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„If I'm gone, I know what you could become.”
The words still ring vividly in his mind, even though it's already been almost four years since the very last video Mary left for them. Almost four years since they had rebuilt their old home, brick by brick. Piece by piece, everything in the flat fell into place, and so did everything in their lives. So did everything between them. At least that's what it seemed like.
Sherlock was used to having every detail, every clue and the way they connect crystal clear in his mind. Even human motivations, as complicated as they might be, could for the most part be perfectly predictable. That's why his inability to comprehend what was going on in John's head was so maddening. Their friendship seemed to be stronger than ever, all the hurt forgiven, all grudges let go of. Just like the old days. Except, as his mind kept naggining him, something was different, something that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Maybe it was hidden in a fleeting glimpse, maybe in a passing brush of their hands, maybe in those kinds of smiles that were only reserved for one another's eyes. He would love nothing more than to embrace a glimmer of hope that they approached just a little bit closer to the invisible line they had been tip-toeing around for all those years. But it never seemed to lead anywhere. John cared about him deeply, he might even love him in some capacity. And if it was the love one held for a dearest friend, that was enough. It had to be enough. Sherlock was glad to have John in his life in any way, just as long as it was the two of them against the rest of the world. Well, three of them now.
Sherlock never thought of himself as being patricularly good with children, but as a mater of fact, in most cases they turned out to be easier to deal with than the grown ups. It was especially true with Rosie, the little thing grew on him in the most unexpected ways. As ridiculous as it may sound, she was a tiny version of the man he loved most in all this world. She gazed at Sherlock with John's blue eyes, as if trying to deduce him in her own way, which he found impossible not to love. He was flattered John trusted him enough to leave Rosie alone with him, even though most would agree his definition of good time and his choice of stories aren't the most appropriate material for a toddler.
Even though technically John and Rosie didn't move back to Baker Street, they found themselves spending most of their time in there, only coming back to John's flat for the nights or to gather some necessary possesions. The safety of the flat wasn't the problem, though before the explosion it was filled to the brim with objects of questionable safety that a small child could lay their hands on. After it was rebuilt, Sherlock went out of his way to make the space as child-proof as possible, making sure there were no sharp objects lying around, no diseased organs or dangerous substances in easy to reach places, he even made sure to choose a coffee table with rounded corners. When Rosie was younger, the excuse was she would keep him from getting the minimum amound of sleep if she happened to wake up in the middle of the night. Aside from that, her own room became more and more necessary as she grew. Given the fact that there were only two bedrooms, one of them would be left more or less permanently on the sofa, which was not a preferable choice for either of them. Sherlock tried to ignore the nagging thought of another obvious option. There was no realistic scenario where they would find themselves sharing a room, where Sherlock could fall asleep every night listening to John's steady breathing, where he could rest peacefully enveloped in his scent and wake up next to him every morning. He tried to silence the thoughts and lock them away, but it was getting more and more difficult to do so. It's already more than you could ever ask for.
One thing he was immensly grateful for, was that as the years passed, John hasn't shown a slightest interest in going back to dating. Sherlock surely wasn't going to remind him about it. The last thing he wanted was to watch John fall in love all over again with someone that wasn't him, to see some faceless woman put the wedding ring back on his finger, to see her claim John and Rosie as her own. Perfect little family, with Sherlock excluded. No, he was going to make best of what he had, while it was still his.
As Rosie grew, she became more and more attached to Sherlock (he refused to let her call him „uncle Sherlock”, it made him feel old). She always seemed to be having time of her life in the little flat, observing Sherlock's experiments, listening to his violin, playing pirates together or getting her long, blond hair braided. After long days at Baker Street, more and more often she'd refuse to leave, clinging to Sherlock's leg or running off to hide in Mrs Hudson's flat where she would stay whenever there was a crime that Sherlock and John just couldn't miss. One night John gave in to Rosie's persistent pleading and let her stay in his old bedroom upstairs, taking the sofa himself. They started staying over from time to time, Rosie's happiness being enough to compensate for the nasty ache in John's back he'd get after sleeping in the living room.
One thing Rosie was particularly fond of were Sherlock's stories of their outlandish adventures. She was a smart little thing, just like her father, listening attentively to every word, her eyes wide in awe. From time to time she chimed in, trying to make her own deductions (which was the most adorable thing in the world, making Sherlock's heart swell with pride). It quickly became her favourite choice of a bed time story, even though she usually ended up a little to excited to fall asleep right away.
