comfortable in the bright light. Greg and Mrs Hudson were there, and he couldn't decide which of them was more shaken. 

“Wha-?” he asked with a thick mouth, regaining composure. His eyes, red, sunken and on the verge of tears, would have scared a vampire. He stood up and, in turn, he hugged both of them, almost crushing Mrs Hudson to death. 

“What are you doing here?”  

“You and Sherlock weren’t answering the phone. I was afraid something serious had happened.” replied Mrs Hudson, staring at him worriedly, clutching a damp purple handkerchief in her hands.

“I was completely unaware of it. I just showed up outside the restaurant, and Angelo told me that the party had been cancelled.” replied Greg, sitting down next to him. John clenched his jaw and swallowed nervously.

“I had just fallen asleep when she phoned me, asking if I knew anything about the three of you. The rest is history.” 

Mrs Hudson let out a sob. “I couldn't stay home without knowing!” she said, apologising to Greg.

John sighed deeply, running a hand through his messy hair. “It’s been a… very difficult evening.” he murmured, his voice full of tiredness. 

“What exactly happened to Rosie?” asked Mrs Hudson as she sat down on one of the chairs near them, placing her black bag on an empty chair. “I was washing the dishes when I heard some screams. Sherlock told me he was going to take Rosie to the emergency room because she might have broken her foot."

“Such a prick.” let out John with a bitter smile, resting his forehead on the knuckles of his cold hands.

Greg and Mrs Hudson exchanged a confused look. “Did you say ‘prick’?” asked Greg, not sure he understood correctly.

“Yeah, he's really a fucking wanker.” murmured John, more to himself than to Greg.  “He told me a lie, too.” he spat bitterly, not looking either of them in the face. “Rosie didn't fall. She’s had an accident and she burned herself with acid."

At the mere mention of it, Mrs Hudson jumped up. “My poor little girl!” she groaned, retrieving the handkerchief from her pocket and walking away so they wouldn’t be able to see her start crying.

“I spoke to the doctors and they said they are doing everything they can to avoid taking her into surgery for a skin graft.”

Greg was gaping at him. A few moments of silence followed, broken only by Mrs Hudson’s sobs.

“Jesus Christ, I didn't expect this. We really didn't need it!” groaned Greg, slapping his hands on his thighs.

“They gave her morphine, and they’re checking her vitals. It’s fundamental to keep her under observation for a while longer.” concluded John, staring at the fake white marble floor beneath his feet.

“We're here for you, mate.” said Greg, clapping a hand on his forearm. John nodded without saying a word.

When Mrs Hudson had moved further away, Greg looked around, wondering why Sherlock wasn't there. Maybe he had gone to the bathroom. “Where’s Sherlock?” 

"They're medicating him, I think.” said John, quite impassive.

“Medicating?” Greg raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him?"

John hesitated before answering, digging his upper incisors into his lower lip over and over again.

“No! Don't tell me he got burned himself as well!!”

“He caused the incident. And then I hit him.” spat John without remorse. “Very hard, Greg. And I broke a couple of his teeth, too.” he confessed, carefully avoiding his gaze.

Greg remained speechless for a moment. Then he thought it best to lighten the situation a bit. "The wolf loses its fur, but not its vice!" (1) he laughed, taking fun of him. But his attempt at humour didn’t find the welcome he had hoped for.

John turned to him, his eyes alight with an anger that seemed ready to explode again. “WHAT ELSE SHOULD HAVE I DONE, GREG? MY DAUGHTER ALMOST DIED!”

John's sharp tone startled the Inspector, who realised that he’d made a mistake in teasing him in such a delicate moment. “John… I didn't mean to downplay what you're feeling. I just think you… took it too far.”

John shook his head decisively. “You weren't there. You didn't see what I saw. My little baby, in that bed, unconscious, with burns all over her neck and needles stuck in her-” John's voice broke and he put his hands over his mouth, in horror.

Greg's heart got shaken by seeing him like that, so he pulled him into a hug, letting him cry into his dark blue coat.

Mrs Hudson returned a few minutes later, her nose was red and her eye bags were swollen and red from crying. Greg came back as well, but from a café, clutching a carton with three cups of coffee balanced on it.

They both sat down next to John and Greg handed him one of the coffees. “You need strength, old man. But I still hope that it won't give you the energy needed to punch me too."

John didn't smile at the joke this time either.

It was almost 6 am when the doors opened and a doctor approached them, clutching a folder and a small black garbage bag. John jumped up, his heart beating too fast, fearing something bad had happened. 

“No need to be worried! Sit down comfortably!” said the man with an affable tone, pointing to the chair behind John.  

John sat down automatically, clutching Mrs Hudson's hand. 

The doctor sat down as well with the three of them. He gently placed the black bag on the floor and then he brushed the black and purplish-red locks out of his hair. “I am Dr Pascal, an expert in second degree burns. I work at the Royal London Hospital.” he said, offering his right hand right after introducing himself. John shook it reflexively, starting to bite his inner lower lip in anxiety. Once Dr Pascal had greeted both Greg and Mrs Hudson, he took a breath. “After a series of things and valuations, we can finally say that your daughter is stable, Doctor Watson.” he announced with a big smile.

John let out a groan of relief and raised his head upwards, miming a 'thank you' to the grey ceiling. He dropped Mrs Hudson's hand from his and covered his mouth and then his eyes, hiding the tears that had begun to flow down his cheeks.

“We had different opinions on this, but in the end we agreed to remove the necrotic tissue. Luckily for the little one, the acids only damaged the epidermis and dermis of the front part of her neck. The underlying nerves and blood vessels are inflamed, yes, but, giving them time and proper care, they will recover."

John nodded, his tears unable to stop. “And what will the scars look like?” he asked in a nasal voice.

“It's early to say, but they will almost certainly be hypertrophic, so they will be thick and swollen. You will have to apply different types of ointments, starting with aloe vera, emollient creams containing a high percentage of ceramides and retinol, and an antibiotic ointment for the next three months. It's all listed in this folder.” said Dr Pascal, handing the yellow folder to John, who took it without opening it. "Is that it?"

“I'm afraid it’s a bit more complicated than this.” said the doctor in a tone reminiscent of Mycroft. “She won't need surgery, not even a skin graft, but she’ll need to do laser sessions twice a month. For the rest of her life.”

John nodded, making a mental note that he would have to add expensive visits to the dermatologist in the future. And his salary would be decimated even further.  But, obviously, his daughter's health was more important than his economic instability.

Dr Pascal leaned forward and picked up the garbage bag at his feet. Some plastic containers started hitting against each other. 

“Let me guess, they are the original containers.” said Greg, pointing at the garbage bag. Dr Pascal nodded and seemed to weigh his words before saying: “The little girl spilled on herself hydrofluoric and chromic acids.” he chanted, already knowing this would upset John again. 

John froze in place. The doctor placed the black bag at his feet. “I must admit that your husband was quite smart to use calcium gluconate and bicarbonate to immediately dab her neck. He knew what he was doing. He's really a good chemist."  the doctor complimented, almost clapping his hands with happiness.

“He’s not my husband.” corrected John, gritting his teeth at the mere mention of Sherlock.

Dr Pascal realised that he’d hit a nerve, so he looked for an escape. “Anyway, it seems that our little Rosie has already a future in research labs. This is how the best scientists are born, doctor. Your daughter has already shown that she has a great interest in chemistry, even if she did it in an… unconventional way. Let's say she just needs a little extra security."

John didn't particularly like this latest statement from the doctor, but he found himself nodding anyway. No. His daughter would never become a chemist. She might become a biotechnologist, a pharmacist maybe, but he certainly would never allow her to study for a PhD in chemistry. And not even to graduate in chemistry.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but, hum… what about…?” asked Greg a bit uncertain, not sure he wanted to say Sherlock's name in front of John.

“You mean Dr Holmes?” asked Dr Pascal. “I haven't had the pleasure of meeting him, but I can have you talk to whoever took care of him.”

"Thank you." replied Greg in John's place, shaking the doctor's hand in greeting.

Dr Pascal picked up the garbage bag and patted John on the shoulder. “You can rest assured, doctor. Your daughter will grow up healthy and strong." he said. Then, with a smile, he returned from where he had come.

After a few more minutes, Dr Coleman appeared, followed by a nurse who was holding Rosie in her arms. John jumped up as he saw Rosie still deeply sedated, and he ran in her direction.

“I'm told you're having the whole week off, John. And Rosamund can get back home.” she announced, gesturing to John that he could take her along. He took her into his arms so quickly it was almost violent, kissing her repeatedly on her definitely shorter hair and on her forehead. “It's okay, honey. Daddy is here with you.” he whispered.

“Take it easy, John. She still has a central venous catheter attached. You’ll have to give her morphine for the next five days, then you can switch to common painkillers.” 

But John wasn’t listening, his little girl was safe in his arms, and no one could ever hurt her again.

Greg, taking advantage of the fact that John was distracted, took the opportunity to ask her about Sherlock.

“Oh, he'll be fine. He’s just a little… dented at the moment. We'll monitor him for a while longer, then we'll send him home. And he will have to see a dentist. I’m not an expert, I'm just a paediatrician, but those two molars will both need root canals. They had no fillings and were in excellent condition. It's a shame, really."

John was so relieved to have his little girl back that it was almost as if they had drugged him too. “So, he will be forced to go to the dentist. This is indeed an epochal event.” he said, sounding quite euphoric. “We will finally find out if his high pain tolerance will allow him to endure two root canals.” 

“Jesus, John! There is nothing to be happy about!” added Greg, scolding him.

John stopped on the spot and looked at him almost as if he was angry with him too. “And why shouldn't I? He always teased me about my fillings. Maybe this time he will understand that he’s not immune to everything."

“But you were the one who broke his teeth! It wasn't an accident, and it certainly did not happen because he hadn’t taken care of his oral health.” 

John didn't reply. Instead, he pursed his lips in annoyance, giving Rosie another kiss. 

Greg turned and picked up the folder that Doctor Pascal had brought. A nurse then added another mountain of papers, which contained detailed instructions on how to manage the catheter, when to administer the morphine and a series of ointments and tests that John would have to do in the future.

John was so intent on getting his daughter home as quickly as possible that he almost forgot to sign Rosie's hospital discharge papers.

After leaving the hospital, Greg stopped a taxi and helped Mrs Hudson to get in. John settled Rosie next to her and got in too. "Are you not coming?" he asked Greg, fasting his seat belt.

“I'm waiting for Sherlock. I don't want him to be here alone."

John clenched his jaw the moment Greg mentioned him. Then he nodded. "Do as you like." he replied, closing the door angrily, slightly mad at him for taking Sherlock's side.

221B Baker Street, 7th January 2018

Once they got back to Baker Street, John was quite scared to set foot in the flat. 

With Rosie still in his arms, he slowly opened the door: the strong smell of chemicals still permeated the air, and he immediately faced chaos. The living room was a mess, and the armchairs had been moved towards the windows and Rosie's Barbies and castle had been thrown all around. But the kitchen was in even worse condition: overturned containers and glass bottles were scattered on the table and on the floor. John’s gaze stopped on Rosie's favourite woollen t-shirt. It had been ruined beyond repair. It had large, dark stains where the acid had burned the fibres. There were some open books lying on the table as well, and some pages had small burn holes in them. 

Rosie, still sedated, moaned softly in her sleep. John held her even tighter as he tried to contain his tears once again. “Daddy's here with you, honey.” he murmured again, though it wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure, Rosie or himself.

Trying not to let his emotions overwhelm him, he turned his back to the kitchen and crossed into the living room. Just then, Mrs Hudson came up. She had taken her coat off and she had put her house clothes on already.

“Oh my- look at this disaster!” she groaned, taking a quick look around the kitchen. As soon as the smell reached her nostrils, she put her hands in her hair and almost screamed with anger because she would have to clean it all up.

“We'll take care of it, Mrs H. You don't have to stress, remember?”

Mrs Hudson looked at him and sighed in anguish. Not really knowing what to do, she asked: “Can I put her to bed, John dear?”

John pursed his lips and, after a moment of hesitation, he let her take Rosie into her arms. With Mrs Hudson slowly making her way upstairs, John turned back to the kitchen. He put on a pair of purple rubber gloves, like the ones for washing the dishes, and began cleaning.

Mrs Hudson came back after a couple of minutes, appearing behind him. John's eyebrows were furrowed, and he seemed to be transferring his anger to the polytetrafluoroethylene containers he had taken to tossing in garbage bags.

“Everything will work out, John. You just have to give it time.”

John nodded, even though he knew that time alone wouldn't be enough. There was too much to sort out, and too much pain, disappointment and anger to deal with. 

He continued moving all the containers from the table to the floor, in order to clean it.

“I'm going to cook something for breakfast.” declared Mrs Hudson, trying to be helpful. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Thank you, Mrs H. I’d like a nice slice of cake filled with cream and dark chocolate. And a cup of raspberry and cocoa tea.”

It was 8 am when the front door opened. It was Greg and Sherlock.

John's jaw began to twitch nervously as he heard their footsteps on the stairs. Greg entered the living room, immediately followed by… what was his name again? Ah, yes. Fried testicle. And he was just a few steps away from him. His face was marked by purple and grey bruises and he had two gauzes inside his mouth, both located on the sides of his dental arches, making him look like a bulldog. In his right hand lay a completely unused ice pack. He had entered cautiously, trying to avoid John's gaze. The tension between the two of them was palpable, worse than a hair ready to break.

“Get out of my sight because, otherwise, I swear on Jesus Christ that I will kill you with my bare hands!” hissed John, ripping a purple glove off his hand.

“Come on, John, I don't think it's worth bothering the Lord with such nonsense.” said Greg, although he had to admit that, in another context, he would have laughed out loud at John's statement. “He's lived here longer than you. The one who should leave is you, actually.”

John blew in their direction. He put on his glove and resumed whatever he was doing.

Greg murmured something to Sherlock and went downstairs. After a few moments of hesitation, Sherlock took off his coat and, all sore, sat down on the couch. 

“A small apology would be great.” said John, aggressively.

“Ohn, as I sed, I’m sovvy.” he tried to say, his voice muffled and distorted by the presence of the gauzes. “I han’t eing wot happnd, bud I will do wot I can do meik-”

“I don't speak Korean.” moked John, leaning in his direction.

Sherlock raised his hands to his mouth and, one at a time, removed the blood-soaked gauzes. “I can't change what happened, but I will do what I can to make it up to you.”

John let out a chuckle, his heart undecided. A part of him wanted to grab him again and scream in his face until he lost his voice, while the other part wanted to open the window and throw him out. He really wouldn't have forgiven him.

John came back to the kitchen and resumed cleaning. He opened the door of the cabinet and took as many containers as he could, placing them on the table. Then, one by one, he picked them up in order to read the labels regarding their contents.  He then took a container in his hand and stomped back into the living room. “Do you have any reasonable explanation of the fact there are four FUCKING liters of chromic acid in our kitchen?! Do you know it's carcinogenic?! And Rosie spilled it all on herself!!!” he yelled.

Sherlock slowly looked down and put the gauzes back in his mouth, with no intention of answering.

“ANSWER ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU, YOU LITTLE PRICK!”

Greg had been momentarily stopped downstairs by Mrs Hudson and, when he heard the screams, he rushed upstairs, surprising Sherlock crouched on the sofa, his knees drawn up to his chest, while John was standing in front of him, shouting obscenities at him while clutching the bottle of acid in his left hand. Fearing that he might attack him again, he grabbed John by his armpits and dragged him away. The doctor struggled, trying to free himself from Greg's grip. "Leave me!" shouted John, dropping the closed container onto the ground.

A couple more screams and the neighbours would surely have reported them. Good thing Greg was there, ready to intervene. “John, you need to calm down!” he shouted, as he struggled to hold him still. He managed to drag him to the kitchen and, with one decisive movement, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “I'm sorry, but I have to do it.” he said, handcuffing him to the handle of a now empty cabinet door.

John was now breathing heavily, his gaze fixed on Sherlock. His anger was a fire that burned incessantly. A deep sense of betrayal and disappointment was engraved into him. 

Greg let out a sight and walked through the kitchen, towards the bathroom. He came back after a couple of minutes, clutching some sterile gauze in his hands. He then handed them to Sherlock, who opened them and replaced them, putting aside the ones soaked in saliva and blood. 

The Inspector walked in John’s direction and removed the handcuffs, placing them back in his pocket. Then, he made John sit on a chair and he stood up, with his back facing the window next to the couch. “Now you have to listen to me, John. I know you're quite stressed, and we need to-"

"Stressed?! I’m FUCKING ANGRY!!!”

Greg waved his hand at him to stop. “BUT, we need to deal with this situation in a civil manner. You have to behave like an adult.”

But John couldn't contain his frustration. "Civil and adult manners?! My little girl risked dying because of HIM!” he shouted, pulling off his purple gloves and placing them aggressively onto the round living room table.

“It was an accident, for Christ's sake!” groaned Greg, moving his hands over his face. “What else do we need to do to get it into that empty head of yours?!”

John snorted, folding his hands on his chest and looking away. Sherlock finished adjusting the second gauze and clenched his dental arches together, letting out a soft moan.

"Are you okay?" asked Greg walking over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock nodded slightly.

“John, can you take a quick look at his gums? Please?”

“No way.” grumbled John, still facing the kitchen.

“I’ll have a look at them, then.”

Sherlock nodded and removed the gauze once again. “You need a dentist, like right now. I don't think it's normal for them to keep bleeding like that.” said the Inspector after a quick look, scratching his hair in confusion. “I'll phone your brother, maybe he'll be able to arrange an appointment.” he concluded, leaving the living room.

Now that they were all alone again, John found it terribly difficult to look at him in the face. It was too hard not to think about what had happened, how close he had come to losing his daughter. The anger he felt towards Sherlock was like a fire that he couldn't extinguish. And more petrol had been thrown on its flames. 

Greg's muffled voice could be heard from the stairwell. In the meantime, John continued to breathe heavily and Sherlock put the gauze in his mouth again, waiting for Greg to return. That silence, interrupted only by Greg's words, would soon kill someone. 

“All settled, you’ve got an appointment in 45 minutes. I think we better start going.”

Sherlock nodded and tried to get up.

“No, wait. You’re kinda messed up. I'll call a taxi first, you don't have to force yourself.”

John took the opportunity to assault him again. "I wonder if, when you'll be lying in that chair, with the bright light shining into your mouth, you’ll have the courage to give the dentist the same look you give us all.” teased John, finally facing him. “If I were you, I wouldn’t start making jokes or a series of deductions. They may decide to drill all your teeth out of revenge.”

Greg put his hands over his face again, as if he were going to lose his mind at any moment. “You better hold your tongue.” he snapped. “Act like an adult, or I'll take you too to the dentist.” 

At that threat, John stiffened. No, he had no intention of going to the dentist.

He hated to admit it, but Greg was right. He had really acted like an immature child. 

The inspector, terribly devastated by having to go back and forth and deal with an injured person and a three-year-old adult, left the flat again to go and hold a taxi.

Still maintaining an angry look, John looked up at Sherlock. "Let's say it was an accident. That was a huge lapse in judgement. Do you realise that Rosie could have died?!"

Sherlock held his gaze. “Vad id didn’d happn. And I immidiadely dook acdion.”

In his heart, John knew that Sherlock would never intentionally put Rosie in danger, but his anger was quite uncontainable at the moment. "It didn't have to happen. Period." he said, his voice almost cracking. "You have to pray that Rosie won't have any repercussions in the future. You have to pray with all your being." 

At that moment, Greg came back again, with his tongue sticking out. “If I’m going to have a heart attack this evening… I know who to blame.” he said grumpily, looking at John. Then, he motioned for Sherlock to put his coat on.

Shortly after Sherlock and Greg had left, John went downstairs and, together with Mrs Hudson, he ate the slice of cake he’d been craving. While he was chewing, he stared at the clock on the wall next to the window. It was 9:15 am. He found himself imagining a now anesthetised Sherlock being under the clutches of a dentist, who had probably already started one root canal treatment. He almost felt guilty, since he, instead, was enjoying a slice of cake. And soon he would’ve taken another one too, hoping he wouldn't get sleepy from the too much sugar he was taking. 

He had no intention of going to sleep. He’ll never sleep again.

Once finished eating, he came back upstairs and, after taking a look at Rosie, he realised that the living room was almost completely in the dark. He looked out the windows: the sky was cloudy and a thunderstorm would start raging soon. 

With the intention of getting rid of all the chemicals that had soaked the table, he began scrubbing it vigorously.

But in that terrible, dead silence, his thoughts sounded amplified. As the raindrops began to drum louder and louder against the windows, John felt a vice grip in his chest. Maybe the whole thing had been a sign from above… but Rosie needed peace and, above all, a calm and strong father, not a man consumed by anger. 

He had to find the strength to leave everything behind him.

Chapter Text

"Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept that and try to put all the pieces back together again.”

— Elizabeth Edwards

221B Baker Street, 7th January 2018

When he came back from the dentist, Sherlock feared he would have to face John's wrath again. But he wasn't there. The flat was dead silent. Only God knew where he had gone but, fortunately, he was neither in the kitchen nor in the living room, so he wouldn't have teased him again. He slowly left the living room for the kitchen and, without saying a word to Greg, he proceeded to get a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Then, he shut himself in the bedroom. Even though it was daytime, the only source of light was the bedside lamp. A storm was still raging outside, and the curtains had been closed since the nights before. 

He removed his coat and his scarf, hanging them on the hanger. He sat onto the bed, taking off his shoes. After placing them beneath the bed, he rolled on to his left side and placed the bag of frozen peas against his face. His physical suffering wasn't even close to the emotional pain that he'd been dealing with for way too many hours now.

He knew he had failed John beyond repair, and the guilt was eating him up from the inside. It probably would have ended up killing him.

After a while, he could hear heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and his heart immediately began to beat rapidly, fearing it was John. But those steps got suddenly replaced by some lighter ones, those of Mrs Hudson. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief within himself. The landlady approached the closed door and opened it almost hesitantly. “Sherlock?” she asked worriedly, looking into the room. He slowly tilted his head in her direction, letting her know that he was still awake. 

“I brought you nurofen, it will make you feel better.” said Mrs Hudson in a motherly tone.

“Thank you.” he murmured hoarsely, without completely turning towards her.

Mrs Hudson walked around the bed and, when she finally looked at his face, she let out a moan. "Baby Jesus! What has John done to you?!” she exclaimed in horror. Her hands suddenly began to shake, causing a few drops of water to fall from the glass. Sherlock's face was very pale and contorted with pain. His eyes were both swollen, and there was a large bruise on his right side going straight down to his right collarbone. There were also a series of cuts both on his lips and cheekbones. Everything was making him look even more vulnerable and suffering. 

He looked away, staring into the void, at something invisible on the floor. “It doesn't matter now.” he replied with a tone of indifference which, however, betrayed a resignation, even a rather painful one.

Mrs Hudson's heart ached to see him like that. She placed the glass and box of tablets on the table next to the bed and she sat on the edge of his bed, patting his arm. “Sherlock… you know that John is not a bad person. He has suffered a lot in the past, and now this last thing has destroyed him. He can't handle all this pain, and so he takes his anger out on you, just because he doesn't know what else to do." she said, pausing after realising she was going in a somewhat ambiguous direction.  Sherlock stayed silent, his fingers having taken to playing with the edge of the duvet. “I'm sure he won't do it again.” she concluded, not knowing what else to say, in such a situation. 

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I've ruined everything, Mrs Hudson. I've put Rosie's life in danger. How can I expect John to forgive me?"

“John is just very, very angry at the moment. I'm sure that in less than a week you will be back to normal."

"No. Nothing will fix what happened." murmured Sherlock.

“Time and actions matter, Sherlock,” replied Mrs Hudson. “Show John that you deserve to become Rosie's dad, and that you will do everything you can to protect her. It’ll take time, yes, but I believe it will all be worth it.” she concluded. Then, she leaned forward, handing him the painkiller box. “Take it , it’ll make you feel better.”

Sherlock slightly sat up, taking the pill and swallowing it without needing to drink water. 

“You're not alone, you have to remember that. Even if things may seem impossible right now… everything will work out.” she reassured, smiling at him. She got up and walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock all alone with his thoughts and emotions. But he wasn’t able to concentrate on finding a way out of the labyrinth that was keeping him confined, clouding the right direction for him to follow. What he could do for now was wait for the pain to subside.

221B Baker Street, January 2018

The days at 221b Baker Street had never been so long. Since their lives had been turned upside down on Sherlock's birthday, John had been spending a lot more time with Rosie, avoiding Sherlock almost completely. The rift that had been created between the two of them seemed to become deeper and deeper as the days passed, and they had now become like a divorced couple.

John, having an entire week off work, started spending his days with Rosie, trying (and failing) to re-establish some sort of normality in a routine now shattered into a thousand pieces. He’d even started sleeping with her, with the excuse of 'I have to monitor her all night.' But this excuse lasted for nine days. And they had been nine days of hell: their flat, which had been a lively place, full of happy screams and laughter, had transformed into a silent and almost depressing one. It was clear that the main component of the house was somewhat missing. 

Sherlock seemed to have buried himself in one of his cases, working on it day and night, in an attempt to avoid the sad reality. Every time John saw him, he magically remembered that he had something else to do in another room, or he had to go buy something at the supermarket. They had even taken turns eating, because every time John looked at him, an uncontrollable anger rose inside him. And when they were forced to be in the same room together, John couldn't contain himself and ended up verbally attacking him. 

Rosie was too young to fully understand what was happening, and always ended up crying desperately, clutching Mrs Hudson's dress, who tried to cuddle her as best she could, taking her to her flat, sometimes giving her a biscuit or a slice of cake.

John would take her to the park to see the ducks, trying to give her a few hours of tranquillity, away from that cemetery called home. There, John had found a little refuge. There, he could pretend that everything was still normal, at least for a while.

But the nights were the worst part. John lay in bed next to Rosie, looking out the window at the streetlights dimly illuminating the street below. While the little girl slept soundly, the memories and happy moments spent with Sherlock overwhelmed and suffocated him. Often, he found himself crying silently, hoping Rosie wouldn't wake up. And, even more often, he found himself in the middle of the night rummaging through Mrs Hudson's liquor cupboard. Being careful not to make any noise, he took a few bottles and took refuge in Rosie's room. He would sit in the giant blue and lilac unicorn armchair and drink from the bottle until he fell asleep.

But the night of January 16th was different. He was having a terrible nightmare. 

