Work Text:
March
“No no NO!” Sherlock yelled at the TV as lockdown was announced. “This is a disaster! Do you know what this means?” He turned to John in frazzled panic.
“Yeah, it means we have to stay home.”
“It means,” Sherlock said, pacing back and forth, “there will be no cases. No crime. No crime, John!”
“Well, that’s great. People will be safer.”
Sherlock let out a frustrated sound. “But there’ll be nothing to do! My brain needs stimulation, I can’t just sit around watching TV all day like all you idiots.”
John didn’t even blink at the insult. “The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, Sherlock. I’m sure we can find something for you to do that doesn’t involve you blowing up the flat.” He was keeping a calm exterior, but inside John was freaking out too. It had only been 10 seconds since the announcement and Sherlock was already being intolerable, how on earth were they going to last weeks?
April
A month into lockdown, Sherlock had wrapped up any loose ends from the cases he was working on before it started. He was going mad with boredom, driving John crazy in the process. Of course, he couldn’t play with a gun with Rosie around, so instead he randomly climbed over furniture, made frustrated noises, strummed tunelessly on his violin, opened and closed cupboards, and sometimes even started throwing random objects around the room (thankfully not in anyone’s direction).
Crime had never been so low. People could no longer come to the consulting detective for help, but had they been able to, there was nothing to report. With everything closed, criminals had no hunting ground. As much as Sherlock loved John and Rosie, he still needed some case to keep his mind active, and he had never before gone this long with nothing. He could almost feel his brain cells dying, screaming for help. He attempted to keep busy with experiments, but much of that was waiting around for results. John was working from home as a doctor, so his attention was taken up most of the day with patients, and by the evenings he was exhausted.
Sherlock had tried to take on some clients virtually, but he got so many prank calls and people just wanting to say hi to the famous Sherlock Holmes that he soon got fed up with that, slamming the laptop down (the modern equivalent of slamming a door in their face) with a growl. The only time he answered a Zoom invite now was if it was Lestrade himself, but their need for his help was getting more and more scarce. When everyone is stuck at home and a family member ends up murdered, it’s pretty obvious who did it, even to Scotland Yard. Sometimes Sherlock called Lestrade on the pretense of asking for any updates; he would never admit it was actually because he missed him.
Other than sampling every single material he could find around the house, setting it on fire or soaking it in different chemicals to see what would happen, Sherlock took to learning Mandarin and practicing martial arts. John was so used to Sherlock’s antics that he’d become incredibly good at ignoring them while on the phone to patients, although he sometimes had to apologize after a particularly loud bang caused by either a chemical explosion or Sherlock knocking over a piece of furniture in his attempt at a karate kick.
His other job was to take care of Rosie, who followed him around the flat like a puppy. She called him Shelly, since she found it too difficult to pronounce his name properly, something that John teased him over endlessly. He would teach her about the different types of tobacco and which soils could be found in which parts of the country - complete with picture references - and she would blink back at him curiously and then go play with her doll. Still, it was more attention John had given him on the subject.
She would always ask what he was doing as he leaned over test tubes in the kitchen, and he would dutifully reply in the finest detail. She would then proceed to try and touch everything, knocking things over and spilling chemicals everywhere, at which point Sherlock often gave up and took her down to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and John periodically checked up on Mrs. Hudson and brought her shopping, and, despite her retorts of “not your babysitter”, she couldn’t be happier to have the company.
It was during one of those nights, with Rosie in the capable hands of Mrs. Hudson, that it happened.
It was a Friday, and John had had a shit day at work.
“I need a drink,” he said, getting an old bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope until John put a glass on the table next to him. Sherlock furrowed his brow, because this was extremely unusual. John knew about Sherlock’s aversion to alcohol due to how it inhibited his work. After that disastrous stag night, Sherlock swore to never get drunk again. People’s lives were at stake.
“Come on,” said John. “it’s not like it will affect any case this time.”
He had a point, so he took a careful sip. John plopped into his chair with his drink and turned on the TV. “Movie?”
Sherlock sighed in mock frustration and moved over to the sofa. “Whatever, they’re all boring.”
It was true that Sherlock always guessed the plot within 10 minutes, but it’s not like there was anything else to do, so John put on an old spy film.
