Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rosamund Mary “Rosie” Watson Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sharing a Room, Sharing a Bed, Disney World, Parentlock
Summary:
Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. “You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie’s class and you won’t have to share a room with a stranger?”
“Exactly.” Sherlock beamed at him. “Don’t worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us.”
The distant sound of a door closing rouses John from his shallow slumber on the sofa, but not enough for him to actually blink his eyes open.
Sherlock’s home, his brain supplies, recognizing the tread on the stairs, and the frown between his brows eases as he allows himself to slide back into the quiet peace that rare Sunday afternoon at Baker Street brings when Sherlock is out and Rosie naps. The monitor is beside him on the table, though he’d probably hear her anyway, and he vaguely registers Sherlock’s steps slow as he comes to the landing and no doubt catches sight of John seemingly passed out, book lying forgotten on his chest.
Sherlock has been incredibly good about welcoming him back. Part of it feels like he never really left, and yet he’s returning a widower and, more importantly, a single father. The space that Sherlock seemed to leave in his life on the off-chance John would come home is not quite big enough to accommodate a baby and all of the accoutrements that come with her. John is trying to be mindful, trying not to overstep, and yet he knows that Sherlock would pull the very walls of 221B down should John ask it of him.
The soft sound of Sherlock hanging his coat on the hook and padding into the kitchen has John shifting and burrowing his face in the back of the sofa. He hears the kettle click on and a cuppa sounds delightful, but just ten minutes more perhaps before he has to face his plans for the week ahead. Hours at the clinic, finding a daycare close to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson’s birthday. He recalls the look of shocked delight on Sherlock’s face when John shoved a bite of red velvet in his mouth and he smiles against the pillow under his head. He adds batter and cream cheese frosting to the ever-present shopping list in his head. For purely selfish reasons as he’d really like to see that look again.
From the monitor on the coffee table, he hears Rosie whimper and he knows his desired ten more minutes of rest will end up being three tops. The kettle clicks off before it really starts to boil (Sherlock’s doing, he muses), but before he can blink his eyes open, and before Rosie’s whimpering turns into full-on why are you ignoring me wails, he hears Sherlock take the stairs to the third floor (socked feet, toed his shoes off) before his voice, quieter than John truly thought the baritone could get, filters through the monitor:
“Shhh, none of that.” The rustling sound of him picking her up. “Daddy’s asleep and we mustn’t wake him because Sherlock kept him up entirely too late last night going over a cold case that only your brilliant Daddy could help solve.”
John smirks, feeling oddly chuffed, and then frowns. ‘Sherlock,’ he had referred to himself as. Sounds oddly formal for his daughter to call him by his first name. It should be more than that. He is more than that – to both of them. Then again, ‘Uncle Sherlock’ leaves a bad taste in his mouth, too.
Hm. Something to think about when he’s not running on three hours of sleep and not nearly enough tea.
He hears the distinct sound of the bunny with the rattle in its tail that Rosie had gotten unfortunately attached to. Of all the toys on offer, of course his daughter had picked the most annoying. But he’s loathe to hide it lest she scream the bloody block down. She has his temper, make no mistake. Sherlock named the plush toy “Bluebell” just for the hell of it and John had giggled far longer than was strictly necessary.
He hears them come back down the stairs, Rosie’s sniffling muffled where her face no doubt presses against Sherlock’s shoulder. Possibly his neck. It’s a comfortable spot, John knows, and he feels the flush spread across his cheeks, but it’s not out of embarrassment. He wouldn’t mind being pressed there again.
Sherlock places Rosie on the floor and John rolls over under the guise of shifting in his sleep to squint at the pair of them. Sherlock has frozen, waiting until John settles before handing Rosie Bluebell. The baby is having none of it, though, and grunts as she leans forward and snatches it from him anyway.
“Impatient,” Sherlock whispers with a smile and a kiss to her head and something warm and protective and fierce sparks to life in John’s chest. He didn’t know it was possible to love this much, but by God, he does.
“Thank you,” he murmurs without thinking and Sherlock starts, glancing up to find John staring at him. It’s nice when he can catch the genius off guard. Rosie seems to be the only person to accomplish it so thoroughly. John would have liked to observe the tableau for a bit longer, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“For what?” Sherlock asks, catching the toy that she throws at him without even looking. He’s learning. “It was no bother.”
“Not just for that.” John smiles the smile he’s slowly realizing that only two people in the world draw out of him. And they’re both here in this room, in this flat at 221B Baker Street.
i live for the day rosie learns what the word gay means and she proceeds to aks john “dad is sherlock gay?” and john goes into this fucking endless spluttering explanation about how sherlock is a very complicated person and we just. we just don’t know. we can’t be sure. one time a woman sent him 57 text messages so probably not. and the next time they’re over at 221B rosie looks up from sherlock’s picture book about poisonous plant she’s studying with her plush bumblebee, gives sherlock a look and asks “are you gay, sherlock?” and sherlock, without missing a beat, just says “yes” and continues drinking his tea and rosie says “ah” and goes back to her plant book and john nearly doubles over in the corner like SAkfjalsöölsakdjflsdjEFpsflksdjfslfjsfk
i can’t breathe
He should have been more alert for danger, after the unnatural peace of the last hour. Rosie’s been lying on her belly in the corner with a book, the late afternoon sun’s been pouring in through the windows, warming the room, and Sherlock’s stayed draped in his chair with his laptop and a lapful of periodicals, typing in little bursts between consulting several copies of Elle and an almanac. (”What in the world are you doing?” “Writing up a comparative chronology of several years’ astrological predictions and the placebo effect on readers’ self-perceptions, as aligned with recorded lunar phases.” ”Oh.”)
