Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stethoscope…where was John’s stethoscope?

He knew Sherlock wouldn’t have it. Not after the last time he had taken it without asking and John had reacted by pouring bleach on Sherlock’s latest mold cultures. It hadn’t been a good experience for anyone involved. John could feel the prickle of heated shame as it rose up the back of his neck at the memory of his past actions. It had been years ago, but he still felt the guilt of that moment.

It had been hard, at first, after Mary. John wore shame and regret like a second skin in those first months; shame at what he had done and said to Sherlock and regret that he never apologized. He had stayed away, appalled at what he had done to his best friend. How could he ever trust himself around Sherlock again?

When Sherlock tried to make his way back into John’s life, John resisted. Not for his own sake, but for Sherlock’s safety. But Sherlock, as ever, was persistent. He wormed his way back into John’s life and John had promised himself that he would never hurt Sherlock again. If Sherlock were going to be a part of John’s life, then John would strive to make himself worthy of his friendship.

And he hadn’t. Instead, he had poured bleach on Sherlock’s experiment. He apologized right after and then booked himself an emergency appointment with Ella. He had wanted to hurt Sherlock in that moment because he was angry and he had found a way. It was unacceptable.

He was a horrible friend. He shouldn’t be here, back in the flat, with Sherlock. He needed to find another place. Somewhere Sherlock would be safe from him.

“Ready for surgery!”

John blinked, startled out of his spiraling thoughts from the shout downstairs. He grabbed his work bag and made his way down in his socked feet. He followed the sound of voices to the living room and quickly discovered his missing stethoscope.

“Scalpel, nurse,” Rosie demanded, little face intent on the large stuffed rabbit laid out on the table with John’s stethoscope draped carefully over her neck.

“Scalpel, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock murmured next to her, passing her the small plastic scalpel from a child’s dress-up set that Sherlock had gifted her three Christmases ago. He was seated on the floor beside Rosie, long legs folded carefully in front of him to be out of Rosie’s way as she walked around the table, his back to John.

Rosie set the scalpel to the rabbit and began her precision cut, completely focused on her ‘patient’.

John couldn’t help the smile he felt pulling at his mouth as he watched his daughter and best friend. Rosie was another reason he had been so reluctant to move back in with Sherlock when he had first brought it up. He had been convinced that Sherlock wouldn’t want anything to do with a baby in the flat. It was one thing to see her for an hour or two when John brought her by, but it was another entirely to live with an infant in the home.

Sherlock had insisted, though, and when Rosie was around one, John finally gave in and moved them both in. He knew it couldn’t be for long. There was only so much time he had before Rosie would need her own space in the flat. Sharing a bedroom wouldn’t be sustainable, but when he and Rosie had shown up on the doorstep of 221B and gone upstairs, John had blinked in surprise to find two doors at the top of the landing.

Sherlock had convinced Mrs. Hudson that it would be a good idea to renovate the attic space into a third bedroom. It was small, but not excessively so, and it had a window that opened up to the back of the building. It was mainly a view of brick, but there was a touch of sky near the top, where the other building didn’t block it out. When it was sunny, the room seemed to almost glow with its soft yellow walls.

It was the cot, though, that had truly captured John’s attention. It was placed in the center of the room, white wood gleaming, with a green sheet. When he asked Sherlock why green, he replied that green was relaxing, and that a bed should be relaxing.

John had known Sherlock wanted him to return, though he hadn’t been entirely sure why. When he had hurt Sherlock, emotionally and physically, Sherlock had wanted him to return anyway. John had believed that Sherlock understood that to get John back, it meant having to deal with having a baby, too.

But that cot. That room. That meant that Sherlock had not just wanted John, and would deal with Rosie because they were a package deal, but that he wanted Rosie, too. It spoke of care. Sherlock had carved out a space for Rosie in the flat. No matter what he said about Mrs. Hudson, John knew it was Sherlock’s doing. Sherlock had probably paid for it all, too. The renovation, the cot, the shelf full of books that lined one wall. Appropriate books, too. Books meant for children. Fairy tales and books on colors, counting, and the alphabet. There was a collection of Babar books.

It was moments like that, with Sherlock sat on the floor as Rosie climbed over him as she performed surgery on stuffed animals, that cemented in his mind that moving back in had been the right decision, despite his momentary wobbles of conviction.

Sherlock loved Rosie. John hadn’t thought it possible, in the beginning, which he knew was completely unfair to Sherlock. He had always known there was more to Sherlock than met the eye, that the man hid so much of himself away for any number of reasons. He had known that, but he still felt surprised when Sherlock had shown more of his heart to Rosie than anyone else.

And because Rosie got to see it, John got to see glimpses of it, too. Beautiful, clandestine moments when Sherlock wasn’t aware of John’s presence in the room as he engaged with Rosie in any number of ways.

John saw Sherlock’s love for Rosie in the way he would hold her in his lap as he read Le Petit Prince in the original French, his voice thick and smooth as honey, one large hand holding the book open while the other absently twisted one of Rosie’s golden curls. He saw it as Rosie cried, too tired to sleep, and Sherlock would lift his violin and play for her while John rocked her in his arms. It was there in the way he talked to her about his experiments— explaining how the majority of human bones (approximately 300 in her own infant body and 206 in an adults) were located in the hands, wrists, feet, and ankles—and why it was important to know that. It was in the way he would cut her food for her before John had a chance to get to it himself.

And it was here, in the moments Sherlock would play with her because John had to go into the clinic and had been ignoring her pleas to play while he needed to get dressed and out the door before he missed the bus.

John watched as Rosie began to ‘stitch’ her patient back up, Sherlock holding the rabbit's paw in a show of comfort, before Rosie glanced up and saw John.

“Daddy!” she cried out in delight, dropping her scalpel and running to grab John’s legs.

“Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Rosie, but I need my stethoscope back.”

He smiled, tugging gently on a curl as she giggled into his hip, shaking her head.

“But I’m the doctor today!”

“Yes, I see that. But I need that one, darling. Didn’t the set Sherlock got you have one?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t really work. This one really works,” Rosie pouted, one small hand holding onto the commandeered stethoscope.

“Oh, I know, that’s why I need it. I need to get to work and go be a real doctor for a bit.”

Rosie looked up, her pout growing more pronounced.

“Do you have to work today? You worked yesterday and the day after yesterday and all the time!”

“The day after yesterday is today,” he said.

Rosie frowned, clearly trying to work out the meaning of what he said, but then just shook her head.

“But you said we could play later.”

John bit back his sigh and leaned down to look Rosie in the eye.

“Yes, darling, and we will play later. But I have to go to work first.”

“But you won’t want to play when you get back,” Rosie whinged, and John wished she wasn’t right about that. He wouldn’t want to play later because he would need to cook dinner, and there was laundry to do, and he knew Sherlock was working on a case and needed to do something with someone somewhere, but he couldn’t remember because he had been half-asleep when Sherlock had talked to him about it last night.

“I will play with you when I get back,” he said instead of the million other things he wanted to say, because she was five and he wanted to be a better father, as well as a better friend.

“Promise?”

“I promise. May I have that back, please, before I miss the bus?”

Rosie stared at him a moment, then nodded and handed him the stethoscope.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead before rising back to his feet.

He turned to talk to Sherlock, but the other man wasn’t in the room anymore. John frowned, then heard the pop of the toaster as it finished.

He made his way to the kitchen to find Sherlock slathering butter and jam on toast, which he passed to John.

“If you hurry, you can catch the bus at Gloucaster Place and not be late to work. You’ll need to leave in two minutes, though.”

John bit into the toast, with its perfect butter to jam ratio and nodded his understanding.

“Damn. No time for tea, then,” he said, hand over his mouth as he spoke around his bite of toast.

Sherlock reached behind him on the counter, then pushed a thermos into John’s hand. John blinked at the thermos, then looked back at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock had made him tea?

“What’s in that?”

“Tea, John, keep up. English Breakfast, splash of milk. 90 seconds.”

“It’s not drugged, is it?” John asked skeptically. Sherlock hadn’t done anything like that in years, at least that he was aware of, but better to ask than not.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and John couldn’t help smiling before giving a quick shake of his head, then shoved the rest of his toast unceremoniously into his mouth.

“Thank you,” he mumbled around his mouthful, then took off to grab his shoes.

“Can you get Rosie to nursery for me?” he shouted into the kitchen while quickly tying his shoes.

“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry,” came the reply.

John sighed. That response meant Rosie would most likely not end up in nursery, but staying with Sherlock. Sherlock had been doing that more often, lately. He liked to pick her up early from nursery and take her on excursions around the city. He’d taken her to the zoo, to the Natural History Museum, and who knows how many trips to the swings in Regents Park.

It wasn’t that John minded. He loved that they loved each other and that Sherlock took such an active role in his goddaughter’s life. It was more that John believed Rosie would benefit from playing and being around other children in addition to spending time with her decidedly unusual family. He didn’t have the time to argue with him about it that morning, though.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Forty-five seconds.”

“Yes, yes,” John said, quickly rounding the chairs to place a quick kiss atop Rosie’s curly head. “Listen to Sherlock, darling, and have a great day.”

Rosie giggled and batted him away from her head as she smiled up at him.

“Love you, Daddy!”

“Love you, too.”

“Sherlock, text me if you need anything.”

“We’ll be fine, John. Fifteen seconds.”