He was in a dark, cold and completely empty room. The walls were made of concrete and there were bars on a small window at the height of the face. The only source of illumination came from a streetlamp that was unclear where it was coming from. In the middle of the room was Sherlock, who was sitting on a wooden chair, tied up and with a bruised face. John approached him and, overcome by anger, he started hitting him right in the face. And again. And again. And again. But Sherlock seemed immune to the pain, taking every punch passively. With each passing punch, the expression on his face became more and more mischievous. At one point, John found himself hitting the air. Sherlock was gone. In his place, in the same position, appeared Rosie, who had started screaming at the top of her lungs. But John hadn't hit her, and he couldn't understand why she was screaming. He turned around and saw Sherlock right behind him, completely free and with a triumphant look on his face. He was now pulling some red strings. It didn't take long for John to realise that those weren’t strings, but Rosie's blood vessels. As Rosie continued to scream, John tried to get closer to Sherlock, only he couldn't move. Looking at his legs, he realised he was stuck in quicksand. He was trapped, and he could do nothing but watch as his little girl neared death.

"It's all your fault, John!" shouted Sherlock, continuing pulling the red threads. “You hurt me, and now I'm making her pay for every single moment of pain you inflicted on me.” he said, in a triumphant tone.

When Rosie let out her last moan, John managed to lift his legs and emerged from the quicksand. He rushed at Sherlock and, grabbing him by his ears, he started slamming his face against the bars on the window, over and over again. “DIE, YOU ASSHOLE, DIEEEEEEEE!” he shouted, until Sherlock got his neck broken and collapsed to the ground, lifeless. The cell soon left room to an enchanted garden. Now that John was free, he could start a new life with his little girl. But she was nothing more than a shapeless skein of threads all twisted together. (1)

John immediately woke up, sweating and with his heart pounding. He found himself laying down on the carpet, which was now soaked from the liquor that had spilled from the bottle. After realising it was only a dream and he had fallen from the unicorn armchair, he gave a quick look at the clock: it was 3:30 am. He looked up at Rosie and saw that she, instead, was sleeping soundly.

He could no longer continue like this, he could no longer allow himself to waste away like this, and be in the constant fear of harming those he used to love.

He reluctantly got up from the carpet, nearly tripping down again due to the effects of the alcohol in his system.

The time had come to make a difficult but necessary decision. Life at 221b was no longer sustainable, and the thought of moving out passed through his mind like a bolt of lightning. He felt it was the only way out. He needed to put distance between himself and his dangerous thoughts, and between himself and Sherlock. 

Nodding at the thought, he decided that he wouldn't wait for dawn.

Silently, John went downstairs and entered the bedroom. Sherlock was sleeping. He moved in the dark and opened the wardrobe: he took out a gym bag, went straight to the dresser and started collecting his things. He put a few clothes in the bag, then went upstairs to get Rosie's clothes as well. He realised he couldn't carry just one bag for two people, and he certainly couldn't walk down the street late at night with a little girl in his arms. When he was almost ready to abandon the idea of ​​leaving, he remembered Mrs Hudson's Aston Martin. Hiding the bag in Rosie's room, he went down to the landlady's flat, looking for the keys.

After placing the bag in the car, John returned to the flat, ready to take half the house with him. He took Rosie’s high chair, most of her toys, the diaper boxes, the ointments and filled two more bags with his and Rosie's stuff. He got dressed and went upstairs for the last time, to pick up Rosie. He stopped for a few seconds outside her bedroom door, giving her a look as she continued sleeping peacefully. He then looked down at his clenched fists, starting biting the inside of his cheeks. He was trying to let go of the thought, but the consequences of his stay seemed concerning. Would he succumb again to his anger? Would he finally lose control? 

He convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. He moved closer to the crib and leaned forward to take her in his arms. As he walked down the stairs, he almost forgot to skip the fifth step from the bottom, the one that creaked. Having placed Rosie in the car, he sat down, starting the car. His gaze wandered to the dashboard for a moment. It was 04:20 am. 

After mentally checking that he had taken the essentials, he left without looking back. And without remorse. 

20 Hertford Street (Greg’s House), 16th January 2018

John got out of the car, closing the door softly. He didn't want to wake Rosie up, at least not yet. As he started walking, he got immediately surrounded by the cold winter, and the streetlights that were on couldn't even illuminate the street properly. John wrapped himself more in his jacket as he stepped forward towards Greg's house. His breath was condensing into clouds in front of him. He quickly climbed the three steps that separated him from the house and knocked the door vigorously. 

With the corner of his eye he could see a hallway light switch on, and he heard footsteps approaching the door. “Okay, okay, I'm coming.” announced the inspector with a hoarse voice. Although Greg could be heard fumbling confusedly with the keys in his hands, John continued to knock, without stopping. “I heard you the first twenty times, eh! If I find out who you are, I swear-” grumbled Greg, but he didn’t finish his threat because he found himself face to face with John. “John? What are you doing here?!" he groaned, looking with shock and concern at his friend standing before him. 

John swallowed as he was trying to hold back the tears. “I'm sorry to show up so early, Greg, but I had no other choice.”

After giving him a few more confused looks, Greg leaned back to see what time it was. “But it's not even 5 am!”

“I know, but I had to get out of that house.”

Greg tried to remain nonchalant, but John smelled of alcohol. This was definitely not good. “Don't tell me you drove here with alcohol in your system!”

"I was proceeding at a walking pace!"

“What the hell, mate! You could’ve called me and I would have come to get you.”

John smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “No, you would’ve convinced me to stay.” he said, looking at him. “And, by the way, I'm not drunk, Greg. We have a preternaturally high tolerance for alcohol, Harry and I.” he added after a few moments.

Greg nodded in mock understanding. Of all the poor bastards living in London, John had gone to piss him off. And right in the middle of the night. “Alright, come in. I'll make some tea.”

"I'm not alone." said John, biting his lip. He was slightly worried that Greg wouldn't have accepted a little girl into his house.

Greg ran his hands over his face, in desperation. “Who else is with you?”

“Rosie.” spat John. “And half the house, too.” he added with a nervous chuckle.

At that moment, Greg's eyes widened. “Do you want to move in with me?”

John hesitated on the spot for a few seconds, pulling his coat tighter, hoping that Greg would soon let him into his house. “I can't live there anymore. I need a place to stay, at least for a while.”

Greg nodded wearily. "All right. I'll help you get your things." 

Without asking any further questions, the inspector approached the car. “Since when do you have an Aston Martin?” he asked, rather confused.

“I borrowed it from Mrs Hudson.” John opened the door and began unloading the three bags.

“Does she know?” asked Greg, as he helped him with the high chair.

“Not really.”

Greg put a bag down and stopped to look at him reproachfully.

“I'll give it back, I promise.”

When the car was emptied, John reached out and took Rosie into his arms, trying not to wake her. He rested her head against his right shoulder and, with his free hand, he reached for one of the bags. 

The first room in the house was the living room, and it was definitely too red for John’s tastes. Since when had Greg changed the decor?

John put his bag on the floor and Greg closed the front door behind him.

“Lay Rosie down on the couch, John. And make yourself comfortable in the armchair." he said, carrying the two remaining bags into the living room. 

“It's still Christmas, huh?” asked John teasingly, laying Rosie down on the couch.

"Don’t get me started." groaned Greg, breathing heavily due to the effort and the early hours. “My daughter doesn't want me to remove the decorations.”

“Is your daughter here?”

“Until the 30th. My ex went on a work holiday to Dublin and she didn't know who else to leave her with.”

John nodded and started unbuttoning his coat, sitting down in the armchair. “Jeez- A working holiday that lasts 15 days?”

"A month." said Greg, concluding the discussion. “I'm setting a place for you to sleep.”

“Cheers.” replied John, giving a thumbs up in his direction. Then, he sat back and let out a sigh. Thank God Greg existed. He didn't know what he would do without him.

The inspector came back after ten minutes. "Alright, young man. I fixed up the attic for you.” he announced, stopping outside the living room door. 

John raised his eyebrows, already suffering from the idea of ​​setting foot in that damn cold room again. “The attic, seriously?” (2)

“Don't make that face. I had the heating fixed up there too.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. "That’s good to hear. The last thing I want these days is to freeze to death.”

“But I have to warn you: I haven’t been able to banish the ghost that lives up there.”

John shrugged. "I think I can handle it.”

Greg smiled, putting his hands in the pockets of his night robe. “Tea?”

John nodded. “Ah, yes, I’d really like a nice cup of tea.” he said, getting up from the armchair and following Greg into the kitchen. He sat down while the inspector retrieved the kettle and started filling it with tap water. “Do you have the cocoa and raspberry one?”

“Only Earl Gray in this house, mate.”

John sighed, but with a smile on his lips. “You're a real Englishman, Greg.”

“And you, John Watson, are too sophisticated for my tastes.”

John smiled, making himself more comfortable on the wooden bench, watching Greg turn on the stove and place the kettle on top. He then walked over to a cabinet, taking out a box of tea and a sugar bowl. “Are you okay with my tea or not?!”

“Earl Gray will do just fine. Thank you."

While they waited for the water to boil, Greg took out two cups that were slightly scuffed around the edges and placed two tea bags inside them. “So… have you already decided what to do? You've put yourself in a... difficult situation."

John sighed, feeling the lump find its way back to his throat. "Just because Rosie got burned because of his negligence.” he said, his voice trembling as he kept looking at the table.

“I had a look at the cameras Mycroft had installed in the flat, John. Sherlock was with her the whole time, but in the thirty seconds he left the living room, the little girl got up, went to the kitchen, and started playing with the containers on the table. When they tipped over, Sherlock acted immediately, until the ambulance arrived."

John nodded and clenched his jaw. "It doesn't really matter now, though. I can't look at his face anymore. And just imagining it makes me so angry I could uproot a tree with my hands. But, at the same time, I don’t want him to be hurt. All these emotions are confusing me even more.”

Greg nodded. “Maybe staying away for a while might help you clear your mind.” he said, getting up to retrieve the kettle. He poured the water into both cups and sat down with John again.

“Do you have any milk?” asked John. 

“For Rosie?”

“No, for me. I take milk in my tea.”

“Huh, sure.” he said, standing up and retrieving the bottle from the fridge.

John brought the boiling cup towards himself and poured the milk into it. He took a sip. “It's like I lost a part of me the moment I hit him.”

“And you broke two of his teeth.” pointed out Greg,  placing the cup on the table with a little too much force. “You should have seen him, at the dentist. I've never seen him so desperate. The anesthesia wasn't working, and... well, maybe you should have gone with him, to comfort him."

John clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Maybe I could try hitting him again.” he said in a mocking tone, but Greg took that joke too seriously, almost as if he had offended him personally.

“You won't solve anything by beating him. Or killing him.” 

But John didn't listen to him much. “Now that you’re mentioning it, I actually would have liked to go with him. I was too angry at the time, but I'm definitely calmer now.” he added, taking another sip. “Maybe I should try to break him another tooth, so-”

Greg almost spat the tea in his face. “Enough, John! I won’t allow you to break all his teeth! Or he’ll end up looking like Gollum!”

John, who had started drinking again, laughed shamelessly at that joke, the tea dripping down his chin.

“At least I managed to make you smile. But you have to promise me that you’re not going to hit him again."

John swallowed his tea so quickly that he burned his throat. "I promise."

"Never again."

“Never again, okay.” repeated John, taking a handkerchief to wipe away some of the tea that had dripped onto his trousers.

Once they finished drinking the tea, John retrieved Rosie from the couch and the three of them went up to the attic. 

Greg hadn't lied, he had actually had the heating fixed. John placed Rosie on the bed. 

“I’d be delighted to give You my humble bedroom, Your Majesty.” joked Greg.

“It's smaller than I remember.” he admitted, taking a step back. "Thank you so much. I mean it. I don't know what else to say. I’ll be infinitely grateful to you."

“Let me help you, John. For once. You don't have to do everything yourself.”

“It's just… I don't know if I'll ever be able to completely forgive him.”

“You don't have to think about it now. We’ll find a way to get through this. It just needs to pass a little time. That's all." 

John nodded and Greg patted him on the shoulder. “The bathroom is downstairs, the last door near the window. Set your little girl and… wake me up, for anything.”

"Thank you." said John, walking over to the bed.

“And try to sleep, man. You have such dark circles under your eyes that would scare even my monstrous ex-wife."

John slightly smiled and, after Greg had closed the door behind him, he got ready to get into bed.

He wasn't sure if he would be able to sleep again, but at least he could enjoy the warmth of the room, and the sweet scent of Rosie's shampoo. She was so beautiful that she resembled a little angel, sleeping blissfully, unaware of everything that had happened.

Chapter Text

221B Baker Street, 16th January 2018

Sherlock woke up, all cold, and with the sun's rays hitting his face. He could smell it. It was John's scent. John had entered the bedroom, finally! He hadn't been in it for days. Maybe he had gone there to make peace. 

Sherlock rolled over to his right, hoping to find John lying beside him. But, instead, the room was empty. Empty and cold. He made a mental note that he needed to say a few words to Mrs Hudson about the heating. 

Desolate, with his stomach knotted and his frozen feet, he struggled to sit up, his ribs still aching as hell. He got out of bed and walked through the kitchen, noticing that something was wrong. What happened to Rosie's high chair? He had to say that the little one had recently been preferring to eat on John’s knees, but why had he brought it upstairs? 

After a detailed, quick look at the living room, he could feel it… chaotic. More chaotic that usual. Someone had moved quickly in the early hours. And all of Rosie's toys were missing. His heart sank at the realisation and rushed upstairs (as much as his aching muscles and bones would allow), fearing that John… 

John was gone. 

The drawers were still half open and the shelves were empty. On the small table near the window, there was a blank sheet of paper. With uncertain steps and trembling hands, Sherlock grabbed it. (1)   

His breathing had become ragged as he read the words John had written. When he finished reading, he stood still, the paper trembling in his even more trembling hands. He felt like John had hit him again. His stomach started kicking him from the inside, making him pant. He clutched the paper against his chest and walked out the room, leaving the door open behind him. 

He felt lost, alone and guilty. 

As he slowly walked down the stairs, he could sense an oppressive sensation hanging over him. The flat was dreadfully empty without John and Rosie. Once inside the living room, he headed directly to John's armchair. He sat down, staring into the void in front of him. Why had the world started to collapse around him? Why had a simple accident let them get to this point of no return?

Sherlock searched and searched for the answer for days on end, and loneliness was the only thing keeping him company now. Well, there was Mrs Hudson as well. 

But she had promised him that everything would be resolved in less than a week. But it didn't happen, and he was slightly mad at her. He used to do the right thing, in the past, to always keep her in semi-permanent mute.

But, now, what would he do without John by his side?

The days followed one another slowly, listlessly and more monotonously than usual. Sherlock had decided to take a break from the case he was following, and John's inbox was bursting with emails. Fifteen had arrived within an hour. But Sherlock didn't have the strength to read them. He hated to admit it to himself but, for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be alone. He even thought to accept one case and bring Mrs Hudson with him… but she was pretty useless at that sort of thing. Not that John was somewhat useful, but it was JOHN. 

Days after days, Sherlock found himself wandering around the rooms like a troubled ghost, unable to find peace. What had happened to make John decide to leave? 

Perhaps he’d been irresponsible for leaving the room for a few seconds, but John had behaved even worse, leaving the house in the middle of the night. Carrying a small child with him!

What was the trigger? But, above all… where could he have gone? It wasn't mentioned in the letter.

Every morning, he woke up in the hope that it was all a bad dream, but then reality hit him again, inexorably. He entered the living room, and John's armchair remained empty, his stupid favourite raspberry and cocoa tea would no longer be made, and it all seemed like a distant memory. He had even cleaned out the entire kitchen, throwing away every single chemical substance. An accident like the one that had happened would never happen again. 

Once he got rid of the last bag containing the containers, he swore to himself that he wouldn't mess with that stuff again. No more experiments.

One particularly cold afternoon, Mrs Hudson had gone upstairs, to give him some company. After finishing peeling potatoes for dinner, she made tea and sat down with him. Sherlock was still sitting in front of the lit fireplace, in John's armchair, hoping to be able to find at least one answer to one of the countless questions he’d been asking himself for days. And he never expected that the most plausible one would have revealed itself so suddenly. 

He opened his eyes. “HE’S AT LESTRADE'S HOUSE!” he shouted, jumping up, while Rosie's white blanket, the one with the unicorns, fell at his feet.

Mrs Hudson, who had dozed off, screamed and spilled tea on her purple skirt. “For Heaven’s sake, Sherlock!” she scolded him, shaking her hands in the air to clear away some drops of tea. “You almost gave me a shock!”

But Sherlock wasn't listening. The decision came more than immediately. 

He picked up the blanket and placed it back on the armchair. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on with difficulty, groaning as he felt the stitches pulling in some places.

“Stop right there, young man!” admonished Mrs Hudson, getting up as quickly as possible, walking with her legs a little apart because of her wet skirt. “I’m not letting you leave the house at this time of evening!”

“Otherwise what will you do? Hit me?” asked Sherlock with defiance, tucking his other arm into his coat.

Mrs Hudson gave him a reproachful look. “Sherlock Holmes, I won't let you talk to me like that!”

“You’re not my mother. I can talk the way I want.” he said, opening the door to go down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson took advantage of the fact that he was moving much slower than usual, and so she retrieved the handcuffs from the salad drawer. She rushed down the stairs as fast as her bad hip would allow her, and she almost leapt at him at the bottom of the stairs, pushing his arms behind his back. Sherlock slammed his chest first, then his face against the wall, groaning in pain.

“Don’t get smart with me.” said Mrs Hudson, handcuffing him. “I'll come with you.”

“NO!” groaned Sherlock, gritting his teeth.

“I insist. Only God knows what could happen to you if you wander around in this state."

"I'm not a child. I can take care of myself.” he growled, trying to free himself from the cuffs tightened around his wrists.

"That’s for sure." she said sarcastically, leading him into her flat, heading to her bathroom. "You will stay here and wait until I am ready." she commanded, handcuffing him to the handle of the shower door.

When Mrs Hudson had finished getting ready, she put her coat on and went into the bathroom to free Sherlock, who had sat on the toilet, waiting for her.

“I’ll make you pay for this.” growled him, walking after her like a puppy.

“You will thank me, instead.” said Mrs Hudson. Then, before closing the door, she turned to him. “I'm not going to leave you alone. And I also have to say a few words to John. He stole my car."

Sherlock snorted again, but this time his gaze softened slightly. "Very good. But don't expect me to slow down for you."

Mrs Hudson smiled slightly, accepting his challenge. "Don’t worry for me. I may have a bad hip, but I walked these streets long before you were born. And just look at yourself! I can easily keep up with you." she concluded, locking the front door. 

20 Hertford Street (Greg’s House), 28th January 2018

John and Greg were sitting on the living room couch, staring at the football match broadcasted live on the telly. Rosie was sitting on John's knees. He was busy making her eat a red fruit smoothie, the one she liked so much. And the little girl was eating it with such voracity that she even had some in her wavy hair. 

Greg's daughter, Lucille, was slightly to the side, sitting in one of the armchairs, coloring a drawing of a Mirai Nikki character.

When the match reached the 85th minute of play, the sound of the bell made everyone jump.

"I’ll go." announced Greg, standing up and stretching his legs for a moment. He headed to the entrance and opened the door. “Ah.” he murmured in surprise.

Sherlock's figure stood out in the dim light of the corridor. He was hesitant, almost unsure whether he would be welcome or not.

“Wow. I certainly didn't expect it.”

“Is John here?” asked Sherlock, his voice deeper.

Greg seemed a little unsure on how to respond. “Huh, John?! No, uh, I….  I don't think he's here.” he stammered, starting to get agitated.

“I can smell him. He is here." said Sherlock, staring at him intently, while calibrating the tone of his voice as best he could. Without asking his permission, he walked with a determined step down the corridor. From the outside of the living room, he could see that John was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his gaze hyper-focused on some stupid human beings kicking a ball. Rosie, next to him, was making strange noises with her straw. 

“Huh, yes, do come in.” offered Greg sarcastically, following him and leaving the front door open for Mrs Hudson. “Lucille, go to your room.”

"Why?" asked the little girl, lifting her head from her drawing. 

“Just go to your room.”

Lucille grimaced in protest.

“Now." he ordered her. Lucille placed her pencil on the table, angrily. Then, she gathered up her markers and crayons and, giving furtive glances at Sherlock, she left the living room. 

“I'll call you later for dinner.” added Greg, as he watched her disappear up the stairs.

“A little silence, please.” asked John, without taking his eyes off the television.

After a few seconds, after Mrs Hudson had also entered the house, Sherlock slowly stepped into the living room, trampling the creaking parquet floor with his left shoe.  Rosie immediately turned in his direction, the straw still in her mouth. “DADA LOCKKKK!!!” shouted her enthusiastically, jumping off the couch while throwing her smoothie at her father, who, however, hadn't neither realised that Sherlock was there, nor that Rosie had just thrown the smoothie at him. The moment it fell onto the carpet, splashing on his bare feet, he shouted. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??” 

Rosie walked around the sofa, throwing herself onto Sherlock, hugging his left leg tightly. John didn’t care about his feet (now stained by strawberry and raspberry), and turned towards everyone.

“John.” murmured Sherlock, without any hint of emotion in his voice.

John stared at him in shock, his mouth open in surprise. He noticed that Mrs Hudson was also there, and he felt slightly embarrassed. “Sh- What are you doing here?”

"We need to talk."

“I’ve already said everything I had to say.” he said, with a hint of a growl in his voice, starting to clench his fists in anger.

Sherlock looked at him, searching his eyes for any sign of understanding. “I know you hate me for what happened.” he began, the tone of his voice a little softer. “But you have to understand that it was just an accident.”

“Accidents don't happen.” replied John sharply. “You don't keep four liters of chromic acid in the kitchen. Unless you want to hurt someone.”

“I needed it as an oxidising agent for catalysis reactions!”

John shook his head, giving a quick look back at his dirty feet.

“I know there's nothing I can say or do to change what happened…”

"Exactly! See, now you can leave.” grumbled John immediately, turning to his right to look back at the television. 

Sherlock glanced questioningly at Lestrade, who simply patted him on his right shoulder. Then, he walked over to the couch and sat down next to John.

Sherlock then made one last test with Mrs Hudson, who, however, shook her head. "I'm going to make some tea." announced her. Rosie decided to join her, following her while jumping all the way down the corridor.

It was the 88th minute of the game, and both the teams were still scoring no goal. 

Sherlock took a silent breath and positioned himself next to the telly. John did the best he could to concentrate on the now ruined match, pretending not to see him. 

“I understand that words are quite useless in this case, but I just wanted you to know that I'm doing everything in my power to ensure that a tragedy like this one will never happen again.” he said, in the hope of convincing him. “I threw away all the chemicals and all the body parts from both the refrigerator and the freezer. I had a safety fence installed on both stairs, and I even-” 

John slowly looked back at Sherlock. "I appreciate what you're doing, Sherlock, but the damage is already done. Rosie will have scars for life. And this is something I will never accept.” he said, even though his last sentence got interrupted by an involuntary sob. “It didn't have to happen. And I don't know if I'll be able to trust you anymore." he added, after a moment of pause.

Sherlock lowered his bruised gaze and clenched his jaw. “I don't know what else I could do to make things better.”

John didn't answer, returning his attention to the match.

“Maybe we just have to get over it. Maybe we could see… we should consult a family therapist.”

John pursed his lips and sank his upper incisors into his lower lip. A few tears were forming in the inner corners of his eyes.

“6 minutes of added time! That’s great news!" announced the excited commentator on television.

Sherlock gave a quick look at the telly, suddenly wanting to give a punch at the commentator. “Maybe we should go on vacation. In Italy, perhaps. We'll disappear for a whole month.” proposed Sherlock, trying to give himself some self-injections of self-confidence.

“Our problems won't just disappear, Sherlock. They'll be waiting for us.”

“We'll move out!” he almost shouted, in some sort of enjoyment, taking a step forward. “And hopefully they won't follow us.”

But John remained determined. “No jokes. I'm serious about this subject.”

At that moment Mrs Hudson, immediately followed by an excited Rosie, entered the living room, while clutching a tray with a teapot and three cups of tea. “There is only Earl Gray tea in this house.” she said, frowning, looking around her as she looked for support.

“May I know why you all hate Earl Grey? It's the best tea ever!” groaned Greg, making himself more comfortable on the couch.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off John, who took advantage of Rosie approaching from his side of the couch and grabbed her by her armpits, making her sit on his legs.

Sherlock took a step back. “I think you should get back home, John. For Rosie's sake."

The little girl, hearing that Sherlock had said her name, let out a laugh, while pinching John's right ear.

“Do you know what the real problem is, Sherlock? Rosie always got hurt because of you. Once, when you were playing cops and robbers, she rolled down the stairs, breaking her arm. Another time, you were pushing her on the swing and she flew to the ground. Another day, you were twirling her in the air and you dislocated her shoulder... do I have to continue?”

Sherlock shook his head, defeated. John was terribly right.

“You're dangerous, Sherlock. She can't live with you anymore. We can't live with you anymore."

Sherlock raised his head. John's answer came to him unexpectedly, like another punch right in his face. “You're blinded by anger, and I understand that.” he said, with a lump in his throat. “I'm terribly angry with myself too.”

John, now at the end of his patience, tried to move Rosie's hands away from his face.  “And the more you talk, the more I struggle to look at you in the face, because I just want to punch you!”

Sherlock was now running out of excuses, and his emotions would soon get the better of him. "We are a family, John! And families go through difficult times.”

Greg let out a hiss. But he had only reacted to the match. John remained quite impassive, still biting on his lip.

“We just have to put this terrible situation behind us and move forward. Because we still love each other!" he exclaimed, his voice so desperate, yet still hopeful.

But John was struggling between his feelings and Rosie, who had started touching his nose. 

“I don't expect our relationship to get back exactly as it was. I just… want the chance to make things better for her. And to be a part of Rosie's life again."

"She doesn't need you, Sherlock.” spat John, firm. “I’m her father. That’s all it matters.” he said, trying to escape Rosie's curious hands. The little girl stopped, her hands in the air, giving them a worried look. “Dada okay?” she asked her father, her eyes wandering as she tried to figure out what was happening.

"I'm not asking to replace you, John. I'm her godfather, and I just want to be there for her as well.” said Sherlock, now calibrating every word. 

John gave him such an angry look that he almost caused a storm to break out in the room. “Tell me something: why are you so obsessed with her?!”

Sherlock stayed silent. He didn't know how to answer.

“She's not your daughter, Sherlock! And she will never be. You lost all your rights the moment you lied to me!” John tried to say it in the firmest tone he could. But his voice came out broken, because those words hurt him too.

That sentence came straight to Sherlock's chest, like multiple stabs. 

It was immediately followed by Greg jumping on the couch. “GOOOOOOAL!!!!!!” shouted Greg, standing from the couch with his fists in the air. “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!” he continued, grabbing John by the shoulders and shaking him hard, in delight. 