“John, would you come sit here? You’re in the way.” That was a lie. He could see perfectly well, but he wanted John to sit closer to him and the alcohol was loosening his tongue.
John scoffed. “I thought you didn’t need to see the screen to know exactly what’s going on,” he said, but, thankfully, he obliged, and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. Still too far away for his liking, but it would have to do.
They kept drinking throughout the film, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock could feel the effects and his eyes started to droop. He got up with the pretense of needing a drink of water, wobbling a bit on his way to the kitchen. On his way back, he made an accidentally-on-purpose stumble so that he half fell on John, who laughed and pushed him off. It was the perfect excuse for them to end up sitting much closer together now, their legs brushing. Sherlock smiled mischievously at his achievement.
He wasn’t planning on doing anything else. He was perfectly content to sit beside him, simply enjoying the closeness. However, the drink was making him sleepy, and he ended up inadvertently drifting off where he sat, until his head made its way onto John’s shoulder. John seemed to barely even notice, he was half asleep himself. They dozed like that for a while, leaning on each other, until the next programme came on TV with a very unwelcome blast of noise, waking John up with a start. Sherlock stirred, unconsciously nuzzling himself into John’s shoulder. Then, suddenly realizing what he was doing, he snapped his head back and sat up.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“It’s fine,” John said with a yawn. Sherlock blinked. This was not the response he had been expecting. He had anticipated disgust and a cry of “not gay!”
“Guess it’s bedtime,” John said, making a move to get up. Sherlock held his arm to stop him.
“John,” he said. But he couldn’t think of anything else to say. John raised his eyebrows expectantly.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and with Sherlock’s brain still fuzzy enough from the whiskey to stop him from thinking it through or changing his mind, he kissed him. Hard, but quick. He pulled back and stared intently at John, scrutinizing his reaction.
John was in utter shock. He could do nothing but blink, open his mouth, close it again. “What-” he stammered. Blinked again a few times. “What was- I’m not-”
“Not gay, yes I know,” Sherlock sighed in disappointment. Well, it could’ve been worse. At least he didn’t punch me. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. It was just... an experiment.”
“What? An experiment?”
“Yes.” He tried to think of further explanation, experiment of what? His mind was a blur.
John interrupted his thoughts. “I’m way too drunk to process this right now. I’m going to bed,” he said, and this time Sherlock didn’t stop him.
They both woke up feeling like shit, their heads pounding. Neither of them wanted to leave their bedroom in the fear of what would happen when they saw each other again. They both considered feigning amnesia.
Sherlock arose first and was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper when John walked in. John sat down and Sherlock slid a glass of water to him across the table alongside two painkillers, without looking up from the paper he was clearly pretending to read since it was about three months old.
John cleared his throat, said thank you, and drained the water and pills. He got up to make himself breakfast and when he sat back down he handed a plate to Sherlock too, who ignored it. They sat in awkward silence for a few more minutes, until John couldn’t stand it any longer and put his fork down with a purposeful clatter.
“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked.
“Talk about what?” Sherlock turned a page of his paper.
“You know exactly what.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
John took a deep breath. “You… kissed me.”
“Ah, yes. That. My apologies. It was merely an experiment to see how you would react. You see, we have been living together for some time now, and you no longer correct people that assume we are a couple. You brush past me more often than you used to, and sometimes I catch you staring at me. Sexuality is a spectrum. So, naturally, I was curious how you would react to a much more dramatic step. Now I admit it was not under the best circumstances and had I not been under the influence it would not have occurred. You need not trouble yourself, it won’t happen again.”
John shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts. “You- what? What kind of sick game is that? What’s wrong with you?” He put on his coat and headed for the door.
“Where are you going? There’s a lockdown.”
“My one exercise of the day!” he yelled, and slammed the door shut.
Sherlock winced. That did not go well. His heart felt heavy.
John didn’t return until an hour later, and they ignored each other for the rest of the day. Mrs. Hudson returned with Rosie in the afternoon, but when Sherlock rose to help, John replied with “it’s fine, I’ve got her.” Sherlock slinked back to the kitchen and pretended to focus on an experiment that he wasn’t seeing at all.
The next day, after Rosie was asleep, John confronted him again. They were stuck together after all, and arguments during lockdown are a lot more difficult to endure.
