Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was elbows deep into cold case files inside his mind palace when, suddenly, there was a knock.
Once, twice. Thrice. A fourth one was coming.
Which was strange. There shouldn't be any knocks. There shouldn't be anyone knocking. Not inside or outside his head. Mrs. Hudson would just barge in, tea and scones and all. Lestrade would just phone him, or also just barge in. He's resigned to thinking it's his only way of showing authority around, which was true. A client, then? No, obviously; they'd be shown in by Mrs. Hudson, who wouldn't knock. Unless it was a client who wanted secrecy or directness. No, no, no, all wrong, not clients, not Hudders, not Lestrade —
Sixth knock. His name was being called.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes shot open before he realized it, cold case files be damned. Hell, his legs were racing to the door.
He swung the door wide open too quickly — because he couldn't get any more enthusiastic, could he — and John, fucking John Watson who he hasn't seen in a month, his John, back turned on him, already leaving, flinched on the first step of the stairs.
Sherlock counted the seconds before either of them spoke. It didn't matter. It only took 2.8 seconds for John to turn back around, back to him.
John's shoulders sagged at the sight of him. Relief? Exasperation? Sherlock ran a quick glance on his expression; the creases in the corners of his eyes and his upturned lips suggest the latter. But why?
"John." His voice sounded too happy. Not good, that.
John's smile widened, almost bashful. Again, why? "Hey, Sherlock. Bad time?"
What a ridiculous question. There could never be enough time to be with John.
"No," he said instead, because he couldn't say the other thing. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong everything. "I was in my head. Sorry. Come in."
John snickered. "Thought so. I was gonna leave you to it." John gave him a sideways glance as they entered the flat. He probably thought it went unnoticed. It didn't.
"Are you sure this isn't a bad time?"
Why does he keep asking that? Why does he have to ask that? Why does he even have to knock? This flat was his, this sitting room was his, he could walk through the door without so much as a hullo because everything beyond it was his, Sherlock is his — and he has to bloody knock?
Sherlock hated knocking at that moment more than ever. That's what people do with strangers. They were a lot of things and a lot of things they weren't, but they weren't strangers.
Except, of course, John had to knock. That’s what people do when they want to get inside a house they don’t live in. It's called being polite, Sherlock, John would say. That’s what John had to do because he doesn’t live in 221B anymore. Not for five years. He lived somewhere else, he had a sitting room somewhere else, and it wasn’t here with Sherlock. Naturally, he would knock. That's what they do now, apparently: knock. The version of him that remained truly dead after January 2012 was likely rolling in his grave.
He took care not to show his displeasure in his tone. Might drive John away. "No, not a bad time. I was just in my mind palace."
"-mind palace. Yeah, you said," said John, oddly absent-minded. John looked around the flat. Sherlock watched him from his periphery and wondered, not for the first time, if John memorized 221B still — if he could conjure it up in his dreams like Sherlock could, or if he could remember each moment they spent together in all corners of the flat. It was easier to believe that John had forgotten. That's what happens when you haven't lived in a place for so long. John has stopped living in 221B for long enough.
There was a silent pause before John spoke again. Like he was gathering himself. For the third time within an hour, why?
"Look, Sherlock, I'll be out in a mo—" Of course he'd just be quick, of course, hoping otherwise was stupidity— "but I just have to give you something."
"What is it?" Sherlock sounded displeased anyway.
John reached inside of his jacket (ruffled, un-ironed, Rosie was making a fuss, pulling him around, running late for work but still went up to see him, why) and took out an envelope.
A pink envelope. With red hearts on it.
Sherlock eyed the bright thing as he slowly took it from John's hand. "Isn't it too late for Valentine's?" he deadpanned, because jokes like that between them were okay now, but they still had to bloody knock.
John smiled but didn't joke back. He just... shuffled on his feet. Odd. Weren't jokes like that okay now? "It's from Rosie. Her homework. They learned about making letters in writing class the other day."