John grimaced and practically ran out of the flat and down to the pavement.

Sherlock was right, of course. He made it to the stop just in time. He couldn’t decide if he was impressed or annoyed by that, but it didn’t matter. As the bus took off from the stop, he took a sip of the tea Sherlock had made him.

It was perfect.

John spent the entire day at work thinking about Sherlock. It wasn’t exactly a new phenomenon.

Patient with an ear ache? Think about Sherlock’s ears. Or the spot just below his ear. Casually wonder whether the scent of him would be stronger there.

Patient with a sore throat? Think about Sherlock’s neck. The small mole that has always caught John’s attention.

Patient with a wart on his foot? Think about Sherlock’s oddly elegant feet. Could feet be elegant? He never would have thought so before, but Sherlock’s feet could only be classified as such. He didn’t even like feet, but he thought about Sherlock’s an unnecessary amount of time.

He knew he was ridiculous. It was something he had accepted about himself years ago, especially when it came to Sherlock, but it bore repeating. He was ridiculous.

As he filled out a prescription for antibiotics, he thought about how Sherlock had recently needed a prescription when Rosie had managed to bring home a case of strep from nursery. Sherlock had been a right terror about the whole thing. Not the being sick part, but the taking the pill part. John was fairly certain it was all part of some game Sherlock had been playing with him. Not that he had any idea what the game had been, to be honest. Sherlock was rarely sick, but when he was, he seemed to abhor the effort needed into getting healthy again. God forbid he do something as simple as care for his transport when it decided to rebel against him. Rest, taking his medicine, and eating a nutritious meal or two were apparently an assault against his very being.

Well, not so much the last one anymore. Sherlock’s eating habits had nearly twisted on their head when Rosie and he had moved in. John insisted on proper meal times for Rosie, not including the assortment of snacks between meal times as small children, or Rosie at least, seemed determined to eat at least once an hour. And Rosie, to John’s immense relief and downright joy, was not a picky eater. She would eat anything offered to her, save tomatoes. Something about them being squishy, but she didn’t mind any other squishy foods, so John simply counted it as a win.

Sherlock, though. Sherlock ate when Rosie did, now, because Rosie insisted he eat with her. Carrot sticks, apple slices, waffles not-so-carefully dipped in maple syrup, bananas, water biscuits, beans on toast, whatever. If Rosie was eating it, then Sherlock inevitably ate some of it, too. It was fascinating and endearing and John loved them both.

A knock on his door frame some time later brought John’s attention back up from where he was finishing the paperwork for his last patient of the day. Audrey, one of the nurse practitioners in the clinic, smiled at him from where she stood at his open door.

“Hey, John. I was wondering if you had that report done, yet?”

John returned her smile absently. “Yeah, just about. You done for the day?”

“Yes, I just finished. I was wondering if you had any plans this evening? A few of us were going out for drinks. Good start to the weekend, yeah?”

“Oh,” John said, surprised. It had been a while since he had been invited out for drinks with his coworkers. Audrey was relatively new to the clinic, having only been there for around three months, and they hadn’t spoken much at all beyond general ‘hellos’ and ‘how do you do’s’.

“I can’t tonight. Sorry,” he said, and genuinely meant it. Audrey was a pretty woman. Brunette, lovely dark eyes, and had a nice smile.

“Plans with the girlfriend?” Audrey asked and John bit back his snort at her obvious fishing. It was flattering, and she was pretty, but it wasn’t something that would ever happen. For many reasons.

“No,” John replied. “I have to pick up my daughter from nursery.”

Audrey’s smile dimmed slightly at the mention of a child, but that wasn’t an unusual reaction in John’s experience. She rallied quickly enough.

“Well, perhaps next time, then?”

“Sure,” John replied with a smile, knowing that ‘next time’ wouldn’t happen.

It didn’t bother him knowing that. It was part of single parenthood, in his limited experience. He didn’t mind. Rosie was his first priority these days. Rosie and Sherlock.

Sherlock, who spent his days more often than not now finding ways to pick Rosie up early from nursery or not take her at all. Sherlock who made him toast and tea when he was running late. Sherlock who was also beautiful. Perhaps too beautiful, really.

Rosie and Sherlock were enough for him. His little put-together family. His daughter and best friend.

His relationship with Sherlock had changed since Rosie came into the picture. He still went on cases with Sherlock, but they weren’t as dangerous as they used to be. Sherlock still worked with Lestrade and John still wrote up the most interesting cases.

But Sherlock would wait for John these days, when before he would have just taken off whenever. He would make sure there was care for Rosie lined up with Mrs. Hudson, or occasionally Molly, or the nanny that Sherlock had found and had Mycroft run a full background check on to make sure she was reliable and safe for Rosie.

When he could, Sherlock would wait for John to come home and they would go out after dinner to do whatever research Sherlock needed to close a case. When he couldn’t wait for John, he made sure to text John throughout the day, letting him know where he was and what he was doing and what deductions he had made while walking through the home of an 86-year-old pensioner whose grandson was stealing her heirloom jewelry to pay off his increasing gambling debts. They were the kind of cases he wouldn’t have left the flat for before. The kinds of cases that would rarely end in a life-threatening altercation that required John to fire a gun, or be fired upon.

John knew, or thought he knew, why Sherlock was so careful about his cases these days. He was grateful for it and at the same time he felt guilty for it. Sherlock loved The Work, the heart-racing and blood-pumping cases that led to foot races down back alleys and leaping across rooftops. He never said a word about it, though. Neither of them did. They went on these new, less dangerous cases, and were often back to the flat in time to kiss Rosie goodnight before she went to sleep.

John was worried that it wouldn’t be enough for Sherlock someday soon. One day, Sherlock would realize that all the concessions he had made to his way of life so that an ex-Army doctor and a small child could share it with him weren’t worth the trouble.

He wasn’t about to bring it up in conversation with Sherlock, though. Just like he had absolutely zero plans to ever mention to Sherlock how much he loved him. There was too much risk involved in both of those cases. Too much to lose.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and finished the rest of his paperwork. He thought he might splurge on a taxi on the way home. He missed his family.

John found Sherlock and Rosie in the kitchen when he made it back home. Rosie was eating an apple that had been sliced with the care and precision that Sherlock used for any experiment while Sherlock’s tea sat cooling near his elbow while he gazed at something in his microscope.

Rosie looked up as he walked into the room.

“Daddy!” Her smile was huge as she greeted him and John wondered at how such a simple thing could flip a day on its head. He smiled and kissed the top of her head as he passed her to fill the kettle.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Brilliant!”

“Brilliant?” John asked, feeling a bit suspicious at the word choice. She never thought nursery was ‘awesome’, even when she had fun there.

“We went to the Chelsea Physic Gardens”, Sherlock said as if he could read John’s mind.

John eyed him curiously.

“Did you even take her to nursery today, or just keep her home with you?”

Sherlock averted his eyes and John shook his head.

“What else did you do?”

“We made soap,” Rosie told him through a mouthful of apple.

“Soap?” John asked, eyes flicking to Sherlock and back to Rosie. “And don’t talk with your mouth full, please.”

Rosie nodded and made an effort to finish her bite of apple before speaking again. “Yeah, we got to make soap with the flowers from the garden and they teached us all about making soap with gly-glue-glericin–”

“Glycerin,” Sherlock interjected softly.

Rosie nodded in agreement. “Yeah, glyericenen,” she mispronounced again and John hid his smile.

“That sounds really interesting.”

“Yeah. And Sherlock said we can use the soap to wash our hands after ‘speriments and then he took me for ice cream.”

“Ice cream, hm?” John said, eyes again flickering to Sherlock who refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock had stood up and was busying himself making tea. “Busy day, it sounds like.”

“Mmhmm. And then we came home and he let me watch Peppa while he worked on his mic’scope.”

“Wow,” John said, watching Sherlock preparing two mugs of tea and still refusing to look up at him.

“And we’re going to have a sleepover!”

John’s attention went back to Rosie.

“What?”

“A sleepover!” Rosie declared as she jumped up from her seat, brandishing a slice of apple in her small fist. “I asked and Sherlock said ‘yes’ and you can’t break a promise so now we’re having a sleepover with blankets and snacks and we get to stay up!”

“Ok, well, I’ll have to talk to Sherlock about all that,” John said.

Rosie stopped the spinning she had been doing to stare at John.

“Ok. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” John said, not wanting to commit to any kind of timeline on this sleepover that’s supposed to be happening. John quickly checked the time, then turned back to Rosie. “Why don’t you go play for a bit while I get dinner started?”

“Can I go see if Mrs. Hudson is home?” Rosie asked, all wide-eyed innocence that John could see straight through.

Rosie never left Mrs. Hudson without a handful of biscuits, but it was Friday night, and he needed to talk with Sherlock without Rosie listening in the other room.

He nodded and Rosie smiled brilliantly before turning to run from the kitchen.

“Don’t forget your shoes!” John called after her. “And make sure to ask if it’s okay for you to stay.”

“Ok!” Rosie replied.

He listened to the patter of her Mary Jane’s on the staircase before turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock handed him his cup of tea and John rolled his eyes before taking it.

“Thank you,” he said, also seeing straight through Sherlock, but that wasn’t new. Not anymore.

John sat down at Rosie’s vacated chair and Sherlock sat down across from him with his own mug.

“Rosie wants to have a sleepover.”

“Yes, I heard. Where exactly did that come from?”