“You can’t just mess with someone’s feelings like that, Sherlock. It’s wrong.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“But you had thought about it before. You said so yourself. You were doing some kind of secret experiment on me to see if you could, what, turn me gay?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s not possible.”
“What then?”
Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could see no way out of this except to tell the truth. “John,” he started, and then stopped. How the fuck do you tell your best friend that you are in love with him? Plus, it’s not like deep, emotional conversations were commonplace between them. Sherlock remembered having to pretend they were both about to explode just to get John to admit he forgave him for fake dying.
“I’m listening.”
“I never meant for it to happen this way. I-” he put his head in his hands and sighed.
“I don’t understand.”
Sherlock laughed bitterly. “Of course you don’t.”
“Sherlock,” John said warningly.
Sherlock locked eyes with him. “John Watson,” he said. “I have been in love with you for years.”
This was the last thing John was expecting to hear. He was so taken aback he had no idea what to say. So Sherlock continued.
“I suppose I have loved you since the start, but I didn’t realize it myself for a long time. After all, I’ve never been in love before. It’s a fascinating feeling. I’ve always brushed off sentiment, as you know, but, much to my dismay, my feelings for you grew until they were impossible to ignore. And then I was left with a very curious conundrum, and I concluded that the best thing to do was to simply hide it, as you have made it exceedingly clear that you have no romantic feelings for me, and anyway, a relationship would only complicate matters.
"I know you were devastated at the loss of Mary, so I endeavoured to help you as much as possible. More and more I found myself putting cases aside and putting you and Rosie as my priority. Never in my life did I imagine I would enjoy sharing my flat with a child, but she is a part of you, and I love you both dearly.
"Now please, don’t misunderstand me. I had no intention of ever disclosing my feelings to you. I did not predict the alcohol would have such an effect, and I suppose with lockdown attacking my nerves it made everything more intense and, alas, my heart betrayed me. I guess I’m only human after all,” he said. The corner of his lips quirked upwards in a half smile.
John was utterly gobsmacked and could do nothing but stare agape. Sherlock reached over the table to lay his hand on top of John’s, the touch forcing the other man to snap back to reality and close his mouth. He still didn’t say anything, his mind whirring.
“John,” Sherlock said, not looking away from his eyes. “Nothing is more important to me than your friendship.” He pulled away again and leaned back. “I understand if you want to move out, although I suppose it’s probably not even legal to move house right now, and all the hotels are closed, plus it wouldn’t be safe, even with those masks Mycroft gave us. So many idiots around. Maybe you could stay with Mrs. Hudson-”
Sherlock realized he was rambling now, and was intensely relieved when John cut him off.
“Sherlock, stop.” John searched his eyes for any indication this was a trick. He found nothing but sincerity staring back at him. “My God, you’re serious. I… I don’t even know what to say. This is… a lot.” He let out a deep breath. “I think I need to go for a walk.”
Sherlock nodded, walked to the window, and took out his violin.
When John walked back into 221B he had a determined look on his face. Sherlock turned and raised his eyebrows at him.
“Sherlock,” he said, and started walking towards him. He seemed to lose confidence halfway and stammered, his fist opening and closing at his side.
“John, are you all right?”
John nodded, half to himself, and before he could lose his nerve he strided quickly across the room, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and kissed him.
It was too quick for Sherlock to respond, but John didn’t completely pull away. Instead, with his eyes still closed, he pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s and inhaled deeply. Then, just as abruptly as he had come over, he turned and sat on the couch. Sherlock stood still, trying to deduce anything from John’s expression, but his own feelings were so overwhelming that he could do nothing but wait.
“I love you too, Sherlock,” John said, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just never thought of it, of you, in that way.”
Sherlock pursed his lips, nodded, looked down.
“But,” John continued, and Sherlock’s head snapped back up. “I-” John shifted awkwardly, trying to force the words out. It took every ounce of his willpower for Sherlock not to tell him to hurry up and blurt it out already.
With a sigh, John continued, “I just… can’t see myself with anyone else. There’s a reason none of my past relationships worked out, and it’s because I always came running back to you.”
“Also because you could barely remember their names,” Sherlock muttered.
