Work Text:
The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live. --Matthew Arnold
This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes lived long enough to grow old.
***
Sherlock decided, quite early on, that he was destined to die young.
It was the only reasonable conclusion, really. The only sensations that brought him any small measure of happiness--namely drugs and danger and the adrenaline of the chase--were not conducive to a normal lifespan, to say the very least; he disliked other people and disdained the type of relationships that sustain ordinary individuals in their later years; and worst of all, the very worst of all, was how bored, how incredibly bored he became with life, how frustrated he became with the grinding mundanity of existing day to day. He needed the lethal thrill, the rush of testing the knife edge of existence. He could only live by walking a tightrope over death, by balancing on the thinnest strand of mortality and contemplating the void beneath his feet.
What could the future possibly hold for a man like that? How does one who can only deal with being alive by flinging himself from one sensation to another even begin to contemplate the encroaching boundaries of age?
Knowing exactly what kind of man he was, Sherlock moved from one day the next, never contemplating the future, only feeling a mild curiosity about learning the exact nature of his inevitable end.
***
Sherlock overdosed accidentally at twenty-four, and accidentally on purpose at twenty-six, sneering along the way at his brother's every attempt to pull him out of the abyss and running away from every expensive rehab Mycroft paid for.
At twenty-eight, Mycroft told him he was finished. “This is the life you’ve chosen, Sherlock, and I won’t stand here and argue with a dead man.” Sherlock was unsurprised, as he largely concurred with that assessment.
At twenty-nine, Greg Lestrade arrested him for possession, and the DS turned out to be the first denizen of New Scotland Yard to pay the slightest bit of attention to the jacked-up deductions Sherlock made as he languished in a foul-smelling holding cell, waiting for a Mycroft who wasn’t coming this time.
Sherlock furnished the DS with the key to unlocking a particularly nasty triple homicide, and Lestrade made the possession charge go away as compensation.
Lestrade gave him the gift of solving crimes as an alternative to getting high, and Sherlock calculated his probable lifespan upward accordingly. Thirty-five was the established boundary, Sherlock decided after extensive calculations. He would be dead by thirty-five. That was the kind of man he was. That was the kind of life he lived.
At thirty-four, a year before his appointed rendezvous with oblivion, Sherlock met a man. Nobody special, or so he thought, an ordinary man--who soon proved extraordinary, a man who killed without hesitation to protect a life Sherlock cared nothing about.
Something took root inside Sherlock, then, in the space where others kept a heart. It grew slowly, though, so slowly that he didn’t even realize what had happened until he found himself on a rooftop ledge with the wind blowing through his hair, bidding farewell to his only friend. Even though it wasn’t for real (it’s just a trick, John, a magic trick) he thought that last step would be easy because it didn’t matter a bit, he was thirty-five and it was time, he was ready to die for real if he had to and it was fine, it was expected, but as he said goodbye to John he was surprised by tears on his face and a truly astonishing revelation as he stepped into thin air.
I don’t want to die.
That thought kept him alive for two long, lonely years.
***
At thirty-eight, he killed a man in cold blood for John Watson.
His brother told him he had thrown his life away. Sherlock knew that wasn’t true. If he was not to have a long life, at least he had finally found someone worthy of giving it to. He truly believed himself at peace; three lives for one, after all, was an excellent trade for such a pitiful trifle.
Sherlock was calm, resigned to his fate. It was not until after the plane turned around and touched back down onto British soil that he identified the strange wild feeling snaking through his chest.
It was relief.
***
Moriarty’s pretender was dealt with, Moran’s network destroyed. Sherlock now understood that caring, if properly focused, could cut and burn with deadly laser precision.
He didn’t know how to live, but he had found something worth dying for, and he used that knowledge mercilessly and without remorse.
***
Violet Eugenia Watson was born on a rainy Thursday evening.
“Sit down,” John ordered him. Sherlock complied, shrugging out of the Belstaff and folding himself into the ugly vinyl hospital armchair. John gently placed the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms.
“John,” Sherlock breathed in amazement, “you created a tiny human.”
“Well, Mary did the cooking, really,” John said with a smile. “I just contributed some of the ingredients.”
Sherlock didn’t reply, gazing raptly at his best friend’s daughter. He gently unfolded the blanket a bit, looked at the tiny fingers, the perfect toes.
The world is so big, so very big, and you are so very small.
He closed his eyes, the prickle of tears hot behind his lids.
