Still here
Summary: Sherlock and John come home to Rosie after the events of The Final Problem.
Notes: This is the first thing I've written and posted in over a year, and it wouldn't have happened if a_blackpanther hadn't been sweet and gently poked me over at Tumblr. Thank you so much! I know this probably isn't what you were poking me about, but thank you for the lovely, lovely things you said to give me the courage to actually publish something agian.
-x-
It was already dawning when Sherlock and John were dropped off outside of John’s home. They thanked for the ride, but were halfway to the front door before the car had started to drive off. John fumbled in his pockets for the keys without finding them.
“No idea why I thought I’d still have them,” he said, taking a step back from the door and waving at it to Sherlock.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but crouched down in front of it nonetheless. Moments later, he looked up at John.
“What are we expecting me to still have on me to pick locks with?”
John giggled. First softly and quietly, but it grew into a tired laugh before he held out a hand to drag Sherlock back to his feet.
“What now, then?” asked John.
“Spare key?”
“You and… Molly.”
“Ah.”
The memory of the phone conversation with Molly hit Sherlock with irregular intervals like a fist in the gut. For long periods during the day (and night) he had forgotten all about it, making the pain fresh and new each time he remembered it. This time he didn’t even try to shake it off. Instead he just reached past John and pressed the doorbell.
“You think that will work?” John asked. “She’s been living in the same house as you for years.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Sherlock, ignoring to mention how lightly one slept when entrusted with the care of someone else’s child.
Shortly after Sherlock had rang the doorbell, they could hear Mrs Hudson approaching on the other side of the door. She opened, wrapped in one of Mary’s dressing gowns and with John’s slippers on her feet, her hair in pins.
“Oh, look at you two,” she said in greeting as she let them in. “What have you done with your keys?”
John and Sherlock just exchanged looks.
“How’s Rosie?” John asked after having hung up his jacket. “Any trouble?”
“A little fussy, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Mrs Hudson said, her smile disappearing in a yawn.
“Good. That’s… Thank you,” said John. “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to be a terrible parent and wake my daughter.”
“Are you-“ Mrs Hudson started, but she cut herself off with a sigh as she watched John walk away. She turned to Sherlock. “You’ll tell me tomorrow?”
“Or the day after that,” Sherlock said.
“Have you eaten?”
Sherlock shook his head; Lestrade had given them some protein bars he had in his glove compartment, but that hardly constituted as eating.
“I’ll make you some breakfast,” Mrs Hudson said, but the last word disappeared in another yawn.
“Go back to bed. We’ll manage.”
“Are you sure, dear? You look terrible.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, her yawn making it impossible for him to not yawn as well. “As you keep reminding us: you’re not our housekeeper. And I suspect that you need to be on Rosie Duty tomorrow as well, so you need at least four more hours of sleep.”
“Hush, you,” she said, smiling and patting him on the arm before going back to bed.
Sherlock sighed when he was left alone and hung his coat next to John’s. He stepped into the flat almost hesitantly, because even if he’d been staying here since his own flat was blown up, he still felt like an intruder and he always half-expected John to ban him again. On top of that, Mary was everywhere here. Her scent, her books, her favourite pillow. Her mug, her hand lotion, her picture. Some days it was too much, but this time it was mostly a soft background noise.
John came out of Rosie’s room, carrying a dazed and disoriented Rosie in his arms, his face nuzzled against the girl’s cheek. He glanced at Sherlock with a smile.
“Look who’s here, Rosie,” he whispered, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and sitting down. “It’s Uncle Sherlock.”
Sherlock frowned instinctively. He really didn’t like that title; it made him think of Uncle Rudy.
“He will make some tea, and take out some things so we can have sandwiches, because daddy’s starving,” John went on, still mumbling with his mouth next to Rosie’s face. “And then, when he’s done, he’s going to want a hug from his favourite niece. What do you think about that, hm, Rosie?”
If the girl was awake or aware enough to take in any of it was hard to judge, but Sherlock felt his insides turn into a knot. He inhaled sharply.
John looked up at that, frowning, but Sherlock ignored the unspoken question and went to do the things John had asked him to do. He knew his way around this kitchen. Mugs, tea, milk, sugar, bread, cheese, and butter, all ended up on the table before the kettle had boiled. Even the little goldfish-shaped tray for teabags Mycroft had given the Watsons as a wedding gift.
All while John had murmured nonsense things to Rosie.
“Ta,” John said, lifting his head to smile at Sherlock as he poured the water into his mug. John looked so calm. For the first time in days - perhaps weeks, even months - he looked completely calm. Tired, dirty, beaten, but at peace.
Sherlock forced a smile and sat down on the chair opposite him.