The kettle’s clicked off in the kitchen, and he’s found chocolate biscuits in the upper corner cupboard and poured out their tea, humming under his breath (Beach Boys, he realizes later; his dad had played their records on slow Saturdays like this); has just settled down with a steaming cup and a novel when Rosie looks up and says, “Sherlock, are you gay?”
He jerks; nearly spills the tea. A cold flood of pure adrenaline pours through him, ebbing just in time for him to clearly hear Sherlock’s vague, distracted, “Yes,” followed by the rustle of a page turning. A little “hmph” as Sherlock readjusts his bum in the chair.
“Ah.” Rosie’s still lying nearly nose-against-the-page, studying the pictures, Sherlock’s still typing, the room is entirely silent and John appears to be the only one in it having trouble breathing. She’d just–asked, and Sherlock had just answered. Why hadn’t Sherlock ever said before–why had it seemed so impossible to just say that he was wondering (“Goddamn queers,” says his dad’s voice in his mind, “Never going to let a daughter of mine go gay, Harriet”)–
“John,” says Sherlock, and John uncurls his fists deliberately, takes a breath, and then another, and looks up at last to find Sherlock’s gaze on him, full of concern.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John hisses, well aware of Rosie’s raised head and questioning eyes.
“Why does it matter?” and John wants to weep, or shout, or laugh.
“I just–wanted to know. Things. About you. It matters because it’s you. It’s us.”
“Oh.” Sherlock blinks a little, and says, “I’m gay, John. I apologize for not mentioning,” and he sounds so sincere that John laughs again and feels the pressure of certain ideas grow stronger in his chest.
“All right. Well. I’m. I’m bisexual, I believe. If it matters,” he says, very aware of the strain in his voice, and then the room grows perfectly quiet again, and it’s about three minutes before Sherlock says,
“Thank you. It matters.”
And an hour or so later, when Rosie’s taken herself off downstairs to help sort out Mrs. Hudson’s windowsill garden, and John’s in the kitchen doing the washing up, there’s a step behind him and Sherlock’s voice saying again, “It does matter, John,” and John turns around and finds Sherlock staring at him. “Why didn’t you say?”
Oh, but he isn’t ready for this. “I didn’t like to think about it.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t you deduce it?”
“Not this, John.” The trouble in Sherlock’s tone is palpable. “The human mind is complex. Motivations for crime tend to be simple, selfish. Instinctive. Pride, anger, need. Motivation in the personal arena is much harder to accurately divine.”
“Think you’ve just hit the nail on the head, actually.” John wipes his suds-damp palms on his shirt, smooths out the hem. “Pride–didn’t like to just volunteer something like that. It’s pretty personal. Anger–I didn’t always like that about myself. I didn’t want to name it.” He sighs. “Need, because I needed a bit of privacy. If I’d admitted I wasn’t only straight, you’d have started to wonder who I was interested in besides all those boring girls.” A rising heat in his face. He looks down.
Silence. Then, “Who else, John? Besides the girls?”
“Seriously?” He tries a smile, gives it up in the face of Sherlock’s earnestness. “James Sholto, for one. Took me long enough to figure that out, but there was something. Think Sean Connery does something for me, too.” He attempts another smile.
“John. Please.”
“All right. Yes. And you. I was interested in you.”
Sherlock lets go a long breath; shakes his head; rubs both hands over his face, then scrubs them through his hair. “Why not say?”
“Sherlock, you told me–Married to your work, you said, and flattered, but–And people kept pointing it out, and you’d just keep quiet, and I didn’t want to admit to myself–” He’s having trouble speaking clearly. “I didn’t say because I’d have lost you, Sherlock! I’d have been out the door on my tail! Nobody wants to hear about their best mate’s awkward feelings. And then you were dead, and then you weren’t, but I was getting married, and–Oh,” because now he’s near tears; that part’s too much to talk about, the memory of his confusion and despair when even a proper marriage and all the safety in the world couldn’t make him forget what he was missing, couldn’t give him home.
“Oh,” Sherlock echoes, in a whisper, and then he’s stepping across the space between them, nearer than he’s been in ages, and his eyes are wide and fixed on John’s and shining strangely.
He waits a minute, while John takes deep breaths and fights with too many feelings at once, but just as he’s managed to get them mostly wrestled into place Sherlock reaches out and touches his hand; takes it into his large, warm one, watching him.
“And now?”
“Now?”
“You aren’t married now,” Sherlock says, unsteadily, “and you’re here now, and you said, you said before, you wanted–but you didn’t say about now.”
“Yes, about now. Yes, I do. Still,” and his heart is hammering, and Sherlock’s starting to smile.
“Good,” a bit breathlessly. “Me too. Still.”
“Still? Oh, God, you bastard–you never said–You liked me?”
“I loved you, John,” he says. “I love you.”
Half an hour later, Rosie comes bursting into the flat and surprises them sitting tangle-legged on the sofa, John’s head on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tight around him. Rosie stops short. “Did you kiss?”
“Yes, baby.” He’d have thought he’d be panicking about now. His heart is beating quicker, but it’s surprisingly hard to panic properly being held like this. “Is that okay?”
She nods soberly. “I know about being gay. It’s all that kissing and people in love.”
Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rosamund Mary “Rosie” Watson Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sharing a Room, Sharing a Bed, Disney World, Parentlock
Summary:
Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. “You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie’s class and you won’t have to share a room with a stranger?”
“Exactly.” Sherlock beamed at him. “Don’t worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us.”
iamjohnlocked4life 