“Peppa. I believe they had an episode where Peppa went to a sleepover with her friends.”

John hid his smile behind his cup of tea. There was something highly amusing about Sherlock’s deep voice with his posh accent talking about cartoon pigs and their animal friends that John couldn’t ignore.

“Who was she planning to invite to this thing?”

“Just the two of us.”

“Wait, what?” John asked.

“She wants the three of us to have a sleepover.”

“How is that supposed to work?”

“She wants us to sleep in the living room.”

“Oh,” John said. There was something about that that sent a trickle of something into John’s stomach. He and Sherlock had shared a room before, of course. Several times, actually, due to T Work. They’d even passed out together on the couch before. But something about intentionally sharing a space to sleep in their flat, even just the floor in their living room as Rosie slept alongside, made his heart kick in his chest.

“And you’re okay with that?” John asked carefully.

“Of course. I already promised her we could.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” John agreed automatically. “Can’t break a promise.”

“No, you can’t.”

There was something heavy in those three words, but John shook it off and refused to think about promises and vows just then.

“So. Are we doing this tomorrow, then?”

“That would be ideal. No current cases and it’s a weekend so you won’t have to go to work the next day.”

John nodded in agreement.

“How was your experiment?” John asked, remembering Rosie’s recap of her day and how Sherlock had worked on his microscope.

“Boring,” Sherlock said. “I kept getting the same result. I need to see if Molly is still mad about that thing with the livers or if she’ll let me back into Bart's lab to use their new centrifuge.”

John snorted and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

“There’s no way she’s forgiven you about ‘that thing with the livers’ yet, so I think you’ll have to find something else to work with. Or, you know, apologize to her. Maybe get her something she likes.”

“I’m not getting her a cat, John.”

“She likes other things than cats, Sherlock,” John said with an eyeroll.

“Glee fanfiction?”

John laughed, unable to help himself. A moment later Sherlock’s deep chuckle joined his.

“I suppose I could try writing something. Do you think she likes slash fanfiction?”

“I don’t believe we’re having this conversation or that I know the terminology.”

“Do you think she reads Explicit, John? Or should I keep it Teen and Up Audiences?”

“You’re a terrible person, Sherlock,” John said, laughter still in his voice.

“Actually, you should write it.”

“What? Why me?”

“That should be obvious even for you, John.”

“Please feel free to enlighten me as to why I should be the one writing gay Glee fanfiction.”

“You’re the writer, John. You romanticize everything. I’m sure you could do a decent enough job.”

“I’ve never written fanfiction, Sherlock.”

“Honestly, John, the blog is essentially a fanfiction of our lives.”

John laughed again and shook his head. He stood and crossed to the sink with his empty mug, then rinsed it out before putting it in the sink to properly wash later.

“Maybe try getting her flowers. What’s her favorite?” he asked as he started gathering ingredients for that night's dinner.

“Tulips,” Sherlock supplied automatically, just as John knew he would.

“There you go. Go get her tulips, apologize, and maybe she’ll let you play with her new toys.”

“I think the fanfiction would be better,” Sherlock insisted, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“I’m sure you do. Now, are you helping with dinner or am I doing this on my own?”

“If I help, will you write the Blaine slash Kurt fanfiction? Actually, do you think she might be more of a Y slash N reader?”

John threw a tea towel at Sherlock’s head, which actually managed to hit him as Sherlock had just turned to look at Rosie, who was suddenly standing at the kitchen door. Sherlock pulled the towel off his head, chuckling, and John turned to look at his daughter in an effort to steady the quickening beat of his heart.

He had been able to make Sherlock laugh since nearly the beginning of everything. But Sherlock laughed easier now, more freely, than he had since his return to life. His laughter was more light-hearted than it used to be. Their humor still tended to run on the darker side, but it seemed that in the last few years with Rosie in Sherlock’s daily life that he sought and found the humor in more ordinary things. John loved Sherlock’s laugh and would seek any occasion he could to bring it out. He was thankful that Sherlock was quicker to that delightfully deep chuckle these days. When he had first returned, when Mary was alive, it didn’t appear as often as John would have liked.

“Is Mrs. Hudson not home?” John asked.

“She’s home. She’s making ravioli for dinner and she said I had to ask you if I can have dinner with her and I want ravioli, Daddy, please can I eat there? She said you and Sherlock could go out to eat and I’ll stay with her and that she’ll bring me upstairs when it's bedtime and can I please have ravioli?”

John blinked at the onslaught of words coming at him. Rosie spoke as swiftly as Sherlock deducing a crime scene sometimes. He wasn’t sure if it was a natural inclination or something she had learned from listening to Sherlock all her young life. He glanced down at the ingredients he had pulled out of the fridge, quickly to Sherlock, then back to Rosie.

“If she doesn’t mind, then sure, love.”

Rosie squealed in response. The child really did love ravioli and he had only planned chicken with roasted veg for dinner, which wasn’t entirely appealing to him at that moment, either.

“Tell Mrs. Hudson ‘thank you’,” Sherlock said as Rosie ran back out of the flat and down the stairs to the more appetizing dinner.

John hid his grin at Sherlock’s reminder to use manners. It amused him more than it ought to, but it was important to enjoy the little things.

Rosie’s reply of “Yes, sir!” came drifting up the staircase as Sherlock turned back to look at John.

“Angelo’s?” they both said simultaneously, then broke out in matching smiles.

“Yes, Angelo’s sounds perfect,” Sherlock said as he stood from the table.

John followed him out of the kitchen after putting everything back in the fridge. He had barely made it past the door before Sherlock was manhandling him into his coat.

“Come, John. I already called for a table.”

“Good,” John said, bending down to get his shoes on his feet. “They’re probably busy with it being Friday night. I hadn’t thought of that.”

He stood back up, turning to look at Sherlock, who was watching him with a strange expression on his face.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, then shook his head. “No. Well, yes, they’re busy, but it wasn’t a problem.”

“Of course not,” John said, smiling. Angelo, and his staff, made a point of having a table available whenever Sherlock called. He wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to do that, especially on those occasions where they showed up without calling ahead. Some sort of Italian food magic, he supposed.

As they took their seats at a table near the back of the restaurant some fifteen minutes later, candles already lit and in their proper place as far as Angelo was concerned, John again reflected on the magic of Italian food. The restaurant smelled pleasantly of garlic and freshly baked bread, and John knew he wouldn’t need to cajole Sherlock into eating enough that night. It was even more certain when Angelo informed them that tiramisu was on the menu that night, which John had long ago learned was one of Sherlock’s favorites. Granted, the man would eat almost any sweet provided, but tiramisu seemed a particular favorite.

They didn’t speak of anything particular as they waited for their meals to arrive. Dinner at Angelo’s wasn’t necessarily a regular occurrence, or eating out dinner alone anywhere, really, as Mrs. Hudson adored the opportunity to feed up Rosie any chance she got, but it was one they enjoyed. Sherlock spoke more about his failed experiment, his ideas on how to get the result he was hoping for, a case he had solved that morning (which had turned out to be Rosie’s missing shoe and had caused John to laugh loudly as he described the two’s antics in hunting down said shoe and its subsequent finding), before they were nearly through their bottle of red and waiting for the end of their meals: an espresso for John and tiramisu for Sherlock.

“So what was this sleepover Rosie mentioned?” John asked as he sipped the last of his wine.

“Ah, yes. As I said earlier, it was on that program she likes. She asked if we could have one. I asked her if she had any friends from nursery she wanted to invite, but she insisted that she only wanted one for us.”

“Okay,” John said, frowning slightly. “And we’re just going to camp out in the living room for this?” His back was hurting just at the thought. Sherlock could and often did sleep just about anywhere without ever seeming to have any issues, but John had never been that way. He slept on the sofa and felt it for days afterwards.

“We have that li-lo. If we move the table and push back the sofa we should be able to fit it into the space for you.”

John nodded, then thanked the server who appeared with his espresso and Sherlock’s dessert, along with two spoons.

Sherlock took his spoon and gathered a bite of lady fingers, custard, and whipped cream, before he passed it to John. He then gathered his own spoonful. John ate his bite, knowing that it was the only one he’d receive, and savored the sweet custard and bitter espresso flavor.

“That’s so good,” John said after finishing and Sherlock smirked at him as he took another bite.

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I don’t know why you don’t just get your own.”

“It’s too sweet to finish a whole piece.”

Sherlock grunted in clear disagreement, his mouth full with his second bite. John was briefly distracted by the sight of Sherlock’s lips pursed around the spoon before swiftly averting his gaze out at the other patrons. He sipped his espresso as he listened to Sherlock’s appreciative hums over his tiramisu and the booming laugh of Angelo somewhere in the front of the restaurant.

John let his eyes wander over the other tables. The restaurant was filled with couples since it was a Friday evening. John recognized a few faces as regular patrons of Angelo’s, just like him and Sherlock. Well. Not just like. Those others were all couples. Some were married and some had been together for years. There was one younger couple that Sherlock and John had a friendly wager on when they would get engaged. John was sure the young man would propose in the restaurant sometime around Christmas. Sherlock agreed with the restaurant proposal, but insisted it would be New Year’s Eve. John figured Sherlock would probably win the wager, but he glanced quickly at the woman’s finger just to see if they were both wrong and they had missed the proposal altogether. They hadn’t, though. Her finger was still bare. John sort of hoped they’d be there when it happened. Despite everything, he was still a bit of a romantic. He would never propose in a restaurant again – not that he actually ended up proposing in a restaurant that first time – but he wouldn’t mind seeing one happen for another couple.