One of the nights they stayed over, Sherlock had already thought of a perfect adventure to tell Rosie about. As always, they were a little bit exaggerated and a little bit mixed with fairy tales. Some details had to be ommited, not appropriate for a four year old. Although this particular night he barely managed to open his mouth before being interrupted by the little girl wrapped up in colorful blankets.
„Could you tell me a love story tonight?” The request took Sherlock completely by surprise. Up untill then, she was perfectly content hearing about weird crimes and chasing bad people.
„A love story? Why would you want to hear a love story? You didn't even hear what I prepared for today.”
„Please?” She gave him the puppy dog look and he already knew he was on the losing side, trying to come up with something interesting quick.
„All right. Well... Once upon a time there was a princess... In a land far, far away.” He scolded himself before even finishing the sentence. He never really knew a lot about princes and princesses falling in love.
„No, you're getting it wrong!” He was interrupted once again.
„Wrong, how?” He chuckled. „You can't judge a story by the first sentence.” As always, she was right. The story did not hold to the highest standard.
„You were just making it up, true love story has to be real!” Sherlock sighed, scanning his memory for something light and happy, maybe a romance from one of their cases. He was really not good with this. He was about to give up and plead with the girl to just go with another adventure story.
„Have you ever been in love?” Rosie whispered, holding tightly onto her plush dinosaur, like she knew the conversation was about to get serious. His heart sunk as he thought of John waiting downstairs with their evening tea. His smile faltered a little, though it was difficult to keep himelf from smiling while thinking about him, even if it was laced with a bit of bitter-sweetness and sadness.
„Yes, once.” He admitted quietly.
„Was it a princess or a prince?” Rosie asked innocently.
„It was a prince. A beautiful, kind and brave one, who faught many battles, defeated bad people and healed the good ones before we met. The very first night after that we were trying to solve a case of a string of seemingly unrelated deaths, however...”
„I don't want the deductions tonight. Tell me about the prince.”
„... Alright. It turned out the person who hurt all those people was a cabbie who was working for a very evil man. Fortunately, I did find him. Not so fortunately, he tried to kill me. And he would've succeeded, if not for my new friend, the prince. He followed us even though nobody else noticed I was gone. He arrived just on time and saved my life.”
Sherlock felt the warmth spread throuh his heart as he thought of that very first evening, one of his most cherished memories.
„Was it love at the first sight?”
„Maybe not the very first.” He chuckled. „But I think I did fall in love that night. Even though it took me some time to realise it.”
„Why aren't you and the brave prince together then?” She asked disappointed, with sadness in her voice. There was going to be no happy ending, not the typical one anyway. He tried his best to smile through the tears in his eyes.
„The prince didn't love me back. Not like that. He loved me like a friend, a best friend in fact, but...” He took a deep breath. „He fell in love with a beautiful princess a while later and even married her. And that's okay, because if you really love someone, you have to let them go so they can be happy.” He blinked back the tears, now prominent in his eyes. „Sometimes love stories are a bit sad, but they're still love stories all the same. We still have many happy memories, me and the prince, and that's enough.”
It slowly dawned on him it was a little bit weird, opening up about his unrequited love to a four year old who should've been asleep half an hour ago, the subject of the conversation being her father. But he kept going, telling her about all the favourite moments he and John spent together, careful not to mix it up with anything from his previous stories. He kept going untill Rosie was sleepy enough, her eyes closing against the effort to stay awake to hear just a little bit more. He tucked her in, gave her a goodnight kiss on the forhead, switched the lights off and went downstairs where John was seeping an already cold tea by the fireplace.
~ ~ ~
The thing is, Rosie is really smart and there's no way around it when it's inconvenient. To add to that, Sherlock didn't even think about telling her to keep the story secret. The next morning they all sat at the table eating breakfast, Rosie playing with her toast, like she did every time she's already had enough food. There was a comfortable silence between them, disturbed only by clinking of the cutlery and distant sound of Mrs Hudson vacuuming her flat.
„Is it daddy?” She asked all of sudden, giving Sherlock the same look she always did once she's figured something out on her own. He almost spilled the tea he had been sipping, the cup nearly falling out of his trembling hands.
„What?” Sherlock lets out a nervous laugh, praying in his mind she doesn't continue and he'd somehow be able to turn the entire thing into a joke. Of course she continues.