“She’s brilliant,” he said.
“Yeah,” John said.
***
Mary’s past caught up with her, finally, on a warm Saturday afternoon.
She and John were in the Asda car lot, loading groceries into the boot, thirteen-month-old Violet still strapped into the shopping trolley.
Sherlock was in the middle of a complex chemistry experiment when he got the texts from Lestrade. He was at a delicate juncture in the proceedings and ignored the first text, as well as the second.
He remembered that. Even though it made absolutely no difference at all in the end, he thought a lot about that, after.
***
Sherlock ducked under the tape, striding past a squawking PC to where John sat vacant-eyed on the pavement, Mary’s blood staining his jumper. In his arms, a blanket-wrapped Violet whimpered and squirmed. Sherlock ignored, for the moment, the body sprawled next to the car--she’s dead, gone, nothing to be done for her now--and knelt next to John, stripping off his gloves to touch his face, take his pulse, checking for injuries, needing to reassure himself though Lestrade had told him repeatedly only Mary had been struck.
“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said, his voice utterly robotic, numb with shock. “We’re fine.”
Sherlock ran his fingers over the baby’s soft blond head. She cried harder and shied from his touch, burrowing herself into her father’s neck. John patted and soothed her reflexively, and Sherlock felt a moment of terrible, overwhelming helplessness.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice came from behind him. “Sherlock, we need you.”
“Go,” John said. “Go. Help them.”
Sherlock nodded, pushing himself to his feet and turning away. He already knew what he would find, but he went to Mary’s body anyway, fingers and brain operating on automatic pilot.
One shot, long-distance, between the eyes. Kill shot, no surgery, no chance. Sniper hit from the roof of the supermarket. Mary was the only target. Nothing personal; this was purely business.
Mary’s eyes were still open. She wore a jacket of dark green cotton fleece, the type of thing suburban mums wear the world over. The right cuff was smeared with drying saliva and mucus.
She used her sleeve to wipe the baby’s face. It was the last thing she did, smiling at the teething, drooling baby, wiping her little chin with tender affection. The last thing she saw in this life was her daughter’s face.
He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose, overwhelmed by vertigo.
Sherlock sensed Mycroft’s presence behind him, stood, turned away from the body on the pavement. He would not look at Mary again. He could not.
“Not much need for deduction here, brother.” Mycroft’s voice held no trace of his usual archness. Sherlock clearly understood the message. Don’t torture yourself, Sherlock. Nothing will come of it.
“Indeed, and in any case the details will never see the light of day, I’m sure,” Sherlock said, agreeing with him.
“You knew this was always a possible outcome, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured sadly.
Sherlock knew the truth of this and said nothing.
The brothers stood silently for a minute. Sherlock was vaguely surprised that the world continued to exist around them. He heard Violet crying for her mother.
“What do I do, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, voice low and desperate. “Tell me.”
“The only thing you can do,” Mycroft answered. “Take them home.”
Lestrade stood several feet away, close enough to hear their conversation without being intrusive. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his face. Lestrade nodded minutely.
Just beyond the police tape, a low black car idled.
Sherlock went to John’s side, touched his shoulder. “Come along, John. It’s time to go.”
John didn’t even move.
“John,” Sherlock said, a touch more forcefully. “It’s getting dark. Violet’s getting chilled. Let’s get her someplace warm.”
John responded then, struggling awkwardly to his feet, clutching his daughter tightly to his chest. Sherlock placed his hand on John’s back and guided him to the waiting car.
John followed Sherlock’s directions blankly, completely absent. Sherlock wondered briefly about a car seat but realized John was likely not even physically able to relinquish his hold on his child.
In the moving car, Violet’s whimpers subsided as exhaustion took over and she slept. Sherlock watched her breathe, her cheeks flushed, tears still clinging to her long eyelashes. John said nothing, not a word, remote and silent as stone.
There were nappies and bottles and fresh clothing waiting for them in the front hallway of 221B.
***
According to her obituary, Mary Watson died of a sudden, catastrophic brain aneurysm in a supermarket car park.
Sherlock tied John’s tie and fixed his hair while Mrs. Hudson held the baby.
At the service, John was a carved statue, dry-eyed. Violet played at his feet, uncomprehending.
The ceremony was private and very small.
There weren’t many people, after all, to mourn a woman who never really existed.