There was an older couple he’d never seen before a few tables away from them. He watched them for a moment before he stretched his leg out and tapped Sherlock’s foot with his own. He turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes appearing darker than usual in the dimmed lighting, and titled his head slightly to indicate the couple. Sherlock’s gaze immediately shifted to the other table, his eyes scanning them quickly before returning to John.

“Australian. They have at least two cats and a dog at home. A small dog. Perhaps pomeranian. No children. They’re traveling for their anniversary. Forty, I believe.”

John nodded, not even bothering to argue with Sherlock’s deductions. They did this often when they went out to eat. John, or even Rosie, would find someone interesting and Sherlock would deduce them. It was silly, really. It wasn’t as if they approached the people later to confirm Sherlock’s deductions. It was fun, though. An easy way to pass the time.

“Forty years,” John said with a small shake of his head. “Can you imagine being with someone for forty years?”

Sherlock was silent for several moments. John turned his eyes away from the couple to find Sherlock watching him intently. John swallowed involuntarily under the intense gaze.

“Strangely enough,” Sherlock said quietly, “I could.”

John watched him for a moment before smiling.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Sherlock smiled, the small one that meant he was truly pleased about something, and returned to his pudding. John finished his espresso.

The walk back to the flat was pleasant despite the chill in the air. Sherlock was wrapped in his ridiculous coat with the collar popped and John couldn’t help admiring his profile in his periphery. They were walking close enough that their arms brushed every few steps, but neither seemed inclined to put more distance between them.

“So what exactly does one do at a sleepover?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock as they passed under a streetlight. The halogen glow set off a halo around his dark curls, putting his face in shadows.

“According to the internet there are several activities the participants may engage in, but a particular few seem to be expected. There is usually pizza involved, pillow fights, the viewing of a film, staying up late, eating overly sugary sweets, and party games of some kind.”

John blinked, then began to laugh.

“Sherlock, did you research how to have a sleepover?”

“Of course. I’ve never had a sleepover. I didn’t know what they entailed,” Sherlock said with an arched brow. “You can also do themes, apparently. Movie marathons, camping out, spa.”

John giggled again at the idea of Sherlock sitting with his laptop pulled up into his lap while searching for sleepover ideas on Google.

“Rosie requested fingernail painting,” Sherlock informed him.

“Were you asking her questions while you researched?”

“Well it was her idea. I wanted to know her opinion.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“She requested pizza and Jelly Babies. She also wants to watch a film, but hasn't decided which one that would be yet.”

“Any chance she’ll let us watch anything besides Frozen?”

“Unlikely.”

“Ah. Well, nothing to be done for it, then.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.

“Do you think Angelo would deliver a pizza for us?”

“If you told him Rosie requested it he would hand deliver it himself,” Sherlock informed him.

John nodded his agreement. As much as Angelo liked Sherlock, and even John, it paled in his fondness for Rosie. The man positively doted on her and personally handled her meals on those occasions where they all went to the restaurant together.

“That said, however, she asked if we could make it ourselves.”

“Really?” John asked, somewhat surprised. They had made homemade pizza before, but generally, Rosie wanted Angelo’s pizzas.

Sherlock hummed. “It was on one of the sleepover lists I researched. ‘Make your own pizza’.”

“Guess I’ll go to the shops tomorrow,” John said, resigned to his fate of a sleepover in their living room.

“Good idea. We’ll need the ingredients for pizza, sweets, crisps, bacon, eggs, and strawberries. Oh, and you might want to pick up some kind of polish for her, as well.”

“Polish?” John asked bemused.

“Fingernails. It’s a part of the sleepover experience.”

“What’s the strawberries for?”

“For the waffles.” Obviously went unsaid, but was heavily implied in his tone.

“When are we having waffles? I thought we were having pizza.”

“The waffles are for breakfast. Breakfast is important in the sleepover experience. It brings an end to the event, John. Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

In fact, he was. John was shifting into highly amused by the entire conversation as Sherlock rattled on about the necessary parts of a sleepover, and riling him up was part of the fun.

“Hm, makes sense,” John agreed. “Shouldn’t we wait and ask what Rosie wants, though?”

“She wants waffles,” Sherlock said with the same authority that he used on crime scenes.

“Fine, she wants waffles,” John said. He gave himself a mental note to ask Rosie in the morning. Preferably in Sherlock’s hearing. It would be hilarious.

The next morning, while John poured milk into Rosie’s breakfast cereal and his tea, he asked her.

“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow, Rosie? To end our sleepover?”

“Waffles!” Rosie shouted in delight. “With strawberries and cream!”

Sherlock, who hadn’t acknowledged John in any way since entering the kitchen that morning, glanced up from his microscope with a look of pure vindication on his face. John stifled his laughter into his mug.

“Waffles it is, then.”

“Waffles! Waffles! Waffles!” Rosie chanted from her chair, waving her spoonful of cereal around and causing milk to fall on the table.

“Yes, waffles. Now, stop that, please. You’re making a mess.”

“Whoops,” Rosie said, reaching for the napkin John held out for her and cleaning up her mess as best as a four-year-old could.

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said from his spot near her as he reached over and helped clean up the rest of the spilled food.

“Accidents happen,” Rosie said as she went back to her food, taking a more careful bite.

“That they do,” John agreed as he made to butter the toast that popped out of the toaster.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated against the table with a text as John was adding jam to his slice and honey to Sherlock’s.

He put the plate with Sherlock’s toast in front of the other man as he read over his text.

“Greg?” John asked as he took a bite of his own toast.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said in neither agreement nor disagreement. John snorted and looked back at Rosie.

“Is there anything else special you wanted to do for our sleepover tonight?”

Rosie looked up from her bowl and nodded enthusiastically.

“Uh huh! I want to play a game!”

“What game do you want to play?”

“Hide and seek!”

“Oh, well that’s a fun game,” John said. “We should definitely play it. Anything else?”

“Can we play the lava game?” Rosie asked, eyes wide.

“I think that a sleepover sounds like the perfect time to play the lava game,” John agreed and Rosie beamed.

The ‘lava game’ was something John had had to explain to Rosie in a way to keep her from climbing the furniture al-la-Sherlock. The man was always stepping on the table and sofa, and in a bout of inspiration John had explained to Rosie that Sherlock was pretending that the floor was lava and couldn’t touch it. Rosie, of course, had wanted to play the lava game ever since, but John had put parameters around when the game could be played. Mainly, John had to know when it was happening. Sherlock, in an effort to avoid being fussed at by Rosie for playing the game when John didn’t know he was ‘playing’, had tried to be better about stepping on the furniture whenever it was in his way versus walking around it. He still stepped all over the furniture, of course, but he made an effort to only do so when Rosie wasn’t around.

It was a win-win situation as far as John was concerned.

John turned back to Sherlock, whose fingers were flying over his mobile as he typed back a response, a small frown on his face.

“Everything alright?” John asked.

Sherlock hummed in response, then looked up at him. “Mm, yes. Something Lestrade is working on.”

“Do you need to go?” John asked.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked at the phone, then almost guiltily up at Rosie, who was now singing softly to herself about a teddy bear that didn’t eat its breakfast and was chased by a dog. She always came up with the oddest things to sing about which both amused and flummoxed John. Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to him and John offered a small smile.

“It’s ok if you need to go, Sherlock. Rosie and I will head to the shops while you go see Greg.”

It was another thing John wouldn’t have ever suspected of Sherlock when they first met. He strived to make sure Rosie never felt like she was being left behind or forgotten. John didn’t know if it was his attempt to correct something from his own childhood or just something he thought was important from one of the many parenting books he had read. John pretended he didn’t know about the books and Sherlock never mentioned them. It was easier that way. For some reason. Rosie was four and they had all been living together for three years with Sherlock essentially a surrogate father, but it was just something they didn’t talk about.

John wanted to talk about it. He wanted to ask Sherlock to be Rosie’s other parent and not just her godparent. He wanted to ask Sherlock to be his partner, in all sense of the word, but that was one of those too scary to think about things. He didn’t want to mess up what they had so he kept quiet.

“Are you certain?’ Sherlock asked, almost reluctantly. He didn’t like leaving John behind these days any more than he liked leaving Rosie.

“Yeah, course,” John told him.

Sherlock stood from his seat, flicking off the light of his microscope.

“I won’t be long. I’ll text you.”

John smiled. He knew that Sherlock would text him probably 50 times with any number of things. Deductions he made, the tediousness of the employees of the Yard, the weather, and likely a few photographs taken with his phone.

“We’ll be here,” John replied.

Sherlock nodded, then turned to Rosie and placed a quick kiss atop her head. She giggled, but kept singing her song, then went out of the kitchen.

John glanced at the table and saw Sherlock’s toast was still on its plate without a single bite taken. He grabbed the toast and went into the living room, where Sherlock was shrugging on his suit jacket.

“Toast, Sherlock,” he said, holding out the food like an offering.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he reached out for it once his jacket was on.

“Eating slows me down,” he complained, but he quickly took a bite.

“Eating keeps you conscious,” John argued good-naturedly.

“Dull,” Sherlock said, grinning.

John smiled and shook his head.