„The prince.” She says completely matter-of-factly. „The one you fell in love with, the one that saved you from the evil cabbie! I think it's daddy.”
John dropped the fork that was already halfway between the plate and his mouth, which, if not for what they both just heard, would be absurdly comical. Sherlock froze, a little half smirk still on his face. He wanted to say something, try to use his wits to turn the situation around, but his voice was stubbornly stuck in his throat. He wouldn't dare to look in John's direction, suddenly finding the edge of his dressing gown the most interesting thing in the room. He wondered, what would he see in John's eyes? Hurt? Anger? Fear? Disgust? Maybe pity? The gravity of the situation was slowly dawning on him. He messed everything up.
John took at deep breath, like he was going to say something, but changed his mind before the words made it out of his mouth. It's not like Sherlock wanted to hear anything John might want to say. That he couldn't do it anymore, that they won't be coming over again in some time, if ever. That he can't be expected to trust Sherlock again. That he would do anything for Sherlock once, but he can't give him this. Not this.
That was it. He let himself believe he had a family, but that time was over now. He was going to be alone again, just like in the beginning. Just like he was for all those years before he met John. No matter what he used to think, alone never protected him. It destroyed him, bit by bit, and he knew very well where it was going to end.
The silence was broken by John's voice, though the tone ad intention were harder to read than ever before. „Sweetheart, why don't you go upstairs and play for a little while, okay?”
„Can I get a cookie, daddy?”
„You didn't finish your toast.”
„Please?”
„Okay. But just one.”
Sound of the cupboard being opened, clinking of the metal box, Rosie's footsteps getting out of the kitchen and up the stairs, the door opening and closing a moment afterwards, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure John could hear it. The moment stretched into infinity.
~ ~ ~
„Were you ever going to tell me?” Hurt. Sadness.
„...”
„You told my daughter, but you couldn't tell me.” Pain. Disbelief.
„I'm sorry.”
„Why? Why didn't you tell me?” Resentment.
„John...”
„Why?” Hurt. Anger.
„What for? What good would it make?”
„What good... Are you serious? You can't be serious. You must have known...”
„Look, can we just... Can we never mention it again? Please.” Heartbreak.
„I don't want you to never mention it again.” Exasperation.
„I promise, I'll deal with it, I won't put any of it on you.” Bargaining. „Just... Don't leave. Please.” Void.
„Oh my God. You don't... You actually don't know.”
„...”
„You idiot. You bloody idiot.”
John let out a deep sigh, his hands falling onto the table with a loud thud. Tears fell down on Sherlock's cheeks without a sound.
~ ~ ~
„Okay.” John muttered, more to himself than to Sherlock, as he pulled the chair back and got up. That's it. He's going to go out that door, dress up and gather their belongings in a rush. He's going to get Rosie and leave, without so much as a goodbye. Dull sobb got out of Sherlock's mouth, even though he fought to keep silent. Face hidden in his hands, he could only hear what was a sound of one of the chairs being pulled closer to him, footsteps and rustling of the clothing as John sat on that chair, right next to him.
„Look at me, Sherlock.”
I can't.
John placed one elbow on the table, the other hand hesitantly brushing Sherlock's back, just to rest in the junction of his neck and shoulder. The touch send shivers down Sherlock's spine, half of his mind trying to desperately collect every single aspect of the sensation, half almost making him run off to the safety of his bedroom.
„Just go. Don't make it longer than it has to be.”
„I'm not going anywhere.”
„...”
„And I'm not angry.” He felt John's gaze on him, burning even more than the warmth of his palm against Sherlock's neck. „I just couldn't wrap my head around... I mean, you're Sherlock bloody Holmes, I can't believe you haven't deduced it already.”
„What?”
„Look at me and tell me what you see.”
Sherlock blinked through the tears that still clauded his vision and hesitantly looked at John for the very first time since Rosie left the room. He was slouched, weary-eyed, still disheveled from sleep, wearing his favourite stripped dressing gown. There was sadness in his eyes, mixed with something else he couldn't quite identify.
„You didn't sleep particularly well, like every night you spend in the sitting room.” His voice trembled, quiet and cautious. „You keep sleeping on your left side to face the room, even though sleeping in this position always makes your hands go numb.”
John chuckles softly, that unrecognizable emotion in his eyes getting more and more prominent. „What else? What is going through my head right now?”
