They’ve come back from a case, Rosie long-asleep in the upstairs bedroom where there’s just enough room for her cot and John’s bed, and Sherlock is ranting.
“Stupid,” he spits out, pacing to and fro in the living room, his hands in his hair. “Why was she so stupid? Why kill them in the first place, when she knows she’s the best suspect?”
“Well, she loved him,” John offers, even though he knows Sherlock doesn’t really want his opinion.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, not even looking at John. “She didn’t love him.”
“What?” John sits up from where he’s been lazing on his chair. “Of course she did. Listen, I know you like to dismiss ‘sentiment,’ Sherlock, but love makes people do crazy things, so-”
“That,” Sherlock says and his voice is flat and angry at the same time, “was not love. That was possession, that was ownership, it may even have been jealousy, but it was definitely not love.” He infuses the word with such contempt that it makes John flinch, but Sherlock is moving again, glaring at the world as though it had personally offended him. “If she loved him, she’d have let him go. She’d have done everything in her power to make sure that he was happy, even if that meant he was with someone else. She’d have killed - she’d have died herself - if it meant that he would have one millimetre more happiness in his life than otherwise. She would have protected his lover with her life, she’d have done absolutely anything in her power to give him anything he wanted. Instead, she killed them both in a fit of jealous rage, because she never really loved him, she loved owning him. Like a favourite pair of shoes, or a pretty picture.”
John is still trying to absorb that rant when Sherlock crosses the room and slams his bedroom door behind him.
John sits in silence for a few moments before heading to bed.
He wakes up an hour later and John Watson has never actually experienced an epiphany before, never experienced that moment Sherlock is always chasing where all the pieces come together and your brain dissolves into fireworks and you know everything but he’s pretty sure that he just had one.
Before he can even think, he’s downstairs, pushing open Sherlock’s door and standing there like a fool.
Sherlock sits up, sleep-mussed and soft, and says “John, what’s wrong? Is it Watson?”
John licks his lips and tries to speak and…nothing.
“You…you love me,” he manages, and it’s a bare whisper, all he can force past the weight in his chest, of ten years of unsaid words. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock is looking at him with horror in his eyes.
“I-I” Sherlock says, and John interrupts him.
“Please say I’m wrong, Sherlock, please say I’m wrong,” and he’s speaking quickly now, tears running down his face unchecked, and his leg gives out and he finds himself on his knees by Sherlock’s bed, a ragged penitent in old pyjamas, prostrating himself before a saint. “Please say I haven’t been wrong all this time, haven’t wasted all these years, please, Sherlock, please…”
He hides his face in Sherlock’s bed, so that he can’t see Sherlock’s eyes, his beloved face creased in confusion.
“John?” Sherlock asks. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”
But John is sobbing too hard to answer, great heaving sobs, and Sherlock puts a hand on the back of his neck that burns like a brand because of course Sherlock would try to comfort him, even though he doesn’t understand what John is on about, even though John has hurt him so terribly so many times.
“I love you,” John gasps into the bed. Sherlock’s hand stills for a moment and then, cautiously, resumes its smooth comforting stroking.
“John, you’re upset,” he begins, but John cuts him off mid-sentence.
“Years, Sherlock, years,” he gasps. It’s becoming easier to speak, the weight on his chest becoming less with every word. “I’ve loved you for years. Since Angelo’s that first night, I think, since the cabbie, since the first time I saw you sleep-soft in morning light. I loved you in Dartmoor and I loved you at the pool - God, how I loved you in that moment, I would have fallen to my knees and worshipped at your feet for the rest of my life and I would have been content. I loved you on the roof of Bart’s and on the pavement a moment later. I loved you every moment of every day you were gone, and I loved you every time I stood in front of your grave and begged you for one more miracle, and I loved you when I punched your face because it was that or kiss you, and I loved you when you were bleeding out in Magnussen’s office. I loved you on Magnussen’s porch and I loved you on the tarmac, and I loved you in the morgue and in the hospital and in the prison and the well and I’ve loved you every moment since the day I met you, I love you I love you I love you.”
He doesn’t stop so much as run out of breath, chanting those three words - three words he’d never thought he’d be able to say - like prayer, John is a monk and this is his religion now, this is his faith, this only thing he knows for sure.
