Fic: Multiply (the sum of our parts) - Chapter Fifteen
Title: Multiply (the sum of our parts)
Author: 1electricpirate
Rating: M
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own any of these characters (besides the two or three I have conjured from thin air). Credit for that brilliance falls to ACD and the Godtiss.
Author's Note: And there we have it - the end of this rather cracky saga. I could not have done this without the help and support of my friends and betas, Carly, Dylan, and Amanda, or without the words of support and encouragement from my readers. Thanks for sticking with me until the bitter end. I am by no means done with this verse, so keep your eyes peeled.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen - Epilogue
Mrs. Hudson takes one look at Sherlock, whips her hand back and smacks him firmly across the cheek.
“Mrs. Hudson!” John pulls Sherlock’s hand away to check his face. Sherlock looks on bewildered; his cheek flushes lightly from the slap.
“You insufferable man! How dare you?!”
Recovering slightly from the slap, Sherlock ignores her blustering and bends down to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I apologise, Mrs. Hudson, for any distress I caused you during my absence.”
“Sherlock Holmes, I ought to pull you over my knee and give you a good spanking! The nerve of you!”
“I’d deserve every blow, I’m sure,” Sherlock says with his plummy vowels, for all the world as if butter wouldn’t melt. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrow at him and her arms cross.
“Alright,” John interrupts, before she can open her mouth and let loose further. “Enough, both of you. Mrs. Hudson, may we come in?”
Drawing attention to himself is apparently a mistake. Mrs. Hudson whirls on him and slaps him soundly around the face as well.
“What was that for?!” John exclaims, rubbing gingerly at his cheek. Sherlock smirks, but adjusts the large diaper bag that’s slung over his shoulder so he can pull John’s hand away and check his face perfunctorily.
“John Watson, you haven’t sent me so much as a text message, much less a picture, in months and I had to find out from Mycroft of all people that Sherlock wasn’t dead, after all! The pair of you are just as bad as each other!”
“Sorry,” John says, feeling properly scolded. “I am sorry. I wasn’t allowed to, you know that.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Hudson sniffs and steps back from the door to allow them both past her, through the door marked 221b.
The familiar hallway is dim as ever and slightly dusty. Sherlock chuckles as the child strapped to his chest with yards and yards of intricately knotted fabric sneezes, hard, knocking her head against his breast bone and then wrinkling her nose, disgruntled. “Rosalyn thinks your stairwell could use a hoover, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, earning himself another swat, around the shoulder this time.
John, on the other hand, has opted to carry Teddy in his arms without the aid of acres of brightly coloured fabric.
(“Honestly, you look like a kangaroo that fell in a vat of dye, repeatedly.” “Practicality, John. This way, I am free to carry at least one child and use both of my hands.” “They make actual carriers, you know. We have a couple, somewhere around here.” “Much less versatile. You’re just upset you didn’t realise what the wrap was for and I had to explain it.” “No, mostly I’m concerned that my daughter is going to fall and bash her head in because you’ve tied your knots wrong.” “Oh, honestly, John.”)
They follow Mrs. Hudson into 221A, a place that John has been only once or twice before in his life, and which always unsettles him slightly. She bustles about the kitchen setting the tea on while Sherlock unravels himself and sets Rosie on the floor, quickly providing her with an assortment of brightly coloured toys. John sets Teddy down next to her and then sits back on the sofa. Sherlock takes his hand; surprised, John grins at him and squeezes it gently. (Since his return, Sherlock has been much more demonstrative with his affection than he ever had been before. It still takes John by surprise, but he would never complain about it.)
“Here you are, then, boys. Tea for you both - do I need to get the children anything? Oh, goodness, look how big they are already!” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes threaten to fill with tears and her hand presses against her chest.
“They’re fine for now,” John says, watching them tugging on either end of a stuffed elephant out of the corner of his eye. He is an expert at this now; keeping half an eye on their antics while going about his own business. It is second nature, as if he has a sixth sense that informs him where they are and what they are doing at all times. Sherlock is less subtle about it - it’s often a struggle to divert his attention, but that is in no ways a new trait. John is very used to competing with all manner of things for his husband’s attention. Losing out to their children (and using the word their still sends a tiny thrill down John’s spine) is something he can live with.
Mrs. Hudson perches on an armchair across from them and sips her tea, watching the babies playing happily on the floor. “I’ll never forgive either of you for making me miss nearly eight months of them,” she says, fixing them both with stern stares. “The two of you are the biggest idiots I’ve ever known.”