“Shut up,” replied John, and smiled sadly. “Mary was different. She accepted you, that’s part of the reason I loved her so much. The truth is, every time I picture my future I see you in it. I just assumed… God, I don’t know. Maybe if Mary hadn’t died…” he sighed. “I’m, er, gonna need some time to process all of this.”
So Sherlock gave him time.
Slowly but surely, the dynamic between them shifted. The morning after their conversation, John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder on his way to the sink. Sherlock smiled into his microscope.
John took to sitting on the sofa instead of his usual armchair. If Sherlock was already there, he would move over to make space, and vice versa. It was a funny little dance they did at first, close but never touching, just getting used to having less personal space than usual. Until one day, in the middle of watching some crappy TV, John tentatively reached over and took Sherlock’s hand. The latter smiled without turning his head, giving his hand a squeeze to acknowledge that he was happy with this development. They remained like that for the rest of the night.
It had become their routine to watch telly most nights after Rosie went to bed, and every night John edged slightly closer until they were snug together. At this point, John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock let go of John’s hand, making him panic for a split second, until he felt his arm snake around his shoulder. John shimmied around until he found a comfortable spot.
“All right?” Sherlock asked.
John hummed in approval.
A few nights later, before going off to their separate bedrooms, Sherlock dared to plant a kiss on John’s temple. He would never admit how much fear he had to overcome to perform such a minimal action, and hoped John couldn’t hear his rapidly beating heart. Much to his relief, John didn’t recoil away from him. When he got up, he pressed his hand into Sherlock’s thigh for support. And so their nightly habits continued to evolve.
May
The next step was a rather large one, at least as far as Sherlock was concerned. John made a move to get up, then seemed to rethink it and sat back down.
“Um… I was wondering if maybe I could… sleep in your bed tonight?”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s odd, I didn’t deduce anything being wrong with your bed. Did Rosie throw up in it again?”
John laughed. “Erm, no. Nevermind.”
“It’s fine, I can stay on the couch.”
“No, no, that’s not what I…” he laughed awkwardly again. “Nevermind.”
“Then what…” suddenly it clicked into place. “Oh.”
John’s cheeks flushed as he realized what Sherlock was thinking. “Not like that. I just wanted to sleep with you. I mean, not sleep with you sleep with you, just, you know, sleep. I mean. Jesus Christ.”
Sherlock found John’s stammering rather cute, but admittedly confusing. He didn’t understand the other man’s intentions, but he shrugged. “Okay.”
John blinked a few times, and he suddenly felt so nervous he was wondering if he should take it back. This is ridiculous, he thought. You’re not a teenager.
“Right. Okay. Good. I suppose I should bring Rosie downstairs then.”
“No need, I have a baby monitor in my room.”
John was taken aback by this. “You do?”
“Of course. There’s also a camera in her teddy bear.”
“Oh. Are there… any other cameras in my room I should know about?”
Sherlock smirked. “Just that one. I have it connected to my phone so I can check on her during the night.”
John’s heart warmed. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“Yes I do.”
John didn’t know how to respond to that, so he squeezed his hand and then got up to get ready for bed.
When John entered the bedroom in his pajamas, Sherlock was already lying there. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling, his fingers interlocked and resting on his chest. John hesitated for a moment before climbing into the other side of the bed and mimicking Sherlock’s position, at which point Sherlock moved only briefly to turn off the light.
They lay in silence for a while.
“So…” John started. “This is a bit weird, isn’t it?”
Sherlock felt hurt at the words. “If you’re uncomfortable, John, you can leave.”
“Oh no, I didn’t-” he cleared his throat. “Sorry. This is new territory for me.”
“You’ve slept with plenty of people before, in fact I believe it is one of the few subjects you know more about than me.”
John snorted. “Yeah, with women.”
Sherlock was about to retort back about John’s obvious bisexual tendencies which he had been vehemently denying for years in an effort to suppress them, an extremely unhealthy habit which could lead to all sorts of problems, when John spoke again.
“So, you’ve never…”
When he didn’t finish, Sherlock prompted him. “Never what?”
John sighed frustratedly. He was gonna make him say it then. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was genuinely that clueless, or just liked to annoy him. “Sex. A relationship.”
