It took twenty minutes to lull Rosie back into a sound sleep. She was drowsy from the medicine, which helped, but she was clearly still feeling the effects of the fever, and the first couple of times John tried to lay her back down she woke back up with a miserable cry. Honestly, John thought as he held her close and walked her around the room, she might as well be Sherlock’s daughter if her appalling timing was anything to go by.
He was torn between feeling grateful and regretful at her interruption. He had still been able to feel Sherlock’s warmth clinging to him as he’d climbed the stairs to get her, but it had dissipated more and more every second like steam rising from the surface of a pond on a cold day, lovely and impossible to hold on to. But maybe it was better this way; maybe they needed a few moments to cool off, to map out this new territory before they lost themselves in it.
He sighed and pressed his lips to Rosie’s head, hushing her with soothing words. She turned her head into his shoulder, sniffling, and let her eyes close, one fist clutching at the worn collar of his t-shirt. Music drifted up through the floorboards, the delicate notes of Sherlock’s violin wending their way through the flat.
John smiled; he recognized the tune. He didn’t know the name of it, but it was what Sherlock always played when Rosie couldn’t sleep. He’d been meaning to ask if it was one of Sherlock’s own compositions because it resembled a lullaby, but it wasn’t one John had ever heard before. The thought alone made John ache to return downstairs and finish what they’d started.
Rosie’s breathing slowly evened out, deep and steady, as Sherlock’s music drifted around them, and John gently lowered her back down into her crib; she sighed and curled up around her blanket but didn’t wake. John held onto the edge of the crib and watched her a moment longer, strangely nervous all of a sudden. Which was ridiculous, he thought, since he knew that the only thing awaiting him downstairs was what he’d always wanted.
But perhaps that was just it. He and Sherlock had never been able to get to this place before; there had always been something standing between them, death and marriage and chaos keeping them apart. And now that he was here, now that this new life was his to take…he was afraid he wouldn’t know how to keep it.
He shut his eyes, breathing in and out, attempting to calm the rapid beating of his heart. When he was sure he wasn’t going to lose it, he pushed away from Rosie’s crib and took the stairs with slow, even steps.
please don’t imagine sherlock teaching rosie how to play the violin and one day when john gets home they sit him down and tell him they have a surprise for him and that he has to close his eyes, and when he opens them rosie is standing up rod straight and slowly makes her way through twinkle twinkle little star while sherlock kneels next to her and softly tells her to carry on when she gets a note wrong because she’s doing fantastically, and john has to look away and up at the ceiling for a moment because the picture in front of him is so perfect that he can feel tears in his eyes
It was supposed to be a piece about Rosie and Peach playing Dungeons & Koopas, but then I just ended up jamming a bunch of lesser-knowns from the Mushroom Kingdom that I felt like drawing. Rip in pasgetti Toadsworth.
John and Sherlock decide to take Rosie on a trip to the Holmes parents’ cottage and John is privately nervous at Rosie’s reaction.
But when they arrive, it’s clear there was nothing to worry about. Rosie is in raptures from the first moment, running about the garden while Sherlock’s father chases after her.
And then they all head inside, and Sherlock’s mother explains that they brought all of Mycroft and Sherlock’s old toys out of the loft, all spruced up and ready for Rosie to play with.
And it’s so wonderful to watch as John realises how loved Sherlock was as a child, and now, as Sherlock leans against the kitchen counter top, as relaxed as he’s ever been, pinching biscuits from a jar until his mother notices and jokingly swats him with a tea towel.
It’s all so beautifully natural and John’s heart aches with it. He hears Rosie giggling as Sherlock’s father shows her how to play Mouse Trap; Sherlock and his mother’s easy conversation:
“Is Myc not coming round, Sherlock?”
“Are you deliberately calling him that now just to piss h-um-annoy him? Think he’s with the foreign secretary, I don’t know.”
“Excellent, I can Skype call him again, he never answers his phone.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was joking when he said you-”
And all of a sudden the ache in John’s heart tightens and he slips out for some fresh air. He thought he had been practically silent but Sherlock is soon right behind him.
“Are you alright? Is there-did I do something wrong?”