“John,” Sherlock breathes. “Why didn’t you…”
“I thought,” and John is trying to think of a way to say this right, a way to really explain, “I thought that you didn’t…I didn’t think you didn’t love me, but I thought you wanted me as a friend, just a friend, and so I tried to be the best friend anyone could ever have, but obviously I’m pretty shit at it, but I tried and I hid it, and hid it, and I married Mary because I thought…I thought I’d break apart from missing you and later I thought I’d die from wanting you, and I couldn’t bear to lose you but I was losing you anyway, but the surest way to lose you was to tell you, you didn’t feel the same, you didn’t want the same things, and that’s the best way to kill a friendship, and if friendship was all I could-”
And John shuts up, because Sherlock has slithered out of his bed and fallen to his knees in front of John, and stopped his panicked babbling with his mouth.
When Sherlock finally pulls back, John stares at him, shocked into silence.
“So many years,” Sherlock says, stroking a thumb over John’s lips. “We could have had so many years, John. If only we hadn’t been…”
“Afraid,” John supplies. Sherlock nods, and he’s so close that his nose rubs against John’s when he does, and it’s unbearably intimate. “We could…” And John has to stop for a moment to breathe, to lick his lips and gather his courage in his hands. “We could still have years,” he says. “If I’m not too late. If you still-”
And Sherlock doesn’t say anything with words, but when he kisses John, he writes eloquent poetry in this new language they are building together.
Yes, he says as he licks into John’s mouth
I want, he says, as he sucks a bruise into John’s neck.
I still, he whispers into the curve of John’s ear. I still love you. I will always love you.
Eurus Holmes is an era-defining genius…beyond Newton.
When John was visiting his “new” therapist, he stated, Molly Hooper was the only person who could really see through Sherlock’s “bullshit”. Eurus heard this loud and clear.
Eurus knew Molly would make Sherlock say “I love you” first. She knew this woman would be the one to put her brother on the back foot in a very, very big way.
Eurus essentially took all of Sherlock’s power away in front of Molly Hooper. She empowered Molly over the man she loves by putting that situation in front of her. There was no bomb, never was. It was all about Sherlock, yes…but it was all about how powerless he really is in front of Molly. Emotional context.
Molly Hooper is not weak, she is a lion. Her love is not weak, it is unbreakable. Her love is not meaningless, it means everything. Sherlock’s love is not meaningless either, it means everything. Eurus proved it. That was The Final Problem.
Meet me at Bart’s. Drowning at a party. Lestrade treating it as suspicious. - SH
Sounds thrilling but I’m busy. - JW
Mrs Hudson will watch Rosie. I know you’re at Speedy’s. Again. I’ll meet you outside in 5. - SH
John sighed as he stared at his not-so baby girl, and more screeching toddler. The books were right about that part.
“Well let’s get you upstairs shall we. Daddy has to go and babysit his other child.” He leaned over and tugged Rosie’s cheek and she giggled loudly as he picked her up out of the high chair.
“Ah Molly, I was wondering what was taking you so long.” Sherlock called, he hadn’t even turned to see who it was, but the lanky bastard always had a knack for knowing people by their footsteps.
John briefly glanced at Molly, and then once more when he noticed her lab coat didn’t seem to be drowning her petite frame due to a small rounded bump hidden under a large maroon jumper. It had only been a month since he last saw her hadn’t it? He cocked his head in confusion and he caught what he imagined was his own expression mirrored on Lestrade’s face. Although Lestrade seemed to be eyeing him questionably.
John just shrugged his shoulders in response and Lestrade mouthed the word ‘Tom’ to him. Now John knew that door had definitely been closed, locked and bolted. Once again he shrugged and Lestrade looked back to Molly again. John only just realised that Sherlock had been watching the whole exchange, staring at the two of them like they were chimps in a zoo. John coughed and Lestrade shuffled his feet back towards the body. Both of their heads hung like reprimanded school boys.
“So, male victim, Ross Hall, 29, found dead in a pool at a party held for lifeguards celebrating no deaths this summer.” Lestrade started as he stood at the head of the body, Molly pulled back the sheet as he spoke.