Rosie, who couldn't understand a single thing, jumped down from her father's legs and started hopping with Greg, while Mrs Hudson was giving them an astonished look. After a few moments, she grabbed the remote control and turned the telly off, stopping to look at Greg with disappointment.

“NOOOOOO!! TWO MINUTES LEFT!” groaned Greg, quite desperate.

Mrs Hudson remained unruffled, still clutching the remote control in her hand.

Greg looked around and realised that everyone, except Rosie, was glaring at him.  "What?! This was THE opportunity! You have millions of opportunities to argue."

John shook his head and got up from the couch, going into the hall. He returned shortly after, clutching two pairs of keys in his hand. He approached Mrs Hudson without looking at her. “This is the key to your car. Sorry again if I took it from you.” he said, placing it in the palm of her hand. Then, he turned to Sherlock. “This is the key to the flat. I don’t need it anymore."

Sherlock's lips trembled. “John, c-come on…” he managed to say, but his words got lost along the way.

“It's over, Sherlock. I… I don't want to see you anymore.” he said firmly, his voice cracking.

At those words, Sherlock swore he was having a heart attack. His face was paler than ever and he found himself holding his breath. And the tears. 

John looked down and then away from him, holding his tears as well. Sherlock gripped the key so tightly that he could feel the sharp edges of it scratching the skin of his hand. "I’ll leave you alone, then.” he muttered, finally defeated. He was almost embarrassed by how broken his voice was. He turned towards the living room door and headed for the front door, with his coat fluttering.

Mrs Hudson waved goodbye to Greg and followed Sherlock.

“DADA LOCK!” yelled Rosie, running with her small legs to catch up with him. Sherlock stopped and turned slowly towards her. “What is it, Rosie?” he asked her, still trying to hold back the sea of ​​emotions inside him. The little girl simply stared at him with her big eyes, without saying a word. 

“Go back to your daddy.” he urged, his nasal voice finally shaking.

Rosie shook her head. “I with you.” she said firmly, reaching her little hand out in his direction. Sherlock smiled sadly, biting his lips. He held her by the hand, leading her to the living room.

"No! Dada Lock, no!” shouted her again, after noticing he was about to leave again. Sherlock took a step back and knelt down to be level with her. “I'm sorry, Rosie. I have to go." he told her softly, trying to contain the tremor in his voice.

But the little girl began to cry and scream.

“Holy shit, Sherlock! You've made her nervous again now!" groaned John, violently picking Rosie up so she couldn't walk around anymore. 

"No! No go!” begged the little girl, continuing to cry and kicking the air and John's legs. 

Sherlock couldn't even look at her like that. “I'll be back soon, I promise.” he promised her, leaning in to give her a kiss on her chubby cheek. 

Then, he headed towards the front door, intending never to look back.

As Mrs Hudson closed the door behind her, Rosie’s screams were still very audible from the outside.

When the woman turned towards the street, she realised that Sherlock was already walking off alone. “Sherlock! Let's take my car."

But Sherlock didn't answer, instead, he continued to walk. By now, his heart had already shattered into a thousand pieces, and not even the strongest glue in the world could ever repair it. Pulling himself tighter into his blue coat, he let the tears flow freely. He didn't care if some drug addict ended up stabbing him, or if someone ran him over. He had no specific destination. He had nowhere to go because… he couldn’t call 221b home anymore. 

Pain, they said, is one of the deepest of human emotions... but it wasn't pain he felt in that moment. He felt nothing but the abyss of frustration, anger, loneliness, anguish and desperation that seemed to want to swallow him whole. He had to admit that his life had been full of intense moments… but it had also torn his heart to shreds, many and many times, and now he almost didn't have enough left to keep him alive.

A broken and bleeding heart leaves no trace, yet he felt as though his was evaporating. His vision was terribly blurred by tears, and every step he took was painful. And, Dear God, John's words. He knew they would haunt him for the rest of his life.

At some point, he collapsed against the rough brick wall of a tall building and slid down to sit on the pavement. “WHY?” he yelled, looking up at the dark sky. “WHY DID IT HAVE TO END LIKE THIS?!?!” he asked in anger, then burying his face in his trembling hands. He'd just lost the two people who meant the world to him. He couldn’t bring himself to move. Why had the world turned so brutally against him? And just because he hadn't had the courage to tell the truth in the first place.

A red car came out from a corner. It slowed down and stopped just a few meters away from him. Mrs Hudson rolled down the window of the car. “Sherlock! Get in, immediately!”

He slowly looked up and shook his head. “Leave me alone.” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“No, young man, I'm not leaving you alone!” she said, firmly. She opened the car door and got out. “You're coming with me, whether you like it or not.”

“Just leave me here, please.” he begged, with a trembling voice. “I deserve all of it. I've ruined everything.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “Oh no dear, you haven't ruined everything. It's John who's a prick!” 

Sherlock raised his head, amazed that, although he’d known her for too many years, he’d never heard her say a bad word. She patted his left arm and helped him to his feet. “I'm going to have a word or two with your brother. He'll be able to make that asshole fall into line for once!”

Mrs Hudson opened the door for him and he slid into the passenger seat. Then, she hurried back to the driver's side and got in. “We’re eating at the restaurant. No boiled potatoes and boiled eggs for tonight. We'll think tomorrow about our diet!” she announced with great enthusiasm, pressing her foot on the accelerator and speeding away from the dark road.

Chapter Text

221B Baker Street, 29th January 2018

Sherlock’s early adolescence and later youth had been a continuous descent into a bottomless pit, a spiral of suffering that he feared would never end. He was in and out of rehabilitation centers terribly often, and the hospitals had become his new home. And he had to admit that he felt more at ease in those depressing places than among people.

When the nurses asked him to rate his pain on a scale of one to ten, Sherlock never answered ten. He didn't do it out of pure pride, but because that number, that damned ten, had a very specific meaning for him: it meant that he had reached the point where death had become a plea. And yet, not even in the worst moments, he would never have dared to say that number. Ten was the point of no return, it meant that he was determined to give up everything.
 

But now... Now it was different.
 

It had been hours and he’d felt that his ten had gone far beyond his threshold of endurance. He knew he had to stop that cycle of pain, but his damned mind kept betraying him. And his reflexes would soon betray him too. His right arm moved quickly over his head and lifted the plastic bag he had wrapped around his head and neck. He started taking slow but deep breaths, letting out loud groans as he leaned forward, causing some water to splash over the edge of the tub. It was hard to breathe with his heart pounding and the oxygen burning his lungs while passing through his airways.

He threw the plastic bag on the floor in a huff and hunched over, hugging his knees as the water sloshed against his naked body. His breathing was still ragged, though slower. He closed his eyes and rested his chin on his knees, letting the darkness inside him wash over him all over again. Some tears started running unceremoniously across his cheeks as he thought of Mrs. Hudson’s quote. “I’m sure John will be back soon.” 

He smiled bitterly and moved his head to rest his left cheekbone against his right knee. No, John will never come back to him. It was worth it to really end it all. It wasn’t like the movies. John wouldn’t come to his rescue, lift him from the cold water and then try to revive him with a series of kisses on his mouth. 

No one could ever save him from himself. 

He leaned over to his left side and fumbled for a razor blade. He held it with his shaking hand, bringing it closer to his face and forcing himself to focus on it. He could see how the light coming from the window made it glow, almost as if it were inviting him to do so. And he knew he would give in to that temptation. He switched it to his right hand and stretched his entire left arm along the edge of the tub, looking at the highway of veins that was his arm. Now that he was even thinner, they were even more visible. He tightened his fingers around the blade and made a small vertical incision at the level of his wrist, not necessarily deep, but enough to make him hiss in pain. Blood immediately stained the tip of the blade and a small, thin stream began to slide down his forearm. When it reached the bottom, a few drops began to fall into the water, giving it a very light purple colour, which then disappeared almost immediately. He had to go deeper.

He took courage and cut again in the same spot, but stopped immediately. He started imagining the moment when Mrs. Hudson would find his body. He could picture it terribly well: she would soon call him for breakfast and, irritated by his lack of response, she would come up to see. And then she would find out everything. He could already hear her screams of terror. He could picture her shaking him or even try to get him out of the tub, and then crying desperately, leaning on his lifeless chest. A wave of nausea possessed him at the mere thought, and the blade slipped from his trembling fingers, sliding into the water, where it gently sank to the bottom. He kept staring at the water in front of him, unable to go on. It was too slow, too painful, too messy. And he couldn't bear to see Mrs. Hudson find him like this. But, at the same time, a part of him found relief in such an image.  

He retrieved the razor blade from the bottom of the tub, stood up quickly and wobbled for a moment as he stepped out of the tub, leaving a trail of water droplets and blood behind him. He threw the razor blade onto the mess that was the counter and leaned on it with his fists, desperately searching for something else he could use. It was a shame he’d gotten rid of all the chemicals in the kitchen, because that would’ve been the most natural thing to do. A chemist killed by chemistry, how terribly poetic.

His gaze wandered until it settled on three containers of medicines, all tipped on their sides on the teal counter. They were half empty now. He’d opened them with such fury and desperation that many pills had left their containers and ended up rolling into the sink and on the floor. It was predictable to end it all by taking pills.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look up at the mirror over the sink. The man he was staring at had a gaunt face, the bruise that reached his collarbone was turning yellow, the cuts on his cheekbones and lips were slowly healing, his eyes were sunken, his curls were messy and dripping with water, and his beard was unkempt. He felt the hatred rising inside him, and he also felt definitely broken. Why couldn’t he do this? His hand suddenly shot out and hit himself hard in the face with a slap. He almost roared in rage because even the slap hadn’t managed to make him feel anything. He opened his mouth and screamed at his reflection. “Pathetic! You’re pathetic!” his voice was full of hatred. “You’ve always been a fucking failure! You can’t even die, you damn loser!!!”

He ran his trembling hands through his hair and then grabbed the edge of the sink as his body kept shaking. He always thought he was going to change the world. But this world has ended up changing him irreversibly. His eyes were shining again, but he wouldn't cry again. There was no more room for tears. He’d done it enough already, and now he had no more tears to cry. 

By doing it, he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore, he wouldn’t have to hide his ten behind a sarcastic smile anymore. There would be nothing left to hide, because he had literally nothing else. John had been his beginning and he would also be his ending. Maybe, in another lifetime, fate will be less cruel to them. 

Then, the solution came to him clearly. There was no need for drugs or razor blades. Why hadn't he thought of it before? The solution was right there, within reach.

Hypothermia. Simple, clean. Painful, yes, but definitive. 

His body, once exposed to the extreme cold, would reduce vital functions to a minimum until he lost consciousness and then stopped his heart. Forever. There would be only silence. And cold.

Mrs. Hudson had set everything ready for breakfast. The only thing missing was Sherlock. After calling him from the kitchen and getting no answer, she started worrying. Setting the cup of black tea down on Sherlock’s side of the table, she left her flat and headed upstairs, accidentally stepping on the creaking step that had been creaking for too many years. “Sherlock?” she called again. “Breakfast is ready, dear. I’ve made you black tea and scrambled eggs with tomatoes and mushrooms.”

Silence.

Sighing, she grabbed the bannister and started moving up the stairs. She opened the door and she noticed that Sherlock wasn’t there, in the living room. He was probably still asleep. She turned the corner and walked through the kitchen. The bedroom was even worse than the kitchen: the bed was unmade on both sides, the wardrobe doors were open and all the clothes had been thrown on the floor. 

“What the-” Mrs. Hudson turned around to go back the way she came, but a little voice into her head told her to go check the bathroom as well. 

“Sherlock?” she repeated, her hand on the handle. She opened the door and found out the chaos in there was even worse than in the bedroom. The counter was full of objects, overturned containers, many pills had rolled on the floor, the window was wide open and it was slightly curious that there were empty bags that once contained frozen food. Then, she turned her gaze to her right and Sherlock was there, in the bathtub. His body was completely immersed in the half frozen water; he was lying still on his back, his eyes were closed and he’d filled it with several types of frozen vegetables, a few slices of frozen pizza and a container of ice cream. Not to mention the eight packages of peas, all spilled inside and wandering aimlessly from one side to the other.

Sherlock's skin was pale as death and his lips and fingers, which were resting under his chin, had turned blueish. 

“Oh, my God, SHERLOCK!!!” she yelled in terror. She stepped forward and plunged her hands into the iced water. Sherlock’s body had gone unnaturally stiff, and shaking him was especially difficult, as his arms had begun to freeze. She had to get him out, she had to do something. Tears began to sting her eyes as she kept yelling his name. “Wake up, Sherlock, open your eyes!” she pleaded, slapping him on the cheeks. She hated seeing him like this, so vulnerable and helpless. She gave up and rushed to his bedroom to get to his phone. 

Her hands were shaking and her fingers were stinging from the cold. She dialled the 999 emergency line. As she waited for the operator to answer, she went back to the bathroom where she kneeled down beside the bathtub and turned the hot water on, while trying to remove blocks of ice.

“This is the Emergency Helpline, what is your emergency?” asked the woman into her phone.

Mrs. Hudson let out a sob. “There’s a man in the tub.” she managed to say with a trembling voice. “He’s covered in ice… he’s cold and- uh, I think he’s attempted suicide!” she said, starting to cry desperately.

“Okay Mrs., I’ll need you to stay calm. It’s important that you follow my instructions very carefully.”

“He looks terrible, he's so pale and his lips and fingers are blue!”

“Mrs., can I ask what your location is?”

“We’re at 221B Baker Street. He- he looks dead!!!” she groaned, putting the phone on speaker and resting it on the edge of the tub, so she could use both hands to remove the ice and frozen food.

“Okay, Mrs., try to stay calm. Can you check to see if he’s breathing?”

Mrs. Hudson stopped and put her left hand on Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t know, his chest isn’t moving!!!” 

“Place your hand on one side beneath his jaw and check if you can feel it beating.”

Mrs. Hudson moved her hand as asked and waited for a few moments. “Yes, YES!!!” she cried beaming with joy, reassured that he was still alive.

“All right. Can you lift him, or better yet, can you get him out of the tub?”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t even try. “He’s too heavy for me.”

“Do you have anyone who can help you lift him?”

Mrs. Hudson remembered the time the guys from the café helped her put Sherlock in the trunk of her car. “Yes, yes! I’ll go call them!” she exclaimed as she dashed out of the room, leaving the phone beside Sherlock’s head.

It wasn’t long before the two men from the café went upstairs. They managed to lift Sherlock while the iced water dripped all around them. Sherlock’s body was stiff as a statue, and he was quickly laid down on his bed. Mrs. Hudson, still shaking, collapsed right next to him and started sobbing again.

The operator on the other end of the phone spoke again. “Madam, you need to cover him up as much as you can. Keep him nice and warm. Do you happen to have a couple of wool blankets?”

Mrs. Hudson pushed herself off Sherlock and quickly grabbed an old, heavy blanket that he had thrown on the floor. She slung it over him as quickly as she could, helped by one of the guys. “I’ve put a blanket over him.” she said to the operator.

“Very good, madam. The paramedics are two streets away from your place. Please, turn the heat on and stay with him.”

Every second seemed like an eternity. Then, finally, they heard the sirens approaching. When they knocked on the door, one of the two men from the café went to answer the door and the two paramedics immediately went upstairs, carrying a stretcher and a medical bag with them.

"The patient is all yours." said one of them, clearly a medical doctor, to a young woman who looked like an intern. She, almost as pale as Sherlock, nodded and approached the bed where Sherlock had been placed. She immediately noticed his paleness and his stiff body. "Hypothermia." she answered immediately, approaching him with the stethoscope. After listening to Sherlock's chest, the doctor asked her: "So? What do we have here?"

The student rose from his chest and placed the stethoscope on her shoulders. "His breathing is very shallow. At times it is almost imperceptible. He’s unconscious and we need to perform an urgent EKG to see if he’s gone into ventricular fibrillation.” Then, she turned to Mrs. Hudson. “How did he get these bruises and cuts?”

Mrs. Hudson looked up and simply said: “He was beaten.”

They both raised their eyebrows, quite concerned. “Who beat him?”

Mrs. Hudson kept staring into the void, shaking her shoulders in delusion, the corners of his lips tilted down. “Who wouldn’t want to beat up Sherlock Holmes?”

The doctor nodded sympathetically. Then, he turned to the intern. “He needs to be taken to the hospital.”

After loading Sherlock onto the stretcher and taking him to the ambulance, Mrs. Hudson had to fight to go with him. Sherlock was immediately wrapped in a thermal blanket and hooked up to the various machines, which began to emit not very regular beeps.

As the ambulance left, the sirens went immediately on. Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to him, holding his cold hand. She was staring straight ahead and seemed to have entered some sort of trance. Even the tears seemed to be stuck in her eyes and wouldn’t fall. Not only did she fear for Sherlock’s life, but she realised she would have to tell everything to everyone. And she was already afraid of their reaction to this news.

Chapter Text

221B Baker Street, 29th January 2018

The fireplace in the living room had been lit for several minutes, making the room feel more welcoming and warmer, since it was the end of January. But it still couldn’t manage the silent hostility occurring between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. As she began to add milk to his tea, the tension only grew, though neither of them had said a word yet. With a sniff, she picked up the spoon and placed it on the saucer beside the cup, offering it to Mycroft, who was sitting in Sherlock’s chair across from her. He nodded without saying a word, and didn’t even look at her as she settled into John’s chair. 

After she'd taken a sip and set the cup down on the small round wooden table, Mycroft looked up at her. “Well?” he asked in a hasty but calm tone, as if he had just asked her about the weather forecast.

Mrs. Hudson's face twitched slightly, facing the door so as not to face him. She'd never been a woman given to anger, but that day... that morning had particularly upset her. She felt desolate, helpless, and very angry. She was angry at Sherlock. She was even more angry at John. But, most of all, she was angry at the man sitting across from her, so cold and distant while his brother was fighting for his life.

"How could you?" she finally hissed, breaking the silence. "Why did you let him get to that point?"

Mycroft looked down at his tea and took a sip. Then, he put the cup on the saucer and set it aside. "He has always been prone to impulsive decisions."

"He didn't want to die!" she snapped.

"Mrs. Hudson, there's no point in holding it against me. We're on the same side, believe me." he replied in a calm tone, smiling a bit as if he were dealing with a mad woman.

"He's been desperate for days, and you knew it! You knew it very well!" 

Mycroft remained silent for a moment. Then he sighed and replied. "This isn't the first time my brother has pushed himself to the limit. And it certainly won't be the last." he added, but with such coldness that it made Mrs. Hudson shiver.

The woman stood up while some tears were running down her cheeks. “You're his brother, for God's sake!" she cried. "You can't talk about him as if he were a problem to be avoided. You can’t just… sit around while he’s in a coma!” 

Mycroft’s face showed no emotion. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap and looked at her with the same impassiveness. “I’m not sitting around, Mrs. Hudson.” he declared, adding a false smirk. (1) “He’ll be fine again.”

“Of course he will!” she said, sitting back down in John’s chair. “And when his body has recovered all its strength, he will try to kill himself again because he will think John will no longer be there for him!!” she cried again, this time letting out a bitter sob. “All this because you didn’t do anything to prevent what happened!”

Mycroft’s lips returned to a straight line. “I didn’t have time to intervene, Mrs. Hudson. It all happened so quickly, but I’m doing what needs to be done. My brother is in good hands.” 

“He will never be the same again!” she cried as she covered her face with her hands. “He needs John!”

“Involving Dr. Watson won’t change anything. In fact, it will make things worse.”

“No, he- he needs to know.” she said, wiping her tears away. “I’m sure he will understand and he will know what to do.” she continued, leaning out of the chair to grab her phone.

Mycroft stiffened at the gesture. "No." he told her sternly. "He mustn't know anything. Not now. Not at this time."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, more than ready to face his wrath, starting to dial his phone number. "He's the only one who can help Sherlock! He knows him better than anyone. If we don't tell him what happened—"

"I told you no!" he snapped, his voice rising even more as he leaned forward to snatch her phone from her hands. 

Mrs. Hudson stared at him in shock, her makeup melting and colouring the bags under her eyes.

"Dr. Watson mustn't be involved. Sherlock will be fine soon and, when the time comes, I'll decide when to tell him."

"You'll decide?!" she repeated, incredulous. "You decide everything, right? You feel entitled to decide whether your brother has to pee, don't you? Whether he can be helped or not?"

Mycroft stared at her without blinking. "Yes. It is my duty. No one must know anything."

"And what do you want me to tell them? That he left the flat without telling me? They will never believe me!"

"Be useful for once in your life, Mrs. Hudson. I am sure you will be very convincing." Mrs. Hudson shook her head again, annoyed.

"Yes, you will.” he insisted. “Your duty, Mrs. Hudson, is to obey what I ask you. If you truly want the best for Sherlock, you will do nothing to hinder his recovery."

The silence that followed was so tense that the windows almost shattered. Mrs. Hudson made a noise of contempt and rose quickly from the chair. "Get out of my house." she ordered, pointing to the door with her finger.

Mycroft stood up, put her phone on the table and, after giving her another sarcastic smile, he took his umbrella and walked out the door without saying goodbye.

221B Baker Street, 1st February 2018

John turned to look at the Inspector with a genuine smile. “Thank you so much, Greg.” he said, walking over and hugging him, patting his right shoulder blade. “Thank you for everything.”

Greg hugged him back. “Don’t mention it. I’ll always be here for you.”

All the bags and boxes had been laid out on the pavement, and Rosie was frantically hopping along it, anxiously waiting to get back into the flat. John turned toward the 221B door with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d only left the flat for a couple of weeks, but it felt like ages ago. He knew he had unleashed a lot of things in the last few weeks, and he was almost afraid to go back inside. He was afraid that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t want him anymore, and even more so that Sherlock wouldn’t want to talk to him or forgive him this time. But he had to admit that he had gone too far. He should never have said those things to Sherlock, because he didn’t mean them. He shouldn't have been so aggressive with him. But it always happens like this, doesn’t it? We say things we don’t mean, and then we cause serious damage.

He raised his hand to knock on the door, but just then the door opened by itself, showing a large man with his dishevelled hair and his untucked shirt. “Woh, easy mate. You’re getting in me way.” he exclaimed, stopping short so as not to bump into John. 

“I’m sorry.” John apologised, moving aside to let him pass. Even though he shouldn’t have apologised himself, he did it anyway just because he didn’t want to argue any further. At least not with a man twice his height. Where did this man come from anyway? Was he a client? Had Sherlock started working on cases again?

“Want a hand with these bags, mate?” the man asked, seeing a series of bags and boxes arranged on the edge of the pavement.

“Uh, yeah, you’d be doing me a big favour. Thank you.” said John, relieved, waving his thanks at him.

Once the big man had helped him carry the bags into the house, he went back to painting the front door and John lowered himself to be on Rosie’s level. “Go say hello to Nana Hudson.”

Rosie squealed with joy and began to skip down the hallway, heading towards her flat, her blonde hair swinging behind above her shoulders.

John stopped just short of the stairs, his heart pounding. He steeled himself, cleared his throat to quiet his anxiety, and placed his left foot on the first step. Then he placed his right foot on the second and slowly began to climb. When he reached the door of their flat, he stopped for a moment. He was already afraid of what he would find beyond that door. Maybe he’d been too hasty… maybe it wasn’t time to go back there yet. Would he have the courage to see Sherlock again after the terrible things he had said and done to him? And how had he taken it?

He opened the door hesitantly. The curtains on the living room windows had been closed. He turned the light on and noticed that the inside of the flat was exactly as he remembered it, everything in its place. 

"Sherlock?" John called, his voice cutting through the silence. 

No one answered. 

"Sherlock?" he called again, leaning towards the kitchen. Sherlock's bedroom door was open. "Honey, I'm home!" he said in a happy tone, but one that was still betraying nervousness. He made his way to the bedroom, feeling nervous. The silence was so deep that every little sound, even the creaking of the floorboards under his footsteps, seemed way too amplified. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

He suddenly heard some footsteps coming from the living room. He quickly came out of the bedroom, his heart skipping a beat. He was immediately struck by Rosie’s vivacity. She was visibly excited and super happy to be home again. She’d been running all the way down the hallway and was holding onto his left leg, indicating with her little arm to go to the living room. 

John strode down the hallway, thinking he would find Sherlock… but, instead, he found Mrs. Hudson. 

John froze in place, both relieved and frustrated.

“John!” greeted him Mrs. Hudson in surprise, while holding a dishcloth in her hands. 

He still stood there, in silence. He was also a little embarrassed, as if he was now out of place in a house he used to think of as his own. 

“Mrs. Hudson…” he said, but his voice cracked a little. Then he cleared his throat. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mrs. Hudson swallowed hard and almost felt overwhelmed by her emotions. She wanted to tell him everything, but she could still hear Mycroft’s voice haunt the living room. She tried to act normal, but there was a storm inside her that she knew would soon explode. “I don’t know, dear.” she answered, her voice cracking, fearing that she would be found out. “I think he’s decided not to live here anymore. He said he doesn’t want to be found or phoned.” 

John looked down and began to sway in place, clenching his jaw tightly, feeling both of his masseters contract massively. Then, he raised his head to look at her again. “Does Mycroft know anything about this?”

Mrs. Hudson’s heart sank and tears started forming in her eyes. “I don't know, dear.” she replied again, shrugging her shoulders, feigning nonchalance.

John nodded in response and remained silent, feeling the words he’d just said begin to slide inside him. Mrs. Hudson looked down at her hands, which were tormenting each other. She wanted so much to burst into tears and tell him the truth, but what had been forced upon her was making her sense of guilt grow immeasurably. 

John clenched his fists at his sides as he continued to stare at her. “He can’t just disappear. Not Sherlock, that’s not like him.” he said, his voice hard and cracked with frustration.

Mrs. Hudson, in an attempt to escape the situation, asked him: “Can I make you a cuppa, John?”

John brought a hand to his mouth and scratched his stubble. Rosie had started to tug at his trousers for attention. John ignored her too. “Mycroft must have something to do with it.” he replied instead, shaking his head in frustration. Then, he inhaled and took a step back. He peered briefly into the empty room he had shared with Sherlock until recently: seeing the curtains drawn and the room oddly arranged made him feel uneasy, and the terrible silence almost hurt his ears. His jaw clenched again and he picked Rosie up. He kissed her on her right cheek and walked back into the living room. “I know this may seem strange but… I wanted to ask if I could move back in.” he asked, almost hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure he was welcome back. “It’ll be a temporary solution, I promise. I’ll start looking for a new home right away.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded without hesitation. “Of course, dear.” she said, her voice soft but with a slight edge of sadness that she really couldn’t hide. After causing so much pain, John didn’t deserve to go back to live where all the mess had started. But, maybe, one day, soon, Sherlock would come back, and John would be already there. Even though he had acted impulsively and violently, his presence could lead to a reconciliation. 

“This is still your house, John. It will always be.” continued Mrs. Hudson, patting him on the shoulder. 

