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“John?”
“In the kitchen!”
Sherlock made his way to their kitchen in 221B Bakerstreet. He looked ahead of him, seeing Rosie sitting on the counter. Batter covered her face and hands, giggling as she licked it off.
“I made muffins and this little one decided to help.” He gestures to the toddler on the counter.
She shrieked with joy, “Dada said that I’m sweeter than all the chocolate muffins in the world.”
“Is that right, Watson? Well I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with that statement.” Sherlock let the corners of his lips twitch up at the two Watsons.
John glanced at him, beaming brightly. He turned his attention to Rosie, “We’ll have to get you cleaned up, yeah? Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg said they’d let you come over for movie night, and you get to pick the movie.”
Rosie’s eyes glittered at that. In a way so prominently John that Sherlock felt his heart squeeze. “Can we bring them some muffins?” She asked sweetly, nearly pouting in a way that Sherlock was sure she’d learned from himself.
“Yes, Rosie, we can bring them muffins. They’ll be here in an hour so we’ve got to get you in the bath.” John answered, picking the toddler up from the counter and onto his hip, taking her down the hall for a bath.
And then, Sherlock did something he’d never thought he’d do. He gathered the dishes from the table and put them in the sink. Turned on the water and started to wash them. By hand. He was nearly so astounded himself that he thought he may faint. Alas, that didn’t happen, though his internal monologue thought it was a humorous idea.
He distantly heard the bath being turned on and John coaxing Rosie into a bath and the splashing of water.
Sherlock finished the dishes quickly before going to rest on the couch. His legs were crossed in a criss-cross-applesauce position and his hands resting in a way that could be mistaken for a prayer with the tips of his fingers against his chin.
He retreated into his mind palace, thinking over a case he was earlier assigned. A woman was found dead in her bathtub, naked. The walls of the shower were dry yet the blood was fresh and her hair was wet. She was clearly murdered as there was no weapon in the house, nor were there any signs of overdose. Nor was there any blood anywhere in the house.
The case he had deemed an eight and so he set to thinking about it.
He slowly came back to reality after feeling a few taps on his shoulder. His eyes drifted upward and he saw John looking at him with his eye brows slightly furrowed, yet, a small smile trying, and failing, to be suppressed.
“You alright? I didn’t want to interfere with whatever you were doing but Greg and your brother are here. Figured you’d like to say goodbye to Rosie.”
Sherlock rose from his sitting position, stretched his legs and followed John and Rosie, who was carrying a bit more than a few muffins, down the stairs outside of their flat.
The three of them made it out to the sidewalk. After taking in the serenity of the sunset, Sherlock saw Gavin, a few paces in front of his brother, who was leaning against his umbrella and the black car.
Rosie ran ahead, giving Graham a hug. She turned around to the two men,“Bye, Papa!” Rosie said.
John easily replied, “Bye, sweetheart.”
The toddler frowned, “No, you’re Dada, I’m saying bye to Papa.” She pointed to Sherlock.
Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Me?” He questioned.
Rosie dramatically sighed, “Yes, you. Bye Dada! Bye Papa!”
Mycroft spoke up, glancing at his husband, Geoffrey, and niece got into the car while chuckling lightly at the toddler’s antics, “You’ll have her back at two pm, tomorrow afternoon. Good evening, John, brother mine. Do communicate, yes?” With that, the elder Holmes turned around and opened the door to the passenger side of the car and slid into the seat. He closed the door behind him and the sleek black car drove off.
John let out a breath heavy enough for it to be audible to Sherlock’s ears before he turned and made his way back into their flat. Sherlock stood in shock for a moment more before he followed his friend.
He stepped into the flat and heard the water running, presumably making tea.
Sherlock sat in his armchair. He was in deep thought till he heard the kettle whistle and only half a minute later did John come into his vision. John handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat onto his armchair with his own tea in hand.
“John. If you don’t want her to call me that- we can tell her that. I mean I’m not really her father, am I?”
Sherlock met John’s eyes and was a bit taken aback to see tears brimming there. Not yet able to fall.
“Of course you’re her father.” He said it in a similar tone to when he said, ‘Of course you’re my best friend.’ Though this time it sounded more tearful. “I just- well it was a surprise to me. You deserve that title more than anyone I know.”
Sherlock found that he had no words to respond to this. He sat in deep thought, mulling over the statement.
“You think so?” He asked hesitantly.