“You have got to be kidding me.” John whispered and laughed, mostly to himself, but he felt three sets of eyes suddenly glare at him.
“The only suspicion is the bruising to the back of his head.” Lestrade continued. “We wondered if it was-“
“Intentional? Don’t be ridiculous. I assume that even by your detective skills you found a small clear sealable bag in the mans back pocket, lined with a substance formed from the coca plant. Cocaine for those here who haven’t had much dealings with recreational drug use in their life.” Sherlock may have addressed the room but he was definitely glaring directly at John at that last part.
“And if you had even bothered to look at the photos of the crime scene I could actually be doing something much more productive with my time than spending it here with you lot.” John watched as Molly’s head bowed a little.
“I thought you gave up on that blog post about the analysis of tobacco ash?” Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge John’s comment instead he held out his phone with the photo he had pulled up on Google images for the three of them to see.
“I actually thought to look up the location of the incident on the taxi ride here. And would you look at that in all of point seventy sixth of a second we have our answer. Come on Lestrade you can’t be telling me you didn’t pick up on the rocky water feature at the side of the pool? You know the glaringly obvious beacon in plain view.” His voice was thick with boredom.
“There was no sign the victim-“ Lestrade was silenced before he could barely begin.
“Fell onto the feature. Please, spare me. If you had bothered to even attempt to do your job today, you would have known this was just an accident.” Sherlock droned on as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“You can see that the feature is made from granite, to be precise. How awfully ornamental. Anyways, said victim had clearly snorted a line too many, but he intended to go for a swim on his own because he had already taken his shoes and pants off and they were most definitely dry. Terrible idea, I don’t condone it myself. Obviously, he lost his balance after taking off said trousers and fell back. His head hit the granite, without causing a bleed, which is possible Lestrade. Oh and if you bothered to compare it to the photo of the crime scene you’d clearly see the point five of a millimetre crack in the stone.” Sherlock held up his phone against a photo he’d snatched out of Greg’s pocket. John struggled to see the difference. Then again Sherlock always seemed to have an unnatural magnification ability when it came to detail.
“I mean come on I’ve seen harder Spot the Difference puzzles in a children’s magazine.” He replaced his phone back into his pocket and thrust the photo back into Greg’s hand. “So there it is. One coked up and drowned party guest.” Sherlock finished his statement and looked so bored John could imagine he probably wished it was he who was the one who had smashed his head and drowned.
“I’m sorry we wasted your time Molly. It seems Lestrade was looking for an excuse to get out of the office, no surprise when Sally Donovan is your partner.” With that he seemed to give Molly some sort of warming smile. John had definitely not seen that one before. But when Sherlock looked back towards Lestrade and himself it was replaced with his usual flat lined expression.
“No foul play here. Just a victim of a terrible irony. How sad. Now have you got anything actually worthy of me being dressed today or can I go back to being naked in my bed sheet?” He stared straight through Lestrade and John swore he saw a blush creep up over Molly’s features.
“That’s it for-“
“Thank you, Greg. Maybe next time check you have inserted your neurons when you get out of bed in the morning.” Sherlock turned on his heels and was heading for the door when Lestrade, who seemed to ignore Sherlock’s comment, turned to Molly who was preparing the body to be placed back into refrigeration.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, when are you due.” That seemed to make Sherlock stop dead at the door.
“Oh, no it’s fine honestly, it’s getting past the point where I can hide it now. But I’m around sixteen weeks, I’m due in March.” She smiled sheepishly, laughing intermittently between her sentences out of awkwardness John suspected.
“So, are you and the fath-“
“I’m sure Molly has better things to be doing than making small talk with you Lestrade. You know, like her actual job, whom unlike you she is rather more competent at.” Greg looked a little fed up after being cut off by Sherlock for the fourth time today. Rather than giving Sherlock another opportunity to silence him he held up his hands in defeat, waved to Molly and John and not so accidentally shoulder barged Sherlock as he pushed through the door.
“I know it’s been a while, but you should come over some time. Rosie will be thrilled to see you.” John spoke softly to Molly.