John smiled at her, a sad smile. “Thank you.” he said, sitting Rosie down in his chair. “And, yes, I would love a cup of tea.” 

“I’ll bring it right over.” she announced, going back downstairs.

John walked over to the curtains and he pulled them to the sides. The late morning sun suddenly flooded the room, making him jump. He squeezed his eyes shut and then he squinted open to adjust to the light. He turned over and looked around the room. Closed books were scattered on the table, piles of newspapers had been piled up there as well, but the mess wasn’t the same as when Sherlock was there. It almost looked like someone had wanted to erase something. He’d just bent down to pick up a pile of papers that had dropped to the floor when his phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and just reading Mycroft on the screen made him break out in instant hives. He clenched his jaw and put the phone to his ear. “Mycroft?” he answered, his nerves showing.

“You’re back home, Doctor.” said Mycroft in a mocking tone, but his voice was distant and teasing.

John forced a breath out through his nose. The way Mycroft said home irritated him. “Cut it out, Mycroft. Where’d Sherlock go?” he asked impatiently, pacing the living room.

There was a moment of silence, then Mycroft spoke. “There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. We’ll talk there.”

John settled into the pale yellow leather seat, trying to find a comfortable position as the car started moving off the road. Mycroft was sitting next to him, stiff as a broomstick, wearing a dove-grey suit. His hands were wrapped around the brownish handle of his umbrella, his cold gaze fixed on the window to his left. He let a few moments pass in silence before he began to speak. “You know, Doctor… Sherlock has never been touchy about anyone, not even our Mother. But with you… it’s different. You’ve influenced him more than anyone else, and for reasons I honestly don’t understand.” said Mycroft thoughtfully, still watching the cars whizz by out the window. “And yet, look where all this has gotten him.”

John frowned and turned to look at him. Why did it look like Mycroft was accusing him of something?

“What are you talking about, Mycroft?” asked John, confused.

 Mycroft sighed and ignored him, continuing to stare out the window.

John clenched his jaw, holding back the urge to snap at him and tell him to fuck off. He was tired, mentally exhausted from everything that had happened and he didn’t have the energy to play Mycroft’s stupid games. 

“MYCROFT?” insisted John, raising his voice so much that even the driver jumped up in fright.

Mycroft turned to his right, finally looking at him. His posture screamed displeasure in every direction, yet his face remained impassive, like an executioner facing a condemned man. “Sherlock attempted suicide, Doctor.”

Those words were thrown like stones in John’s direction, hitting him squarely, knocking him out of breath. “What?!”

Mycroft simply stared at him, the silence growing louder and louder. 

“When did this happen?” asked John flustered, almost having a heart attack.

“Three days ago.” answered Mycroft, the last part of the sentence coming out a little slurred. “And all of this happened because of you.”

John jumped in disbelief. “Because of… me?!”

“Yes, Doctor. Your argument, your abandonment. Sherlock is a complex man, but he’s also terribly fragile. He’s fragile in ways you can’t even imagine.”

John, though he was sitting, swayed in his seat and almost felt sick at the thought of what Sherlock had done. He knew that their argument had left its mark, but he never imagined that it could push Sherlock to do something so extreme. This time for real, not for show.

Mycroft didn't stop, instead he began to dig deeper into the wound. "And, despite everything he's done for you, and for little Rosie, you abandoned him to himself." added Mycroft, accusing him further.

John, though he was more and more shaken, was not willing to endure those accusations in silence. He’d already forgiven Sherlock, he knew that he’d never meant to hurt Rosie and it was an accident. But Mycroft's accusation, that insinuation that everything was only and exclusively his fault, was hurting him too much. "Don't you dare blame me entirely, Mycroft. I know I was rough with him the last time I saw him, but you can’t blame his breakdown on me!”

John was about to say more, but Mycroft interrupted him, his gaze now darker and more tense. “You’re dangerous, Doctor. You have killed people in the past, and Sherlock was just another of your victims. Luckily, he received help in time.”

John stiffened at those words. It felt like Mycroft had hit him in the chest and that his soul had momentarily left his body.

“I should never have allowed my brother to bond with you.” added Mycroft after a few seconds, twisting the knife even more in the wound.

“And yet you always asked me to look after him. On many occasions.” growled John, now clenching his fists hard until he felt his nails scratching the skin of his hands.

But Mycroft didn’t let those words shake him in the slightest. His face remained impassive, and a slight cold smile touched his lips. “Oh, I know, Doctor. And that’s why I never should have let him get so attached to someone like you. Your presence, your… influence made him this vulnerable. And that’s why we’re where we are now.”

John leapt sideways toward him, ready to punch him in the face. "I didn't make him do what he did!" he retorted, vehemently. "If anyone made him vulnerable, it was you, Mycroft! With your constant scrutiny and your slap worthy face!"

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, his usual cold gaze. "At least I know how to take care of him now. My brother won't be your concern anymore."

John's hands began to shake visibly and it took all his self-control not to put his hands on his face and break his nose. The more Mycroft spoke, the deeper he felt the blade sinking in, the more his world collapsed.

He decided he couldn't stay in that car anymore. "I want to get out." 

"We're two miles from Baker Street, doctor." the driver informed him.

"I don't care, I'll walk home."

After pulling over to the side of a curb, the driver stopped the car and John prepared to get out. 

“One more thing, John: Mrs. Hudson knows nothing of this. I’ll have to ask one last favour: don’t ever mention our conversation. And no one else must know about what Sherlock has done.”

John dropped out of the car and turned in his direction, giving him a murderous look. “Fuck you, Mycroft.” he growled, as if to say goodbye. Then, he slammed the door with exaggerated force.

221B Baker Street, 1st February 2018

John walked back into 221B and closed the door behind him. It was 2pm and he was starving. And Mycroft had only made it worse, making him sick to his stomach. And then there was the news about Sherlock. He took off his coat as he went up the stairs. Rosie was sitting at the dining room table eating, no, splatting the cocoa milk all over the placemat. 

As he stepped onto the last step, she turned to his direction and her eyes lit up like headlights the moment she saw him. “Daddy!!!” she cried, her face smeared with cocoa and bits of food stuck to the sides of her lips. She staggered out of her chair and ran towards him. John sadly smiled and knelt down in front of her to kiss her on the hair. He stood up and turned to look for Mrs. Hudson. She was in the kitchen, her shoulders hunched as she set something on the counter. Her sobs were almost inaudible, but he knew she knew what had happened. She’d been too devious. 

She turned to him. “John, dear!” she said in a high voice, knowing she’d been caught crying. John forced a smile and waved, hanging his coat on the coat rack.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice still cracking from crying, trying to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“Uh, um… I went to the supermarket to find those new multigrain crackers, the ones they advertise on the telly. They were all sold out.”

Mrs. Hudson pretended to believe him and told him she’d prepared him some food, too.

As John sat down at the table, Rosie began to jump all over him. “Daddyyyy! Where Dada Lock?” she asked, impatiently.

John’s heart sank as he felt the world collapsing around him once again. He sniffed, pushed his chair away, and put her on his knees. As she stared at him with her big blue eyes, he tried to find the strength to face the question he’d wanted so much to avoid. “Dada Lock… he’s off on a great adventure, sweetheart.” he answered slowly, trying to keep a smile on his face. “He’s very curious, so he went off to a place far, far away from here, where there are evil, greasy ogres and beautiful mermaids who are very good at singing.”

Rosie looked at him spellbound, hanging on his every word. “Can me go too?” she asked, all excited at the idea. John bit his lower lip to quell his inner turmoil and took a moment to answer. “No, honey.”

Rosie’s smile faded, and that was another stab into John’s heart. But he desperately hoped Rosie would stop asking questions. “But I’m sure he will tell you everything when he gets back.”

Rosie nodded in understanding and she quickly climbed off his lap and went back to her place, messing with the milk. “He be back soon??” she asked after a moment.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson placed a plate of pasta in front of him. John thanked her and then looked at Rosie, trying not to show the pain he felt. “Yes, honey. He… he’ll be back soon.” he lied again. 

Rosie seemed to accept that answer, for now. But that lie would eat at John for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Pain.

Sherlock had always found this word as intriguing as frightening. Pain is a destructive force that can devastate everyone with no distinction, even those who don't deserve it. Yet pain was stubborn as much as it was himself, and it never truly abandoned him, remaining hidden in the depths of his lonely soul. It had left indelible scars and open wounds that still bled and burned, with no hope of healing.

Yet, no one will ever be able to avoid it because it’s an integral part of life. As well as time.

A lot can happen in a single year: some people go to prison, others become a better person, and others die. Over time, as the year passes, and the Earth completes its revolution around the sun, the world undergoes an incredible transformation. Yet, for some people, absolutely nothing has changed in a year.

Now, let's imagine that seven, ten years have passed... Nobody can deny the impact that such a long span of time can have on one’s life. And Sherlock and John certainly would’ve had a lot to tell each other… if only they had the opportunity.

Chapter Text

352 Barking Road (John’s House), January 2025

In his flat in East Ham, under the moonlight, John Watson was just about to smoke his last cigarette of the day.

Wrapped in his emerald green flannel robe that left his ankles exposed, John was fighting against the cold breeze that was blowing in his direction while he was busy lighting the cigarette. Shielding himself with his hand, he finally lit it. He inhaled the first puff of smoke, which filled his lungs and immediately made him cough, and a little smoke dissipated into the surrounding air. A bitter smile spread across his face, making him aware of the addiction he couldn't break himself free from. But, after all, he was well aware that he and his dependencies were travelling on the same track.

John took another slower drag and rested his elbows on the railing, letting the smoke gradually dissipate from his mouth while staring at the street below him, watching people walk through. 

Every day he mentally thanked himself for leaving the city and moving to the suburbs, knowing that it’d been the best decision he had ever made. The frenetic pace of the city was no longer for him. 
He started making a list of everything he had to do throughout the next day. But, he had to admit, in recent years his life had become rather monotonous: every morning, as soon as he woke up, he would get out onto the balcony, smoke the first cigarette of the day, go back inside, have a cup of coffee and watch the morning news while making Rosie breakfast. Then, he would wake her up, have breakfast together and, while she would get ready for school, he would prepare himself his usual lunch box. 

Very often, John would take her to school by bicycle, since the institution, the Brampton Manor Academy, was only 8 minutes away from both their house and the cardiology clinic where he worked. ⁽¹⁾

John finished his cigarette and threw it from the balcony. As soon as he walked his way back to the living room, the pungent smell of the ginseng coffee he had prepared a few minutes earlier reached his nose. He turned off the stove and gently raised the lid of the moka, hoping he had turned it off in time to stop it from burning.

Having made sure that his coffee was safe, he poured it in a cup and had a quick sip. He then decided it was time to go and say goodnight to Rosie. With quiet footsteps, he made his way down the dim hallway, reaching the last room of the house. He gently knocked on the door before pushing it open. “Rosie, love, are you dressed?” he asked with caution. 

“Yes, daddy.” replied the muffled voice inside the room.

John peered inside the room: Rosie was sitting in her bed, clad in her favourite pyjamas and clutching between her arms her favourite stuffed animal, Miss Twinkle. 

He smiled warmly and crossed the room. He then leaned forward to tuck in the duvet around her while the gentle glow from the bedside lamp brightened his face. “Sleep well, sweetheart.” John whispered, his lips caressing his daughter's skin. A soft kiss on her forehead followed it.

“Mmm, daddy?” murmured Rosie, as he moved away from her. Her half closed blue eyes narrowed from the tiredness, yet, despite the late hours, her voice still buzzed with energy. “Can you tell me a bedtime story?”

It was 11 pm, and it was bedtime story time. The little girl loved that particular moment of the day: the world seemed to take a break from its frenetic speed, and there was no room for anything else but her father telling her a bedtime story. He already knew Rosie would ask it, since it had become a routine. It was Sherlock who first started the tradition of stories before going to sleep, and John was well aware of how powerful those stories were. Night after night, they lulled her to sleep, making her feel safe in her dad's arms. Sherlock was particularly great at making voices and, gradually, Rosie stopped having nightmares. But those times were now just a distant memory.

Suddenly, a nostalgic smile spread across John’s face. But, anyway, he couldn't let his emotions carry him away, not in front of his daughter. Not again. John's lips curled up. “Aren't you too old now for such stories?”

A small sigh left Rosie's lips, followed by an impatience look. “Come on, daddy! You know I desperately need them!”

He obliged, a forced smile spread across his face. “Yeah, sure.” he replied, gently stroking her left cheek with the back of his hand. He sat down on her bed, its wood slightly cracked under his weight. John's gaze wandered into the air, until it fixed on the shelf filled with puppets and dolls, placed above Rosie's head. He looked at them to seek inspiration. “How about a story about aliens?” he suggested, trying to bring some variety to the stories he usually told. Rosie frowned, her arms crossed on her chest, as if she was ready to defend her opinion. That gesture reminded him so much of Sherlock. Damn. 

“I want a story about pirates.” said Rosie, in a tone that didn't allow replies.

John wasn't feeling in the right mood that night: he was overwhelmed by work and his boss wasn’t easing the situation. In addition to that, his mother wasn’t getting better at the hospital. But, as he gazed into her innocent, beautiful blue eyes, something snapped into him. Despite the thunderstorm of emotions shutter inside him, he knew there were other priorities and responsibilities to think of.

“Alright, darling.” he said resigned, making himself more comfortable on her bed. He cleared his throat and began his narration. “Once upon a time, on a distant and foreign planet, there was a pirate named Holmes. He wasn’t just like any ordinary pirate: he was extraordinarily brave and brilliant. He didn’t have a head but, instead, he had 100 powerful white and lilac tentacles 20 inch long that gave him the ability to read the mind of any living organism. His right foot had been eaten by a crocodile, hence the end of his leg was made of wood. A green parrot with blue and white feathers perched constantly on his left shoulder. It was the most talkative parrot that ever lived.  

Captain Holmes’ ship, Blue Blood, could navigate between the brightest stars in the entire universe. His crewmates were all aliens with a single tentacle that gave them unique skills.”

Even though her father had turned her favourite pirate into an alien, Rosie had the brightest smile John had ever seen, and her expression of disappointment just gave way.

“One day, whilst the ship was engulfed in the cosmic seas, one of the crewmates noticed a strange anomaly on the ship's radar with his tentacle. That signal came from a distant planet which had never been explored before. Captain Holmes was aware of the opportunity. His curiosity was extreme, hence he ordered his crew to follow the signal and head to that place. When they landed, the strangest landscape opened before them: lollipop trees glowed in the dark, and every single animal could talk. But the most amazing thing was about its inhabitants: it took a couple of minutes for them to realise that it was uninhabited by humans and there was no sign of civilization.”

Rosie's expression shifted into slight disappointment. A moment of panic flickered within John at the mere thought of letting her down. He managed to save the situation, making the story more enjoyable. “Little did the crew know that every inhabitant of that planet had been transformed into animals by a group of foreign aliens. And what's even more scary is that they had no clue that they themselves were destined to face the same fate. And then, a malevolent force fell over their world.” continued John, his voice taking on a more dramatic tone. “It began to drain their vitality, dropping their planet into despair and desolation. It was at that moment that Captain Holmes, despite his arrogance, decided to help them. Captain Holmes was able to defeat that dark force only armed with his superbe intelligence. By the time they spent over there, a special bond blossomed between Captain Holmes and a young fishmonger named Eyebriskle. Their intellectual connection was so strong that they decided to seal it with a marriage. And that, sweetheart, is how Captain Holmes not only saved a world, but found true happiness. The End.”

Rosie smiled and leaned forward, her arms affectionately tightened around her father’s neck. John reciprocated the hug, petting her hair.

“Could you tell me another one?” she asked, her voice filled with hope.

John's lips pressed together, undecided whether to please her or not. He gave a quick glance at the clock on the bedside table to his right. “Tomorrow, sweetheart. It’s time to rest.” he murmured, placing another kiss on her forehead. 

Standing up from the bed, he leaned over to switch off the bedside lamp. Moonlight filtered through the open curtains, spreading a dark blue light all over the floor. Rosie had now shifted onto her left side, holding Miss Twinkle tight in her arms. With a smile, John closed the door behind him. As he turned aside, the hallway stretched before him. The doctor took a deep breath and walked along it, feeling the air getting more and more heavy as soon as his negative thoughts started wandering all the way around him. He also promised himself he would never talk to anyone about them. Each step was followed by a small whimper, the dull ache in his back had come back.

Once in the kitchen, he started his evening ritual of drinking a glass of whiskey. As soon as he poured the amber liquid into the glass, the memories of the times shared with Sherlock resurfaced. As he raised the glass to his lips, the whiskey went straight down in his throat, burning it and creating an echo through him, like a bittersweet reminder of the tremendous days that had brought them to this point. 

Only God knew how deeply he missed him. It’d been 7 years, but his absence still hurt him like hell, as if it was slowly killing him from the inside. 

Every year, things seemed to get worse without Sherlock. 

After a moment, John’s gaze landed on the small reminder, carefully stuck on the refrigerator door. He had learned, the hard way, not to underestimate those kinds of details. On it, written in Rosie's elegant handwriting, there were two words:

Chapter Text

352 Barking Road (John’s House), February 2026

It was 6:15 pm of a Friday afternoon, and The Sopranos, one of John's favourite TV shows, was on.

John inserted the key into the lockhole. He turned it to one direction and, after a moment, the front door opened. As he stepped into the room, he immediately heard some muffled voices coming from the telly. Closing the door behind his back, he smelled a vanilla-scented candle. Gabrielle, his girlfriend, was still there apparently. She was the only person who loved lighting scented candles. As he turned around, he almost collided against her. “Sorry about that, love.”

“I was just thinking about you!” she said, as a way of greeting. She stepped closer and landed a kiss on his lips. “How did it go at the dentist’s?”

John smiled at her as he placed his coat on the hanger. "It went well. It took me all this time because, after checking me thoroughly for something like ten minutes, he decided I still needed a cleaning.” he added, rolling his eyes. “Oh, poor you! In this case, you deserve another kiss!” she said in a high-pitch tone, giving him another kiss on the lips. She also gave him a pat on the shoulder. “No cavities, then?”

“No cavities, thank God.” he said, taking off his shoes and placing them to one side. “Rosie?” he asked her, heading towards the bathroom to wash his hands.

“She's in her room with Jasmine. They're doing their homework, I think.”

As John dried his hands, he headed to his daughter's bedroom and, before entering, he knocked on the door. Rosie and Jasmine were sitting at the desk and they were actually studying. As they heard the door being opened, Rosie looked up from the books and smiled with joy as she saw her father. "Hiii, dad! How was the dentist?"

John waved at Jasmine and leaned down and kissed Rosie's hair. "It went well. No cavities in sight this time!” he exclaimed proudly, coming closer to see what book it was about. “What are you two studying?”

“Mrs Hougan gave us a project.”

“A project?” he asked, curious. “What project is this? Don't tell me you need to research foot warts again!

“EW!” shouted both the girls, rather shocked by the mere thought. “No!! We just need to create a logo for a tennis shoes ad.” replied Rosie.

"Ah! It sounds great! Do you already have any ideas in mind?"

Rosie’s face brightened. "We thought we'd create a logo for these shoes that can be put on without using your hands and without ruining the back.” she explained, waving her hands in the air, excitedly. 

“Deforming its back.” John corrected her, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Whatever! We're still collecting ideas and random things from the internet.”

John nodded and smiled. "Looks like you've got everything under control, then. If you need help, don't mind asking.” He went closer to the door. “I'm going to watch The Sopranos.” Rosie nodded and waved back at him.

John closed the door behind him and headed into the living room. He threw himself with no grace onto the couch and, with trembling hands from trepidation, he grabbed the remote control and started zapping until he found the right channel. Then, he mentally cursed himself, since the episode had already started.

Just then, Gabrielle entered the living room, carrying with her a freshly opened box of biscuits and two cups of tea. John stared at her, slightly confused.

"I thought you might need something sweet. You did well today." she whispered, placing it all on the table next to them.

“I just got back from the dentist… and you want me to eat biscuits?”

“C’mon, John! One biscuit won't do anything!” she added in a sweet tone, curling up on the couch and taking with her a cup of raspberry tea.

“If you say so.” John murmured, reaching towards the package, taking a chocolate one and starting to pay attention to the telly. 

It was true: he really needed it, after a week of exhausting work. And the dentist.

After about fifteen minutes, Rosie went out of her bedroom and ran into the living room, positioning herself in front of the telly, ready to capture her father's full attention.

“Rosie, what are you doing?! Get away from it.”

"Dad! I ran out of the permanent black marker, do you have an extra one???"

John sighed. “They're in the first drawer of the bookcase, in the entrance."

Without saying a word, Rosie darted in the direction indicated, nearly tripping on the carpet.

“And be careful not to stain your clothes, it's impossible to get that stuff off!”

Rosie positioned herself in front of the bookcase and knelt on the floor. She moved her hair behind her ears and opened the first of the three drawers with both hands, starting to rummage inside. Her gaze began to wander as her hands were throwing junk on the floor, looking for that specific marker. Not having found what she was looking for in either the second one, she opened the third and final drawer. One of the markers was there, resting on top of a bunch of bills, insurance cards, and other adult junk stuff. The little girl remained stunned for a moment. 

A blue frame with silver details had captured all her attention. She wondered why that frame had been flipped face down. It was clearly hiding something that, somehow, needed to stay hidden.

While her heart started beating slightly faster, she looked behind her shoulders and, having made sure her father wasn’t in her way, she placed her hands at its sides, hesitating for a moment. She wasn't really sure she wanted to know what it was hiding. She knew that it wasn't right to pry into other people's business but, now that it’d come to light, she could no longer contain the curiosity. She had to find out what it was about.

She lifted the frame, turned it in her direction and looked at the photo. What she saw left her rather… shocked. She certainly didn't expect it. It showed her father smiling more than ever, while a man who looked like a lizard was clasping his left shoulder. They both looked happy. She had never seen her father be so happy. He was smiling so much that he almost seemed like a different person. And, most likely, he was also very, very drunk, since he had grapes resting on his eyes. But the little girl couldn't take her eyes off the man next to him. And she was trying not to burst out laughing at the thought that he actually looked like a smiling lizard.

Rosie sat on the floor and, as she stared at the mysterious man, she began to wonder who he could be. She had to know more. Just then, she heard Jasmine calling her from her room. “Rosie??? Have you done??"

The little girl jumped involuntarily, fearing for a moment that it was her father. After a second of panic, she took the marker and stuck it in the pocket of her oversized sweatshirt. Then, she closed the drawer, hid the frame under her sweatshirt and ran into her bedroom. Without being noticed by her classmate, she hid it in her schoolbag. She then closed the door behind her, fixed her sweatshirt and hair and went back to her school project.

When the episode was over and the credits rolled on the screen, the living room was in total darkness. And it was also starting to get very, very cold. After a yawn, John turned to his left and saw that Gabrielle had fallen asleep. He tucked her in and got up from the couch to turn on the light. He headed towards the bathroom to turn on the heating and, not hearing any noise coming from Rosie's bedroom, he paused for a few moments outside the door to eavesdrop. He gently opened it a little and saw that the two girls were still busy doing their homework. John headed back into the living room, he turned off the television and picked up the package of biscuits, returning out of his daughter's bedroom. He gently knocked a couple of times and opened it. "I hope I'm not disturbing you." he announced. “I brought something to eat.” he added, pointing to the box he had in his hands.

Rosie let out a tight smile and moved away a yellow square to make room for it.

John took another biscuit, bit into it and stayed for a few moments, watching his daughter write something down. “Where are you at?”

"We're still at zero.” said Rosie, frowning, without taking her eyes off what she was doing.

"I see.” murmured John, his mouth thick with cocoa. He swallowed and removed some particles from his molars with the tip of his tongue. “Are you finishing it tonight?”

“We're in no hurry, dad. We don't have to bring it by tomorrow.” said Rosie, sounding rather annoyed by her father’s presence.

“Good, great.” he added. Suddenly, he realised he was the third wheel and thought of a way to escape. “Would you like to stay with us for dinner, Jasmine?" he asked, moving the package of biscuits further back on the table. The little girl raised her head from the notebook and gave him a hesitant look. "Huh- no thanks, John. My mum promised me that she would make pizza tonight. And I think she'll come to get me soon."

John nodded and pressed together his lips. "Alright, then. I'm going to cook squid with peas." he announced, leaning closer to Rosie's cheek to give her a kiss. But that immediately elicited a squeal from the little girl. “Stop pricking me with your beard, daddy!” she exclaimed, rubbing her right cheek.

John let out a chuckle and headed to the kitchen.

After dinner, John and Rosie watched Celebrity Gogglebox for a while and, once finished, they went to brush their teeth. John took Rosie's toothbrush, added some toothpaste and gave it to her. He did the same thing with his electric one. Finally, he set a timer for 3 minutes and, together, they started brushing their teeth. Once finished, Rosie burst out laughing when she saw her father's toothpaste foam stuck in his beard. Immediately after, she went into her bedroom, took her pyjamas from over the radiator and put it on. Hopping in the cold with her bare feet on the floor, she flung herself onto the bed and took refuge under the duvet with Miss Twinkle. She couldn't wait for her dad to finish his night routine so he could read her the bedtime story. She started growing impatient, because she wanted to know more about the mysterious man in the photograph.

Where did they meet? And what had he done to make her father so happy? 

She could never make him smile that much.

Maybe he met him during the war, and he was the doctor who fixed his shoulder? Or was he just a friend?

Rosie had to abandon those thoughts because her father had just entered the room, clutching ‘Stuart Little’ in his hands. She sighed inwardly, knowing that he usually reread Stuart Little to her every time he didn't feel like telling her a story. Or when he was too tired and wanted to go to sleep.

She knew that it had been a difficult day for her father, although she wanted him to tell her something original. But she accepted Stuart Little anyway.

John sat on her bed and began with the first chapter. But she was capable of reciting it in her head on her own, without even taking a peek on the page. By the time they got halfway through the second page, she pretended to fall asleep, miming taking a deeper breath.

John paused for a moment and looked at her. The little girl tried her best not to burst out laughing in his face and, after another couple of seconds, John closed the book. “Easy peasy.” he murmured, quite proud of himself. He kissed her forehead, turned off the bedside light and left, closing the door behind him.

Rosie immediately opened her eyes and waited ten minutes for him to fall asleep.

When the house went completely silent, she jumped out of the bed, not noticing Miss Twinkle rolling down on the carpet. She put on her sweatshirt and retrieved the frame from her school bag. She quickly reached the desk and turned on the computer, trying not to start screaming the moment it decided it needed to update.

Rosie turned on the lamp on the desk and picked up the frame. She felt her heart start to beat faster again. Deep down, something was telling her that this man must have been truly special to her father. Gently, the little girl removed the photograph from the frame and gasped when she noticed a dedication written on its back.