“God, yes, Sherlock. You’ve been with her since birth and well we raise her together, don’t we?” John leaned back in his chair and smiled fondly before he added, “You deserve the title, Sherlock.” He repeated.
Sherlock felt something inside him shift. Ugh, emotions. That’s what that urge was to let himself crumble from all the sentiment. “Thank you, John. I, well- I never thought that was something I was capable of. Being sociopathic and whatnot.”
John stayed silent for a few beats of time before taking a breath in to ground himself before he said, “Well, you did jump off of a roof to save the lives of, not only me, but three other people. All of which I’d say you care for, and I’d like to go even as far to say you love. That doesn’t sound quite so sociopathic to me.”
Sherlock quickly contemplated his life choices and regrets before he decided on his next words, “You do have a point. I do love and care about those three people I jumped off of Barts for.”
“Do you remember your best man's speech, Sherlock?”
“What? Yes, of course.” Sherlock’s pulse was beating slightly faster than normal at the slight confession earlier and was taken aback by the sudden change in subject.
“You said that I was the ‘bravest and kindest and wisest human being’ you had ever met and that you were one of the ‘two people who love you[me] most in all this world.’” He started and then paused.
Sherlock attempted to prompt his train of thought, “And?”
“And- I was wondering in what way you meant ‘love’. During our honeymoon, Mary said that your speech sounded rather romantic, like a love letter, and so I wanted to know if that was your intention.” After not receiving a reply for several seconds, he quickly added, “You- you don’t have to respond. I’m sure I’m just being-”.
He was cut off by Sherlock saying “I did. I did mean it in that way, John. I rewrote that speech twenty times. I even asked Mycroft for help. But each time I wrote it, it had a romantic impression left on it and eventually I gave up. I had hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it seemed to me.” There, he said it. Now he was hoping for a gentle rejection. With any luck, John will still let him see Rosie.
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you still have feelings for me? Romantic ones.” John clarified.
Sherlock felt John’s gaze pierce through him as he responded, quietly but surely, “Yes.”
John silently got up, walked over to Sherlock’s armchair, grabbed Sherlock’s hands and pulled him up so that he was standing. He put both hands around the detective's head and kissed him.
The kiss was rather passionate. Years of tension and desire pouring out of John’s lips and into Sherlock’s. Sherlock froze at the sudden movements before he grasped back onto reality and kissed John back with a similar force, sliding one arm around John’s head and the other onto his chest.
John pulled back, now centimetres from Sherlock’s lips. “I’ve been in love with you for ages. Mary helped me come to terms with it when we met.”
“You have?” Sherlock asked in disbelief.
“Yes. I believe it was bound to happen. You’re Sherlock Holmes after all and my bloody best friend.” He said it as if he was discussing a football match with George.
“I think I was doomed from the moment you shot the cabbie. Mycroft called me later that night and told me to be careful with where I placed my sentiment.” Sherlock admitted. His brother had known far before the two of them even had hints of it.
“He just knows everything, doesn’t he?” John chuckled, moving one of his hands to wrap around Sherlock’s waist.
“Yes, and it’s bloody infuriating.” He retorted. The two laughed for a moment before Sherlock heard his phone go off. He regrettably let go of John and grabbed his phone off of the sofa. It was a text from Mycroft.
Good job, brother mine.-MH
Fuck off - SH
Gregory is quite pleased. Says you two have been dancing around each other for years and it’s about time . I’m sure Rosamund will be ecstatic. -MH
Sherlock switched his phone off and threw it onto the sofa once more. He turned towards John who had an amused smile on his face.
“Mycroft?”
Sherlock nodded his head tiredly while John came up to him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck.
“Have you ever been in a relationship?”
“Unless you count experimenting a handful of times in college or Janine, no.” He replied simply. He had never really considered dating since he never felt the attraction. Once he met John though, he quickly saw the appeal.
“Well, how would you like to do my favourite thing in a relationship? Kissing, cuddling, and sleeping.” John suggested, pulling Sherlock towards the detective’s room.
“Sounds simple and enjoyable enough.” He agreed, following the doctor's lead.
“It is. Am I able to seduce you with cuddling in order to get you to sleep early?” John asked amusedly, opening the door to Sherlock’s room.
“You may very much have that power. Don’t abuse it.” Sherlock warned, closing the door behind them.
“Oh, I will.” He assured, pulling Sherlock along onto the bed.
The two of them settled along next to each other and started reminiscing in between kisses.
Sherlock thought this was something he’d definitely get used to.