***
John didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. The only time he showed a spark of life was when he changed or bathed or held Violet, but he was so unresponsive at other times Sherlock was unwilling to leave them alone in the flat. The baby slept beside John in his old double bed upstairs; Mycroft had a cot delivered but it stood in the corner of the room, unused.
Thrust into the unfamiliar role of caretaker, Sherlock felt adrift. He made tea but it grew cold in John’s unmoving hands. He tried to make toast but he was too easily distracted and burned it into charcoal. When Violet grew fussy and overtired, Sherlock tried to hold her but he was stiff and anxious, and she struggled and cried in his arms. She would settle for Mrs. Hudson, though, leaving Sherlock feeling like he had been measured by the tiny girl and found wanting.
The only thing he could do to help, it seemed, was to play the violin for hours, until his fingers cramped and burned, until both Watsons slept in John’s armchair, curled up damply into one another.
When Mrs. Hudson could stay with them for a bit, Sherlock went walking through Regent’s Park, trying to sort his tangled thoughts, tasting bitter regret for every moment he secretly wished for John’s return. I didn’t mean it, he thought, feeling like a small child trying to bargain with a remote, unfeeling deity. I take it back, I didn’t mean it. Please. Not like this.
For the first time in ten years, he called his mum without prompting.
“How do I fix this?” he asked her.
“There’s no fixing this, love,” she said sadly. “Be patient. It will get better with time.”
So, unable to give them anything else, Sherlock gave them time. He turned off his phone and turned away visitors and gave them time.
***
Six days after the funeral, John made a scrambled egg and toast for Violet. Eight days after, he tidied the sitting room, gathering her toys in a laundry basket. Ten days after, he opened the newspaper. Twelve days after, he picked up a pencil and attempted the quick crossword in The Guardian. He got stuck at three across, and Sherlock slipped and called him an idiot.
John actually smiled at Sherlock’s horrified expression, a pale ghost of his real smile, but still something present and real. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Back to normal. It’s good.”
It got better. In tiny, agonizing increments, it got better.
***
Sixteen days later, Sherlock looked up from his mud samples to find John hovering in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertain.
“Stop lurking about and come tell me what’s on your mind.” Sherlock got up and filled the kettle, more to give John the space to say his piece rather than any actual intention to make tea.
John sank into the kitchen chair. “I need to think about going back to work,” he said.
“I agree,” said Sherlock, recalling his internet research. “A return to normal activities can be tremendously helpful in recovering from trauma.”
“Yeah. Guess so. Also, bills. Anyway, I’ll have to look for a day nursery near the house, and figure out our new routine, and...we’ve massively overstayed our welcome and I just wanted to let you know you’ve been amazing, and we’ll be out of your hair soon.”
Sherlock knew this was coming, but he still felt a bit hollowed out inside. “You’re going back to your house?”
“Well, yes. In another day or two. I know you’ll be relieved to not have a toddler about the flat.”
Sherlock carefully rinsed out two mugs. “I don’t mind Violet at all.”
John snorted. “That I have a hard time believing.”
“It’s true. As far as children go, she’s remarkably tolerable.” Because she’s part of you, Sherlock added mentally, as he dried the cups with the corner of a relatively clean towel. “In Putney, you don’t have anyone to help. Your parents live too far away and you’re not on especially good terms, Harry is unreliable, and you dislike your neighbors. They dislike you too, for the record.”
John huffed, a humorless soundless laugh. “That’s true enough. We’ll work it out, though. We’ll be fine.” His eyes were focused on the tabletop, his shoulders tight.
He thinks I don’t want them here, Sherlock thought with a twinge of sadness. Still. After everything.
For the ten thousandth time, Sherlock felt keen sorrow at how badly he had shaken John’s faith in him by walking off that roof.
Sherlock sighed, mostly in irritation at himself, and managed to stop the reflexive Don’t be an idiot before it rolled off his tongue. He sat down at the kitchen table.
“John, clearly you’re free to do whatever you think is best, but understand...you and Violet always have a home here.” Sherlock swallowed. “With me,” he clarified, a bit unnecessarily.
He willed John to look up at him. Look at me, John. See in my face all the things I can’t say.
John did look up, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with his sad dark blue eyes.
“Anyway,” Sherlock added, “Mrs. Hudson would worry so.”
John smiled a bit at that.
“Just promise me you’ll stop making tea all the time,” John said, “because it’s freaking me out.”
“Agreed.”