Rosie had to make a huge effort to understand how to decipher that hasty and agitated writing. (1)

After reading it only six times, she was able to understand more about it and, as soon as she realised it, she was taken aback. Why did everything seem to have a slightly romantic tone? Or, at least, very affectionate???

Of all of that, the most incomprehensible thing was the name Sherlock. And why was this Sherlock so important to her father?

She stopped for a moment: if he was this important, why did her father never talk about him? She didn't know why, but he seemed vaguely familiar to her. The more she looked at him, the more it seemed that she had seen him before. Or maybe she was just mistaken.

The little girl read it once again and, having reached the phrase 'You keep me right', she realised that it was way too enigmatic, and perhaps it would be better to put it aside for now.

But, above all: what kind of name was Sherlock again? Or… no way! Was it a nickname?!

At that realisation, Rosie's heart sank and began to crumble. If it had really been a nickname, she wouldn't have been able to find literally anything on the internet. Suddenly, she felt quite frustrated with the whole situation and almost screamed out of her lungs. Even if she’d asked her father about it, he would never have told her anyway. Heartbroken, the little girl leaned back in her chair, rereading the dedication once again.

“Forever yours, Sherlock.” she murmured to herself, continuing to keep her gaze glued to Sherlock's. The computer started making some annoying sounds that caught her attention. She quickly placed the photo onto the desk, opened a Google window and immediately typed 'Sherlock'.

A multitude of images, articles and links appeared on the screen, throwing a web of information at her that would soon overwhelm her. The little girl was speechless as she saw the amount of resources available. Her heart started beating with trepidation again, like a sailor who faces the ocean for the first time, ready to explore it without turning back. She didn't even know where to start and she almost cried with joy. Then, she read his full name. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Her favourite pirate's name was Holmes as well. It wasn't just a strange coincidence, was it?

But the images immediately caught her attention. She went to the right side of the screen and the first photo that appeared almost scared her to death.

He definitely had an austere look. His ice-coloured eyes seemed to peer into the depths of your soul, more than ready to reveal your most intimate and darkest secrets. His furrowed eyebrows gave him an air of superiority, as if he was well aware that he had a sharp mind, capable of elevating him above everyone else.

Who knows if he also considered her father as a mediocre person.

Rosie moved on to the next photos, but he kept maintaining the same look. He looked extremely full of himself, and he seemed to be someone who would put all his effort into bringing out that mysterious air. Yet, once she found the photos portraying him with her father, that enigmatic look melted away and gave way to something else that the little girl could only define as affection. But like true affection. 

And they both seemed very happy with each other’s company.

After spending more than half an hour on Google images (and finally being able to put a face to her mother), Rosie returned to the main page and noticed that there was even a Wikipedia page dedicated to him.

This was supposed to be her lucky day. Someone from up there had decided that the time had come to make her discover everything. And this entity was indeed determined, since they led her to Sherlock's blog, The Science of Deduction. But it didn't turn out to be the goldmine she expected: the blog hadn’t been active since 2017, and there were only some of the cases that she would surely read the next day.  In a hidden section of the site, she even found a link that led directly to her father's blog. (2) And he never mentioned it.

In that moment, she realised that she was living in the house with a stranger: her father had never mentioned the slightest thing about him, nor the fact that he’d lived with Sherlock for almost 3 years. Until, one day, Sherlock faked his death by throwing himself off a building. She couldn’t expect less from him, since he gave the idea of being a drama queen.

As she grew up, Rosie had learned that the fewer questions she asked her father, the better it was. But she never expected that he would omit the last 16 years of his life!

All that information was just too much to process at once, and she estimated that it would take her a month to discover and learn everything.

Shifting through her father's blog, the last available post dated back to August 2014. It was the day her mother and father got married. And Sherlock was their best man!!!!

The Sign of Three

11th August

Wow!!!!!!!!! What a day!!!!!! That was the best wedding ever!!!!!! Sherlock was amazing! Love is amazing! Fluffy clouds and little birds are amazing!!!

It was all just like so amazing! I'm going to write up all about it here! Because you all love reading my blog because I'm such a good writer!!! Perhaps I'll write about some of the other mundane stuff I do like playing board games or eating sandwiches and drinking tea in front of the Eastenders!

Sorry. I can't do it any more. I was going to attempt to mimic John's style of writing for an entire blog post but life's too short. And I say that as someone who died over two years ago. Good evening everyone, this is Sherlock Holmes. John can't be with you today as he is on his Sex Holiday. Sorry, honeymoon.

We aren't allowed to call it Sex Holiday. Apparently we really shouldn't tell children that John and his wife have gone on Sex Holiday. They've chosen to go somewhere hot and sunny with beaches and cocktails or something. To be honest, he talks about things and I phase out. She's the same. They're both perfectly acceptable friends in their own way but then they start talking and I wish I really had died. I am, however, quite happy that they have found each other and that they make each other happy. That's nice, isn't it. And it is very nice to have the place to myself without their meaningless chatter distracting me from more important things.

Anyway, I decided that I'd share with you a video of the wedding. It's a video of the photos of the wedding. Sadly, there are no photos of the attempted murder. If there are any attempted murders at John's next wedding, I promise to take photos.

Good evening.

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective and Best Man

Rosie giggled at that last statement. She'd barely time to finish reading the following post when she heard her father fidgeting in his sleep in his bedroom. She quickly glanced at the clock on the screen and realised it was 3 am.

Knowing that he would get up shortly to go to the bathroom, she quickly saved the pages in the favourites and turned off the computer. Caught up in all the thoughts that were swirling in her mind, she forgot that the chair used to scrape on the floor, making a beastly noise, especially at night. The noise caught her by surprise, causing her to trip on the carpet and fall on top of poor Miss Twinkle. But everything only made the noise in her room even worse. 

Her heart had started beating wildly again, also making her more anxious. She knew that he had now fully woken up and that he would go to check on her. 

With her heart pounding in her throat, the little girl quickly got up, picked up the frame, the photo and threw them under her bed. She then buried herself under the duvet, throwing her arms open on the pillow and slightly opened her mouth, trying to mimic being asleep.

As expected, after a minute, John opened the door. The light from the hallway was modelling his silhouette into the darkness. Rosie tried to keep her eyes closed as she heard him approach her bed. She heard her father's heavy breathing, typical of one who has been snatched abruptly from sleep. He carefully grabbed her arms and lowered them under the sheets and duvet. Then, he covered her up to her chin.

"What a bratty little girl." she heard him say, immediately followed by a kiss on her right cheek. It took all her willpower not to scream at the pricking of his beard against her cheek. John then closed the door behind him and Rosie opened her eyes, staring into the darkness. 

It was 08:15 am on a grey Saturday morning, and Rosie was sitting at the table, looking tired and having terrible purple circles under her eyes. She had only slept four hours, too shocked by the discovery of the previous night. Good thing it was Saturday and she didn't have to go to school. But she would have to continue working on the school project with Jasmine, and she absolutely didn't want to. All she wanted was to hear with her own ears what her father would have to say about Sherlock.

If only she had ever had the courage to ask him.

She clumsily picked up the remote control, trying not to let it splash in the milk cup, and turned up the volume, starting to listlessly watch 'Once Upon a Time: Life', the episode about hormones. She knew that pretending to watch a cartoon about medicine would sweeten the pill for her father. Sure enough, he immediately made his way in, already wearing his suit for work. He sat down at the table and took a quick look at the TV, then giving her a delighted smile while ruffling her hair.  “Little doctors/scientists grow up!” he hummed, placing his chair further near the table. Rosie kept staring at the boring cartoon, meanwhile her heart wasn’t giving her some sort of peace. She had to ask him straight away.

John opened the package of biscuits, stuck the knife in the jar of strawberry jam and started spreading it all over its surface. He then took a bite, and then another, looking at the carton with so much interest.

“Daddy?” she called him, with a voice that betrayed anxiety.

“Yes, darling?” asked John turning to her, still chewing absentmindedly on his biscuit.

"What happened between you and Sherlock?"

The question took him by surprise, and he almost choked. He coughed, immediately grabbed the handkerchief to his right, and spat out. His left hand began to tremble as he brought the glass of milk to his lips, trying to calm himself down. He was so agitated that Rosie could clearly hear his heart pounding in his chest.

John put the glass on the table and looked at her intently. “Where did you hear that name?!” he asked her in a stern tone.

Rosie knew she would have to act with extreme caution now. Panic started taking over, and perhaps it would’ve been better if she’d chosen another time. But the damage had already been done. She knew that telling the truth would only cause further complications, hence she thought it best to tell a lie.

“On the news, before the cartoon started- they were talking about him.” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady and not let any uncertainty slip out of her mouth.

But that sentence almost killed John. He suddenly jumped up. He was so scared and shocked that he almost knocked the chair to the floor. He hurried to wash his hands in the kitchen sink and immediately ran into his bedroom to check his phone, looking for missed calls from Mycroft. He found none. After a quick search on the internet, he didn’t find any strange news regarding Sherlock. And this was enough to reassure him. He realised that Rosie had just told him a lie. 

He put his phone back in his doctor's bag and went back to the kitchen to investigate further. “What did they say about him?” he asked, sitting down next to her and turning the telly off.

“Today it’s his birthday and they… said who he is.” murmured the little girl, completely avoiding her father's gaze. “You were there in the images too. They talked about your most important cases.” she continued, in a small voice. But staring at the table certainly hadn't helped, in fact, when she found the courage to look him in the eyes, she realised that he hadn't bought the lie at all.

“His birthday isn't in February, Ros.” he said in a serious tone, clenching his jaw in a threatening manner. “Where did you hear about him?” his eyebrows had furrowed into a stern expression that was seriously intimidating.

Rosie knew she was now in trouble. Just now her father had turned into an austere caveman. With a club in his hand he would have just been perfect (3).

Rosie found herself forced to tell him the truth. Her words came out with extreme difficulty. “Yesterday, while I was looking for the marker… in the drawer… there was a frame.” John immediately understood what she was referring to. He realised that he should’ve hidden it better. “And if I go and look now- the painting is no longer in the drawer, right?” he asked in a calm voice, although his gaze revealed some anger.

Rosie nodded, biting her lip. She saw her father's jaw tighten more and more, as if he were weighing his words. But, instead of answering, he glanced at his wristwatch. “Look at the time. I'm running late for work. There is this patient of mine who isn’t feeling very well and I need to have a look at him." he said robotically, standing up from the chair and leaving the half-nibbled food on his plate.

He then walked quickly towards his bedroom without even looking back.

Rosie was still sitting at the table, stunned, as she watched her father walk away from her with a mixture of confusion and concern. It seemed like he’d changed his personality all of a sudden.

“But daddy!” she shouted, trying to get his attention, but he closed the door behind him. The little girl sighed deeply, crossing her arms over her chest, and starting kicking the air as she swung her legs. It took her several minutes to try to calm down. The silence was so loud that she could clearly hear her confused and angry thoughts. 

Feeling discouraged, she decided to distract herself by turning the telly on. Thank God that stupid cartoon was over. After a moment, her father came out of his bedroom and stopped in the doorway. His face had stiffened. “I phoned Gabrielle, she’s on her way, 15 minutes. Finish eating your breakfast and get ready.” he told her stiffly, avoiding her gaze. “I'll tell you about him later tonight, if you behave."

“I will if she does.” hissed Rosie, keeping her eyes fixed on the TV screen.

She would’ve been on her father's terms, what other choice did she have? 

After all, she had spent ten years without knowing he existed. But, still, she would have to wait fifteen hours before finding out the truth.

John then headed towards the door and, without giving her a kiss to say goodbye, took the keys and opened the front door.  “And tidy up your room, it looks like a pigsty.” he said, scolding her. Then, he slammed the door.

Rosie grimaced and mocked her father as she got up to go throw her father's biscuits in the bin. She decided that it wasn't the right day to hold her figure, so she headed for the pantry. She opened a pack of Nutella croissants and made herself a cup of hot chocolate. The room filled with that beautiful smell, but she knew that she would have to find a way to bribe Gabrielle, so that she wouldn't snitch on her father later.

She hated that woman, she sounded so fake. The little girl felt a sense of disgust every time she looked at her, as if she could sense her falsity just through her breathing. Only her dad seemed unaware of it. He really had Panettone slices covering his eyes. 

Rosie, on the other hand, was waiting for the day they would break up. 

Minutes passed, and someone knocked on the door. Rosie sighed deeply, putting the cup down on the table in annoyance.

After drying his hair, John looked at himself in the mirror, ready to face the topic 'Sherlock' after too many years. But this time it was his daughter who forced him, not his psychologist. The wrinkles on his forehead had faded compared to the morning, and he’d combed his hair properly. Coming out of the bathroom, John ran a hand through his stubble, as if he wanted to make sure he had the best of looks for that important moment. Sighing, he entered his daughter's room and immediately noticed the frame placed in plain sight on the table next to the bed. Seeing that photo again made him sob involuntarily. He looked away, closed the door and sat down on the bed.

Rosie had been waiting patiently all day, and the moment had finally come. John took Rosie's hands in his, ready to reveal what he had kept hidden for too long. “Rosie, there are things I've kept hidden about my past. Our past, because it concerns you as well. And, among these, there is Sherlock." he said, never looking away from his daughter's eyes. “I met him almost by chance, a few days after my return from Afghanistan. I wasn't very well and I was all alone. Now it can seem really strange to you, but I missed the war. Until I met him. We went to live together and, sometimes, we even got forced to sleep in the same bed. And it was a real nightmare, because he fusses in his sleep and pulls the covers all to himself.”

Rosie laughed, and John smiled sadly along with her.

“One day, to save my life, he even decided to throw himself off a building.”

At that point, Rosie pretended to be surprised. Another word about what she had discovered would have cost her massively.

“But, in the end, he just pretended to kill himself. It was a simple plan, which I couldn't understand.” John took a moment to pause, losing himself into looking at the flowers embroidered on the duvet. “Then, we met again after two years, while-”

"TWO YEARS?!"

John nodded. “I was asking your mother to marry me, and he popped out of a giant cake the waiter had brought to my table.”

John had to stop again because Rosie had started laughing again.

“Then your mother died when you were seven months old and we stopped talking to each other for a long time. At some point, we decided to move back in together, to raise you. Until, one day, one of our clients, as payment for our services, gave us a plant similar to a stinging one. I was drunk, and I let you play with it. And, hum-”

Rosie pointed to her neck. “The scars?”

John pursed his lips and had to stop because the tears had gotten the better of him, running down his cheeks. His saliva had accumulated so much that it wouldn’t let him articulate the words well.

The little girl got filled with so much sadness that she felt guilty for forcing him to talk about Sherlock. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. He let himself go, starting to sob into the crook of her shoulder.

After a while, John pulled away from the hug to look at her in the eyes. His eyes were so red that he could’ve scared a vampire. He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand and smiled weakly at her. "It's hard to say how much significance Sherlock gave to my life and, despite everything he put me through, I will never regret meeting him." he whispered. 

And loving him, he added, but only in his mind.

Rosie, still in tears, nodded. After a minute of silence, broken only by their breathing, Rosie asked: "What happened to him?"

John tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "After we brought you home from the hospital, Sherlock was so disappointed in me that he even wanted to involve his brother, a very powerful man, to make sure I'd never see you again." And Rosie jumped at those words. "No!" she cried out loud.

“I told him it was just an accident, but he was so angry with me that he decided to leave the house, forever."

Rosie was alarmed. “Does this mean he'll never come back, dad?”

John felt like a piece of him had been ripped away. "I don't know, love. I don't know. I only know that he left, without saying a word, and without leaving a note."

At that point, they both found themselves hugging again, seeking the comfort they desperately needed. “Think about it, Rosie: eight years have passed, and no one has separated us yet."

After another moment of silence, John pulled away from the hug and looked into his daughter's eyes again. He clenched his jaw. “Rosie, you have to promise me that you will never ask me to talk about him again. And that you won't talk to anyone about him." he told her in a firm voice, although his voice was still nasally and Rosie always found it funny.

The little girl bit her lower lip at his request. Actually, her father had now made her want to meet Sherlock even more, but if they hadn't seen each other for so much time, it would hardly happen in the future. So she resigned herself and nodded. "I promise you, dad."

John smiled without really smiling. “Good girl.” he told her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You have to sleep now, it's late.”

John turned off the bedside light and took the painting away with him. After closing the door behind him, he returned to his bedroom.

“How did it go with your bedtime story, daddy?” asked Gabrielle, who was lying half-reclined, and almost drunk. John approached the bed with a slow and heavy step, holding the expression of someone who had just returned from a funeral. 

Without a word, he placed the frame on the table under the television. Moving Gabrielle's legs to one side, he sat in a small corner and kept staring at that photo for a few seconds. “I- I'm a terrible father.”  he said in a small voice, swallowing hard.

Gabrielle gasped at that statement and she snuggled close to comfort him. “No, John! What the hell are you saying?!" she asked him, squeezing his arm.

John whirled around. “I lied to my daughter, do you think that's a good thing to do?” he almost cried out loud, while the tears had reached his beard.

Gabrielle shook her head, trying to lighten the situation. “Oh, dear... we all tell lies to our children. You're not a bad father for such a thing."

"That's not a little lie, Gabrielle! That's a mountain of lies!" John's voice was shaking and his breathing was becoming ragged. Gabrielle looked at him with wide eyes. She started to speak, but no words came out. The silence between them stretched for several seconds, until John broke it again. "He... he tried to commit suicide, and it was all my fault !!!" John gasped, his voice cracking on the last word. Then, he turned away and covered his face to hide the tears.

Gabrielle sat up straighter and hesitantly reached out to his shoulder. She looked quite shocked because she’d never seen him like this before, and she didn't really know how to approach him in such a situation. "Sweetheart… you can't seriously think that this is all your fault."

John quickly wiped away his tears and turned to her. "But it is ! If only I hadn't left Baker Street, if I hadn't- ugh !" he shouted, shaking his head while slapping his thighs.

A few minutes passed, John's crying had subsided and he tried to breathe at a normal rate again. As his eyes remained fixed on the floor, he said: "Rosie is all I have left, she is the only reason I wake up every morning. I can't let her know the truth. If she ever knew it, she would stop talking to me. She would hate me for the rest of her life."

Gabrielle moved closer and rested her chin on his left shoulder and massaged it. "John." she said softly, expecting him to turn to look at her. "You just did what you thought was right. You protected her in the only way you knew."

John got seized by a nervous tremor. “I shouldn't have told her anything. I should have said it was my old dentist or something like that..."

“Stop torturing yourself like this, sweetheart. He is no longer part of your life." she murmured, moving closer to him. “You are here with me now, and that's what matters. Am I right?”

John nodded weakly, not entirely convinced by her words. The weight of his lie continued to press down on his chest.

Gabrielle kissed him on the cheek. “I hope you're not tired, doctor, because I want to show you how good I am at comforting you.” she told him, whispering in his ear in a sensual manner. She smiled again and got up to go to the other side of the bed. She started undressing, giving him a feline look once she came to remove her bra.

But John wasn’t really looking at her. How could he ignore the fact that Sherlock had been a fundamental part of his life? And what an impact it had on him! He’d become his war, the one he lacked like oxygen. But talking about him after so many years - and especially under such circumstances - was making his heart shake. Anger had devoured him for a very long time, refusing to let him go and forgive him. Until he did. But Sherlock was no longer there waiting for him.

But the time had really come to put a seal on that story. He grabbed the frame and kissed Sherlock in the photograph. “For our own good.“ he murmured to him. Then, he leaned forward and lowered the frame to face the table, so that Sherlock could no longer look at him straight in the eyes.

Even though his guilt was eating away at him, he had to think of himself first; he was having an existential crisis, for Heaven's sake, and he let Gabrielle pamper him as only she could do.

Chapter Text

Seoul (South Korea), November 2026

As the large black glass door opened and Mycroft Holmes entered the conference room, the commotion that had been there a few seconds before subsided, until everyone in the room became silent. 

“Ah, Mr. Homes! There you are.” said Dr. Lee with a cheerful, mellifluous voice, walking toward him while offering his right hand in greeting. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

Mycroft forced a smile and leaned forward to shake his hand. “I apologise for the delay, my chauffeur had a bit of difficulty with his navigator.” he said, giving him a fake smile. Once near his seat, he placed his umbrella against the chair and his brown leather bag on the glass table in front of him. After making himself comfortable and adjusting his grey jacket, he asked: “To what do I owe the honour, Dr. Lee?”

Dr. Lee, returned to his seat, quickly scanned the faces of his colleagues, who signalled him to begin speaking. "We are all gathered here today to discuss your brother, Mr Holmes, subject DJ747HK." 

“Yes, I had guessed as much.” stressed Mycroft, leaning back in his seat.

“Have you actually considered the consequences of your last decision?” asked the doctor, his voice heavy with concern. 

Mycroft stared at him wordlessly for a moment, his eyes sparkling. “Every decision I make is carefully considered. I have the right to intervene at any moment.” 

Dr. Lee shook his head. “Intervene? You decided to send him to a dangerous area, a war zone, good Lord! Without our constant supervision, his hallucinations may reappear!”

"After six years of clinical trials, subject DJ747HK needed to be given the opportunity to confront his demons in a real environment, and not in a prison. And, no, the subject in question is not in the trenches, he’s doing an ordinary office job."

Another hand went up in the air. “Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but in this way we had to forcefully stop his treatments. We aren’t able to predict the repercussions. And it has already been two months since he was last monitored.”

“I can assure you that subject DJ747HK hasn’t stopped taking his medicines.” Mycroft reassured her with a gentle but cold smile. 

Another doctor, Dr. Yamanse, stood up. “Mr. Holmes… this isn’t just a matter of drugs. The intensive treatments developed specifically for him, in combination with the drugs, were managing to improve your brother’s psyche. And such great results have only been observed in thirty subjects.”

Mycroft stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What are you trying to say, Dr. Yamanse?” he asked in a challenging tone.

Dr. Yamanse hesitated for a moment and, after checking his colleagues' facial expressions, said: “We feel it might be safer to bring him back here, under our direct supervision.”

“Indeed!” approved Dr. Krueger with enthusiasm. “He's still very weak, and his hallucinations may recur without our constant support. Pushing him too hard could undo all the progress we've made during all these years."

Mycroft's jaw tightened, his lips pressed together in annoyance. His gaze fell on each of them, as if it were his final warning. "Do not forget who is in charge of this operation, doctors."

“But our research is not yet finished!” Dr. Lee protested. “Any further damage could be irreversible! He needs to resume his psychological treatments!"

A heavy silence fell over the room as the research team waited for the government official to respond.

“I make the rules, doctors. And my answer is no.” declared Mycroft. “Since you are so eager to publish this paper, continue experimenting on the 1,999 subjects left. One more or one less will make absolutely no difference for your data. My brother will be out of it for now.” 

At that point, no one dared to argue with that decision.

“Just limit yourselves to delivering me the right drugs for him to take, so he won't have a relapse.” 

Dr. Lee nodded, defeated, knowing that any objection at this point would be futile. Mycroft stood up, grabbed his leather bag and umbrella, and turned without further words, leaving the room behind him.
 

Serbia, September 2027

The soft light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling was creating a quiet and slightly creepy atmosphere in the small room with thin, lead coloured walls. 

Sherlock Holmes was sitting on a very uncomfortable and shabby wooden chair that creaked with every minor movement he made. Right in front of him there was a desk covered with piles of documents, most of them safely locked in beige folders, all stored in alphabetical order. There were photos of targets all around them, some yet to be captured, while others already eliminated. Along with those documents, there were other files about classified information and various geographic maps, pierced by pins to trace specific locations. Under Mycroft's supervision, he was reviewing such documents and locations. Yet, something in his look betrayed him; in fact, his mind had been lost in thoughts for several minutes. 

Sherlock was travelling through time, finding himself thinking about how much his life had changed, how his identity had been reshaped by the shocking events of the past few years. Being in the hands of terrorists for so many years had not only led to further scars all over his body, but also to constant psychological abuse. Most of his days were spent in isolation in a cold, damp cell, where he was forced to watch war footage or people being tortured. When the time arrived, his captivators, constantly wearing masks, used to held him back by his arms while  beating him, injecting him with burning substances or threatening to kill him. But they didn't seem willing to go that far. It was almost as if they were trying to push his mind to the brink of madness. And while he endured everything they were doing to him, he could do nothing but cling to the one thing that made him feel good: the memories of home, of Baker Street, of John and Rosie. 

Then came Serbia.

MI6 had become part of his life once again. In the last year, he found himself in a position where he had no choice but to work for his brother and, by a strange turn of events, it would’ve made him become one of the best agents in the field. And Sherlock wasn’t usually accustomed to such compliments, especially if they came from his brother. There was only one tiny flaw in that proposal: the mission would’ve been fatal for Sherlock within the first two months of his stay. But that didn’t bother Sherlock much. After all the adversities he’d had to go through, death seemed like a call back to his origins. He’d always imagined it as a friend who shows up again after a long period, resuming the relationship as if nothing had happened, as if all the horrible years of his miserable existence had been just a faint memory that suddenly comes back knocking at his front door. Until Mycroft got him an office job. 

Regardless of what Sherlock would say, Mycroft knew very well that the only thing that still tied his brother to reality was the hope of returning to London, to Doctor Watson.

Every night, at midnight sharp, once the daily report had been delivered and the data had been analysed, Sherlock could finally abandon his alter ego and lock himself in his room, supervised all night by Mycroft’s staff. Only God knew what Sherlock would do if left alone. Usually, he would collapse onto the bed, laying his eyes on the dark ceiling, in the mere company of the mental images of those years he had spent with John and Rosie, everything accompanied with Mycroft’s voice, whispering in the background, promising that, one day, he would let him come back to London. His mind took him back to the day when John returned to 221b with Rosie, two months after Mary’s death. And the night they kissed and started living together again. 

But as he sat there, pretending to be interested in the pile of papers in front of him, he knew that the Sherlock he used to be was gone forever. In his place, there was now a man haunted by his past, by grief and his loss. He’d been robbed of everything, his decency and even his soul. No amount of time could ever bring back the man he once was. But, in the end, it didn’t really matter, because he had no one waiting for him anyway. And worst of all, he would never have a chance to make amends with John again. Not after he had told him he never wanted to see him again. Even if he’d been given the opportunity, he knew that his heart wouldn’t have allowed it.

With his pen still clutched in his right hand, he continued staring at the yellowish document in front of him. After a moment, he let out the most liberating breath he'd ever made. Mycroft, sitting right across, kept his eyes fixed on him. “Something on your mind, brother?” he asked, quite concerned.

Sherlock swallowed hard and returned the look. “Not anymore.” he replied, closing his eyes and letting the vivid images in his mind slide into a definitive blurriness.