“Rosie, sweetie, do you want to go to Uncle Sherlock now?” John asked, getting up as he did. “He’s had quite a shit night, too. And he probably smells better than daddy, because he hasn’t been down a well. What do you say?”
Neither Rosie, nor Sherlock, had much of a choice as John handed over the still sleepy girl to her godfather. They both blinked up at John who just smiled and stroked Rosie’s hair once before going back to his chair.
“Hello, you,” said Sherlock to Rosie as she turned in his arms. When she recognised him, she collapsed against his chest, her head tilted in what looked like a very uncomfortable position to be able to look at him.
Sherlock look at her, baffled and amazed, as always, by the trust she put in him. “Hello.”
“You’ve said that already,” said John as he pushed two sandwiches his way.
Sherlock ignored the comment, but absently reached for one of the sandwiches. He took a bite form it, smiling down at Rosie who fought to keep her eyes open.
“Sleep,” he mumbled. “We’re still here when you wake up. We’re still here.”
He gave John a short glance. They were still here. They were still here, but what a close call it had been. Again. He felt the gun underneath his chin. John accepting Mycroft’s conclusion of who to die - ”Shit. He’s right. He is, in fact, right.” -- rang in his ears. They had gambled with their lives for the sake of a little girl on a plane.
Yet somehow they were still there. And another little girl trusted him enough to rest her head against his chest and hold on to his dirty shirt. Trusted him to be there. Trusted him to protect her. Trusted him enough to slowly fall asleep on him.
The bread grew in his mouth.
“Sleep,” he said again when he had finally managed to swallow, not able to take his eyes off her. "We’re still here.”
John cursed under his breath. “It didn’t work, did it?”
“Hm?”
“Rosie. I thought you’d shut down if you held her.”
Sherlock looked up for a moment, but when he understood what John talked about he turned back to Rosie. The first week after she was born his mind had drawn a complete blank every time he held her. It had been completely infuriating, and John and Mary had loved teasing him about it. It passed, but after John had let him back into Rosie’s life, most of that progress was lost and Sherlock had a hard time focusing on anything but her when she was close.
“It did.” He looked at John again. “I did. Then I remembered that I forgot her.”
John nodded. His eyes went to Rosie. As did Sherlock’s. The girl had gone back to sleep, but her grip on Sherlock’s shirt hadn’t loosened much. Sherlock bent his head down to kiss her on the forehead.
They were still here, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.
Notes: This is the first thing I've written and posted in over a year, and it wouldn't have happened if a_blackpanther hadn't been sweet and gently poked me over at Tumblr. Thank you so much! I know this probably isn't what you were poking me about, but thank you for the lovely, lovely things you said to give me the courage to actually publish something agian.
-x-
It was already dawning when Sherlock and John were dropped off outside of John’s home. They thanked for the ride, but were halfway to the front door before the car had started to drive off. John fumbled in his pockets for the keys without finding them.
“No idea why I thought I’d still have them,” he said, taking a step back from the door and waving at it to Sherlock.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but crouched down in front of it nonetheless. Moments later, he looked up at John.
“What are we expecting me to still have on me to pick locks with?”
John giggled. First softly and quietly, but it grew into a tired laugh before he held out a hand to drag Sherlock back to his feet.
“What now, then?” asked John.
“Spare key?”
“You and… Molly.”
“Ah.”
The memory of the phone conversation with Molly hit Sherlock with irregular intervals like a fist in the gut. For long periods during the day (and night) he had forgotten all about it, making the pain fresh and new each time he remembered it. This time he didn’t even try to shake it off. Instead he just reached past John and pressed the doorbell.
“You think that will work?” John asked. “She’s been living in the same house as you for years.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Sherlock, ignoring to mention how lightly one slept when entrusted with the care of someone else’s child.
Shortly after Sherlock had rang the doorbell, they could hear Mrs Hudson approaching on the other side of the door. She opened, wrapped in one of Mary’s dressing gowns and with John’s slippers on her feet, her hair in pins.
“Oh, look at you two,” she said in greeting as she let them in. “What have you done with your keys?”
John and Sherlock just exchanged looks.
“How’s Rosie?” John asked after having hung up his jacket. “Any trouble?”
“A little fussy, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Mrs Hudson said, her smile disappearing in a yawn.
“Good. That’s… Thank you,” said John. “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to be a terrible parent and wake my daughter.”
“Are you-“ Mrs Hudson started, but she cut herself off with a sigh as she watched John walk away. She turned to Sherlock. “You’ll tell me tomorrow?”
“Or the day after that,” Sherlock said.
“Have you eaten?”
Sherlock shook his head; Lestrade had given them some protein bars he had in his glove compartment, but that hardly constituted as eating.