“Ah,” he said as he looked down on the…project…? in his hands. He sniffed the envelope. Inspected the quality, the producer (cheap stationary store, handed out by the teacher, teacher was a hopeless romantic, tight budget), and what Rosie, clever Rosie, could possibly have written.
John filled the silence with a fake cough. "So, she wrote to you. Begged me to do the whole post office process, but, well, the recipient was just a street away—" just a street away, he says "—but she came up with the brilliant plan to get me to come here and give it to you directly instead."
And I get to see him as a bonus. Ever so clever, Rosie.
"Smart girl."
"Learned from the best."
He glanced up from the envelope and met blue eyes and a lopsided grin. Solution to hypothesis found: John Watson could still make his chest hurt despite being weeks and a street away. And he didn't even need a gun.
He wondered if it showed in his face. "Do you know what she wrote?"
John only shook his head. If he's lying or not, Sherlock couldn't deduce. That, with John Watson, was nothing new.
And he knew it. "I'm not lying."
The urge to kiss the doctor kick-started, per usual, so Sherlock had to look down on the envelope instead. He traced its sharp edges and the printed red hearts. He pressed down on the envelope to know how many times Rosie folded the paper. She folded it four times, the usual vertical-horizontal way, and very neatly, exactly like how Sherlock taught her.
The memory of Rosie crying from months ago came unbidden. He and John had just gotten back from a stakeout, and had been welcomed by a Rosie ruthlessly wailing in a very weary Mrs. Hudson's arms. John had rushed to her, immediately scooped her up. He didn't let his exhaustion show. Sherlock had stayed behind John, watching Rosie's face contort in all sorts of ways as John's shoulder became damp with tears. Out of exhaustion or just complete loss of control, he had walked over them and started wiping away the tears from Rosie's cheeks, sweeping away her sweaty hair from her forehead, and had the sudden thought that, if he tried hard enough, he would and could take away everything that made her unhappy.
John had been whispering sweet nonsense to her ear (it's okay, Daddy's home, Sherlock's home, it's going to be alright, we're here now) until she had calmed down enough to tell them, through sniffles and hiccups, why she had been crying. For copious amounts of anguish, her art project not being as good as her classmates’ had been underwhelming. Sherlock hadn't been able to help his grin, nor could John as he finally saw the project. Her project was as atrocious as a usual child’s would be. However, brilliant Rosie didn’t want to be a usual child. Most of all, she hadn't wanted to be picked on — because of course those gremlins for children bullied her and her bright yellow mutilated origami swan. John had lost all the humor then, and so had he. While John had been making calls to teachers, Sherlock had grabbed the nearest clean and unsullied stack of paper he could find, then set it in front of Rosie. Crying will get us nowhere, he had said, practice, so you can be the best next time. They had made origamis for hours, Sherlock guiding Rosie's small fingers up until past bedtime, until even John had joined them. When the stack of paper had vanished, they had to resort to using old case files, the uninteresting ones, or old receipts from years before, because Rosie wasn't satisfied with imperfection. Sherlock had remembered how he had learned to make stupid little figures from table napkins for John and Mary's wedding, and it used to leave a bitter aftertaste, but it hadn't really mattered anymore. Rosie and John's delight in finally making a proper origami swan was infectious as a plague.
"I miss her," he said. He didn’t mean to, but it was true. It was also the closest thing to I miss you he could say.
He felt John's sharp inhale more than he heard it. "She does, too. Terribly." He exhaled through a laugh. "She throws a tantrum exactly like how you do."
Back then was left unsaid.
Sherlock walked to the mantelpiece and tucked away the envelope under Billy the Skull. He heard John mutter a small Hullo, Billy behind him, and Sherlock wondered how ridiculous could a man get and how far would Sherlock allow it if it was John Watson.
Well, he never did just allow it. He welcomed it, twelve years ago in a crowd of policemen after a cabbie was shot for trying to kill him.
Twelve years since then, and the same man who killed for Sherlock was the same man that had to politely knock on the door of the one place he shouldn't have to have left in the first place.