It was there that Mycroft made a decision that the project managers would define as devastating; after all, almost ten years had passed, and Sherlock seemed to have fully recovered from the family drama. He was right: the drugs alone were working. Therefore, Mycroft thought he could start living again as a free man. “Good.” Mycroft moved his eyes away from his brother and took his phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. After a quick search and a couple of messages sent to his subordinates, he broke the silence with a firm voice. “A taxi will pick you up at 5:15 am. It will take you to a military airstrip where a private plane will leave for London Farnborough Airport. Once there, my men will drive you directly to London.”

Sherlock let out a gasp of surprise, slightly shocked. He immediately glared at him, fearing that this was one of his many jokes. “You’re kidding.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. I'm serious, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was stunned for a moment, as if the idea of returning to London was too incredible to be true. “So many years, Mycroft.” he began in a grave tone, leaning back against the chair which creaked again. "And now, all of a sudden, you're telling me that I can get back to London?” he added, still in astonishment. 

Mycroft remained silent.

“What makes you think this is the right time?” Sherlock prodded further, staring at his brother with distrust.

Mycroft swallowed. “Things have changed, little brother.” he said, slightly smiling. “You have passed this mission, the most critical one, with flying colours. I believe it's time to take a little… vacation.” he added, carefully adding the last word.

Sherlock let out a half hearted chuckle. “And what will everyone think of my sudden return? ‘Hello King Herod, back again?’” he replied sarcastically.

“Don't be stupid. Everyone will be promptly informed.” snapped Mycroft. “I'm sure the world must have been in desperate need of your daily dose of annoyance.” 

Sherlock clasped his hands over his lips, staring at the void over his brother's shoulders. “I’ve always been a different person to different people. Annoying to most, talented to a few… but, deep down, nobody knows who I really am.”

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “Your self reflection can wait for another moment. We’ve already had frankly enough of your melodrama. People will get used again, as they have done so in the past.”

But Sherlock wasn’t really listening to him, since his emotions were now taking over: he’d spent so much time hoping for that moment and, now that he was ready to say goodbye to it, not only had his brother just rekindled the flame of hope in him, he was about to leading him to its realisation. 

But he wasn’t ready for that to happen. He took a second look at Mycroft, who returned it. “I strongly suggest you to get ready. I will revert with the details later on.” he said dismissively, standing up from his chair.

Sherlock’s eyes remained locked with Mycroft's. “No. I don't want to get back there.” 

“Accept it, brother.” insisted Mycroft, pushing the chair next to the wall while giving him a final admonishment. “You won’t get a second chance.” he concluded, making his way towards the door. Sherlock lowered his head, incapable of maintaining the gaze. The weight of the impending decision pressed upon him like a blade.

“I’m sure that the air of London will be good for your soul.” added his brother after a couple of seconds, attempting a comforting tone.   

Sherlock glared at him. “It’s air won't fix what's broken inside of me.” he declared, his voice half broken.

“Perhaps not.” Mycroft paused, his expression softened as he turned back to his brother. “But I’m sure that everyone will welcome you back. They’ll be there for you.”

“I hope you're not mistaken.” A warm tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek. “But John will never welcome me back.”

“You’re soulmates, for Goodness' sake!” shouted Mycroft, more than exasperated. 

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Soulmates.” his words hung in the air for a moment.

"You two have been through too much together to let it all go to waste."

“But it still happened anyway.” murmured Sherlock, the lump in his throat seriously threatened to choke him. 

Mycroft put his hands to his temples. “It was nothing but an impulsive gesture on his part. I'm sure he still misses you. And I’m sure that he still cries himself to sleep every night, thinking about how much he has lost.”

Sherlock slightly nodded and Mycroft offered him a reassuring smile. “It’s time to go and make things right." A few moments passed in total silence, only interrupted by Mycroft’s steps. “I also made an appointment with the barber. He is waiting for you in your room. You will be as good as new.” he concluded, closing the door behind him, winking at him.

That was true. Sherlock couldn’t return to the civilised world with a thick, long beard and hair that resembled a shapeless, heavy dark mass of greasy curls. And only a barber chosen by His Majesty Mycroft Holmes himself could perform such miracles without resorting to a complete haircut. 

After taking a long shower and drying himself, Sherlock put on a dark blue suit. He'd lost some extra weight, again. After a moment, Sherlock's phone vibrated in his hand. He entered the password and unlocked the lock screen. He opened the messaging app and read the message that had just arrived from Mycroft. (1)

The time was almost there. He arranged the last things, put on his Belfast, which he hadn't worn for over a year, and said goodbye to the room that had hosted him for the last year. He locked the door behind him and, at once, a couple of Mycroft's men started walking behind him, intent on carrying all of his belongings.

Walking in the darkness and being careful not to trip over the frequent potholes in the asphalt, Sherlock wrapped himself even tighter in his coat. He couldn't believe it was going to happen. He also desperately hoped that those years hadn't been as terrible for John as they had been for him. John didn't deserve the amount of suffering he, instead, had to go through. 

Chapter Text

London, 15th November 2027

As Sherlock strolled down the familiar Baker Street, his memories immediately started flooding back. He slowed his pace and stopped outside the entrance of a way too familiar cafe. He looked down for a moment, taking a few deep breaths through his nose, feeling the cold air sliding into his lungs, burning them. He knew that getting older would’ve made him incapable of escaping the quite unsettling wave of emotions called life. More often than not, he could take them under control but, despite the coldness that characterised his being, those flashbacks hit him like a violent thunderstorm, and the weight of his feelings now seemed too much to handle. 

It had been years - way too many years - since he and John had seen each other last. The exact moment John had left him bleeding and almost unconscious that dreadful day, in that emergency room, he knew he would never be the same person he was before.

Sighing, Sherlock walked away from the cafe, getting closer to the blue door in solid wood to his left. As he gave a detailed look at the facade of the building - which had remained the same over the years - he could clearly see the past materialising before his eyes: John coming home late in the evening, clumsily climbing on the stair, his hands overfilled with shopping bags. Such evenings were kinda special to Sherlock, especially when John bought Indian food, so Sherlock couldn’t make a fuss. But Sherlock knew it very well: that chapter of their life was now long gone. Forever gone. Their relationship was the purest and the most desirable relationship ever existed… until that cursed afternoon, in the same cursed flat.

He slowly made his way towards the front door where he, John, Rosie and Mrs Hudson once lived. “Don't come closer!” shouted a female voice, fiercely. Sherlock jumped up in fright and immediately turned behind him to see who had spoken. But there was no one with him, he was completely alone. He glanced furtively and confusedly at the building opposite, the one that Moriarty had blown up years before, but it was no longer there. How strange, he could’ve sworn he’d seen it before, with the corner of his eye. Regardless of what was happening, he turned back to the door and managed to move forward, when the voice shouted again: "Don't come any closer, I said!" Sherlock stopped and clenched his jaw, he closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to chase away that person he couldn't see. After a moment, he moved forward anyway, and this time no one spoke. As he faced the 221B door, a hardening lump started growing bigger into his dry throat. He gently caressed it with the tip of his fingers: the navy blue was now badly stained, making the paint wear out.

Sherlock's mind had now become a whirlwind of thoughts as he clutched the key in his hand, unsure what to do next. He still remembered how hard he had tried to bury those happy memories in remote corners of his mind, under layers and layers of coldness and rationality. That place had transformed into such a dark place that, at the mere thought of it, his soul refused to want to step inside. Like the forests featured in children's stories: everyone advises you not to enter due to the presence of shady individuals, or the big bad wolf, ready to devour you for dinner and floss his teeth with what remains of your bones.

No. He wasn't ready for that, he couldn’t let his memories resurface without his express consent. So much time had passed since John’s forced farewell and, since then, they had never had a chance to untie their conflicts. Now, for the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself trying to deal with emotions he’d never been able to reveal. On many occasions, he had wondered whether John sometimes had regrets.

He moved as far away as possible, almost escaping from that cursed place. Damn his devilish brother for making him such an indecent offer. Sherlock wasn't ready to be confronted again with the ghosts of his past and, above all, with those who resided within those walls. 

He’d been in London for two months now, yet it already felt like an eternity. Months earlier, Mycroft had found him a flat in Hampstead, and it was so luxurious that it could rival a suite of a 5-star plus hotel. But there was one condition: he wasn’t allowed to get closer to Baker Street.

He certainly shouldn’t have complained too much, but no amount of money, the most luxurious house, or being the King of England could have ever compensated for his inner emptiness. And he desperately needed to get back to Baker Street… but now that he was there... he wouldn't have expected that those emotions - which he'd tried to repress for so long - would return bothering him. Maybe it was cocaine.

As he started walking quicker, he could feel the astounded gaze of passers-by resting on him. He frowned in annoyance, feeling the discomfort increase as he realised he was the centre of some unwanted attention. They were staring at him as if they were seeing a ghost fluttering down the street, or a recently exhumed dead man walking the streets again.

He looked down at the pavement, trying to escape prying eyes, while wrapping himself even more in his dark blue coat. He didn't seem particularly aware of the fact that he looked terrible, with a pale, dry skin and bags under his eyes. His beard was a little unkempt, and he was malnourished, more than ever.

After a while, his tormented thoughts got interrupted by a vibration in his pocket. He picked up the phone and saw his brother's number. He opened the message and read it.

Hyde Park, 03:30 pm.

 -M

Sherlock looked up for a moment and then rested it on his wristwatch. He had too little time, and the park was too far to be reached by foot in time. Without hesitation, he leaned over the curb and waved a hand to flag down a taxi. Traffic permitting, he would be there in four minutes.

With his eyes still fixed on the message, Sherlock started imagining the possible reasons behind that message. What was his brother doing in London? Maybe he wanted to discuss a new mission in person? Or maybe he wanted him to return to Serbia? Or, even worse, did he want to send him back to their parents' house?  

Walking with uncertain steps, Sherlock approached the entrance of the park. Once in, he hesitated for a moment. He needed to mentally prepare himself for what awaited him, knowing that Mycroft never wrote such messages without a good reason.

The green landscape, filled with trees reaching towards the horizon, gave Sherlock a pause from his thoughts. Considering any place on Earth, Mycroft had chosen an outdoor place to talk, while an evil wind was blowing in his direction. As he continued walking, he couldn’t help but watch the leaves dance in the air. They always helped him to calm down. And that was his secret: he had learned that a green space like that was his salvation whenever negative thoughts threatened to torment him.

After walking for two miles, his phone buzzed again in his pocket. He picked up his phone and read the message.

Diana Memorial Fountain.

-M

Yes, he was almost there, he could see it in the distance. Once arrived, he noticed that his heart was hammering in his chest, and he really needed to sit down. He found a bench nearby and sat down. He distractly looked at some people enjoying the view and some children playing dodgeball. Everything was extremely noisy. The laughter and the loud conversations filled the air, spreading a joyful atmosphere all around him. It definitely wasn’t the best spot for a depressed man.

Suddenly, he noticed something that seemed… familiar. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the children playing dodgeball. Among them, there was this young girl with messy blonde hair that captured all his attention. He knew he could be 100% wrong, but she was John’s spitting image. If John were a female, obviously.

Sherlock didn’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened if John had ever caught him snooping through the trunk in his bedroom, looking for photos of him when he was younger. 

Giving a quick look around him, he noticed there were plenty of boys and girls who resembled John as a teen. Was it possible for John to have millions of children all over London? He abruptly shook his head. No, of course not. Why had he even started having such absurd thoughts?

He gave another glance at his wristwatch and sighed. Mycroft was terribly late. 

Sherlock decided to divert attention from the children, or someone might start to think he had bad intentions. He closed his eyes and tried to focus all his attention on the surrounding nature. He squeezed his eyes as tight as possible, starting to feel the silent soul of nature trying to speak to him through the wind, the scent of freshly cut grass and the smell of the upcoming thunderstorm.

Lost in his mind, while he was trying to connect with Mother Nature, Sherlock almost didn’t even realise that a ball had slipped out of the kids’ hands and had bumped against his left knee. The unexpected hit and the aching knee immediately brought him back to reality. He’d just given the kids a frowned look when he saw the blonde girl running in his direction, keeping her eyes fixed on the ball resting at his feet.

Sherlock looked at her as she was grabbing it. After taking it, she glanced up, presumably to apologise to him. But she never did. Instead, her face immediately changed: her pupils widened and her jaw dropped. It seemed that she had already seen him before. It was quite clear that his presence astonished her, since it took her ten seconds to realise that her friends were shouting at her to hurry.

Sherlock looked at her with his ice-coloured eyes, trying to be 100% sure she could be Rosie. Her legs were a mess of bruises and she had a skin rash all over her neck. Despite being well covered by her straight hair and make-up, it was still very noticeable.

“I- I know who you are!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched tone, trying to hold back a smile. 

Sherlock internally gasped. He had to admit he was rather surprised that she seemed to know him. “Oh, really? Who am I then?” he asked again, adding an inquisitive tone this time, while crossing his arms on his chest.

“Sherlock Holmes! The detective all criminals fear! I know everything about you!”

Sherlock let out a suffocate chuckle.

“My name is Rosie.” added the little girl. “Rosie Watson.” 

And there we go. It was definitely her. 

“It’s nice to finally know you in person!” she exclaimed, offering her right hand. Sherlock awkwardly smiled and leaned forward to shake it. He started questioning himself if John had told her everything, but literally everything about all three of them.

After a moment, one of Rosie’s friends came closer to them. “Hey, Ros, who is this guy???” he asked, looking at him with distrust.

Rosie gave him a reassured smile. “It’s alright, Matt. This is my uncle, George. I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.” she lied, gesturing at Sherlock with her hand. Sherlock couldn’t believe his ears. 

“Listen, hum, I’m done playing. I want to stay with him.”

Matt seemed quite concerned about Sherlock’s physical state, making it quite obvious by jumping his gaze between Rosie and Sherlock. “Alright then. I hope to see you tomorrow.” he concluded, coming back to the other kids.

“How can you trust me?” asked Sherlock once Matt had moved away. “I could be a pervert. I may not be who you think I am.”

Rosie sat down next to him. “Believe me when I say that your face isn’t a face I would forget.”

Sherlock didn’t know if to take that as a compliment. “Your friend thinks I’m a pervert.”

“Everyone is a pervert to him. Don’t mind him. No, I know you.”

It was pretty curious that   ̶f̶a̶t̶e̶ Mycroft had brought them together in such a place. Sherlock, at that point, attempted a casual conversation. “You know… last time I saw you, you were still a toddler. You’ve grown a lot.”

"It's called puberty, Sherlock. Someone will teach you about it someday." replied Rosie, quite sarcastically.

Sherlock chuckled, imagining Mary saying the exact same thing to him. And then nostalgia caught him again. Cursed be the bastard who invented emotions.

Before Sherlock began to fall again into the abyss of his existential crisis, a guard approached each small group of people, announcing that they had to leave because that part of the park was about to close soon.

Sherlock stood up from the bench and waited for Rosie to gather her coat and her backpack. The sun was setting and it would be dark very soon. Then, together, they took a quick walk that didn't even last two minutes because Rosie had seen an ice-cream shop and wanted to eat something. She was exactly like her father: food was always above everything.

The little girl headed in with a determined step, while Sherlock was awkwardly walking behind her, resembling a child hiding behind his mother's back because he was too scared of the doctor.

Rosie took a quick look at the menu hanging near the counter. “Two cups of Earl Grey Tea. I’d also like a stracciatella and pistachio ice-cream, with Nutella topping, please." she said. Then, she turned to Sherlock. "What are you having?"

“Isn't it too cold to eat an ice-cream in... winter?” he asked, slightly concerned about her health.

"You’re right.” Rosie admitted. “He’s having a Nutella and fruit topped waffle without the two scoops of ice-cream.” she said to the cashier, who nodded and moved to prepare the orders.

Rosie walked towards an empty table and sat down, placing her backpack on an empty chair next to her. 

Sherlock followed her. “Why did you order for me, too? If you really know everything about me, then you should also know that I never eat.”

“Yes, it's quite obvious, Sherlock. My father wouldn’t be happy to know that you’re still continuing with your awful habits."

Sherlock smiled faintly out of courtesy, while Rosei, with that sentence, had just twisted the knife more deeper in that incurable wound in his soul.

"Where's your dad? Why did he leave you in such a huge park like this all alone? It's not like him." he asked, turning the attention away from himself.

“He had a meeting with the doctors who work with him, so he left me here with my school friends.”

"I see." he concluded, folding his hands on the table.

They both started looking out the window, watching the sun slowly disappear. As they were still waiting for their orders to come, Rosie broke the silence. "What do you do in your free time? When you're not chasing criminals, I mean.”

"Oh." Sherlock began, rather surprised. “I solve logic puzzles.” he lied.

“That sounds funny! At school, I follow several afternoon clubs. I'm in the school choir and I take chemistry lessons, so when I grow up I can get rich by selling slimes!”

Sherlock smiled bitterly. It was really curious that she was getting interested in chemistry. But it was even more tragic that a chemical substance ruined both their lives and the skin of her neck. The universe could be vicious sometimes.

Sherlock looked away, now looking again out of the window. “I think you might already know, but… I’m a former chemist.” he said after a few seconds, with a lump in his throat.

"Really?!" exclaimed Rosie, involuntarily slamming her hands on the table. Sherlock tightened his lips in affirmation.

“But what does a Former Chemist do?? Do they study dead people??”

Sherlock let out a chuckle, but his eyes were lying. “Former is usually used to say that, for example, I used to work as a chemist. But I don’t do it anymore. When someone stops doing their job, we call them former doctors, lawyers, gardeners, and so on. And, by the way, chemists don’t study the dead.” 

Rosie seemed quite shocked by his revelation. “But what happened? Did you get fired?”

“What? No. I used to work at Oxford University, but the lab I used to work in wasn’t suitable for me, so I decided-” Sherlock paused for a couple of seconds, completing the sentence only in his mind. ‘So I decided to transfer the lab in the kitchen of my flat. Then, one day, you burned yourself with such chemicals.’

He probably had paused longer than five seconds since Rosie had started shaking him by his hands. “Sherlock! Are you okay??”she asked, quite concerned. “You need to eat sugar.” she added, throwing a sugar packet against his hands.

Sherlock turned it between his fingers and realised he couldn't continue that conversation without taking some more cocaine. Just to calm his nerves. He placed the packet of sugar back on the table and stood up.

"Where are you going?!" asked Rosie, alarmed.

“I… I just need to take my medicine. I’ll be right back, I promise.” Sherlock made his way along the tables and headed to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and took out a small beige paper package, very similar to the sugar one. He poured some powder onto his right hand and held it close to his face. Blocking his left nostril with his free hand, he took a deep breath. The white powder immediately went off and stimulated his olfactory receptors and larynx, causing him to cough involuntarily. He had to use all his strength not to bang his fists against the wall and, when he had recovered, he put the small package back in his coat. He opened the door and he quickly washed his hands. He took the occasion to glance at himself in the mirror, to see if he had any particles still somewhere on his face. As he was staring at himself, his reflection seemed to slightly smile. But it wasn't his. He wiped his hands on his trousers and left the bathroom.

The lights in the café seemed a little brighter, but perhaps that was due to the fact that the light in the bathroom was definitely darker. He came back to the table and sat down.

"Are you okay??" asked the little girl, again.

Sherlock nodded quickly, trying to sound convincing. "Yes, everything is fine. I just had to take my medicine." But Rosie didn't seem very convinced by his answer. “No… you ran away because you didn't want to answer my question!” she said, a little sulkily. Sherlock was a little taken aback. "What question?"

Rosie rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Why are you no longer a chemist? Did you get fired?”

“Oh, right, that one.” murmured Sherlock. He cleared his throat, ready to resume talking. But he realised he wasn't ready to open up about the incident. “It's definitely not important. I don't want to bother you with such stories.” he said in a bitter tone, lowering his gaze on the table.

“No! Please! I’m too curious!” she begged, shaking his hands again. Sherlock inhaled and raised his head. “Let’s put it in this way. One day an experiment went wrong and… I decided not to deal with that stuff anymore.”

The conversation got interrupted by the arrival of the waiter. He placed the plates before them and then he wished them a happy ice-cream and waffle snack.

“Did you blow up the lab?” asked Rosie, still intrigued. Sherlock realised that maybe he shouldn't have started the conversation in the first place. “Yes. That's what happened, more or less."

Sherlock lowered his head and looked down at his plate: the waffles were definitely too big, and it would’ve taken him at least four days to finish eating them.

He looked up to tell Rosie to eat, but she was all over her ice cream. She returned the look.

“We're going to share this.” he said, gesturing to his plate.

“No way.” she scolded him, her mouth full of ice cream. “I bet you haven't eaten in at least two days.”

"I don't even remember the last time I ate.” he admitted.

“No, Sherlock. We’re not going anywhere until you’ve finished it all." she insisted, narrowing her eyes.

He had to admit that the combination of John and Mary's chromosomes had created a deadly little girl. 

He took his fork and knife and started cutting it into triangles. “Now, tell me: how do you make slimes?”

Rosie got so excited by the question that she almost spat out the ice cream on the table. She placed the spoon in the cup and started speaking frantically. “I've been trying to get to the perfect consistency for two years, but there's always something missing. I mix liquid glue with talcum powder and borax.”

Sherlock raised his head, slightly concerned. “Where did you get borax, Rosie?”

“At school. I faked being sick and crawled into one lab.”

Sherlock heartly smiled. She reminded so much of himself that the smile that appeared on his face could’ve been the one of a father proud of his daughter.

“Borax is WONDERFUL because it helps make the slime softer. I usually add a pinch, otherwise it gets too hard. Then I dip everything in contact lens solution, add the colours, glitters and dad's shaving foam. Once finished, I mix everything with a cotton swab.”

Sherlock had stopped to listen to her. He was stunned. He’d never seen anyone talk with such excitement about their hobby. Apart from himself (except that, as a child, he was more interested in understanding how muscles worked).

“But I have to make them in secret, after dad has gone to sleep so he can't tell me anything.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding. “Your father is like that.”

Rosie nodded too. “Now eat, though.”

“Seriously, Sherlock? Are you really wasting your time with this child?” asked Moriarty’s evil voice.

Sherlock jumped in fright, his fork slipped from his hand and clinked on his plate. He quickly turned to his right. Moriarty was right next to him, taking the chair with his back to the window. He was wearing sunglasses and was sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at him as he chewed a chewing gum.

“Are you okay, Sherlock???” asked Rosie in a rather concerned tone, turning to look in the same direction.

Sherlock’s face suddenly paled and his hands started shaking. “I don’t want you here.” he hissed to Moriarty. Moriarty let out an evil chuckle and moved his chewing gum from side to side. "Have you forgotten that you have work to do?" 

"I said I don't want you here. Get out!" he hissed again, slamming a hand on the table.

Moriarty stopped chewing, held up his hands in surrender and stood lazily from his chair. "Do as you wish." he said finally, casting him disappointed glances as he walked away out the door. 

Sherlock, reassured that he was gone, went back to look at his waffles as if nothing had happened. Rosie thought it best to pretend nothing had happened, and resumed eating too, still glancing at him sideways.

After Sherlock had eaten four tiny bits of the waffle, Rosie's phone rang. 

"Hiii Dad." she answered in a cheerful tone, while wiping the ice cream from her lips with a handkerchief.

The bit of waffle almost got stuck between Sherlock's tongue and epiglottis, making him cough.

“Yes, I'm still at the park. Matt was hungry and we stopped to eat at- Matt! Don’t gorge yourself like a pig, or you’ll end up feeling sick!” she yelled, looking at Sherlock with a knowing look. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I won't stay much longer. Byeee."

Sherlock observed in religious silence as Rosie ended the call and slipped her phone into her pocket. There was something about her expression that surprised him: she looked unbelievably sad to leave.

"I gotta go." she announced, wiping the bottom of the cup with the spoon. Then she got up, put her coat and backpack on and placed £10 onto the table. “It was very, very nice… meeting you.” she said it by way of greeting, resting for a moment her hand on his left arm.

Sherlock suddenly felt unsettled. He’d just started to get to know her a little and now he felt like he was about to miss out on a rare opportunity. Right in that moment, he started regretting again what he'd lost. He hadn't even witnessed her growing up. 

But he certainly never expected to bump into her. Hopefully, this one would’ve been a step forward.

“But I don't trust leaving you here by yourself.” said the little girl behind his back. She turned around and sat down in front of him, again. “I give you five minutes to finish. Hurry up!"

Sherlock resumed eating but, after three minutes, he was still far from finishing.

“FINE! I'll help you.” groaned Rosie, exasperated by his slowness. She reached over to Sherlock's plate, took a piece of waffle and popped it into her mouth. “But just for this time!”

Once they had finished and Sherlock had paid the bill, Rosie said: "Come on, let's walk together to the main gate." After crossing the park, the two arrived. 

 And Doctor John Hamish Watson was right there. In the flesh. 

 Less than 7 metres away from him. 

It was dark, but Sherlock would recognise that figure anywhere. His stomach tightened, as if an unconscious part of him refused to take another step forward. Fear had now started taking over him.

“Come with me! Dad will definitely be happy to see you again!”

Why not? There was a high possibility that John had forgiven him. But if that were true, why hadn't he tried to rekindle their relationship in all those years?

Something didn't seem right.

John was there, with his back turned to one side. Sherlock, in those few metres that were separating them, decided to focus on a single detail: John’s ridiculous swallowtail at the back of his head. 

"Dad!" shouted Rosie, getting closer to him. John jumped at the sound of the voice and turned towards them. But the first thing he saw was Sherlock. 

The moment their eyes met, none of them seemed sure if they were going to get a heart attack. Sherlock felt his soul leaving his body and his Sympathetic Nervous System going short-circuited.

John’s face dropped, and he seemed to be getting a bit unstable on his feet. The Starbucks coffee that he was clutching flew and reached the ground with a thud. 

He had remained almost exactly the same, but time had still left traces on him. His hair wasn’t as golden as it used to be, and his haircut was quite the same as the one he had when he had last seen him. His barber had skilfully hidden the white hair between strands of lighter and darker blond, creating a natural effect. A few more wrinkles had formed around his mouth and eyes. His face was pale and now a thick brown beard was growing.

The time had come to face those ghosts of the past, but it would be difficult facing the man who had been everything to him. More importantly, the love of his life.

“Sh-Sherlock?!?” asked John in disbelief while giving him an astonished look, as if he was struggling to recognise him. Longing seized him, and Sherlock realised he desperately wanted to hug him and never let him go ever again. He was hoping that the same counted for John but, instead, his face was a mixture of shock, surprise, disbelief and... anger. The same blind anger that had taken possession of him years before, while hitting him hard in the face. A loud silence spread all over them, the past and the present collided in that instant. Sherlock was struggling to find his voice and, before he could mutter a word, John's protective instincts kicked in: he took Rosie by the hand and pulled her away from Sherlock, shielding her with his own body. Sherlock could see the conflict in John’s eyes, the struggle to maintain composure and not to hit him again in front of his daughter, and in the middle of the park.