Late that evening, after Violet was down for the night, John made the tea instead, bringing a cup to Sherlock.
“What are you reading?” he asked, peering at the magazine Sherlock held, his hand warm on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“An article on Ocracoke, North Carolina. A little barrier island, off the coast. Legend says that Blackbeard hid his treasure there, but no one has ever found any sign of it.”
“We should go,” John said. “Bet you could find it before we even got out of the rental car.”
“You overestimate me, John. As usual.”
“I’m pretty sure I estimate you just right,” John said. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, just the merest brush of lips. “I’m off to bed. Good night, then.”
Sherlock didn’t answer, and he didn’t move for a long time, building a towering crystal pedestal for the memory of John’s mouth against his hair.
***
John went back to work, and Violet went to day nursery. Mycroft had offered a full-time live-in nanny; Sherlock looked at his phone in comic horror before shoving it under a couch cushion.
Sherlock began to accept cases again; nothing dangerous, brain work only, no chases through London or serial killers or knife-wielding maniacs. He knew he would miss the excitement soon enough, but for now it was fine.
The baby warmed up to Sherlock slightly, consenting to be in the same room with him while John showered or put clothes in the dryer or rested. She still didn’t like him to hold her, though, only allowing a minute of terrified stillness before flailing and howling for her father.
“It takes time, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson as Violet clung to her neck, snuffling wetly, glaring balefully at Sherlock like he was the source of all human misery. “She’s at a fearful age, and she’s just lost her mum.”
“She doesn’t like me,” Sherlock whinged.
“She’s a baby, Sherlock. You’re not,” Mrs Hudson said, a bit snappish as she took Violet downstairs so John wouldn’t be woken from his impromptu nap on the couch. “It’s not always about you, you know.”
Sherlock sulked for a bit, then thought for awhile about his life before John, when it was all about Sherlock all the time, when he had the luxury of selfishness.
He remembered how blank and empty and hopeless he felt. How he waited, numbly, for death to end the boredom.
Sherlock tried to recall the last time he felt bored, and he honestly couldn’t remember.
Is this the trade, then? he wondered. I get to be not bored, but I have to give up being a selfish git?
From a cost-benefit viewpoint, he would be a fool not to strike that bargain.
He went downstairs, where Mrs. Hudson sat at the kitchen table. Violet was perched in her lap, nose running, gnawing on a Hobnob. Sherlock took a seat.
“I’m sorry, dear.” She patted his hand. “I didn’t mean to snap. Toddlers can be very trying.”
“I’ve decided,” he said, “not to be selfish anymore.”
Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, her eyes kind and a little sad.
“Sherlock,” she said. “Oh, love. You stopped being selfish years ago. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
***
Two weeks after starting day nursery Violet got sick, pale and feverish and sneezing. Sherlock was beside himself, John more philosophical. “It happens all the time. Around a bunch of new kids, new germs.”
“But she’s so hot,” Sherlock said. He could feel the heat baking off of her as he held her (screaming) on his lap so John could examine her.
“Fever is good, it’s part of the process,” John said.
“But she’s miserable,” Sherlock said accusingly. Doctors were supposed to fix this sort of thing, not cheerfully accept a tiny infant’s misery.
“Yeah,” he said, switching from doctor back to dad, “I know.” He plucked her from Sherlock’s arms. “You are, aren’t you? Poor sick baby.” He cuddled her against his neck. “It’s a just a cold, Sherlock. A virus.” John reached out and wrapped his hand gently around Sherlock’s forearm. “She just needs fluids and rest. She’ll be fine in two or three days. I promise.”
Sherlock watched as John’s fingers stroked his arm in reassurance. “Do you want me to go to Tesco?” he found himself asking.
John's eyebrows went up in surprise. “Do you know where it is?”
“Honestly, John. I’m an internationally renowned consulting detective. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“I should make a list.”
“That’s probably wise.”
Sherlock returned with two pounds of raw chicken livers and three types of chutney, but also managed to buy apple juice and tissues and a loaf of bread, and John smiled at him with a softness that made Sherlock feel warm all over.
***
Although she usually fought bedtime like a tiny drooly tiger, Violet’s eyes were drooping within minutes of Sherlock picking up the bow. By the end of the first movement she was soundly asleep, limbs floppy and mouth open.
“I’m taking her upstairs,” John said. "I’ll be right back." Sherlock nodded and continued to play. After about a quarter of an hour John came back downstairs and ducked into the kitchen, coming out with two mugs. He place Sherlock’s on the round table and sat down with his own, eyes closing as he stretched his feet across the rug.