Sherlock suddenly stepped closer to him and John sucked in a breath as he leaned down. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Sherlock was about to kiss him, but instead the taller man simply whispered into his ear so Rosie wouldn’t overhear from the kitchen.

“I’ll be back in time for the sleepover whether it's solved or not,” he promised, and John felt the tickle of Sherlock’s warm breath over his ear and he willed himself to not get gooseflesh in the wake of it.

“Watson,” he called out after stepping back. “Make sure your father doesn’t forget the lamb and mint crisps.”

“Ugh. Honestly, Sherlock?” John said, shaking his head in fake disgust.

“It’s not my fault you have terrible taste in crisps, John.”

“Tangy tomato or cheese and chive are the only crisps worth eating.”

“Wrong!” Sherlock declared as he threw on his great coat, even though it was still a bit warm for it, and took off out the flat with a wink over his shoulder at John.

“I like the tomato ones, Daddy,” Rosie said as she appeared at his hip and John smiled down at her.

“That’s because you have brilliant taste, darling. Now, come on. Let’s get you dressed and brush your hair, then we can head to the shops.”

“Do we have to brush my hair?” Rosie pouted.

John glanced at the mess of curls atop her head and the knots he could see in the back.

“Yes, we have to. I’ll let you watch one of your programs while I brush,” John offered and Rosie sighed.

“Ok, Daddy,” she said as they trudged up the stairs and into her room.

John received his first text from Sherlock before they made it out of the flat.

By the time they made it to the shops, Sherlock had texted three more times.

Anderson is here. Kill me. It would be a mercy. -SH

Donovan, as well. I thought she had been promoted? Why is she here? -SH

Oh, I see. She’s here to make sure my life is miserable. Also, her case and Lestrade’s appear to have some crossover. Interesting. -SH

Interesting? John texted back.

They’re wrong, of course. -SH

John glanced at his phone for another moment, but when he didn’t get another text, he slipped it in his pocket.

“Sherlock said you wanted to make pizza tonight?”

“Yes!” Rosie declared, little hands on the trolley as she attempted to push it through Tesco’s. John kept a hand on it to try and keep it from crashing into displays, but was only about 75% successful.

“Alright, well then. We need to get some yeast, more flour, tomatoes, and cheese.”

“Cheese,” Rosie nodded. “Yes, cheese for pizza. Where’s the cheese?”

“That way,” John pointed, and attempted to lead the trolley in the right direction.

“I can do it!”

“You are doing it, Rosie, I’m just helping.”

“But I can do it!”

John took his hand from the trolley. “Yes, you can do it.”

They managed to only run into one display as they made their way to the cheese.

John let out a small, quiet sigh, and hoped they’d manage to finish their shopping trip in the next hour.

To his relief, they made it out after 45 minutes. It would have been sooner if he hadn’t given in to Rosie’s request to use the self-checkout and letting her scan each item herself. There hadn’t been many other patrons in the store and he hadn’t had it in him to argue with her.

He did, however, hate the damned self-checkout lines. He never used them when he didn’t have to and suspected Sherlock was the one who first let Rosie use one. It could have been Mrs. Hudson, but something just told John that it had been Sherlock and the man knew she would request to do it every time they went shopping thereafter.

Sherlock had texted 16 more times while they had been in the shops and made it back to the flat.

It rained 2 days ago. There should be mud. -SH

Where’s the mud, John? -SH

On the shoes, obviously. But also… -SH

Ah, see this indention? -SH

*photo received*

A ladder, John. See how deep it goes? The ground was wet when the ladder was used. -SH

This man is 8 stone sopping wet. Not big enough to have created those indentions. -SH

John, these people are idiots. -SH

Find the ladder with mud on it. -SH

God, this is tedious. -SH

Lestrade and Donovan are arguing over casings found. They still think the scenes are linked. -SH

They’re still wrong. -SH

How are you and Rosie? -SH

Did you get my crisps, John? -SH

Do we have any more of that red wine from the other night? It would go well with the pizza. -SH

Ah, found the ladder. Imagine that. Exactly where I told them to look. -SH

John smiled down at the string of texts. He could feel how ridiculous the grin on his face was, but did nothing to try and hide it. There was little point.

Yes, we got your crisps, you berk. There’s still half a bottle of the wine, too.

How’s the case going?

Do you know when you’ll be back?

Lestrade wants to question the father-in-law. As soon as that’s finished, I’ll return. - SH

“Daddy, where’s Sherlock?”

Rosie appeared in the kitchen while John began putting away their earlier purchases.

“He’s working for a bit. He’ll be home soon.”

“Are you sure?” Rosie asked. She looked concerned and John’s heart clenched in his chest at the expression.

“He promised he’d be back in time. He keeps his promises, yeah?”

“Yes,” Rosie agreed solemnly. “You can’t break a promise.”

John hoped that was true. Sherlock had, to John’s knowledge, never broken a promise he had made to Rosie in her short life. He was fairly certain this wouldn’t be the one he would end up breaking. He closed the fridge door and turned more fully to Rosie.

“Exactly.”

“Can we build a tent?”

John’s eyebrows rose. “A tent? Where?”

“In the living room! With blankets! We can sleep under the tent and it’ll be like camping.”

“Was this on one of your programs, too?” John asked, bemused.

Rosie nodded. “Uh huh. Peppa wanted to go camping, so they built a tent. Can we build a tent? Please?”

John looked at his daughter’s hopeful face and sighed internally. On the outside, he smiled and gave a small nod. John nearly cupped his hands over his ears at the screech of delight that Rosie let out at his agreement.

“Okay, please stop screaming,” John said with a wince.

Rosie stopped screaming and jumping to put a finger over her lips.

“Much better, thank you. Alright, let’s figure out how to do this. We’ll need some blankets.”

Which is how Sherlock found them, over an hour later, with Rosie standing on the sofa and directing John where to hook a sheet over the edge of a chair while the other side kept falling off. The floor was covered in all of the spare sheets and blankets that he could find in the flat, as well as pillows and the li-lo, though it wasn’t yet filled with air.

“John, that’s a terrible way to build a blanket fort,” Sherlock’s rich voice called out, heavy in amusement.

John huffed in exasperation.

Rosie leaped from the sofa into Sherlock’s arms, who caught her deftly and swung her easily to one hip. “You’re back!”

“I promised I would be, Watson.”

John hid his smile as he watched the two of them for a moment, then shook his head.

“You’re welcome to come and do it yourself, then,” John said, sounding annoyed, but secretly glad that someone else could deal with the nightmare that was arranging bed linens into tent-like structures. He was also glad that Sherlock had returned as soon as he had.

Sherlock turned to look at him, a smile hiding at the corner of his mouth, before turning to Rosie. “I think Watson and I can handle it, John. What do you say?”

“Yes!” Rosie agreed instantly.

“There you have it. Rosie and I will work on the tent. John, you can go make tea.”

“Oh I can?” John asked, watching as Sherlock deposited Rosie on top of the table instead of the sofa and began to reconfigure the haphazardly tossed up sheet that he had started on.

“May as well be useful,” Sherlock replied, a glint in his eyes, and John rolled his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll make tea,” John said and went into the kitchen.

From there, he could easily hear the deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice and Rosie’s high-pitched answers and giggles as he waited for the water to boil and put together a sandwich for Rosie to eat. He sliced an apple and took out some cheddar from the fridge, as well.

“Rosie! Lunch!” he called out while pouring water over the teabags he had prepared.

When no reply came John went to the kitchen door to look out into the living room and blinked in surprise. In the 15 minutes that he had been occupied in the kitchen, Sherlock had managed to put an elaborate spread of blankets and sheets that nearly transformed the space. He couldn’t even see Rosie and Sherlock from the doorway.

“Rosie?” he called out and heard a giggle in response from what he judged to be the center of the structure. He walked to the edge and bent down to look into the tented area. Rosie and Sherlock were sitting on a pile of pillows while Sherlock tied a knot in the linens he was working on.

“Ah, John, is the tea ready?” he asked without looking up.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Sherlock, how on earth did you do this in 15 minutes?”

“Has it been that long? I must be slipping. I’m getting slow in my old age,” he told Rosie, who giggled.

Slow? John wondered in bemusement.

“To be fair to myself, I haven’t built one in a long time.”

“You used to build blanket forts?’ John asked.

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed, but offered no more information.

John gave a mental shrug. “Rosie, I made you a sandwich. Why don’t you come eat lunch.”

“Ham?” Rosie asked as she looked up at him.

“And cheese,” he agreed. Rosie crawled out from the fort to go to the kitchen for her sandwich.
John waited for Sherlock to finish his knot, then watched as he crawled out, as well.

“When did you build blanket forts?” he asked.

“When I was younger. Mycroft helped.”

John’s mind immediately conjured up the image of a small Sherlock and his older brother Mycroft building forts in their living room and couldn’t help the chuckle that came from the image.

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked.

“Just thought of Mycroft crawling around on his hands and knees while you told him what to do.”

Sherlock smiled, amusement clear in his eyes.

“We’ll need to fill the li-lo inside the fort.”

John nodded his agreement and they made their way to their waiting tea. Rosie was busy crunching on her apples when they entered the kitchen and smiled.

“Can we start making our special pudding?” Rosie asked when she saw them.

“In a bit,” John said, sitting down and taking a drink from his cup of tea.

“What special pudding?” Sherlock asked as he did the same.