“Relationship? No. Sex? Once. At uni. Curiosity got the better of me, I suppose. I wanted to try and understand why the act is the cause of so many murders. I soon learned I would never understand other people’s intentions, so there was no point trying. I don’t need to know the why, only the how.” Sherlock realized he’d never actually told anyone this before, not even Mycroft, who likely assumed he was still a virgin.
John smiled. Of course Sherlock would have approached it as an experiment. “You didn’t enjoy it then?”
Sherlock shrugged in the darkness. “It was fine. I felt no need to do it again.”
John tried to wrap his head around this. “Was it, er, I mean, were they-”
“It was a woman.”
“Oh.”
“You’re surprised? As the most common coupling it was the logical one to go with.”
John laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Then, a moment later: “So... what about now?”
Sherlock squinted at the ceiling. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you feel about it now?”
Sherlock took a deep breath before he answered. “Well, now things have complicated somewhat.”
John laughed again. “Tell me about it.”
“Grey asexual.”
“What?”
“That’s the term for it.”
He wanted to ask more, but apparently Sherlock had had enough of the conversation, as he said “goodnight, John,” and turned on his side, facing away from him.
John fidgeted. Was he supposed to turn the other way too? It was impossible to tell what was going on inside that mind. He felt extremely awkward just lying there, so he thought he may as well try something. He turned on his side towards him, inched closer, and very slowly put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. The latter tensed.
“Sorry, do you not want me to?”
“No, it’s fine. Carry on.”
It wasn’t exactly the most encouraging reply, but he complied, keeping his movements slow enough that Sherlock could move away or stop him at any time. He moved his hand onto Sherlock’s stomach and pulled him in closer until his back was flush against John’s front. “Is this okay?”
Sherlock hummed in response, which John could only assume meant yes since the other man proceeded to wiggle around until he got comfortable (causing John to blush at the involuntary reaction this caused slightly lower down on his body) before grabbing John’s hand and interlocking their fingers. They fell asleep like that.
Sherlock woke to the sound of Rosie coming through the baby monitor. She wasn’t crying, just shuffling around having recently woken up. He reflexively reached over for his phone to check the camera. He almost forgot John was there, until he felt a hand on his hip. He turned around but saw that John was still asleep, so he slowed his movements so as not to wake him. He lay there watching Rosie on his phone and smiling at this odd but not unwelcome situation that had befallen him.
It wasn’t long before John stirred and placed his head on Sherlock’s shoulder to see what he was looking at. “I can’t believe you’ve been watching her this whole time.”
“Really, John, you should know me better by now.”
John smiled, then he suddenly sat bolt upright as he remembered Sherlock wasn’t the only one with a tendency to install hidden cameras in the house.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Sherlock, you don’t think… Mycroft wouldn’t have a camera in your room, would he?”
“Oh, most assuredly,” Sherlock replied, completely unconcerned and not looking away from his phone.
“What?” John almost shouted. “That means he, he saw… oh God.” He placed his head in his hands.
“Relax. I uninstalled them last night.” He didn’t mention that he had given Mycroft the finger right before ripping them apart.
John dropped his hands. “You did?”
“Course. My brother likes to think I’m unaware of his spying, but really it couldn’t be more obvious where he places his so-called ‘bugs’. It’s just easier to let him think I don’t know, otherwise he would just keep placing them in more impractical locations.”
John visibly sagged with relief, until he realized the implications of what Sherlock had just said. “Wait, so he’s just going to come back with more?”
“Oh, I think we’ll be all right from now on.”
“What makes you think that?”
Sherlock turned his phone towards John so he could read the text he’d received from Mycroft last night. It was a single word. Congratulations.
*
“John?”
“Hm?”
“Can we swap positions?”
John had been the big spoon for the last three nights. “Sure.”
They turned over and, after hesitating only briefly, Sherlock put his arm around John. They lay comfortably together for a while, until Sherlock eventually plucked up the courage to kiss John’s neck. John let out a surprised hum and turned to face him, although he could only see a vague silhouette in the darkness. Sherlock worried he’d done something wrong and started stuttering an apology, but John shushed him and put his hand up to his cheek, then slowly guided him closer until they were kissing properly. He thread his fingers through those curls, and Sherlock sighed and relaxed into the kiss. They were both spurred on by the safety of the darkness, kissing languidly until they came to a natural stop wherein Sherlock nuzzled himself into John’s neck and wrapped his arms underneath him, bringing up his legs so he was clinging to him like a koala. John huffed out a laugh and hugged him back.