The last note floated away as Sherlock lowered his violin. John stirred a bit, stretched, and smiled.
“She’s taking her half out of the middle and she’s broiling hot,” John said as Sherlock gently placed his violin back in its case. “I don’t know how I’m going to sleep next to that.”
Sherlock felt the moment surround them and knew, with that odd feeling of certainty he sometimes got, that the two of them had suddenly and very unexpectedly arrived at a crossroads.
Maybe not so unexpected after all, he thought, remembering the feel of John’s warm lips on his hair.
Sherlock fastened the closures on his violin case with great care, coming to a decision.
He had learned how not to be (as) selfish. Now, the task in front of him was learning how to be (more) honest with the man he loved.
“Come to bed with me, then,” Sherlock said, his voice catching a bit on the words.
John didn’t laugh or protest or brush him aside. He did nothing at all, in fact, for an agonizingly long moment, his eyes closed, fingers curled around the handle of his mug.
“Okay,” he exhaled at last. “Yeah. Okay.”
Sherlock plucked the cup out of John’s hands with nerveless fingers, placing it on the side table next to the chair. He held his hand out to John, who regarded it for a second, then took it with a shadow of a smile.
“Grab the baby monitor,” he said.
Sherlock led John by the hand into the darkened bedroom, stopping to grab the monitor on the way. He closed the door behind them and set the small white speaker carefully on the bedside table, his stomach tying itself in knots. He straightened, looking at John with uncertainty.
In the dim light of the streetlamps, John regarded him evenly, an unreadable expression on his face. He moved closer to Sherlock, sliding his hands under the silk dressing gown to rest lightly on his hips.
“So,” John said. “This is how we’re going to be.”
“Only if it’s what you want,” said Sherlock, desperate for John to stay but wanting to make sure he was willing. “It’s up to you, entirely.”
“It always has been, hasn’t it?” John said. “Up to me.”
Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Well, then,” John said, and kissed him.
It wasn’t fireworks, it wasn’t explosions; it was a slow warm dark good feeling that started under Sherlock’s ribs and spread outward, filling his limbs and his head and his cock with a thick languorous heat. John’s mouth opened to him and their tongues met, an amazing sensation that made John moan just a little, the noise sending tingles down Sherlock’s spine.
The taste and smell of John surrounded him, making him dizzy, making his knees unwilling to support him. Sherlock sank down on the bed, pulling John down with him. John’s legs straddled him, hands in his hair as John’s lips found his neck, making Sherlock gasp. His hips thrust against John’s, feeling hardness against his own, causing him to make a small whimpering sound he barely recognized as his own voice.
They stayed like that for minutes that felt like hours, or maybe hours that felt like minutes, kissing and touching, grinding against each other fully clothed like teenagers, until John broke away, panting heavily.
“Sherlock,” he said, placing his warm hand on Sherlock’s chest. “We need to...can we slow this down just a bit?”
Are you having your tiresome sexual identity crisis now? Sherlock thought with a mental sneer, then stopped the words from coming out. John was in a fragile place, and he didn’t want to…
“No, stop that,” John said, touching Sherlock’s face gently.“Stop treating me like I’m breakable. You’re being far too nice and I appreciate it, but it’s not you and you can stop now. Just talk to me.”
“Okay,” Sherlock said, more evenly than he felt. “You’re having a panic over your sexuality, and you’re worried you’re making a mistake and ruining our friendship and if you want to change your mind I--”
“Sherlock, no.” John kissed him, gently, open-mouthed and soft. “No. I want this. I want you. I just need to…” he took a breath. “My life is in turmoil and I have a baby and I don’t want to screw this up and I have no idea what I’m doing right now. But none of that is about you being a man, okay? I want you and I don’t care about that a bit, which is surprising, I guess, but true.”
Sherlock relaxed a fraction. “Okay. That makes sense.”
“Good.” John slid off of Sherlock and curled into his side, head on his chest. “We have all the time in the world. Let’s not get in over our heads right out of the gate.”
Sherlock stroked John’s soft hair. “This is probably the time to tell you something.”
“Anything.”
“I’ve never...I mean I’ve done some things. But. Not very many. And not in a very, very long time.”
John huffed out a soft chuckle. “So we’re both basically new at this.”