“Daddy said we could make brownies!”

“Oh, those are special,” Sherlock agreed and Rosie nodded.

“Yep. Special brownies with extra in-gradiants,” Rosie said, mispronouncing the word.

Sherlock looked amused, whether at the mispronunciation or Rosie’s use of ‘special brownies’.

“We’ll make sure to offer some to Mrs. Hudson,” he said, eyes glittering, and John snorted. ‘Special brownies’, indeed.

Rosie, of course, had no idea what was going on, but agreed enthusiastically all the same that Mrs. Hudson would love Rosie’s special brownies.

The rest of the afternoon passed easily as they worked on getting the living room ready for their sleepover and making brownies. The flat smelled wonderfully of warm chocolate and peppermint –the special ingredient that John had added– and John felt more at peace than he had in a long time. He savored every moment of Sherlock and Rosie working together to make their blanket fort as close to perfection as possible. He loved watching Sherlock’s dark head bent down to Rosie’s as she explained what she wanted and Sherlock nodding his understanding. He loved these quiet moments in their flat. If he occasionally felt the overwhelming desire to walk up to them both, to brush Sherlock’s curls from his forehead and press his lips there in a kiss, then that was between him and his sentimental heart and no one else. The tenderness he felt for the man was worse than the physical attraction could ever be. He wanted Sherlock more than he wanted anyone else, ever, and he could deal with never having him in that way. But it was the kiss that he wanted to brush against his skin, the want to grab his hand within his own and intertwine their fingers, that truly did his head in. He worried those desires showed more clearly on his face than anything else.

He knew he loved Sherlock. He knew Sherlock, in his way, loved him, too.

He reminded himself, as ever, that that was enough. To know that Sherlock loved him, and Rosie too, and didn’t want them to leave. That he carved out space for them in his heart and head, and that he wanted them there. It was enough.

A few hours later, Rosie stood on a chair between John and Sherlock, covered in flour, while attempting to roll out pizza dough with a rolling pin borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. The dough was stretched thin in some places, piled high in others, and looked more like a splat of spilled milk than a traditional pizza shape.

Sherlock tried to help, but Rosie quickly informed him that ‘I do it myself’. He received a floured handprint in the center of his chest, the white flour bold against the dark blue button-up, when he attempted to help again. He gave up at that point and John couldn’t help the laugh he let out. In retaliation, Sherlock wiped his hand in the flour sprinkled all over their (extremely cleaned and disinfected) kitchen counter, and decorated John’s shirt with his much larger handprint.

John copied his movement, but instead of adding to Sherlock’s shirt, he reached up and ruffled Sherlock’s curls, which led to a squawk, an actual squawk, of indignation from Sherlock. From there, it quickly devolved into all out war. Flour, shredded cheese, and pieces of dough went flying as the two men started throwing pieces at each other, followed quickly by a delighted Rosie. She threw two small handfuls of flour in the air, squealing as it came floating down and coating them all in the fine, white powder.

Eventually, they settled down, and finally got the misshapen pizza into the oven to bake. Rosie asked around thirty times if it was ready while they cleaned flour from her hair and from the counters and floor. Sherlock poured two glasses of red wine for them and a glass of milk for Rosie. When the pizza came out, they realized they didn’t even own a pizza cutter, and had to use a knife to slice the pizza. The slices ended up as oddly shaped as the pizza, but nobody seemed to mind.

Their pizza was…interesting. Some bites were undercooked, others overcooked, the cheese-to-sauce ratio was different on each bite, and John thought it might be his favorite pizza ever.

Rosie was happy with her pizza and Sherlock ate two slices without complaint. Rosie told Sherlock about their trip to the shops. When she got to the part about John letting her use the self-checkout, Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John with amusement, then back to Rosie.

That was one of the things about Sherlock with Rosie, When she spoke to him, he made sure to give her his entire attention. He would turn to face her, look her in the eye, and listen to whatever she had to say. John had seen him turn away from his microscope and time-sensitive experiments to speak with Rosie. John didn’t even give Rosie his full attention like that. He was often in his head with work or worries, and when Rosie spoke to him he sometimes didn’t engage as well as he knew he should.

John watched them and sipped his wine. There was still flour in Sherlock’s hair and Rosie had a smudge of sauce on her cheek that Sherlock carefully wiped off with a napkin. John didn’t know he could feel as happy as he did in these moments. He wasn’t sure he deserved to feel as happy as he did. He had hurt Sherlock, blamed him for Mary’s death, and Sherlock had accepted that blame. It hadn’t been fair of John, or right, and while he worked through that in therapy, it still sat in the back of his mind like a warty toad on a lilypad.

“Brownies!” Rosie suddenly shouted, pulling John from his darkened thoughts.

“Is it time for brownies?”

“Yes, And then a movie!”

“I think the fort is covering the tv,” John said and Rosie frowned.

“We can watch on the laptop,” Sherlock suggested and Rosie’s frown turned right back into a smile.

“Yeah! And we can eat crisps while we watch.”

“Crisps after brownies?” John asked, amused.

“Yeah, and then brownies after crisps!”

“That makes sense,” Sherlock agreed before John could reply, but he let it go. It was supposed to be a sleepover. Brownies and crisps and brownies again was probably appropriate for the situation.

“Yes, fine,” John agreed and both Rosie and Sherlock smiled at him in response.

Rosie leapt up from her chair to run to the kitchen, but John called her back.

“Wait a mo’. Pajamas first.”

“Why?”

“Because if we’re going to be watching a movie, we want to be comfy, yeah?”

“Oooh,” Rosie said, nodding vigorously. “Yes! Comfy and cozy. I need Sprinkles the rabbit! And you and Sherlock need pajamas on, too. We can all be comfy cozy together.”

“Yes, alright. Run upstairs and get changed. I’ll be right behind you.”

John watched Rosie run back up the stairs, then turned to look at Sherlock, who was collecting the empty dishes to put in the sink. John’s eyebrows quirked up and Sherlock rolled his eyes, though he was smiling. John smiled back.

“I’m going to make sure she actually puts clothes on,” John said and Sherlock nodded.

When John arrived upstairs it was to find Rosie pushing clothes aside in her small dresser in obvious search for something.

“Do you need help?”

“I can’t find my pajamas I want.”

“Which pajamas?”

“My special sleepover pajamas!” Rosie practically wailed in distress.

“Alright, alright. Let’s see if we can find them,” John said, thinking quickly.

“They were right here,” Rosie said, pointing to a now empty drawer. Her pjs were scattered over the floor all around her. John gave an internal sigh and went to work finding the missing pajamas.

John made it back down nearly fifteen minutes later. The missing pajamas had been placed in the wrong drawer in her chest. Once she was dressed he had sent her back down and set about straightening the clothes on the floor himself. He knew there was a lesson for her to be learned in doing it herself, but he also knew another opportunity for that lesson would present itself soon enough.

He got down on hands and knees to climb into the blanket fort. Sherlock and Rosie were on the li-lo that Sherlock had fixed up while John was upstairs. There were pillows piled high on the floor, as well as the duvet from Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock had even managed to string up fairy lights while he and Rosie had been upstairs. It was a more intimate situation than John would have expected. He shook off the thought as he took in the sight in front of him.

Rosie was on her knees, bouncing beside Sherlock who was lying on his stomach as he fiddled about with the laptop. He crawled up beside Rosie and deposited the two bags of crisps onto the bed beside her. Rosie reached for a brownie and had half of it in her mouth before John could even put the plate down to join the bags. Without looking up, Sherlock did the same as Rosie and John shook his head at both of them.

“Save some for me, you menaces.”

Rosie giggled and finished her brownie. Sherlock flicked his eyes at John, amusement sparkling in his silvery-blue eyes, then turned back to his laptop.

“So what are we watching?” John asked, mentally fortifying himself for another viewing of Frozen 2.

“The Bride Princess,” Rosie said. “Sherlock said it’s a good movie for a sleepover. He said it was on the lists.”

“The Princess Bride,” Sherlock corrected gently, and Rosie nodded.

“Yeah, that!”

“Oh,” John said, pleasantly surprised. He actually rather liked that film. He hadn’t thought of showing it to Rosie yet since she gravitated towards cartoon films. “Well, that sounds perfect. Good thing Sherlock checked the list.”

Rosie didn’t acknowledge that, but rather set herself to the task of opening her crisps bag. Judging by the grunts and sighs, it wasn’t going well.

“Daddy, help please,” she said, holding the bag out to him. John took it and pulled the bag open, then handed it back.

“Try to keep the crumbs off the bed,” he said, knowing it was a lost cause before it even began.

“Yes, Daddy,” she agreed, crumbs already falling from her fingers onto the sheets. John let it go.

“Ready for the movie?” Sherlock asked.

“Ready!” Rosie proclaimed.

Rosie fell asleep before Inigo Montoya avenged his father’s death, despite her several assertions that she wasn’t tired and would be staying up all night. John had felt her get steadily heavier against his side as her body relaxed into sleep, though he couldn’t see her eyes to be completely sure. He stretched out his leg and used his bare foot to nudge Sherlock’s calf. His sleep trousers must have ridden up, because John’s toes brushed his bare skin.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes flickering down to Rosie, before looking back at John.

“Is she asleep?” John mouth silently and Sherlock nodded.