June
From then on Sherlock’s bedroom became their bedroom. Every now and then Sherlock would stay up so late working on an experiment that John didn’t see the point of sleeping without him, and would go upstairs to be closer to Rosie. When she asked why he wasn’t always there anymore, John’s explanation was that she was a big girl now who deserved her own room.
“So you’re sleeping with Shelly now?”
“Yes,” he replied, steeling himself for an awkward conversation.
But Rosie just beamed and said, “okay!”
Sherlock and John hadn’t exactly hidden their relationship from her, but they weren’t obvious about it either. Every now and then one of them would steal a quick kiss as they crossed each other in the kitchen, but other than that they did nothing but sit together on the couch in her presence. Rosie didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, as if this was something they had always done. John smiled at the fact his daughter had apparently been aware of their relationship before he was.
They still hadn’t had sex, and that was fine. They were both nervous, for different reasons, and there was no need to rush. John hadn’t slept with anyone since Mary, over three years ago. He’d also never slept with a man. The idea of it was still a strange one. Sherlock, meanwhile, could barely even remember his very brief and meaningless experience well over a decade ago. They both needed to do a lot of Googling.
They were kissing a lot more though, in the privacy and safety of their bedroom, and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at how much he enjoyed it. He found himself wanting to randomly grab John in the middle of his phone calls and had to work hard to stop himself. Instead he would make John a coffee and plant a chaste kiss on his temple as he set it down. The first time he did this, John wandered if he was being drugged. Still, he was so tired he didn’t even care and drank it anyway. Speedy’s was still doing takeaways, so Sherlock went and got them all lunch from there almost every day since he was too lazy to cook.
Sometimes Sherlock would simply sit and stare at John intently as he worked. He wouldn’t move for hours on end, his hands pressed together against his chin. At first John would glance questioningly at him, but Sherlock never said anything and so John shrugged it off and let himself be deduced. Sherlock would observe his every movement. He knew when he was hungry, thirsty, tired, sad, relieved. He listened to the way his tone of voice changed with each patient, how he would adapt to their needs. No matter how annoying they were, John always kept his calm.
It was fascinating.
*
“I’m proud of you, you know,” John said one day after putting the phone down on his final patient of the day. He was watching Sherlock try to interest Rosie in the different impressions left by tyres, while she was focusing on the string of his dressing gown.
“Hm?”
“You. I know how hard this has been for you. I remember when you couldn’t even go five minutes without pulling the place apart looking for your secret stash.”
“Well, I do have a few more things to distract me now,” he smirked at John, who laughed.
“True. What I mean is, you’re doing well. Really.”
“Oh. Thank you.” He was caught off guard; he was used to John complimenting his intellect, but not his personality. He had been actively trying to be more nice, but it didn’t exactly come naturally to him. In fact, it was rather exhausting. But if John appreciated it, he would damn well keep trying.
Just as he was about to start panicking about not being good enough, John came over and sat next to him on the floor. He took Sherlock’s hand in both of his and rested his chin on his shoulder. “I love you.”
Neither of them had said those words again since their first conversation two months ago, and this time felt different. More real. Sherlock had to swallow a lump in his throat before he replied, “I love you, too.”
Rosie grinned up at them.
July
They were cuddled up on the couch one day when Rosie ran over to them, presenting a piece of paper with a flourish. “Daddies, look!”
They both raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. Daddies. Rosie had called Sherlock dada once when she was younger, where Sherlock had pretty much frozen in shock until John had come over and saved him.
John took the drawing which she had presented to them. It was them; two smiling stick figures holding hands and a smaller one next to them. He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Wow, sweetie,” he said, “it’s beautiful.”
John looked over at Sherlock, who, to his astonishment, was also fighting back tears. He cleared his throat, picked up Rosie and placed her in his lap, kissing her cheek. John looked at them both, his heart full of love.
“Shelly, can we watch Moana again?” Rosie said, looking up at Sherlock.
Thanks to Rosie, Sherlock had become extremely well-versed in the entire Disney collection; they often watched films together in the bedroom so as to not disturb John when he was working.