“Yeah, that sounds wonderful. How is she?” Molly’s eyes gleamed with the promise of Rosie cuddles.
“Acting too much like a two year old for a twenty month old baby.” Molly laughed, genuinely this time and her hands came to rest on her stomach. Sherlock sighed loudly from by the door and John gave Molly a look that only those special enough to know Sherlock on a personal level would understand.
“I’ll text you later. Take care Molly.” John reached out and touched her upper arm before turning to the door to see Sherlock had already left through it. By the time he had caught up to him, they were almost at the exit.
“You know, you can huff and puff as much as you like, you didn’t have to come today. You knew that was nowhere near a seven, so why bother?” John called from behind him.
“August is such a boring month. I mean where are the murders? It’s like someone flicked a switch and all people want to do is commit petty fraud and adultery.” Sherlock threw his head backwards in frustration.
“Yes because that it so terrible… but is this why you’ve been so frustrated recently? It’s the closest you’ve got to a potential murder in weeks so you wanted to check it out, even though you knew it wasn’t anything more than a drug induced accident. I’m starting to think you just like seeing dead bodies.” Sherlock looked down at him with his trademark smirk and took off towards the road, John hurried behind as per usual until he reached his friend’s side as they stood waiting on the curb.
“So, Molly Hooper’s pregnant.” John grinned impishly up at his friend, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed back at him.
“Yes John, no need to state the obvious.” Sherlock mumbled as he quickly pulled out his phone to check the time.
“Know, I mean come on. Who do you reckon is the father? Unless you already know, which you probably do.” John asked eagerly, convinced Sherlock would have some insight on the situation.
“You’re very good at asking questions John. Maybe you should use that wonderfully honed skill of yours and ask Molly yourself.” Sherlock had clearly tired quickly of this conversation, as his attention became absorbed by phone and his rather pathetic looking inbox.
“Suit yourself.” John muttered to himself as he pulled back his coat sleeve to check his watch. After he was reassured they were well within the time he told Mrs Hudson he would be back in to pick up Rosie, he rolled his shoulders back and stared across the road. A young woman with a child of no more than two years old were sat sharing a chocolate ice cream on a bench at the bus stop.
John thought back to Molly. They had lost touch a little bit since Sherringford. Molly seemed to throw herself in to work, similarly to himself. Her shifts never seemed to match up to child sociable hours. And with the lack of murders, thankfully, there were less frequent visits to the morgue.
I mean he couldn’t remember her bringing up her love life. He was no fan of womanly gossip, but he definitely couldn’t recall her speaking of a new love interest. Sherlock jostled beside him as he dropped his phone back into his pocket as a black cab came into view.
Anyways, she seemed delighted about the baby, so John concluded he had no reason not to be happy for her and he smiled to himself. By the looks of her she would have her baby by the end of winter, maybe spring time if she was around the gestation period he assumed by her bump. If all things went well, maybe Rosie would have a playmate in a couple of years time.
“She’s sixteen weeks and four days.” Sherlock spoke to the air in front of him.
“What?” John asked out in confusion.
“One hundred and sixteen days to be exact. And her due date is the twelfth of March. I told you before you think too loud.” Sherlock shouted as he flagged down a cab.
John sat back in his armchair and rubbed the bridge of his nose as a dull ache throbbed behind his eye sockets. Since Sherlock’s disclosure of Molly’s imminent arrival, John felt as if his best friend may have been hiding something. That night after they had been to the morgue the thought hit him like a big, red London bus as he made himself his last cup of tea for the night. As the kettle clicked, the spoon in John’s hand bounced off of the kitchen top.
What if it’s Sherlock?
The thought had haunted John for the next few weeks as John wrestled with theories in his head. Now Sherlock wouldn’t like to admit it, but if there’s one thing he had in common with his brother it was that they were both good at knowing things about other people.
The likeliness of this scenario was that Molly was considered a close friend to Sherlock. Even after the events of Sherringford the pair seemed to have resolved their differences. They told John they were strictly friends. Completely platonic. John doubted this at first, after all he saw Sherlock break into pieces in that room. Yet, the dust eventually settled. Quite literally. As 221b was restored to its former bachelor pad glory and Sherlock and Molly resumed their working relationship. He suspected Sherlock wanted to know as much about Molly’s ‘situation’ because that’s just who Sherlock Holmes was.