He let his body settle into a more comfortable position. Since they were sleeping in the living room there wasn’t any reason to try and move her, so John simply twisted his body so that he was no longer putting pressure on his bad shoulder. Sherlock watched him as he moved, a flicker of concern darkening his eyes when he saw John grimace at the stretch.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice a deep rumble that John could barely understand.

“Yeah, fine,” John whispered back. “Just needed to move a bit.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Are you sure you will be alright sleeping here?”

“I’ll be fine,” John assured him and Sherlock nodded after a moment.

They turned their attention back to the film and watched as Westley surprised Buttercup and kept her from damaging her perfect breasts.

“Are they perfect?” Sherlock wondered aloud and John couldn’t help his snort.

“I suppose it depends on your definition of perfection.”

“It would depend on Westley’s definition, not mine.”

“Well, sure, I suppose. He’s the one claiming they’re perfect.”

Sherlock hummed, neither agreement or disagreement.

“Do you think they’re perfect?” Sherlock asked after a moment and John turned to look at him again.

“What?”

“Her breasts. Are they perfect to you?” Sherlock asked. He had an interesting expression on his face that John had no idea how to interpret.

“They’re nice, I suppose. I haven’t really thought about it,” John said.

In all honesty, he hadn’t really thought about breasts or even noticed a truly nice pair for far longer than he would have once thought possible. Between taking care of Rosie and, you know, being in love with his gorgeous and maddening best friend, there just hadn’t been time or inclination to even notice.

“What do you think?” John asked, suddenly curious.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “I’ve never noticed in that way.”

John frowned slightly, thinking of The Woman and how Sherlock had definitely noticed her. He knew her measurements to unlock the safe. His thoughts must have been clear on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

“I notice in that I see, John. I can tell a woman’s measurements when she is standing nude in front of me as easily as I can tell when you’ve gained seven pounds. I always observe. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just observation.”

“So you don’t have a preference?”

“Everyone has preferences.”

“But you don’t have preferences in breasts?”

“No. They aren’t something I notice.”

John hesitated, then decided that this conversation had been a bit bizarre since the start, and he might as well keep on.

“And you don’t notice because you don’t have a preference and it doesn’t matter or because…” John asked, suddenly deciding that maybe he shouldn’t have pressed on after all.

“I don’t notice because I’m not interested in breasts,” Sherlock said easily. “Or women.”

“Huh,” John replied.

Sherlock turned back to the film again and John laid on his stomach, his mind working through what Sherlock said. He had known, he thought, that Sherlock wasn’t interested in women. He had said so when they first met. ‘Not my area’ and all that. But then there had been whatever happened with Irene Adler. And Janine. It may have been fake, but there was still something about that entire situation that sat weird with John. He had felt it, even then, when he was supposedly happily married to Mary. This sense of Sherlock belonging to him in some way. No, that wasn’t right. Sherlock didn’t belong to him. He, though. He belonged to Sherlock. He had ignored it, fought against it, but it had been that way since nearly the beginning. Sherlock called, and John came. Whether it was to fire a gun to protect his back or to hand the blasted man the phone from his own pocket, he always came when called. And he knew he always would.

Rosie was asleep, warm tucked in beside him, her blonde curls fanning the pillow they shared, and he thought that he would do anything to keep them both in his life for as long as he could. He would do anything in his power.

“John,” Sherlock spoke softly, and John turned to look at him again. The film was over and had started to autoplay a new movie.

“Yes?”

“I can go sleep in my room if it would be more comfortable for you.”

“No, it’s fine. Rosie would be upset if you didn’t stay,” John said, then frowned as another thought hit him. “Unless you’d rather not stay. You don’t have to.”

“John, it’s fine. I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

“I’m good.”

“Do you want a different movie?”

“Sure. You can pick something.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, then quickly pulled up another movie.

John frowned slightly at the opening music as it tickled something in the back of his mind, then he grinned and cast a mildly incredulous look at Sherlock.

“Ferris Buller’s Day Off?”

“It was on the list.”

John just chuckled softly and shook his head. “Of course it was on the list. Have you ever seen it before?”

Sherlock hummed. “At uni.”

He didn’t offer any more information than that and John didn’t ask. Instead, he settled down against his pillow, careful not to pull Rosie’s hair, and turned back to watch the movie. Only, he kept getting distracted by Sherlock. The other man was quiet, his attention seemingly focused on the film, but John kept catching the sideways glances that Sherlock sent his way. Mostly because he himself kept stealing sideways glances.

The fairy lights strung across the entrance of the fort threw Sherlock’s features in sharp relief. He was beautiful. John didn’t think his heart could handle looking at him for too long, but it was impossible to truly look away.

“What are you thinking when you look at me like that?” Sherlock asked, his voice just loud enough to hear over the volume of the laptop, but not enough to startle Rosie from her sleep.

Surprised by the sudden question, John answered honestly without thought, “I’m thinking of everything I did wrong. All the mistakes I made. How I wish I didn’t make those mistakes.

“But then I look at Rosie and know that I wouldn’t take it all back. I love her too much to give up.” It’s all so complicated in his mind. He wished that he hadn’t been scared to pursue Sherlock properly. Before the fall, and even after his miraculous return. He wished he hadn’t met Mary, that he hadn’t brought someone into their lives that would hurt Sherlock, almost kill him. But he would hold his daughter in his arms and know that he would give up anything, everything, to keep her safe and happy and healthy. He would give up his life, and he would give up Sherlock, no matter how much it hurt.

“Then I think about how much you love her.. I know you do. She knows it, too. And I think that, knowing that, you feel the same. That you wouldn’t go back and change things, to make those things better, and lose her, anymore than I would.”

Sherlock, who had been silently watching and taking all of John’s words in, shook his head in agreement. “No, I wouldn’t change any of it and lose her.”

John smiled. “I know. It makes me fall that much more in love with you.”

Sherlock stared, then, blinked several times. John was familiar with the look and knew it was Sherlock processing John’s words. John took a moment to process what he said, as well. Had he really just told Sherlock he was in love with him? He went over his words again, and yes, he had done exactly that. He hadn’t meant to do that. It just slipped right out. He wondered, distantly, why he wasn’t panicking about what he had just done.

That was the thing, though. He wasn’t panicking. Should he be? Sherlock was still staring at him. Perhaps he should be more worried. But, for some reason, he wasn’t. It felt right, in that moment, in their close and warm little fort with Rosie sleeping peacefully between them, to tell him.

Sherlock took a quick intake of breath and John looked up from where he had been carefully tucking a curl of Rosie’s hair behind her ear.

“You’re in love with me?” His voice was soft, almost confused.

“Yes.”

“John. I…”

John finally felt a flicker of panic as Sherlock stumbled to a halt. ‘I’m flattered by your interest,’ and ‘married to my work’ flashed through his mind, but he quickly squashed it down. It was out there now. What Sherlock decided to do with that knowledge was up to him.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Sherlock. It doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to.”

“What if I want things to change?”

John’s stomach fell a bit, but he shook that away, too. “Then things can change. Whatever you need, Sherlock. Whatever you want.”

He hoped Sherlock would give him time to find a new flat, if he decided that was what he needed. Or perhaps it was time he and Rosie move out of the city. He loved London, but a London without Sherlock by his side just wasn’t the same. He had done it before, but he would much rather not repeat the experience. Perhaps they should move further north, even. Towards Scotland. He’d had family there, once upon a time. They were gone now, but that didn’t mean he and Rosie couldn’t start something new there.

“John.”

John blinked, forcing his eyes to look back at Sherlock, who was watching him as closely as he ever did.

“I will admit I don’t know exactly what you were just thinking, but whatever it was…no. When I said I want things to change, I meant–,” he trailed off again, grimaced, then shook his head. John watched, fascinated. It wasn’t often that he saw Sherlock have trouble communicating something.

“I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss you goodnight. I want to wake up to you in the morning. I want those things to change.”

John couldn’t help the smile that pulled irresistibly on the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I want those things, too.”

“Good.”

They smiled at each other, bright and unrestrained, and John gave in to the quiet giggle that bubbled up in him. Sherlock responded with his own soft chuckle, as he so often did.

“I love you.”

John’s heart felt too large for his chest. It almost hurt, hearing those words coming from Sherlock. The words were so simple, really. Three little words. But they changed everything.

Sherlock stretched his arm across Rosie’s sleeping form to cup John’s jaw in his large hand. His hands were warm and dry. The calluses on his fingertips from his violin scritched gently against his skin as it caught against his stubble. His thumb brushed over John’s bottom lip. John couldn’t help pressing a small kiss on the pad of that thumb before Sherlock lifted his hand away.

Sherlock smiled as he glanced down at Rosie as she slept, completely oblivious to the world changing around her.

“You and Rosie,” Sherlock started, then paused as if trying to come up with the right words. “You are my family.”

“You’re our family,” John told him. His heart was definitely going to burst, it felt so full.

Sherlock laid down beside him, with Rosie filling the space between them, and they fell asleep with their hands clasped together.

When John woke, it was to a face full of inky dark curls and one arm draped over Sherlock’s body. He breathed in the warm, sleepy scent of the man in front of him. Sherlock smelled of home. Of Baker Street. His poncy shampoo and that faint chemical smell he always seemed to have thanks to his experiments. John could happily breathe the scent of him in all day. He took advantage of his closeness and did just that, then blinked, his nose automatically wiggling at the tickling sensation of the curls near his nose, and tried to hold off the sneeze he could feel coming.