“I take offense to that,” Sherlock says, but there’s warmth in his eyes.
“You’ll be wanting to move back in, then, I expect,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “Of course, Mycroft’s been paying the rent all these months, but it’s not good to have the place empty. Invites a bad lot, you know. There’s been all sorts lurking about lately. Sometimes I think they’re spotting the building to squat it.”
“No no,” John chuckles. “That’s just Sherlock’s homeless network on guard duty. He’s been having them watch the house for you.”
“Oh, Sherlock. I wish you wouldn’t! I’d have been perfectly safe.”
“Nonsense. Only the best for you, Mrs. Hudson.”
Mrs. Hudson colours slightly and preens. John hides his grin in his tea cup. Sherlock nudges him impatiently with an elbow before ploughing on.
“We wanted to check with you, Mrs. Hudson, before assuming anything. As you are aware our lifestyle has - changed, slightly,” here, he nods towards the twins, “and we don’t want to presume anything and force our presence in the building. John and I would both prefer to move back to London but we understand if you’d prefer -”
“Sherlock Holmes, if you even dare think about moving away from this flat and taking those children with you I will hunt you down.” She bends down and scoops Rosie up off the floor, cuddling the wriggly child to her chest. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?! Of course you’ll move back in. It’s been dreadfully quiet without the racket you two make.”
“It’s settled then,” Sherlock declares, clapping his hands together loudly. “Mycroft’s people will be bringing our things over later this afternoon.”
“What? When did you arrange that? We’d agreed to wait until we talked to Mrs. Hudson!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, honestly. Mrs. Hudson, turn us out of Baker Street?”
John groans. “I know, I know, England would fall.”
“Quite,” Sherlock says, smugly, but he leans over and kisses John soundly on the cheek, so John supposes (reluctantly) that he is forgiven. “So, Mrs. Hudson, how would you like to get reacquainted with Hamish and Anna while John and I get ourselves sorted upstairs later. No time like the present.”
Mrs. Hudson sighs the sigh of the long suffering (or, John amends, of any acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes), but she smiles fondly at Rosie who is picking curiously at her brooch. “Just this once, boys. I’m not your childminder.”
“Of course not,” John says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock agrees. They look at each other and grin.
Author: 1electricpirate
Rating: M
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (BBC)
Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own any of these characters (besides the two or three I have conjured from thin air). Credit for that brilliance falls to ACD and the Godtiss.
Author's Note: And there we have it - the end of this rather cracky saga. I could not have done this without the help and support of my friends and betas, Carly, Dylan, and Amanda, or without the words of support and encouragement from my readers. Thanks for sticking with me until the bitter end. I am by no means done with this verse, so keep your eyes peeled.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen - Epilogue
Mrs. Hudson takes one look at Sherlock, whips her hand back and smacks him firmly across the cheek.
“Mrs. Hudson!” John pulls Sherlock’s hand away to check his face. Sherlock looks on bewildered; his cheek flushes lightly from the slap.
“You insufferable man! How dare you?!”
Recovering slightly from the slap, Sherlock ignores her blustering and bends down to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I apologise, Mrs. Hudson, for any distress I caused you during my absence.”
“Sherlock Holmes, I ought to pull you over my knee and give you a good spanking! The nerve of you!”
“I’d deserve every blow, I’m sure,” Sherlock says with his plummy vowels, for all the world as if butter wouldn’t melt. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrow at him and her arms cross.
“Alright,” John interrupts, before she can open her mouth and let loose further. “Enough, both of you. Mrs. Hudson, may we come in?”
Drawing attention to himself is apparently a mistake. Mrs. Hudson whirls on him and slaps him soundly around the face as well.
“What was that for?!” John exclaims, rubbing gingerly at his cheek. Sherlock smirks, but adjusts the large diaper bag that’s slung over his shoulder so he can pull John’s hand away and check his face perfunctorily.
“John Watson, you haven’t sent me so much as a text message, much less a picture, in months and I had to find out from Mycroft of all people that Sherlock wasn’t dead, after all! The pair of you are just as bad as each other!”
“Sorry,” John says, feeling properly scolded. “I am sorry. I wasn’t allowed to, you know that.”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Hudson sniffs and steps back from the door to allow them both past her, through the door marked 221b.