And John’s eyes well up at the thought that Sherlock could even think that, and he shakes his head, voice choked: “No, I-of course not, it’s just I’ve-I never had-”
He gestures back inside, where Sherlock’s parents are chatting away to Rosie.
“I never had that,” John finally admits.
And the line of Sherlock’s mouth wavers, and he’s hugging John like his life depends on it.
“You have it here,” Sherlock tells him, soft yet fierce. “You have it now. Always.”
So this is my official headcanon (because apparently that is probably all I’m going to get):
After finally coming to terms with his past, and with the trauma of Eurus, Sherlock is finally free to embrace his emotions. He’s a little rusty, but he’s learning. He’s also finally free to allow himself to understand the true depths of his love for John. Not that of a brother in arms, or of a best friend, but actual all consuming love.
It’s a slow process, but as they’re rebuilding Baker Street together, John sees this change in Sherlock. John then starts to re-evaluate what he feelings for Sherlock, re-examines those feelings he long since stamped down, and all but abandoned.
Baker Street is rebuilt, and so are they. Finally one of them takes a chance, and makes a move.
Rosie is playing on a blanket, and John and Sherlock are sitting in front of the fire. John and Rosie should be heading back to their flat soon, but neither of our boys want the evening to end just yet. That’s when it happens, they share a kiss, and admit what they’ve always known, known from that first day in Bart’s.
Again, they keep it slow, they have Rosie to consider. So John returns to his flat, but with a promise that it’s only the beginning.
But really, it’s not that slow at all. Within six months, John and Rosie leave their flat to return to Baker Street. Rosie goes up in John’s old room (it had been turned in to a nursery and play room already), and John joins Sherlock downstairs, in their room.
They still solve crime, helping anyone who needs it. They raise Rosie together, and Rosie loves Sherlock just as much as she loves John. Sherlock is not Uncle Sherlock to her, or just her godfather. No, Sherlock is simply Dad, just as John is Daddy. That’s all she’s ever known, Sherlock and John together forever.
The silence between them is deafening, interrupted only by the hum of the traffic outside, and the soft click-clunk of the plastic cups Rosie is playing with on the floor beside them. It is the first time they have been alone together, since Sherlock’s birthday. It’s only been two days, but it feels huge, important, like there is a precarious bridge stretched out before them both that they need to at least attempt to traverse.
In Ancient Rome, Centurion John is hired to act as personal, round-the-clock bodyguard for the mad emperor’s hedonistic, philosopher brother (that would be Sherlock). Sparks fly, John peers through a partly-open door, arrows fly, and Sherlock learns the very apt name given to John’s 22-inch sword.
No, his *actual* sword. He’s a Roman solider, remember. What you were thinking would be…just, no.
It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.
What would have happened if Sherlock had returned a few months, a few days earlier? What if it had been nothing but a few hours? What if he and John had been alone? Things could have been so different…
I know there are some people who are really upset about the Final Problem, but let’s focus on the good things, yeah? Like
-how soft Sherlock would always get when he was talking to the girl on the plane, even when he found out it was part of Eurus’s psychosis -John and Sherlock playing with Rosie at the end -Mycroft being canonically scared of clowns -Mycroft watching movies and mouthing every word because he knows them by heart because he’s a film noir nerd (apparently) -Sherlock realizing that emotions make him stronger, not weaker -Sherlock’s parents saying to him “you were always the grown up” -Sherlock getting Greg’s name right -Greg calling Sherlock a ‘Good Man’
The game is really well done! I swear to gravy, I’m gonna need a pillow to scream in later on because aaaaAAAAHHHHHHHH
I just want to point out this thingy-when I got to the credits screen, this big black box rolled up from below instead of credits. I’m not quite sure how long this’ll be, but I’m gonna try to go back to my save and play through again to see if it was a one-time thing.
Sherlock is always looking for an excuse to show off pictures of Rosie and talk about how she is doing.
“Mycroft! Lestrade! Look at this video of Rosie trying to help with my experiments! Isn’t she just the smartest toddler?”
Meanwhile Greg is speechless that Rosie was PLAYING WITH A HUMAN SKULL!