He had always thought that maybe Ms Adler had worked her way back into his clutches. Her text tone had been very active as of late, he had noted. He always thought something was going on between them. None of it made any sense, until today happened.
Molly had been over earlier to see Rosie again. He wasn’t sure whether it was the pregnancy hormones or the fact that Rosie was such a delightful baby, but Molly had been over a lot in the past few weeks since he’d seen her in Bart’s. The odd time that Molly had been over, Sherlock occasionally stopped by. This included today’s visit. What got to John was that Sherlock didn’t seem to be coming over to see him. He spent most of his time watching Molly with Rosie. Occasionally he would pick Rosie up, point and spout dictionary definitions of inanimate objects littered around the living room. Apart from that, he would sit on the sofa with his legs crossed and observe.
It was when John had excused himself for ten minutes, to put the endless pile of washing away, he returned to the most peculiar sight. Molly was sat in the arm chair, Rosie curled awkwardly into her side and around her bump as Molly read her ‘Guess How Much I Love You.’
He hovered in the doorway, unseen by both Sherlock and Molly that he felt like an intruder in his own home. As Molly performed the actions in the book, stretching her arms out wide, Rosie copied her every move. The pair were absorbed in each other; Sherlock was absorbed by them. He watched onwards and when Molly turned her head to look at Sherlock sat opposite her, he returned such a tender and open smile that John was convinced he was an imposter.
He was momentarily sucked into whatever this thing was between his two friends, the door creaked with his weight and the moment vanished in the blink of an eye. Sherlock stood promptly, dusted off invisible crumbs from his sleeve and Molly focused her attention back to Rosie who was starting to doze against her shoulder.
Sherlock left without barely a word, just buttoned up his suit jacket, nodded once at John and left swiftly. Not long after Sherlock’s departure, Molly stood with Rosie still firmly attached to her. John got the message and took Rosie out of her arms as Molly put on her jacket. She made her excuses, it was her second ultrasound scan in the morning and she wanted to be well rested. She kissed both John and Rosie on the cheek and left quietly.
So now John felt he needed to put this to bed once and for all. He knew that if he asked Molly directly, she would probably deny it. And Sherlock? Well he didn’t know where to begin with that conversation. Instead, he formulated a plan to try and answer the mystery which had plagued him for weeks.
John couldn’t believe he was doing this. Who did he think he was? James Bond? He almost scoffed. He couldn’t resist, what he saw yesterday required a much deeper investigation. He knew Molly had her appointment at ten at the UCL Hospital this morning. He was always glad that Molly blabbed too much when she was nervous or uncomfortable, like last night. If he suspected what he thought was happening, then a certain curly haired, lanky git would also be there too.
He had dropped Rosie off with Mrs Hudson for the morning. He loved her dearly but she would most definitely be a hindrance in his task. He got to the hospital relatively early and managed to find a cafe just outside the entrance to the maternity ward. After twenty minutes he saw Molly half waddle half walk down the corridor and straight past John and through the doors to the ward. John kept the broadsheet over his face until the door to the ward had almost closed behind her.
Okay, so she was alone. But John knew Sherlock better than that. He knew that if Sherlock rocked up to a hospital with a pregnant woman on his arm the media would have a field day. If he entered on his own, it was less suspicious. Almost as if on cue, not five minutes later, he breezed in from a different direction to Molly. Of course he probably used an inconspicuous entrance.
John felt so smug with himself for being right that he almost forgot what his investigation may just have proven. Molly was, quite possibly, pregnant with Sherlock’s baby. John’s stomach sank like a stone and he suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. He stood from the cheap MDF chair, walked out of the hospital and all the way back to Baker Street.
He heard music and giggles coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat, but he didn’t stop in to say hi. He marched straight up the stairs and sat in his old chair and waited. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when Sherlock eventually returned home he all but raced up the stairs like a gazelle and his face was beaming until he turned around to see John sat staring at him.
“Ah, John. Have you come to tell me you’ve fixed the visitor counter on your site again? I noticed it must have been off a few week’s back.” Sherlock mumbled as he shrugged out of his Belstaff.