The familiar hallway is dim as ever and slightly dusty. Sherlock chuckles as the child strapped to his chest with yards and yards of intricately knotted fabric sneezes, hard, knocking her head against his breast bone and then wrinkling her nose, disgruntled. “Rosalyn thinks your stairwell could use a hoover, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, earning himself another swat, around the shoulder this time.
John, on the other hand, has opted to carry Teddy in his arms without the aid of acres of brightly coloured fabric.
(“Honestly, you look like a kangaroo that fell in a vat of dye, repeatedly.” “Practicality, John. This way, I am free to carry at least one child and use both of my hands.” “They make actual carriers, you know. We have a couple, somewhere around here.” “Much less versatile. You’re just upset you didn’t realise what the wrap was for and I had to explain it.” “No, mostly I’m concerned that my daughter is going to fall and bash her head in because you’ve tied your knots wrong.” “Oh, honestly, John.”)
They follow Mrs. Hudson into 221A, a place that John has been only once or twice before in his life, and which always unsettles him slightly. She bustles about the kitchen setting the tea on while Sherlock unravels himself and sets Rosie on the floor, quickly providing her with an assortment of brightly coloured toys. John sets Teddy down next to her and then sits back on the sofa. Sherlock takes his hand; surprised, John grins at him and squeezes it gently. (Since his return, Sherlock has been much more demonstrative with his affection than he ever had been before. It still takes John by surprise, but he would never complain about it.)
“Here you are, then, boys. Tea for you both - do I need to get the children anything? Oh, goodness, look how big they are already!” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes threaten to fill with tears and her hand presses against her chest.
“They’re fine for now,” John says, watching them tugging on either end of a stuffed elephant out of the corner of his eye. He is an expert at this now; keeping half an eye on their antics while going about his own business. It is second nature, as if he has a sixth sense that informs him where they are and what they are doing at all times. Sherlock is less subtle about it - it’s often a struggle to divert his attention, but that is in no ways a new trait. John is very used to competing with all manner of things for his husband’s attention. Losing out to their children (and using the word their still sends a tiny thrill down John’s spine) is something he can live with.
Mrs. Hudson perches on an armchair across from them and sips her tea, watching the babies playing happily on the floor. “I’ll never forgive either of you for making me miss nearly eight months of them,” she says, fixing them both with stern stares. “The two of you are the biggest idiots I’ve ever known.”
“I take offense to that,” Sherlock says, but there’s warmth in his eyes.
“You’ll be wanting to move back in, then, I expect,” Mrs. Hudson continues. “Of course, Mycroft’s been paying the rent all these months, but it’s not good to have the place empty. Invites a bad lot, you know. There’s been all sorts lurking about lately. Sometimes I think they’re spotting the building to squat it.”
“No no,” John chuckles. “That’s just Sherlock’s homeless network on guard duty. He’s been having them watch the house for you.”
“Oh, Sherlock. I wish you wouldn’t! I’d have been perfectly safe.”
“Nonsense. Only the best for you, Mrs. Hudson.”
Mrs. Hudson colours slightly and preens. John hides his grin in his tea cup. Sherlock nudges him impatiently with an elbow before ploughing on.
“We wanted to check with you, Mrs. Hudson, before assuming anything. As you are aware our lifestyle has - changed, slightly,” here, he nods towards the twins, “and we don’t want to presume anything and force our presence in the building. John and I would both prefer to move back to London but we understand if you’d prefer -”
“Sherlock Holmes, if you even dare think about moving away from this flat and taking those children with you I will hunt you down.” She bends down and scoops Rosie up off the floor, cuddling the wriggly child to her chest. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?! Of course you’ll move back in. It’s been dreadfully quiet without the racket you two make.”
“It’s settled then,” Sherlock declares, clapping his hands together loudly. “Mycroft’s people will be bringing our things over later this afternoon.”
“What? When did you arrange that? We’d agreed to wait until we talked to Mrs. Hudson!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John, honestly. Mrs. Hudson, turn us out of Baker Street?”
John groans. “I know, I know, England would fall.”
“Quite,” Sherlock says, smugly, but he leans over and kisses John soundly on the cheek, so John supposes (reluctantly) that he is forgiven. “So, Mrs. Hudson, how would you like to get reacquainted with Hamish and Anna while John and I get ourselves sorted upstairs later. No time like the present.”
Mrs. Hudson sighs the sigh of the long suffering (or, John amends, of any acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes), but she smiles fondly at Rosie who is picking curiously at her brooch. “Just this once, boys. I’m not your childminder.”
“Of course not,” John says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock agrees. They look at each other and grin.