“I’ll make you some breakfast,” Mrs Hudson said, but the last word disappeared in another yawn.
“Go back to bed. We’ll manage.”
“Are you sure, dear? You look terrible.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, her yawn making it impossible for him to not yawn as well. “As you keep reminding us: you’re not our housekeeper. And I suspect that you need to be on Rosie Duty tomorrow as well, so you need at least four more hours of sleep.”
“Hush, you,” she said, smiling and patting him on the arm before going back to bed.
Sherlock sighed when he was left alone and hung his coat next to John’s. He stepped into the flat almost hesitantly, because even if he’d been staying here since his own flat was blown up, he still felt like an intruder and he always half-expected John to ban him again. On top of that, Mary was everywhere here. Her scent, her books, her favourite pillow. Her mug, her hand lotion, her picture. Some days it was too much, but this time it was mostly a soft background noise.
John came out of Rosie’s room, carrying a dazed and disoriented Rosie in his arms, his face nuzzled against the girl’s cheek. He glanced at Sherlock with a smile.
“Look who’s here, Rosie,” he whispered, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and sitting down. “It’s Uncle Sherlock.”
Sherlock frowned instinctively. He really didn’t like that title; it made him think of Uncle Rudy.
“He will make some tea, and take out some things so we can have sandwiches, because daddy’s starving,” John went on, still mumbling with his mouth next to Rosie’s face. “And then, when he’s done, he’s going to want a hug from his favourite niece. What do you think about that, hm, Rosie?”
If the girl was awake or aware enough to take in any of it was hard to judge, but Sherlock felt his insides turn into a knot. He inhaled sharply.
John looked up at that, frowning, but Sherlock ignored the unspoken question and went to do the things John had asked him to do. He knew his way around this kitchen. Mugs, tea, milk, sugar, bread, cheese, and butter, all ended up on the table before the kettle had boiled. Even the little goldfish-shaped tray for teabags Mycroft had given the Watsons as a wedding gift.
All while John had murmured nonsense things to Rosie.
“Ta,” John said, lifting his head to smile at Sherlock as he poured the water into his mug. John looked so calm. For the first time in days - perhaps weeks, even months - he looked completely calm. Tired, dirty, beaten, but at peace.
Sherlock forced a smile and sat down on the chair opposite him.
“Rosie, sweetie, do you want to go to Uncle Sherlock now?” John asked, getting up as he did. “He’s had quite a shit night, too. And he probably smells better than daddy, because he hasn’t been down a well. What do you say?”
Neither Rosie, nor Sherlock, had much of a choice as John handed over the still sleepy girl to her godfather. They both blinked up at John who just smiled and stroked Rosie’s hair once before going back to his chair.
“Hello, you,” said Sherlock to Rosie as she turned in his arms. When she recognised him, she collapsed against his chest, her head tilted in what looked like a very uncomfortable position to be able to look at him.
Sherlock look at her, baffled and amazed, as always, by the trust she put in him. “Hello.”
“You’ve said that already,” said John as he pushed two sandwiches his way.
Sherlock ignored the comment, but absently reached for one of the sandwiches. He took a bite form it, smiling down at Rosie who fought to keep her eyes open.
“Sleep,” he mumbled. “We’re still here when you wake up. We’re still here.”
He gave John a short glance. They were still here. They were still here, but what a close call it had been. Again. He felt the gun underneath his chin. John accepting Mycroft’s conclusion of who to die - ”Shit. He’s right. He is, in fact, right.” -- rang in his ears. They had gambled with their lives for the sake of a little girl on a plane.
Yet somehow they were still there. And another little girl trusted him enough to rest her head against his chest and hold on to his dirty shirt. Trusted him to be there. Trusted him to protect her. Trusted him enough to slowly fall asleep on him.
The bread grew in his mouth.
“Sleep,” he said again when he had finally managed to swallow, not able to take his eyes off her. "We’re still here.”
John cursed under his breath. “It didn’t work, did it?”
“Hm?”
“Rosie. I thought you’d shut down if you held her.”
Sherlock looked up for a moment, but when he understood what John talked about he turned back to Rosie. The first week after she was born his mind had drawn a complete blank every time he held her. It had been completely infuriating, and John and Mary had loved teasing him about it. It passed, but after John had let him back into Rosie’s life, most of that progress was lost and Sherlock had a hard time focusing on anything but her when she was close.
“It did.” He looked at John again. “I did. Then I remembered that I forgot her.”
John nodded. His eyes went to Rosie. As did Sherlock’s. The girl had gone back to sleep, but her grip on Sherlock’s shirt hadn’t loosened much. Sherlock bent his head down to kiss her on the forehead.
They were still here, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.