It was quiet in the little fort, just the sound of his and Sherlock’s breathing filling the space, when he heard the clatter of utensils on the kitchen counter. That was the sound that had initially roused him from sleep.

Oh. Rosie was in the kitchen. John lay there quietly pondering whether to leave her to whatever she was up to or get up to see what exactly it was she was doing. He assumed she was making herself toast. She often made it herself now that she was tall enough to reach the toaster on the counter. The butter took a beating as she stabbed it with the knife in her attempts to put it on the toast, but that was something John had simply come to accept. Kind of like how he accepted Sherlock’s penchant for putting non-food items in the fridge (which he thankfully didn’t do anymore since Rosie and he had moved back in).

Rosie had woken in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, which explained how John had somehow found himself beside Sherlock. When she had returned she had simply curled up next to John rather than climbing over him. It appeared that John had, in his sleep, curled himself to Sherlock. He wasn’t complaining. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t, either.

Sherlock said that was something he wanted, didn’t he? He wanted to wake to John and kiss him goodnight? God, had that even been a real conversation or had John simply dreamt it all? He wouldn’t be surprised if it had all been in his head.

“I can hear you thinking. Stop it.”

Sherlock’s voice was thick as treacle, gravely from sleep and disuse, and John’s arm tightened around his waist at the sound.

“You can’t hear my thoughts,” John quietly protested.

“You’re wondering if I meant what I said last night.” Sherlock’s hand came up and grasped John’s where it rested over his chest. “I meant it, John. I want this. I want you.”

John thought about saying something glib. ‘Lucky guess’ or ‘Actually, I was thinking about you naked’, but it didn’t seem right at that moment. The moment was too real for that kind of reaction. So instead he hid his smile in Sherlock’s curls. Ignored the tickling sensation. He laced his fingers through Sherlock’s and gave them a squeeze.

“I like this,” he said. Simple. True.

Sherlock squeezed his hand back. “I like this, too.”

John finally gave in to temptation and brushed his nose against the back of Sherlock’s neck, where the scent of him was strongest, and breathed in deeply. He let his lips brush against the skin there and felt Sherlock’s breath hitch in his chest at the small touch. He couldn’t help the brief touch of his tongue to the skin under his lips. He needed to know if he tasted of the salt and sleep and home that he smelled of. He was pleased to find that Sherlock did. He couldn’t explain what exactly home tasted like, but it tasted of Sherlock. Sherlock shivered at the contact, squeezing his hand, and John kissed his neck again.

He was just contemplating moving his mouth further along Sherlock’s neck when a large bang from the kitchen stole his attention. He hadn’t forgotten Rosie, but he had forgotten what had initially woken him.

“She’s making waffles,” Sherlock said, turning to look at John over his shoulder.

“You can’t know that.”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock stated. “I know everything.”

John snorted. “I should go help her.”

“If you expect the waffles to be edible, then yes, you should.”

John smiled, then pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to stay where he was, pull Sherlock closer to him, and kiss him properly. But Rosie was doing any number of things unsupervised in the kitchen at the moment, and to be completely honest, his shoulder and neck hurt from sleeping on a li-lo all night. He was too old not to sleep in a proper bed. He didn’t know how Sherlock slept on the couch so often without back issues. Just another part of the mystery of Sherlock, he supposed.

John bit back his groan as muscles protested his movement, but Sherlock saw regardless. His intelligent eyes narrowed in on John’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, though, which John was grateful for.

He made his way out of the blanket fort and into the kitchen where Rosie was busy pulling out a bag of flour.

“Daddy! I'm making waffles,” Rosie exclaimed as she noticed him, a huge grin splitting her small face nearly in half.

“I can see that,” John said as he took in the bowls, spoons, and a random selection of ingredients that littered the counter. She hadn’t managed to pull out the milk and eggs yet, which he supposed he should be thankful for. Better to just accept what was happening than make a fuss over it at this point.

Rosie was staring intently at a recipe book that she had pulled open to a well-used page. A photo of waffles stared up at them both as he went to stand beside her. He quickly read over the ingredient list and checked what they still needed to get.

“Eggs, milk, and baking powder. Good job, Rosie. Looks like you already got everything else we need.”

“That’s ‘cause I remembered when me and Sherlock made waffles and he showed me.”

John walked to the fridge and pulled out the eggs, milk, strawberries, and the orange juice Rosie requested while at the shops, while Rosie told him the story of how she and Sherlock made waffles using different recipes. It was a story he had heard her tell several times since the day it happened, but he nodded along and asked questions at the right moments. Rosie loved spending time with Sherlock and regaling John with all that they had done. He hoped Rosie would approve of the changes John was planning to employ in his relationship with Sherlock. He didn’t think it would change that much, in actuality. They were who they have always been; just now there would be a more open acknowledgement of what exactly that was, or so he hoped.

He put everything down, then turned to fill the kettle for tea and get it boiling.

“Would you like to help cut these strawberries?” he asked Rosie, though he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” she nodded and went to grab the child-safe kitchen knives that Sherlock had bought her while John quickly washed the berries.

John set her up with the berries and a cutting board, then demonstrated how to slice them. Rosie watched carefully before insisting she could do it herself, so John let her take over. He watched for a moment as she cut the strawberries in a wild variety of shapes and sizes, then turned back to finish his tea making. He briefly considered getting out the proper tea set, but decided against it and pulled out their usual mugs instead. Rosie finished the strawberries just as John finished the tea.

He rolled his head on his shoulders, trying to ease the crick in his neck, when Sherlock appeared beside him.

“Paracetamol,” Sherlock said, placing two tablets in John’s hand.

“God, yes. Thank you,” he said, popping the tablets in his mouth and swallowing them with the help of his too-hot tea. He passed Sherlock his mug, who took it with a murmur of thanks. If John didn’t know better he would think Sherlock was almost shy. His eyes wouldn’t quite meet John’s and John was fascinated. Sherlock cleared his throat, took a sip of his tea, then went to help Rosie make the waffles without a word.

John watched them both, wondering if he should be worried about Sherlock’s sudden bout of shyness and whether it was a bad thing, or just sit and wait for Sherlock to work through whatever it was that had him spooked. He was fairly sure it was last night’s conversation, but beyond that, he didn’t know. Sherlock’s interaction with Rosie was the same as it always was, at least. He watched as Sherlock handed her measuring cups and spoons and guided her in preparing the correct amounts. He could feel the smile forming on his face and didn’t bother attempting to hide it.

John decided to not worry about it for the moment. Instead, he pulled bacon from the fridge, and got to work frying it up.

When breakfast was ready, they took their plates to the living room to eat on Rosie’s insistence that breakfast for a sleepover needed to be where the party took place. They sat on the couch in the living room, careful not to disturb the blankets and sheets of the fort, and settled in to eat. Rosie sat between them, talking animatedly the whole time about how much fun she had during their sleepover, and asking if they had fun, too.

John glanced up at Sherlock, who still hadn’t looked directly at him.

“I had a lovely time, Rosie. Best night I’ve had in a long time.”

Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes were a silvery-blue and more soft than he had ever seen in the morning light that came through the windows.

“It was a wonderful night.”

Rosie beamed. “Can we do it again tonight?”

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock to look at Rosie. “Not tonight, darling. We can do it again another time, though.”

“But Daddy, I want to have a sleepover tonight,” Rosie protested, tears already forming in her eyes.

“Sorry, love. We can’t do it tonight.” John’s shoulder and neck were still waiting for the paracetamol to do its job and he didn’t think he could handle two nights in a row of sleeping practically on the floor. “But we can do it another day.”

She blinked her watery eyes, causing one tear to escape, and brushed it away. “Promise?” she asked.

“Promise.”

She sniffled softly, then turned back to the plate that sat precariously on her lap. “Ok.”

John brushed her hair – curls wild and tangled from sleep – back from her face. Her pout shifted as she took a bite of her waffle.

“Can we watch a movie?” she asked after a moment and John snorted. “Sure,” he said, unwilling to say ‘no’ again. Rosie’s face lit up and John continued. “After you finish breakfast. You need to brush your teeth and hair, too. Get dressed. Then we can watch a movie.”

Rosie nodded eagerly. “Ok! Then we’ll watch Frozen!”

Sherlock had a small quirk of a smirk on his face when John looked over Rosie’s head at him. John frowned at him, which only made Sherlock’s smile widen, and John looked back at Rosie.

“After breakfast,” he repeated.

Rosie took a bite of strawberry and waffle in agreement.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in relative silence. Relative in the sense that Rosie continued to find any number of things to talk about and John and Sherlock responded accordingly to questions she asked or statements she made. It was just like any other breakfast they had shared before, except that it was different. John didn’t think Rosie picked up on the tension that John could feel wound between him and Sherlock. She was exactly the same energetic and talkative 4-year-old that she was before John told Sherlock he loved him. Before Sherlock told John that he loved him, too. John felt they probably needed to have a proper conversation about what it all meant for them, but there was time for that. Damn it all, he still needed to give Sherlock a proper kiss. Perhaps after breakfast. Sherlock would follow him into the kitchen while Rosie went to get dressed for the day and John would reach up, twine his fingers in those gorgeous curls, and pull Sherlock’s mouth to his. He’d kiss those perfect lips that he’d dreamed of kissing for years. He could finally know exactly how Sherlock tasted.

Later, though.

For now there were waffles, tea, and orange juice.