“What the hell were you doing with him?” he asked Rosie, his hands gripped tightly on her shoulders. "You could have been in danger, Rosie! What were you thinking?!" he continued, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

“Please, dad, calm down.” implored the little girl. “It’s all right.”

“No! This isn’t all right!” John's voice rose, his worry spilling over into anger. “He could’ve been a pervert, for Christ’s sake! You can't just go off with strangers like that!"

“He’s not a stranger, though, is he?” asked Rosie with a knowing look.

John’s jaw clenched. His gaze jumped between Rosie’s eyes as he swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen him in years. He is now. Where did you meet him?”

“At Lady Diana's memorial. We went to a café for something to eat."

“You said you were with Matt.” John interjected.

Rosie bit her lip and stared at the tip of her shoes. "Actually… I lied. Matt was actually him.”

John's eyes widened, looking now at Sherlock. “Ah, I see. Now your goal is to poison her, isn’t it?” he accused, his voice growing aggressively by the second.

But Sherlock was speechless, too shocked by John's accusation.

"'Told you he'd take it well." muttered Moriarty sarcastically behind John’s back. Sherlock was about to lunge at him and wipe that sarcastic grin off his face when John looked at Rosie straight in the eyes. “He's the one who caused the scars on your neck!”

Rosie jumped in surprise and looked at Sherlock in disbelief, while her eyes began to fill with tears. “No! Sherlock would never have done such a terrible thing! I'm sure it was an accident."

“Ha. Sure. An accident that was almost fatal!” 

No one knows how, but Sherlock found the courage to speak. His gaze fell on Rosie, and he bowed to be the same level as her. "Rosie, listen to me." he said in a voice that betrayed an emotional breakdown. “I've done terrible things in my life, but I would never dream of hurting you, or your dad.”

Rosie looked at him indecisively, her gaze oscillating between her father and Sherlock, desperately looking for an answer. A few tears began to flow down her cheeks.

"Don't trust him, Rosie. This is the same man who abandoned us without a word, without even a note. He doesn't deserve your trust, nor mine. Not anymore." replied John, even though he didn't sound convincing at all.

Those last two words hit Sherock in the face with a violence he could never imagine. But he was the machine without the heart after all and, as such, he had to pretend once again. “John, you and I have lived many intense moments, we have argued millions of times… but we have always reconciled.”

“So you think that after ten years you can reappear out of nowhere and pretend that nothing happened?! Christ! Just stop it!" 

"It's not like that, John. I tried to find you, to find a way to reconcile, but…"

But John wasn't listening. “I forgot that you were a master at coming out of nowhere. I really should have seen it coming.”

There was a moment of pause. In fact, everything was way too quiet. All around, some people were looking at them.

“And what would you like to do now, eh, Sherlock? You lured my daughter!” John shouted, the vein on his forehead started to pump vigorously again.

“STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” shouted Rosie, her face streaming with tears while her eyes were turning red. “YOU HAVE RUINED A BEAUTIFUL DAY!” she continued in a higher tone, hurting her vocal cords. Then, in total despair, she left the gates and ran away from the park.

John shortly ran after her, stopping at the curb. “ROSIE, ROSIE! GET BACK HERE IMMEDIATELY!”

But the little girl didn't listen to him and she continued running as far as she could. 

John whirled around and pointed a finger at him. "It's all your fault. You should never have come back!” he thundered. Then, totally ignoring the curious and confused glances coming from everyone, he started running to reach Rosie.

Sherlock's soul was definitely broken. He had returned to London with a specific goal… and that certainly wasn't to piss John off again. But, after all, he was right.  

It was all his fault. He should never have accepted Mycroft's offer.

He stood still for a moment, not caring about his shoes soaking in the coffee spilled onto the ground. Overwhelmed by his feelings, he left the park and he rushed to the end of the street, finding it extremely difficult to keep his mind under control.

The whole situation would’ve been enough for a whole year. Too many emotions in a day. He knew that, someday, his brain would just stop working properly. His thoughts were so confusing and Moriarty’s evil laughs were so loud that he wanted to cover his ears.

Now every chance had slipped through his fingers. The only thing that had brought him back to London was this little flame of hope that Mycroft had instilled in him. He convinced himself he was more than ready to get back to London, look for John and reconcile with him. Now he was one hundred percent sure John never wanted to see him ever again. 

Once arrived outside his flat, he already knew it would be another dangerous night.

Chapter Text

30 Spencer Walk, Hampstead (London), 15th November 2027

Sherlock closed the front door to his flat with a thud. After putting the keys in the right pocket of his coat, he leaned his back against the door and slid gracelessly to the floor, feeling nothing but his wet cheeks and his nose stuffed up from crying. He raised a hand to his eyes and wiped them as best he could, while a faint groan escaped from his lips.

Ten years. Ten long, endless years since he had last seen John.

He had spent every spare moment fantasising about how wonderful it would’ve been to see him again… but nothing could have prepared him for what had actually happened. John had rejected him again, and he’d done it in such a cold, harsh way that it immediately brought to his mind the night he had gone to Lestrade's house, begging John to come home with Rosie. And Rosie… little Rosie was too grown up to sit on her father's knees anymore. And John had been so hard with her as well, making her cry… and that had been the final stab. Watching her run away while sobbing had been too much. He didn’t even remember how long it had taken him to recover from the scene the little girl had made ten years before, kicking and screaming, trapped between John’s arms, just because she didn’t want him to leave.

He sat in total silence for at least a couple of hours, unaware of how much time had actually passed. The silence was broken only by his irregular breath, his muffled groans and an annoying fly that wouldn't stop buzzing around an abandoned plate on the kitchen counter. He stood up with an immense effort and turned on the light, immediately directing his gaze to the also abandoned violin on the leather sofa. With a shuffling step, he grabbed it with his shaking hands and placed it in its case. As he was about to take his coat off, he noticed a human figure out of the corner of his eye. It was Mycroft. Sherlock tried not to be surprised by his presence, and simply ignored him.

His brother was standing next to the kitchen counter, his pose was terribly posh and his hands were tight around the handle of his black umbrella. "You didn't expect to find me here, did you?" he asked in a shrill tone, finally breaking the silence that had lasted for ages. Sherlock didn’t answer and moved forward to put his coat on the coat rack. “I don’t want you here.” squeaked Sherlock in a tone that was far too high-pitched due to too much crying.

Mycroft didn’t move an inch. Instead, he remained there, impassive, with that air of superiority that had always annoyed Sherlock. “You are still the same fool, Sherlock. You always let your emotions get the better of you. What else has to happen for you to learn from the slaps that life gives you?”

“I said that I want to be alone!” shouted Sherlock, sitting upright on the sofa and wrapping his arms around his knees.

"I really thought Serbia had finally changed you for good." muttered Mycroft, walking into the living room and sitting down next to Sherlock. "I have to say that I was far too optimistic."

Sherlock turned nervously to his direction with the intent of punching him in the shoulder, but Mycroft anticipated it, pinning him in the palm of his hand. The two brothers resisted each other for a few moments, until Sherlock's eyes got filled with tears, letting himself cry again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and gathered him maternally into his arms. Sherlock was now back to crying frantically, struggling to breathe, while Mycroft kept massaging his right shoulder.

"You have no idea how he treated me!" muttered Sherlock, while some snot was slowly dripping from his nostrils. 

"No, I know perfectly well.”

Not expecting any other response from his brother, he curled up in his arms and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. But everything he could see was John's face, scared and disappointed.

"I'm sure you will have the chance to talk again. After all, the world is very small.” said Mycroft, breaking the silence again. "You two just need to find the right turn of phrase to make things clear."

"I'm not good with words. Nor with people." groaned Sherlock softly, huddling in Mycroft's coat. "Why is everything so damn difficult?!"

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.” replied Mycroft, smiling. “But I know you’re capable of anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled away and opened his eyes, but his vision was still blurry. “I hope you’re not mistaken.” he muttered. After a moment, he tried to look back at him, but Mycroft was gone. How much time had passed? And why hadn't he seen him leave?

It was strangely odd because his brother was particularly loud when it came to greetings and farewells. He didn't care much about it and tried to compose himself. He blew his nose and got up to make some tea. He walked over to the counter and filled the kettle with water. He turned the burner on and he stood there, staring at the flames. He got stuck, lost in watching how the shades of red, orange and blue blended together, making a hypnotic dance. When the water started to boil, he snapped out of his trance and moved mechanically, turning the burner off and pouring it all over the tea bag already placed into his mug. As the tea started to infuse, he turned to put the mug on the counter. As he was sipping his tea, he promised himself that he would try and try again to find John, to head to a clarification. But, first, he would need time to recover from what had happened a few hours earlier.

After finishing his tea, he noticed the plate of pasta al pesto that Mrs. Gills had brought him. Who knows how long it had been there. The pasta was all clumped together and the pesto had shrunk. The fly was a bonus. Sherlock put his mug down on the counter and picked it up, kicking open the trash bin and throwing the contents of the plate right into it.

South Korea, 16th November 2027

It had just struck one in the morning when Mycroft Holmes’ telephone, lying on a mahogany table in a luxurious upper room of a hotel in South Korea, lit up and began to ring. Mycroft, who had just started brushing his teeth, was surprised to receive a call at that hour. He quickly spat the toothpaste into the sink and moved quickly across the room to see who was calling. It was one of his subordinates, one of those who had been assigned to monitor Sherlock. A wave of panic ran through him, fearing that something had happened.
Swallowing nervously, he accepted the call. “Hello?” he asked, his voice cracking with anxiety.

“Good evening, Sir. I apologise for the late hour, I know it’s very late there, but I wanted to make this call right away.”

Mycroft, still standing next to the bed, clenched his jaw. A call at that hour, with that tone, could only bring non reassuring news. “Did something happen? Does it require my immediate action?” he asked in alarm. Without even noticing, he began to walk back and forth across the room.

“Yes and no, Sir. He’s alive, but something has happened, and we didn’t foresee it.”

Mycroft sat down on the left side of the bed. “Get straight to the point.” he ordered with his voice a little lower, almost a whisper. He was more than ready to go to sleep because the Korean elections would require all of his attention and lucidity the next morning. But now he knew he would never be able to sleep again that night.

“He has left his flat, Sir.” said the man hesitantly, trying to test the waters before making the big reveal.

Mycroft sighed silently in relief, running a hand over his forehead. For a moment, his thoughts had been racing to the worst scenarios. He had thought the flat had caught fire or that he had suffered a concussion. The fact that he’d only left the house seemed something to be happy about. “Is that all?” he asked incredulously. “It was about time he left the house!”

“He went to Baker Street, Sir. But we managed to get him away from there.”

“What have you done this time?” he asked in an amused tone.

His subordinate hesitated for a moment before answering. “I know that what I’m about to say may seem… harsh, but it was the only way to ensure your brother would receive the message in time. Without direct access to your phone number, I had to use the spoofing technique. I know it’s ethically questionable, but-”

“And where did you make him go?”

“Hyde Park, Sir. Dr. Watson’s daughter was there with her friends and we thought it would be a good way to test his triggers.”

Mycroft almost jumped up with joy. “And how did it go?” he asked, anxiously awaiting the answer.

“Well, we certainly didn’t expect Dr. Watson to show up.”

That last sentence struck Mycroft, making him finally jump to his feet. Those two had finally met, and he really hoped they had made it once and for all. But he also knew his subordinate too well, and he knew that something hadn’t gone as expected. “How did Sherlock take it?” he asked, his voice tense now.

“Dr. Watson was very worried. He seemed almost scared. But Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t take it well. He rushed to a taxi and went back to his flat.”

Mycroft stood where he was and didn’t say a thing. “Is there anything else?” he finally asked, his tone betraying only a fraction of his frustration.

“We believe that the woman you hired is no longer doing her job, Sir.”

The words made Mycroft’s blood run cold. He remained silent and still, as the situation dawned on him. His brother’s mental stability had always been precarious, and without the right support he could easily slip into self-destructiveness. Mycroft sat back on the bed, staring into the void. Every plan, every strategy he had planned seemed to be starting to fall apart. 

“Keep me informed. Call me immediately if he decides to leave his flat.” Mycroft ordered, nodding as he was speaking. 

“Certainly, Sir.”

“I’ll be back in London as soon as I can.” he concluded, swiping his finger across the display to end the call. 

That was absolutely not good.

It was vital that Sherlock took his medicines, and he had to make sure that Mrs. Gills was giving them to him. He knew he should’ve listened to his intuition, that evil little voice that was always creeping into him, who had been telling him that, perhaps, an old woman wasn’t particularly suited to be a carer for his brother.

He turned his head to his left and looked at the clock. He shook his head in frustration and decided that he would call Mrs. Gills tomorrow, after her daily visit to Sherlock.

After finishing his government duties, Mycroft headed to his private chauffeur’s car to return to the hotel and, finally, have lunch. As he got into the car, he closed his eyes to reflect on the call he’d had the night before with his subordinate. 

After some more thinking, he unlocked his iPhone and dialled a number. As he waited, he made himself more comfortable on his seat. He was about to hang up when Mrs Gills answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello Mrs. Gills, it’s Mycroft Holmes. I was wondering how things were going with my brother.”

Mrs. Gills stayed silent for a couple of seconds, unsure of how to respond. “You saw him last evening. I can tell you that absolutely nothing has changed.” she answered with a hint of concern in her voice.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked her in an overly concerned tone, leaning forward. “Did Sherlock tell you that I was there? That I was in his flat?!”

The silence on the other end seemed endless. “Yes.” said Mrs. Gills, as if she had to rewatch the entire scene or conversation in her head. “I went to see him an hour ago, to make him take his blood pressure medications. I have to admit that he was very… shaken.”

“Shaken?” asked Mycroft in alarm, his heart starting to beat a little faster.

“More shaken than usual, I have to admit. He couldn’t sit still for a moment, and he was mumbling something about a certain… Rosamund, I think the name was.”

“And what else did he say?”

“Well, he mumbled that you went to his flat last evening and that he made you some tea. He said he never expected a reconciliation with you. And that he finally felt… understood.”

Mycroft ran a hand over his forehead, motioning it down to his face. “Mrs. Gills… I’m currently in a country outside of Europe. I didn’t visit my brother at all.”

“Oh dear!” muttered Mrs. Gills, moving to pick up a chair to sit on. “He’s so silly! Why did he have to lie to me?”

Another heavy silence fell between them. Mycroft couldn’t tell her anything. “I’m sure it was just a dream. He’s sleepy for hours in the morning. And he has always had a great imagination, madam. Ever since he was a little child.” he replied, sounding falsely convincing.

“All right, then.” said Mrs. Gills, trying to calm her breathing. “What else do you want me to do?”

“Make sure he eats at least once a day. Make sure he takes his medicines and that he actually swallows them. Check his mouth, under his tongue, and on the sides of his cheeks. My brother is worse than cats when it comes to taking pills.”

“I’ll do as you say, Mr. Holmes.” said Mrs. Gills, sounding resolute.

“Also, I need to ask you to stay with him until he’s finished eating.”

After hanging up the call, he rested his head on the headrest. His mind was now a whirlwind of confused thoughts. He hadn’t seen Sherlock in nearly three months, and he needed to personally check in what condition he had fallen into. He began to fear that perhaps the medications had stopped working. 

Since the hallucinations had come back, he needed to have an immediate meeting with the project managers. Lunch could wait. 

Seoul (South Korea), 16th November 2027

The weather conditions weren’t exactly the best when Mycroft arrived in front of the towering structure of the Korea Research Institute of Bioscience and Biotechnology. After thanking his private chauffeur, he made himself mentally ready for every single security check barrier he would have to go through before he could get to his office. He entered the building and, after taking a couple of elevators to reach level -1, He was immediately met by a pair of guards in military clothing, with rifles slung over their shoulders. Mycroft handed one of them his ID and waited patiently.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes." said the guard, handing him back the ID. "Proceed to level -2."

Mycroft nodded curtly and continued on, tucking his ID into the inside pocket of his jacket. He began to feel a little nervous as he realised that security cameras were following him in every single step.

After passing through a series of locked gates, each one of them requiring a different form of identification, such as fingerprints, voice recognition, facial recognition, and even a mitochondrial DNA scan at the last barrier, he finally arrived in the heart of the facility, located on level -13. There, there was a sterile corridor, with the walls painted in petrol green, which led to the research laboratories and numerous offices.

In a booth placed in the middle of the corridor, sitting in a black swivel chair, there was a blonde lady in her fifties. She was facing the main gate and she was reading a gossip magazine. When Mycroft found himself in front of her, she jumped up in fright. “Mr. Holmes!” she almost shouted, in surprise. They could feel the slight discomfort as she greeted him. “May I ask you the reason for your visit?”

Mycroft returned a fake smile and moved his face closer to the microphone placed on the glass. “I have come to personally check compliance with the ethics protocols.”

The woman looked almost frightened by that, and she nervously pushed strands of hair out of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I should tell you—”

“It is essential that I personally verify the operating conditions of this facility.” Mycroft insisted, still offering her a falsely kind smile.

The woman moved her lips to speak over and over again, but the words wouldn’t come out, and Mycroft took advantage of it. “I have confidential information to share with the project managers. It is necessary to have an immediate discussion on the progress of the treatments.”

The woman swallowed hard. “Mr. Holmes… I’m sorry to inform you that not all the doctors are here, today.”

“Summon them, then. I can wait.” Mycroft told her in a tired tone, turning across the hall to his office, casually twirling his umbrella as he resumed walking.

As the large black glass door opened and Mycroft made his entrance, the commotion that had been there in the conference room immediately subsided.

"Mr. Holmes!" greeted him Dr. Lee with his usual cheerful, mellifluous voice. He had put on some weight and his white coat looked tight on his abdomen. He swayed toward him and gave him a respectful greeting. "What a surprise! We weren't expecting you. Today." he added with a nervous laugh.

Mycroft draped his umbrella over the arm of a chair and placed his leather bag on the glass table. He then leaned forward to shake his hand. "I prefer, for my visits, to remain unannounced, Dr. Lee."

After they both returned to their respective seats, Mycroft remained standing and scanned the faces of the five scientists sitting around the table. "We are gathered here today to discuss the progress of the current therapies. And, above all, I am here to discuss the medications taken by my brother, subject DJ747HK."

Most of the doctors looked down, looking at their laps, seriously embarrassed and also frightened by the entire situation. Being called away urgently by a high-ranking government official wasn’t an easy thing to stomach. Especially if that official had vast influence over multiple government agencies and, with just one phone call, he could dismantle their careers.

Mycroft’s impatience was palpable. “We are a little shy today, aren’t we?” he asked, chuckling sarcastically. “If no one offers to talk, I’m afraid I’ll have to call you one by one.” Mycroft’s gaze wandered for a moment over the frightened faces of the scientists. It settled on a female doctor with thick and long black hair. “How about we start with you, Dr. Young?”

Luckily for Dr. Young, Dr. Lee raised his hand. “I would like to raise a point, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose almost immediately, then he scowled. “What is that, Dr. Lee?”

“I will ask the same question again: have you actually considered the consequences of your decision?” asked Dr. Lee, more angry than concerned. “We have heard from reliable sources that your brother has returned to London. You let him escape right in the middle of the experiment, for the second time! It was, if I may say, an act that compromised not only the results of years of research, but also the mental stability of the subject in question!”

Mycroft’s eyes darkened and looked at him with an unspoken fury. “As I said before last year, every decision I make is heavily considered. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” he said, with no intention of sitting down. “My brother’s safety is my priority. But if your methods prove to be more harmful than helpful, it is my duty to stop you.” he added, making them understand who was the dominant one in the room. 

Dr. Krueger shook his head. “Our methods aren't harmful, Mr. Holmes. We have a customised treatment plan for each subject and, in your brother's case, we had to take a more invasive approach.”

Mycroft’s chuckle was low, almost mocking. "A personalised treatment plan? You beat him up and traumatised him more than before. You left me with no other choice."

“Don’t take me wrong, Mr. Holmes.” said Dr. Young, standing still next to him. “You have chosen to expose him to incalculable risks. Without our constant supervision, his hallucinations may intensify. He could become dangerous to himself and even to others around him!"

"I felt that the current path had reached a level…. let's call it an unsustainable level. He’s more safe in London than here.”

Another hand went up in the air. “Excuse me for supporting Dr. Krueger, Mr. Holmes.” began Dr. Krest. “Our research has been meticulous. Each dosage and each treatment have been calibrated to stabilise his psyche. We-”

“Stabilise his psyche?!” he laughed. “God only knows what kind of concoctions you've been feeding him all these years. And only one has really worked."

Dr. Lee, who was clearly agitated, challenged him once more. “Just to sum up: you believe that our treatments are harmful and that everything we’ve done has only made him worse. Why exactly are you here today, Mr. Holmes?” he asked in an angrier tone.

Mycroft gave him a shocked look. What had happened to his mellifluous tone?

“I am here to ask you to change his medications and go back to Seropraxin. And please stop with the administration of Neuronex.”

"Mr. Holmes, we cannot interrupt Neuronex! It is very useful for repairing damaged neural circuits." 

"My brother doesn’t have damaged neural circuits. He’s just traumatised and depressed. Interrupt it immediately because I no longer want him to have any more hallucinations.”

The scientists seemed more pleased than angry at that point. 

"All the more so, Mr. Holmes!” said Dr. Krest. “We already said they might recur. This is the right time to bring him back and resume his treatments. In London, the triggers might be a bit too much for him. It’s like playing Russian roulette.”

Mycroft huffed in exasperation. He sat down in his chair, a hand to his forehead. He sighed, regretting thinking he could face a horde of overgrown nerds with their immoderate love for science without getting a stomach ache.

“I can understand your point but, again, after six years of clinical trials, I felt that he was more than ready to face the real world. And I’m still convinced of it.”

“We cannot guarantee neither his safety, nor for those around him. In London, he is exposed to too many triggers, which could cause significant psychological distress which can lead him to only one final decision. Instead, here, we can manage his condition.” said Dr. Lee.

“Indeed.” approved Dr. Yamanse. “His hallucinations could only worsen at this point. It's dangerous to leave him by himself in that place." 

Mycroft's jaw tightened. "I will continue to fund this project, if that's what you're worried about, but I want my brother back on Seropraxin."

"With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, it is quite clear that you’ve never taken a neuropharmacology or a psychology exam. The molecules alone will do nothing!"

“I’m sure that a combination of Seropraxin, London and the one he loves might help him regain his mental faculties.”

Dr. Lee made one last attempt. “At least allow us to send a staffer to his place, so we can monitor him discreetly. Nothing invasive. If you don't want him to be here, allow us to let him receive external psychological support."

Mycroft clenched his jaw again and, after a moment to think, he found himself nodding. “I already have someone on site monitoring him and making sure he's taking his medications. But considering yesterday’s events… I have to admit that I've come to the conclusion that they’re no longer doing their job properly.” admitted Mycroft, staring at an undefined spot on the glass table. He then looked at Dr. Lee and nodded. 

"Another thing, Mr. Holmes: Seropraxin and Neuronex must be taken in regular cycles and at regular intervals. It isn’t possible to interrupt the administration because we don’t know yet what effects they can have. We can decide to stop it in mid-March and switch to Synaptozin, if you agree.”

Mycroft nodded again. “I accept this proposal. But my brother must remain unaware of your intervention. He must believe he is free to do whatever he wants." 

One by one, the doctors left the room, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts.

“He’s got a lot of nerve to come forward with a request like that, again.” said Dr. Krueger after closing the door of the conference room behind him.

“He’s unbearable. And now I can finally understand why his poor brother attempted suicide ten years ago. I would’ve done the same if I had a brother like that.” added Dr. Young, reaching into the left pocket of her lab coat for a candy.

“But can we talk about his obsession with Seropraxin? He’s been taking this drug for six years.” added Dr. Krest. “Seropraxin is just a palliative, and now it’s even considered obsolete by some. How can a man like that be the head of a government?!”

The group continued walking down the corridor, their squeaky shoes clicking on the blue-green floor. Dr. Lee jogged and quickly caught up with them. “I have an idea.”  he said, with a sly smile. “I think the best thing to do is to make him believe he has the situation under control. If he wants Seropraxin, we’ll get it to him. But speaking of Neuronex… no, that’s untouchable. We need to test it further, especially on the most compromised subjects. And who better to take on that task than Sherlock Holmes?!”

Dr. Young, after popping the candy into her mouth, looked at him a little surprised. “What if Sherlock or the other susceptible start to overreact to it? It could become a serious problem. We’ll never be held accountable, will we? I don’t want to risk my career to spite Mr. Holmes.”

“They won’t disbar you from the register of pharmacologists, my dear,” teased Dr. Krest, patting her on the shoulder as they all entered the elevator. “The data we’re collecting is invaluable, considering it’s a study on humans. And I’m sure that this study will lead to something big and, maybe, it will even lead us to the Nobel Prize.”

“Remember, there’s always a plan B in science.” added Dr. Yamanse.

“That’s right.” said Dr. Lee as he began to push buttons in the elevator. “And if things get out of hand, we already know how to handle complications. It’s already happened before. And, furthermore, it was Mr. Holmes who agreed to this clinical trial. He knew what we would do to his brother. He’s well aware that, in the event of death or irreparable damage, we are protected. Our government doesn’t have the strictest regulations like Europe or America.”

As the elevator continued to take them to the upper floors, they knew that the time for remorse and regret was long over, and that they were now too far into their careers to feel compassion. Science will always be above everything else.

Chapter Text

30 Spencer Walk, Hampstead (London), 30th November 2027

Sherlock was sitting down in the shower all naked and with his legs crossed. He was far too tired of all the intrusive thoughts and voices lining up in his head, ready to torment him for hours to come. With the water still running over his hair, neck, shoulders and the rest of his body, he could feel an unsettling sensation. Something seemed wrong with him. He felt strange. That sensation had been there since he'd set foot back in London, but now it was growing stronger. He eventually decided to ignore it, running a hand through his sticky and greasy hair. He hadn’t bathed in a month, and he hadn’t washed or combed his hair for a whole week. Now his curls, already untamable by nature, were even more stuck and tangled. Giving up on removing all the knots, he started imagining what it would be like to meet everybody else. How would Mrs. Hudson react to seeing him in a state like this, desolate and broken, slumped under the shower head? 

And Molly? 

And Lestrade??? 

The Inspector had seen him at his best and his worst, but would he understand the depths to which he had sunk this time? Would they still recognise the man he used to be, or would they only see the shell of a man who had lost everything?

Even the thought of going back to his old life seemed absurd now. What was there left to go back to, anyway? Cases? Clients? After so many years???

He sighed desolately and wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them closer to his chest (1). He’d been a fool for trusting Mycroft. He’d even promised him that going back to London would be good for his soul. Sherlock grimaced. What a funny phrase, Mycroft talking about souls. As if he still had one.