“Yes.” Sherlock kissed the warm top of John’s head.
They lay silent for awhile, entangled in each other, breathing each other in. John stirred a little and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist. He tensed, exhaled, gathering the courage to speak. Sherlock said nothing, rubbing his thumb in small circles on John’s back.
“I hated her, by the end.”
Sherlock tightened his arm around John but remained silent, giving John the room he needed.
“I loved her, but...I felt like a hostage. I never trusted her again, not after I knew, but I couldn’t leave. I knew that if things went wrong, if I tried to break away, she would disappear and I would lose my daughter forever.”
“Never,” Sherlock growled softly. “I would have found her, John. I would have torn the world apart with my bare hands to find her.”
John’s lips grazed his collarbone in gratitude. “I know, Sherlock, I know you would have tried, but she was as smart as you, almost as smart at least, and professionally trained to disappear. We never would have found them, and I couldn’t lose my daughter. I was trapped.”
John’s breathing grew ragged, just a tiny bit, and Sherlock knew he was crying.
“When I realized what had happened, that she was dead, you know how I felt? I was relieved, Sherlock. She couldn’t take Violet from me and I was free and I was relieved. My child’s mother was murdered in front of her and I loved her but God forgive me, I was relieved.”
Sherlock said nothing and let John cry, his entire body quaking in silent sobs as Sherlock rubbed his back and petted his hair, afraid of speaking and knowing nothing he could say would help. Tears soaked through Sherlock’s tee shirt, the dampness cooling against his skin as he held John close and waited for the storm to pass.
And it did pass, after a while, leaving John shivering and spent as he curled limply against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered, and made his way to the kitchen where he filled a glass with water and grabbed a fresh box of tissues before returning to his bedroom. John made a snuffly noise of thanks, blowing his nose and gulping down the entire glass of water as Sherlock stripped off his soaked shirt and slid back into bed.
“I know I told you told you to stop being so nice,” John said, his voice hoarse, ”but, you know, you can keep being a little nice. It’s weird, but I’m getting used to it.”
“I plan to try,” Sherlock informed him gravely. “I may not succeed all that often, but I will try.”
“Thank you,” John whispered, and pulled Sherlock close to kiss him.
What started as a chaste expression of gratitude soon grew more heated, and Sherlock knew it was the fight or flight response to the emotional storm but he felt it too, the relief and giddy arousal of the adrenaline sloshing through his veins, just like so many nights when had wanted John so badly he ached with it. He took John’s mouth with greedy, wet, open-mouthed kisses, moaning and arching as John’s fingers moved over his bare skin.
John’s hand slipped below the waist of his pyjamas, and Sherlock gasped.
“John...you said...are you sure?”
“I’m sure. God, I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I'm sure. Please.”
They undressed each other in a frenzied tangle of limbs, clothing discarded mindlessly as their hands touched and grasped and moved against each other. Sherlock closed his fingers around John’s hard cock and stroked, once, making him gasp. He worked him with his hand, watching the pleasure play across his face, his head thrown back as Sherlock pleasured him. Sherlock bent his head to taste John's exposed neck, licking and nibbling his way down John’s torso, tasting the hot salt of his skin as John moaned in breathy gasps.
Sherlock moved his hand away--making John whimper at the loss of contact--and took him in his mouth, inexpertly but enthusiastically, reveling in the silky hot hardness of him. He took John all the way in, sliding his tongue on the underside of the shaft, and was rewarded with a throaty groan and a hand entwined in his hair.
“Yes, Sherlock, God. I can’t believe...oh God,” John gasped as Sherlock moved up and down, learning, accumulating data and cataloguing John’s astounding reactions.
The hand in Sherlock’s hair tightened, just a bit. “Not yet,” John panted, and Sherlock slipped his mouth off of John’s cock and moved back up to kiss him hard, a clash of tongue and teeth, sharing the taste of John on his lips.
John rearranged himself so they lay side by side, their hips slotted together. Sherlock hissed at the sensation of John’s cock, wet with saliva, sliding against his own.
“Oh, yes, love, God that feels perfect. Does that feel good for you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, gasping. “Yes, it feels amazing, don’t stop.”
John reached down in between their bodies, wrapping both of them up in his warm rough palm, stroking hard. Sherlock felt the sparking pleasure building in his spine, drawing him tight, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, against the self-consciousness and self-awareness of the moment, the terrifying intimacy of sharing this with another person, with John, oh God--
“Sherlock,” John whispered raggedly. He kissed Sherlock’s neck, slid a hot tongue against the sharp edge of his collarbone. “God, Sherlock, you have to know, you were first, you were always first--”
“I know,” rasped Sherlock. “I know.”