„You said you aren't angry. You're probably sad and feel sorry for me but you don't know how to make it better.” His voice almost breaks, having this conversation is the last thing he wants. He lets himself feel a little bit of relief. John was going to stay.
„No, don't make up what you think I'm thinking, tell me what you see.”
„You do look sad. Nervous, maybe. You're trembling. Your hands are shaking. You talk slower than usual, like you're thinking carefully about every word.” He paused, trying to understand.
John hummed in agreement, slowly reaching his hand for one of Sherlock's, setting his friend's fingers his own wrist. Sherlock wanted to bold, shut himself off from the overflow of confusing emotions clouding his mind.
„What do you feel?” John's voice was even quieter now.
„Your pulse rate is hightened.”
„And what does that mean in this case?”
„Don't make me.”
„Come on, what does that indicate?” His voice was soft, like he was speaking to a frightened animal, his hand sliding into Sherlock's palm.
„Don't make me say it when I can't know for sure.” Sherlock's thoughts were racing, and indistinguishable chaos against the warmth of John's skin.
„Then I'm going to talk, okay?” Sherlock only managed as much as a small nod, unable to take his eyes from their joined hands. „I know this situation... It's equally my fault. We could have just... talked to each other, hundreds of times. That's what adults should do, right? I thought we might just let it unfold, but it didn't and you're hurting now, so we have to talk, okay?” Another small nod. „You and Rosie, you're the most important people in my life. You're my family. So I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm not leaving.”
Deep breath. „Sherlock, I was an idiot for a big, big part of my life. I hated myself, who I was. I hated I couldn't control what was going on inside my head. I tried to change it, but I couldn't, because it can't be done. All I could do was pretend things weren't what they were, and I did because I was afraid. And then I met you and it all came right out. But I still tried to fight it. For all those years. God, it feels like centuries. I just kept fighting it and it caused both of us so much pain. And I'm so, so sorry for that. I just want to stop, you know? I know it's scary, I know it's difficult. But we're in this together, you and me. And I won't ever let this go, because you changed everything for me. You saved my life and you made me deal with all the crap that bubbled up inside me and you made me feel alive. I was afraid but it all turned out for the better. You made me a better person than I could ever become on my own and for the first time in my entire god-forsaken life I felt happy. Even when you pissed me off, even when you came home drenched in pig blood, I was still happy. And I forgot how to be happy when you're not around and before I knew it I was falling in love with you.”
Sherlock was still slouched, his hand wrapped tightly around John's on his lap. His eyes were closed, tears slipping from underneath the lids.
„Okay?”
„Hm?”
„Please, tell me you've been listening.” Sherlock couldn't help but let out a small laugh.
„It's just a lot to process.” His eyes slowly opened. His gaze met John's, full of the hidden emotion that was now clear as day – love.
„Oh, come here.” He pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, both of them breathing a sigh of relief. John held him as he tried to calm down, one hard brushing gently through dark locks. „You really didn't know?” He asked softly.
„I noticed some things. But I told myself I was seeing what I wanted to see. A self-fulfilling prophecy.”
„We're both idiots.” They held each other in a comfortable silence.
„I think I got snot on your shirt.” Sherlock admitted and they both burst out with laughter.
„Yeah, I remember doing that to you once or twice, I think we're even now.”
~ ~ ~
It didn't take long to move their belongings to 221b, most of them were already there anyway. The upstairs bedroom officially became Rosie's, walls painted yellow, the entire space filled with her stuffed animals and games. The girl could barely contain her happiness at the news of them finally moving in.
„So the entire thing was her plan, huh?” John sighed, incredulous. It didn't take long for them to find out what was on Rosie's mind that morning. She was doing what she thaught was right after hearing oddly similiar bedtime stories from both, Sherlock and John. A disappointing story made her go and create the proper happy ending entirely on her own. „Clever clogs, our little girl.”
Our girl. Something grew in Sherlock's chest, warm and comforting. Days passed and the reality was becoming more solid to his senses than ever before. All of it was real. Warm touch of John's fingers intertwined with his. The closeness, as they slowly swayed to the music on late evenings. Comfort of hundreds of kinds of kisses, all of which could get their own name. The looks, speaking more, than words ever could. The quiet easiness between them, throughout every evening, night and morning spent together, every obstacle and every adventure. No matter what happens, they will always make it through, all three of them. And Sherlock? He wouldn't have it any other way.