“Sure, as long as daddy doesn’t mind.” They both looked at John pleadingly, who laughed.
“Well, I can’t say no to that face.”
Mrs. Hudson looked after Rosie most Friday nights to give John a chance to lie in, bringing her back sometime in the afternoon.
John had gone downstairs to say goodnight, and came back to find Sherlock on the couch with his chin in his hand, scrolling through Netflix. He looked up when John came in. “So, what terrible film should we watch tonight?”
Instead of answering, John took Sherlock by surprise by climbing onto his lap and kissing him fervently; usually such intimacy was saved for the bedroom once the lights were off. Sherlock happily responded, pulling John in closer and deepening the kiss. Then he flipped them over and lay John on the couch.
They had been making out for a while and were both feeling pretty hot and bothered when John said, “Sherlock, um, should we, er, take this into the bedroom?”
“Mm,” Sherlock kissed his neck then climbed off, took John’s hand and pulled him into the bedroom.
They fell into bed still kissing, and Sherlock started tugging at John’s jumper until they separated long enough for it to be pulled over his head.
“Sherlock,” John said breathlessly, “are we, should we, do you want to…?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“Oh God, yes.”
Sherlock woke up with John lying on his naked chest. He stroked the other man’s hair softly until John opened his eyes, decided that was way too bright, and promptly closed them again. “Morning,” he mumbled.
“Just about,” Sherlock replied.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midday.”
John opened his eyes again, rolled onto his back and stretched - a sight Sherlock quite enjoyed looking at. “Bloody hell, I haven’t slept that well in years.”
Sherlock smirked at him. “The benefit of good exercise.”
John laughed. The night had included lots of awkward fumbling, giggling, and asking if the other was okay. He felt like a teenager again. He opened his mouth to speak, when his stomach started rumbling.
He started to sit up, but Sherlock put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Stay put. I’ll pick us up something from Speedy’s.”
John stared disbelievingly at him. “If someone had told me a year ago that Sherlock Holmes would be bringing me breakfast in bed, I would’ve got them checked for a massive head injury.”
Sherlock winked at him, kissed him on the cheek and left the room.
“Sherlock!” John called after him, and the detective popped his head through the door. “You might want to put some trousers on first.”
Sherlock looked down at himself. “Right.” He got dressed.
Lockdown was beginning to lift, which meant crime was picking up again. Lestrade called Sherlock to ask his advice about a local theft, and before signing off he said:
“Are you feeling all right, Sherlock? You haven’t insulted my intelligence this entire call.”
John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to look through the camera and say hi. Sherlock smiled up at him, and Lestrade looked from one man to the other with a confused expression.
“Goodbye, Greg,” Sherlock said, closing his laptop in the middle of Lestrade’s reply of “did you just call me Greg?”
John laughed. “Do you think he knows?”
“He’ll probably figure it out in a few years.”
“Oh come on, he’s not that oblivious.”
“All right, how much do you want to bet?”
John pursed his lips in thought. “50 quid that he says something within the next month.”
“You’re on.” They shook on it.
Mycroft, of course, had known since the beginning. John knew it was impossible to try and hide anything from him, and Sherlock thrived on making his brother feel as uncomfortable as possible. He sometimes came over to give a new case in person, wearing one of the top-quality government masks he had given 100s of to John and Sherlock back in December.
Whenever he visited, Sherlock would practically sit on John’s lap and made a point of squeezing his shoulder, arm, side, or butt whenever they were standing up. Mycroft would roll his eyes at them.
Most of the work was still done from home, although Sherlock went along to a crime scene if the case was an especially complicated one. Sometimes he went on his own, but John lessened his number of patients so he could tag along as often as possible. Mrs. Hudson never complained when they handed Rosie over to her and left in a rush without saying a word; the woman was a godsend.
After a particularly exciting case, Sherlock grabbed John as soon as they walked through the door and pushed him against the wall.
“Oop, sorry boys!” Mrs. Hudson said as she walked into the hall, and they pulled apart flushed and embarrassed. “Should I keep Rosie a little bit longer?”
“Mrs. Hudson, what would we do without you?” Sherlock said, taking John by the hand and pulling him upstairs. John hardly had time to call out “Thank you!”
Mrs. Hudson turned and walked back into her flat with a smile.