John tucked his face against Sherlock’s shoulder as his hand sped up, his strokes getting more ragged as his orgasm approached.
“Always,” said John, “I always--”
John came hard, his back arching as he spilled with a single guttural moan. Hot wetness spurted onto Sherlock’s stomach. This is John, he thought, coming on me, coming in my arms--and the realisation tipped him over the edge and his orgasm exploded, rocketing up his spine to explode his brain in pleasure. Sherlock dimly heard himself making inhuman noises as his seed spilled over both of their bodies and everything was shivering gorgeous perfect and--
He came back to himself slowly, breathing hard, oxytocin washing over him and making him dopey and sleepy and filled with tenderness. He opened one eye to find John gazing at him with a warmth that melted his heart.
“We should have done this years ago,” John said. “I was afraid. I’m sorry.”
“We’re both to blame,” Sherlock murmured, knowing it was true. “The past can’t be changed, so there’s no point in dwelling on it. The important thing is, we’re here now.”
John brushed a sweat-dampened curl out of Sherlock’s eyes. “We are, aren’t we?” he said with wonder, and kissed his forehead.
Their breathing evened out as both men slid closer to slumber despite their stickiness.
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.
“What?” John asked.
“That was amazing,” Sherlock said. “Surprisingly amazing, for someone totally new to this.”
John squirmed a bit, hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “I may have looked some things up on the internet,” he mumbled against his shoulder.
That made Sherlock laugh, and after a sheepish moment John joined in, a real laugh for the first time in so very long, and the sound of it was the loveliest thing Sherlock had ever heard.
***
Sherlock didn’t even realize they had fallen asleep until Violet’s fretful cry woke them.
“Her majesty requires an audience,” John murmured apologetically. “I need to go upstairs.” He slid out of bed and ducked into the bathroom. Sherlock heard the toilet flush, and John re-emerged, tossing a wet flannel to Sherlock, and stepping into his boxers. He came around to Sherlock’s side of the bed and kissed him. “Our life together is not terribly romantic, I’m afraid.”
“Bring her down here,” Sherlock said, and cringed a bit at how needy he sounded.
“Then you won’t get any sleep.”
Sherlock shrugged, in too far to back out now.
“I need very little sleep, and I don’t want to lose your company. “
John looked at him quizzically for a moment, then gave him his well-worn “what the hell” shrug. “Okay. I don’t especially want to leave anyway. Put some pants on, at least.”
Sherlock put his pants on while John fetched Violet from the upstairs bedroom and brought her downstairs, fussing a bit but still asleep. John settled Violet in on the other side of the bed and curled on his side around her. Sherlock spooned him, his hand splayed across John’s warm hip.
John turned his face back to Sherlock and Sherlock gave him a deep, lingering kiss before settling his head on the pillow.
“Unconventional end to a hot first date,” John chuckled.
“We’ve never done things conventionally,” Sherlock pointed out. “I don’t expect that to change now that we’re having sex.”
“No, I guess not,” John mumbled sleepily. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, John,” Sherlock whispered into his hair.
John fell asleep within minutes. Sherlock stayed awake, watching the two of them sleep, Violet’s tiny blond head looking so much like her father’s, and feeling things he couldn’t even begin to understand. Gazing at their slack round faces, softened by slumber, Sherlock was struck by a revelation so huge, so colossal, it threatened to overwhelm him completely.
John Watson doesn’t need me to die for him.
He needs me to live for him.
***
And time went on, and Sherlock Holmes and his doctor and their daughter grew older.
As it turned out, Sherlock was always going to be exactly the man he was born to be. He would always rejoice in a creative, well-planned homicide. He would always relish a late night chase through the raggedy streets of London. He would always, in a dusty locked room deep in his mind, miss (just a little bit) the pure icy rush of good cocaine.
And if he stopped to call the police before chasing a murderer through Whitechapel, if he made sure to text someone his plans before entering the sewers of London, if he threw out all his cigarettes (and bought them again, and threw them out again) and sometimes even ate a piece of fruit because John kept telling him he would get scurvy, that didn’t mean that he was a different man.
It meant that Sherlock Holmes was a man who finally, in the end, decided to live.