But, after all, what did Mycroft know about his pain? Sherlock let out a chuckle. He’d never been in his position, kidnapped, tortured and stripped of all dignity. All his life he had felt caged, tormented, mocked and slapped by life. And only when he went to live in London after university did he feel free to breathe for the very first time. But now, even London felt different, as if it was a stranger place. And the people were different too because they all seemed to be staring at him with pity.

Mycroft hadn't sent him back to London. He’d simply locked him in another cage, this time with the name of London. And now that he had finally met John again, the meeting had been nothing but a disaster.

He closed his eyes and sighed. He leaned his head back against the marble tiles and let the water run down his face. Suddenly, the shower door swung open and Sherlock jumped in fright at the sudden noise and opened his eyes, which immediately began to burn from all the warm water that was coming inside.

"Here he is: my little brother, the genius who always tries to destroy himself. Life is never boring with you, is it?" asked Mycroft with a mocking tone, and with such coldness that only someone like him could show in front of his brother. After Sherlock had managed to dry his eyes with his wrists, he raised his head to look at his brother. His ice-coloured eyes met Mycroft’s, equally cold and full of disappointment. Behind him, silent and with her usual impenetrable expression, there was Anthea. With her phone in her hand, she was ready to carry out any order given to her. Her gaze quickly went from Mycroft to Sherlock, looking him up and down, as if she were looking for a solution herself. But her face remained impassive even in the face of Sherlock's complete nakedness.

Mycroft took a step forward and leaned his umbrella against a stool and bent his knees to be level with his brother. Sherlock simply stared at him, his eyes more haunted now. He made no effort to stand, almost as if he was waiting for Mycroft to say something more. 

“That’s just the way it is, Sherlock. You just have to deal with it.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms tighter around his bony legs, firmly shaking his head. Behind them, Anthea was typing rapidly on her phone. Mycroft grabbed the stool to help himself up. “At least have the decency to turn off the water. You know, I pay the bills.”

Sherlock looked down again, the water still running down over him. "There's nothing left for me here, Mycroft. London... everything I was, everything I've done... is gone."

Mycroft let out a barely audible sigh. "London isn't the problem, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. "I want to go back to Serbia." he muttered in a low tone, as if he was talking to himself. Mycroft stiffened for a moment, but then his gaze changed to one of surprise, accompanied by a sarcastic, contemptuous tone. "Serbia?" he repeated, with feigned uncertainty. "No, we're not talking about it." he added, shaking his head after a dramatic pause.

Sherlock looked up and glared at him, his eyes blazing with sudden anger. "Why nOT?!" his voice exploded with such force that it echoed in the bathroom. His sudden reaction made Mycroft jump, and in the heat, Sherlock made a sudden movement with his hands that splashed some water directly at his brother, staining his grey suit.

“Ah, I almost missed these sudden mood swings. At least the drama has remained intact.” he replied sarcastically while eye checking his suit, hoping that his devilish brother hadn’t soiled it in his crotch area. “Serbia is not a solution.”

“WHY DID YOU MAKE ME COME BACK HERE?! ALL THESE EMOTIONS WILL DESTROY ME!!!”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swallowed and raised his umbrella slightly to stare at the handle, looking at it while thinking. “Sherlock… if meeting Dr. Watson has caused you all this emotional stress… what will war do to you?”

“It will probably make me feel better. I was fine before I came back here.” he snapped, struggling to stand. Sherlock wasn’t going to give in. The thought of going back to Serbia seemed like the most sensible thing to do at the moment.

“Serbia is out of the question.”

Sherlock turned to him angrily, and it was a shame he’d just turned the water off, because he would’ve happily thrown more at him. His lips began to tremble and he leaned back against the steamy tiles, running his hands over his face. “You… you don’t understand.” he groaned, his voice shaking. “There… there was different. I was different. While here… I'm suffocating.”

"Serbia won't change anything, little brother." said Mycroft, firmly. "You're staying here." he concluded.

Sherlock groaned again and started shaking with anger and frustration. Mycroft remained impassive. He knew that sending him back to Korea for the clinical trials would be like throwing him into an even deeper well. Taking a step back, he turned to Anthea. "Make sure he gets dressed. And make sure he eats a nutritious breakfast. It seems he hasn't eaten in days.” he concluded, casting one last false disappointed glance at his brother. After Anthea had nodded in understanding, Mycroft left the room.

East Ham, 24th December 2027

After saying goodbye to his last patient, John leaned back in his swivel chair. He raised his arms and folded his hands behind his head, turning first to the left and then to the right, thoughtfully.

The work at the clinic had become banal. Terribly banal. He’d never expected to find treating heart diseases boring. There had been a time, shortly after he had returned to Baker Street, when he’d thought that a specialisation in cardiology would be a good change in his life. And, for many years, that profession had filled him with satisfaction. Now, every day seemed exactly like the last: one patient after another, each with a similar condition and a similar concern.

He briefly considered going back into graduate school and becoming a Professor of Cardiology at some prestigious university, but the idea of ​​starting a PhD at the age of 56 was not exactly appealing. In reality, the only tempting thing was the thought of the salary he would receive once he became a Professor.

He had actually always wanted to work in surgery. If only he had chosen to specialise in cardiac surgery instead of stopping at simple cardiology…

It was banal, it was true, but he needed money. The cost of living was a major factor, and he certainly couldn't ignore it. The private clinic where he worked, although it guaranteed him a good salary, was unable to fill that feeling of emptiness that had begun to develop inside him, a few years before.

Extra work had become a necessity, not only to cover expenses, but also to fill the time that he would otherwise have spent on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. And he always felt humiliated when Rosie, the next morning, found him passed out on the couch, with a saliva drool running down his chin.

He was hanging out with Amelia fairly regularly, but he also knew that now that Sherlock was back, his life would be turned upside down again. As would his relationship with her. He had only seen Sherlock a month ago, but those few minutes had been enough to shake him to the core. He certainly wasn't in the best of conditions, but John desperately hoped that Sherlock had finally found someone who would stay by his side, to take care of him. He wondered if Mycroft was aware that his brother was clearly going through some kind of depressive phase, or if he had completely distanced himself from him. 

Suddenly, he noticed a notification on his computer. He was due to see another emergency patient. His gaze shifted to the bottom right. It was 05:30 pm.

Another hour and he was free to go home, to celebrate Christmas Eve with Amelia, Rosie, and some friends they had in common.

Just before opening the door and calling the next patient in, he made a mental note to take a flower to Mary's grave after he was done with his work. It was Christmas for her, too, after all.

After placing the shopping bags in the trunk of his car, John realised he was way past due for dinner, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator. He was the only one in the house working, working overtime on Christmas Eve, and he even had fifteen people to cook for. He could already hear Amelia screaming through the window, yelling at him to hurry up because she was busy washing her hair, shaving and doing who knows what else. And some of their friends would just drop off the dessert and bottles of wine. They certainly knew how to be useful.

As John approached a roundabout, he noticed a noticeable increase in police presence along the road. Several police cars were parked on the sides, and John did his best to slow down and hurry to put his seat belt on. Even though the road wasn’t very busy, there was little chance the police would stop him. And why would they, after all?

After he breathed a sigh of relief at the realisation that he had escaped a roadblock, he saw in the rearview mirror that a policeman on a scooter had started chasing him. 

No, not chasing, passing. He was passing him. 

But the scooter pulled up to the driver's window and the policeman, while signalling him to pull over, also flashed the lights on both sides of the vehicle. 

John clenched his jaw and, continuing along the road, he repeatedly slammed his right hand on the steering wheel. "No, no, no, no! I didn’t really need this!" he shouted, huffing when he heard the policeman turn on the damn sirens. 

But, come to think of it, what did he have to fear? He had slowed down when the police were still far away, so it was out of question the policeman would want to stop him for speeding. Truth be told, he was more afraid of Amelia's screams later that evening than of the policeman.

After pulling over a few feet away, John saw in the mirror next to the window that the policeman seemed to be taking his time. After writing something down on his phone, he got off his scooter, took his gloves off and placed them in a drawer under the dashboard. Finally, he took his helmet off as well and hung it on the handlebars.

John’s heart raced as he saw him approaching, and he prepared himself to roll down the window. 

"Get out of the car, sir." he ordered as he positioned himself in front of him. John unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door, trying to avoid his stern gaze. The policeman was definitely taller than him, at least twenty centimetres, and, to be honest, he didn't look like a simple policeman.

"Excuse me but... I'm in a bit of a hurry." muttered John, trying to justify himself.

"Yes, I noticed. 70 km/h in a built-up area... Where were you going in such a hurry, sir?" asked the policeman, taking a phone from his back pocket in order to take notes.

“Er, I… there was an emergency at home, my daughter, uh…” muttered John, and he almost wanted to slap himself for how stupid of a lie it turned out to be. 

“Licence and registration.” ordered the policeman, continuing to write on his phone. 

John took out his wallet and handed him his documents, trying to contain his anxiety. After checking them carefully and taking pictures of the serial numbers, the policeman, whose face was lit only by the light of the car’s headlights and the screen of his phone, informed him that there was a report that corresponded to his car and that he should’ve gone to the station to clarify the situation.

John, although a little angry, tired and perplexed, didn’t object. He got back in the car without asking too many questions and simply followed the policeman.

Chapter Text

222 Marylebone Road, 24th December 2027

John thought the journey would be short, that it would only take a few minutes. Instead, he realised that the policeman had taken the road towards London. As they got closer to the centre, the main road became more and more busy. The ultramodern buildings and the frequent signs of pizzerias, perfumeries, clothes shops were starting to replace the boring, residential buildings of East Ham. John, more confused than a chameleon in a packet of M&M’s, began to wonder what the hell was happening, and why the policeman was taking him specifically to Marylebone. After a few minutes, the policeman turned the corner and pulled up to the pavement, putting one foot on the ground and switching off the engine. When John had reached him with his car, he looked up from the steering wheel and realised he was outside The Landmark restaurant. (1)

Why the hell had he brought him there? What did it mean?

The policeman signalled him out of the car and, grabbing his left arm, he gently escorted him to the entrance of that super luxury restaurant. Two ushers were stationed on either side of the doors and opened the door for him. Once it closed behind him, one of them took his black coat and pulled it off his shoulders. 

John was now more confused than ever.

As soon as he stepped through the entrance, John was greeted by another member of the staff, who escorted him to the centre of the restaurant. There, there was an extremely large room with a very high ceiling, perhaps twenty or thirty feet. The ambiance was classic and screamed elegance in every way. There were also some decorative palm trees in the centre. John felt like he had ended up in a parallel universe. He’d already been to that restaurant years before, namely the night he was about to propose to Mary and when Sherlock reappeared after two years. He almost felt embarrassed by the welcoming and yet intimate atmosphere which was surrounding him. 

Why had it changed so much? Or, even worse, why didn’t he remember it to be like this?

There were several rather private seating areas on either side of the room, each with an elegant dining table. He hadn’t noticed that hidden part of the restaurant the first time he’d been there. Perhaps it was reserved for conferences, ceremonies or business meetings.

And who would summon him to such a place? Mycroft Holmes, of course. No one else would choose such a refined yet discreet place for a meeting. Mycroft was sitting comfortably at a table in the centre of the right side. He was holding a glass of red wine in his right hand and he was showing a stony expression on his face. 

Still escorted by the waitress, John approached his table. Mycroft’s cold, calculating gaze immediately met his eyes. Once there, the waitress walked away and left the poor doctor at the mercy of the government official. Mycroft remained silent, perfectly at ease as he sat with his back against the back of his chair. It was almost unnerving that he always managed to give the impression of being in complete control of the situation. He continued to sip his wine with a studied slowness, while he continued to observe John through the rim of his glass, letting the silence between them grow exponentially longer.

After a few seconds of that oppressive silence, Mycroft finally placed his glass of wine back on the table. “Good evening, Dr. Watson.” he greeted in a low tone. His voice was filled with a cold formality that did nothing to hide the gulf that had grown between them over the past ten years. The smile which accompanied those words was equally artificial. It was just a slight upward curve of his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.

John swallowed nervously, every muscle in his body wanted to make him turn around and go back the way he had come. But he already knew that Mycroft wouldn’t let him. Instead, he clenched his jaw and nodded in response, not saying a word.

“Please, sit down.” offered Mycroft, waving at the empty chair in front of him.

John sighed in anger while continuing clenching his jaw. He lowered his gaze and turned to one side, moving the chair back and sitting down with his elbows resting on the table. He immediately realised that everyone in the room was dressed in suits or tuxedos, Mycroft included. He, instead, was wearing a crumpled blue shirt, a pair of jeans that looked worn out in some spots, and shoes which had some traces of mud at the bottom. He didn’t look like a medical professional at all.

“It’s really nice to see you again, doctor.” said Mycroft with a fake flattery, while maintaining his fake smile.

A waitress approached John and handed him a sanitising wipe. He raised an eyebrow in confusion and absentmindedly accepted it. 

“You hid well. It wasn’t easy to find you.” continued Mycroft after a few moments, while watching him move his hands.

“And to think I wasn’t even trying to hide.” admitted John, sounding quite sarcastic as he rubbed the wipe between his fingers. “I have to imagine your spy network is losing steam.” he continued, handing the used wipe to the waitress, who immediately walked away.

Mycroft laughed genuinely at that, but he quickly became serious again. “I like to think you were enjoying your freedom, at least for a little while.”

John snorted, running his tongue nervously over his lips. "Oh yeah, I'm definitely enjoying it. I've got a gruelling job, a motherless girl to raise, a girlfriend who demands too much attention, and my mother is dying in hospital. And now this!" he blurted out, slamming his hands on his legs in frustration. "You two always have terrible timing, dammit!"

Mycroft's pupils dilated, ready to reply, but he didn't have time to argue as a waiter approached from his right. 

"Are you ready to order, Sir?" he asked, handing a menu to Mycroft and then to John, who accepted it, clearly still very confused as to why he’d been summoned to such a place.

"Thank you." said Mycroft, accepting it. He then took a pair of brown glasses from his inside pocket and put them on. (2)

John was surprised to see that Mycroft had accepted the idea of getting older and needed to wear glasses to see well up close. When Mycroft had begun to leer at him menacingly, he looked down at his menu, still resting closed on the table.

“For my appetiser I will have the Cornish White Crab Meat, with corn chips and walnuts on the side. For my main course I will have the Merryfield Duck Breast and for dessert I will have the Toffee Pudding.” he said, taking his glasses off.

“Excellent choice as always, Sir.” the waiter complimented cheerfully as he busily wrote down the order on his phone.

Mycroft then handed over his menu. “What would you like to eat, doctor?”

John was still looking confused, clutching the closed menu in his hand. “I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.”

“It’s an invitation to dinner, doctor.” explained Mycroft.

“But I didn’t accept any invitation.” growled John.

“You accepted it the moment you sat down. Now please proceed with your order.” begged Mycroft with a falsely polite smile, offering apologetic glances at the waiter.

John snorted and opened the menu, quickly scanning it. “I can’t afford half of these dishes.” he admitted bitterly, his eyes darting up and down, desperately searching for something cheap.

“It’s on the house, doctor. Feel free to order without feeling… pressured.”

John nodded wearily and focused on the menu. “Hum… I’ll have the Salad of Spring Vegetables and the Selection of British Cheeses.”

The waiter finished typing on his phone and John handed him his menu as well. “What would you like to drink, Mr. Holmes?” he then asked.

“2001 Saint Emilion. Thank you.”

The waiter gave a sort of bow and left the table. 

“My choice wasn’t excellent, it seems.” muttered John in a mock disappointment, leaning back in his chair.

“Your choice was as excellent as mine, doctor. Let’s spare ourselves these little pleasantries.” begged Mycroft in a mock supplication, taking his napkin and folding it.

John looked at him for a moment, undecided. Then, he took the opportunity to speak. “Seriously, Mycroft, what do I owe all this to?”

“One must treat oneself well today. It’s Christmas Eve.” he replied with a smile.

“We’ve mellowed with age, haven’t we?” John teased him, raising his hand to his beard to scratch it.

The two men got interrupted again by another waiter, who brought them two drinks arranged at an angle, one half of which was white and frozen, the other half was blue and liquid. John took one glass in his hand and turned it between his fingers, looking at it with a confused expression. But Mycroft distracted him from his attempt to figure out how to drink it. “There are important matters to deal with, I’m afraid.”

“And you thought it best to deal with them on Christmas Eve.” John blurted out, a little more nervously, placing the cocktail back on the table. “I have guests for dinner, for God’s sake!”

“It’s still early, doctor. You still have plenty of time to welcome them home and pretend nothing has happened.”

John shook his head. “You don’t know my girlfriend. She’s already reported me missing and she’s already planning my funeral.”

Mycroft laughed lightly at the joke and, as he saw the waiter approaching with the bottle of wine, he eased him over, moving it toward him. “Do you drink, doctor?” he asked once his glass was filled.

“I have to drive.” admitted John, waving his hand as to say ‘no’.

Once the waiter had moved away again, Mycroft took the opportunity to prod him. “It amuses me the fact that the night you left Baker Street to reach Inspector Lestrade’s house, nine years ago, you drank over a pint of whiskey. And now you say you have to drive. You had to drive back then too, endangering not only your life, but your little girl’s as well.”

John felt his heart begin to race with anger. “Look, Mycroft… that’s an old story. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“Of course it still matters!” snapped Mycroft unexpectedly, slamming his left hand on the table. Then, he realised he couldn’t possibly lose his temper in public, so he tried to return his voice to a friendly tone. He took a moment before speaking. “We need to talk about him. He still hasn’t understood that you’ve forgiven him, and that makes things difficult for us.” he said, his voice low and controlled again. 

John swallowed without saying a word.

“He’s back to London now, and this has become a matter of national importance.” Mycroft told him, staring intently at him while folding his hands in front of his mouth.

John took a moment to define his words as best he could. “I’ll ask you a question, Mycroft: is it normal for you to let Sherlock wander off all alone? In the condition he’s obviously in?”

Mycroft, who had been on the edge of his seat, anxious for John’s answer, sat up more comfortably, looking down and twirling the base of his wine glass, trying to find a way to evade the answer.

“My God! So it wasn’t just us. I could tell there was something wrong with him.”

Mycroft swallowed nervously and thanked the heavens that the appetisers had arrived. The waiter put down the two plates and bowls and walked away again. Mycroft’s eyes almost lit up as he stared at the food on his plate, but John remained almost impassive in front of his plate of grilled vegetables. Mycroft moved the bowls containing the corn chips and nuts toward the centre of the table. “Would you like some, doctor?”

John gave a quick glance at the corn chips. “I’m fine, thank you. I don’t want to risk losing a filling or two. My life is messy enough as it is.”

“Eat them mindlessly, doctor. I’ll give you my dentist’s number, in case you need it.” offered Mycroft with a kind smile. He then picked up his fork and knife to start eating.

John narrowed his eyes and began to wonder why he was being too available. It really was Christmas. He picked up his fork and started eating too. “I have to admit, though, that the Holmes' genes are rather strange: you, Mycroft, haven’t aged at all in ten years. Sherlock, on the other hand, has changed terribly.” he said, continuing to chew on his piece of baked carrot. “What happened to him?”

Mycroft swallowed nervously. “After his recovery, I sent him to Serbia, in a war zone. And war changes people, Doctor. You should know it better than anyone else.” said Mycroft in his calm tone, trying to be convincing.

John shook his head, thoughtfully. “No, war doesn’t change you that way.”

“Not all wars are the same, doctor.” added Mycroft, determined.

John swallowed and put his fork down on his plate. “Have you even looked at him, Mycroft? He looks like a zombie, for Heaven’s sake! I almost didn’t recognise him! War doesn’t push you to that point! There must be something else.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise, but he tried not to show it. He decided not to answer, taking another bite.

“I still don’t understand how my daughter recognised him after seeing him in a photo from who knows how many years ago. He’s almost unrecognisable.”

Mycroft chewed slowly for a few moments, then he put his fork back on his plate. “It’s just a matter of observation, doctor. Little Rosie has lived with Sherlock for four years after all. She has, let’s say, absorbed a part of him. And let me say that she is a very intelligent girl, just like her father.”

John snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t change the subject, Mycroft. It’s not just a matter of recognising him or not. We’re not talking about a few extra pounds, or white or coloured hair.”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment, his fingers now fidgeting with his napkin. “As I said before, his experience abroad has affected him deeply. He was in a hostile and inhuman environment. And I have to tell you that I myself underestimated the impact it would have on him.” he said bitterly. “But I am also sure that he will soon recover."

John decided he’d had enough of the whole situation and made to get up from the chair. Mycroft immediately frowned at him, ready to unleash hell upon him. “And what about you, doctor? What did you do when you found yourself in it?” he asked aggressively. “You’re the one who left the park and left him all alone. For the umpteenth time.” he scolded, taking another sip of his wine, his hand slightly shaking in anger.

John’s eyebrows raised so high that they almost disappeared into his hairline. “W-What?” asked John in disbelief. “How could I leave? I’m a bloody doctor, I could never have left him alone in the state he was in. He was the one who left!”

At that, Mycroft almost spat the wine in his face. “I’m sorry?!” he asked, trying not to choke.

“He started shaking like a leaf, screaming and mumbling things like, ‘Stop it, both of you!’ and ‘You shouldn’t have come back.’ and then he started running even more uncoordinated. I tried to chase him and stop him, but he’d already gotten into a taxi.”

Mycroft had been staring at him in bewilderment, his mouth slightly open. He didn’t understand why his most trusted subordinate hadn’t told him about all of this. Now that Dr. Watson had revealed something so shocking, he knew he had to intervene. 

John reached for the bowl of shelled walnuts. “He’s… off . He’s not just sad, Mycroft, he’s like he’s… dead inside. It’s like all his brain circuits are burned out.” he muttered thoughtfully, tossing two walnuts into his mouth at once and making an infernal noise as he chewed them.

Mycroft looked at his wine again. The waiter then arrived with Mycroft's Merryfield Duck Breast. Since John hadn’t ordered anything for the main course, he brought both bowls of appetisers in his direction.

Mycroft cut a slice of his duck and ate it. As he was chewing it, he realised that, if he wanted to win over Dr. Watson, he would have to reveal a little more information. “John… I have to tell you that I’ve been avoiding the subject up to this point. But now I think you need to know.”

John continued to look at him with a mixture of anxiety, frustration, and anger. He took two more walnuts and chewed them vigorously. 

“Your departure and subsequent absence have shaken Sherlock deeply, and I have to say that sending him off to war hasn’t helped. Prolonged exposure to suffering has led him to a psychotic disorder ."

John stopped chewing in realisation. “Has he developed hallucinations, too?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it and simply nodded.

“Jesus Christ.” commented John. “Now it explains his incoherent answers.”

Mycroft took a bite of the duck and said: “I can’t tell what’s going on in his already out of control brain, but I think he will still be able to find the right path to take.” he remained silent for a few seconds. “We know that Sherlock has done the impossible in the past. He even restarted his heart, and he did it just for you .”

“I don’t know if he’ll ever recover." murmured John, thoughtfully. "I’ve seen men shattered by war, but… God! this... this is something else. But, maybe, medication could help.”

Mycroft quickly pretended not to know he could go down that road. “Oh, really?” he asked, suddenly reassured, with tears coming to his eyes. “So with medication he could get better?” he asked, faking his hopefulness.

John leaned back and began to remove food particles from his molars with the tip of his tongue, looking up thoughtfully. “Don’t pretend you haven’t already given him medication, Mycroft. It may have been many years, but I can still tell when you’re lying.”

Mycroft, maintaining his icy calm, tried not to be taken aback by John’s accusation. “It’s not a question of lying, but of discretion. Your concern is always appreciated, though, doctor.”

John nodded wearily, his eyes narrowing a little.

“I assure you that every decision was made with the best of intentions.”

John nodded again, deciding to answer the previous question anyway. “I don’t know if taking drugs will make him better in the long term but, at least, they might stop him from hallucinating.”

Mycroft nodded in return. “I’m sure that, if he keeps taking them and if he gets closer again to the people who care about him, he will get better.”

John smiled without actually smiling. He continued to give him a hesitant look. Mycroft seemed particularly strange that evening. “And what do I have to do with all this?” he asked, already fearing the answer.

“Sherlock needs us. All of us. And you , most importantly. We have to be ready to do whatever it takes to save him. We can’t risk losing him.”

John certainly expected Mycroft to ask him to do something for Sherlock, otherwise this whole dinner drama would’ve been pointless. “Mycroft…” started John, saying his name in a harsh tone. “You once told me that I was dangerous, and that you should never have allowed me to bond with him. Why are you asking for my help now?”

Mycroft swallowed and didn’t answer right away. His two fingers played with the rounded rim of his goblet as he continued to stare at him. “It all happened so fast and suddenly I- my words were just an incentive to make you do more, doctor.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Really, Mycroft?! Is that how you justify it all?” he asked, terribly surprised. “You looked me in the eye and told me that I had destroyed him. And now, after ten years , you need me again? I find this a lot hypocritical, honestly.”

“I’m not in the habit of asking for help. But now…” Mycroft hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “Now I have no choice. And you are the only person he would listen to, the only one who could make him...” he hesitated again.

John crossed his arms over his chest, still looking at him. “And what happens if I fail?”

“I am sure you will not fail, Doctor.” he said, smiling. “Sherlock needs to see that there is still something worth fighting for."

John breathed in and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he seemed to have made up his mind. “Tell me what I have to do.”

A hint of relief passed over Mycroft's face. “January 6th will be his 51st birthday. I want to organise a sort of reunion at Angelo’s with the old gang. I would like you to come.”

“And what if he starts hallucinating? What do we do then?”

“I will make sure he gets his medication in due time. He won’t hallucinate.” assured Mycroft with a bright smile.

John remained silent, his eyes fixed on the bowls in front of him. The thought of seeing Sherlock like this again already made him shiver. He knew that Mycroft was lying, that this wouldn’t be a simple reunion: it would be a test for everyone there, and especially for Sherlock. It would be a desperate attempt to bring him back to reality, and to make sure he stayed there.

John nodded again, determined. “All right. I’ll be there, then.” he said, leaning forward to offer his right hand to Mycroft, who shook it. 

“I’ll always be there for him.” declared John with a sad smile. 

Mycroft, for the first time in his life, looked grateful. “That’s all I ask.” 

The silence that followed was one of mutual understanding. After they had finished their respective desserts, the two of them went their separate ways home. The only difference was that Mycroft had no one waiting for him at home. Instead, John would first have to go back to East Ham, stop by at a rotisserie to buy everything they needed for the Christmas Eve dinner, and argue with Amelia until the guests arrived. But that didn’t really matter, because January 6th was awfully close.

(to be continued…)