And honestly, Sherlock, whose fault was that? said a voice in his head. He didn't know if it was Jim's, his, or John's. Eitherway, he didn't bother to state the obvious.
"I'll read it later," Sherlock said, and this was the part when John was going to leave, and the next time he'd see him was on a case or on Rosie's visits or when neither of them were busy or whenever the universe gave mercy to Sherlock's soul.
John was already walking towards the door. The next time he comes back, he'd have to knock again.
Sherlock heard him hesitate by the threshold. "See you, Sherlock."
He wanted to say You've never needed to knock or stay a bit longer or I want to see you always or maybe even I miss you. Instead he said, "Give the clever girl my love."
No more knocks came after that.
—
Sherlock opens the letter at 2:29 AM, half-drunk from an ex-flatmate/friend/conductor-of-light’s month-old leftover whiskey, with a cigarette in his free hand and John and Rosie Watson's laughter in his ears.
—
October 4, 2022
To: Sherlock Holmes
221B Baker Street
Sherl,
Hello Sherl! It's me Rosie.
How are you doing? I hope your ok and happy. Its always nice when your happy.
Today at school I learnt how to make letters. Not the A B C but this one. Like a message. But also I am doing great in my alphabet. Teacher said. Can u tell?
U were rite Sherl. The grown ups never stop talking in school. They like it too much. But they help me. I learn a lot. Now I learned about letters. There's lots of kinds. There's formal letters. Freindly letters. Some other letters i forgot to note down. But our homework is to make a freindly one for someone we love, and den we send it to them through the post ofise.
I made one for u Sherl. Because your someone i love. I already made 1 for daddy. Dont worry.
Teacher said to say honest things in the letter. Ok. I will do that. Daddy told me its good when your honest.
1. I love you Sherl. A loooootttt. As big as Mister Yellowhair. Thank you for Mister Yellowhair bidaway. Best birthday gift ever! Anyway. As i was saying I love you very much and I miss you. I wanna be there with u and daddy but for sum reson we can only go sometimes. And when were there we arent really becuz daddy and I have to go away again. And I hate that. Hate hate hate it. Its boring.
2. Why do letters have to be honest? What if i dont want to be? But its bad, that. Bit not good? I'm sorry. Wont ask. I'm still being honest.
3. I think daddy doesnt like the house. He reallyyy doesnt. But the house is nice but boring and maybe thats why daddy hates it. He doesnt like boring I think. Hates it. Wen-ever we come home from Baker street he looks like he drank bad milk. And i would know that its disgusting because I drank bad milk one time. Not on porpose of course, and daddy didnt give me it too, it was an acsident. But the point is that daddy doesnt like going back here. To home. And me too. I dont like going back here after going to yours. But daddy hates it more than me. He looks sad. And like those kids from the fair that didnt get to buy or ride anything because something doesnt let them to. And angry. Hate it when he looks like that. Told him this bidaway but he told me he wasnt angry at me. I asked him "then who?" and he jus kissed me in the nose and told me to go to sleep!
4. I dont think he's mad at u either. Because Daddy loves you. More than i do. Loves you a loooooooottt. Bigger than Mister Yellowhair. Bigger than big ben defenitely. Bigger than any thing.
5. Daddy cant say it but he wants to go home. Not here though, here's boring. He wants us to go home to you.
6. School is kinda fun. Y do u hate it so much? I dont hate it.
Ok, I think thats all. Thats a lot of honest things. I wanna send this to you now but I cant. I was going to tell daddy to drive us to the post offise but he said "why?" So i told him i was going to send u a letter. His face sudenly made the weird thing where he looks sad but also happy. Daddy is so weird.
Anyway daddy is going to give this to you tomorrow on the way to his work. I hope he becomes happy when he sees u. He always does. And i hope your happy too. You are glowier with Daddy.
Love you Sherl! I miss you and Mister Yellowhair does too and so does Daddy. A lottt. We'll be there soon! Xoxo
Love,
Rosie Watson
Marylebone Street