“It’s you. You’re the father of Molly Hooper’s child.” John proclaimed loudly, and he watched as Sherlock glanced to the door.
“And finally the penny has dropped.” Sherlock answered unenthusiastically as he hung up his coat.
“It’s not my problem you’re so obtuse.” Sherlock all but collapsed into his chair. He popped the button on his suit jacket as he leaned back into the cushion.
“Hang on. You were trying to tell me? But Irene Adler? The text tone?” John questioned.
“A red herring. Oh and it’s surprisingly easy to set a provocative text tone onto one of your contacts.” Sherlock examined his fingernails.
“So all this time. All this time you were messaging Molly, not Irene Adler.” John struggled to hide the shock in his voice.
“Well, for the past six months. Yes. I pretty much had to plant the seed, otherwise I never thought you’d get there.” Sherlock shot John a demeaning glance.
“So you mean at Bart’s, with the drown victim?” John sat forward in his chair.
“Yes, of course John, do keep up.” Sherlock exhaled loudly and rubbed his brow.
“You dragged me to Bart’s because you knew I would see Molly and start to suspect who the father was.” John could feel himself becoming more frustrated.
“I wouldn’t say I dragged you.”
“You didn’t think to just sit me down, preferably with a pint, and tell me ‘oh guess what John, I knocked Molly Hooper up’ that would have been the much easier thing to do.” John’s voice became elevated with anger.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“You know not everything has to be a game Sherlock. And this - this baby is most definitely not a game. Neither is Molly’s life.” He was aware he sounded angry and his tone was harsh, but Sherlock had gone too far.
“I would never treat my child or the mother of my child like a game. Is that really what you think of me?” Sherlock shot up from his chair. The mood changed so suddenly, like someone had flicked a light switch. John felt slightly threatened by his best friend as he towered over him.
“I-I thought you two we-were-“ John stuttered out of shock.
“Completely platonic? We were for the most.” Sherlock composed himself, calmly sitting back into his chair. His fingers tapped the ends of the arms.
“Yes. I mean when did this all happen?” John asked softly. He relaxed further back into his chair.
“One hundred and thirty five days ago, if you wanted to-“
“No, Sherlock, I don’t mean the conception of your child. I mean you and Molly.” Sherlock seemed to pause slightly at this.
“Two nights after Sherringford.” John knew that this was all he was going to get out of him on this topic. He also knew better than to ask how the child was conceived. He didn’t want to think about-
“It was the biological way.” John’s thoughts were interrupted.
“The baby. It was conceived through sexual intercourse. Honestly John, you may as well stream your thoughts across your forehead on a ticker banner.” Sherlock tossed his eyes back into his head.
“I wasn’t going to ask. But, erm, congratulations? I mean is it congratulations because you haven’t given much indication towards your feelings on the situation.” John pried a little more.
“It’s not planned if that’s what you’re suggesting? Although I do feel a sense of accomplishment at passing down fifty percent of my genetic makeup to a member of the next generation. I never thought I’d find it exciting, but pregnancy is fascinating. Plus, Molly gets the baby she always wanted, and my parents get the grandchild they never thought they’d have. Also, the sex was surprisingly not as vanilla as I would have expected from Molly. She has got quite a tongue-“
“Honestly, Sherlock. There is no need to paint a picture.” John stared at the latest pending member of the fatherhood club. This was definitely Eurus’ fault. “So, do you have any plans?” John posed the question with the tone of a life councilor.
“Of course. She’s going to stay at her flat, raise the baby there. It’s three bedroomed, plenty of space and not to mention somewhat more suitable for an infant.” John watched as Sherlock’s eyes darted around the flat.
“And you’re going to remain living here? Is this what you want or what Molly wants?” John tried to wrap his head around the situation. Did Sherlock think the baby was going to be a compulsory hobby for the next eighteen years?
“Molly understands the nature of my work. My life has always been unpredictable and there are people who know me who don’t like me or what I do. People who would like to see me hurt.” John registered his friend’s words carefully.
“Ah. You’re protecting them. You don’t want people to know the baby is yours. This is why you’ve both been very hush hush about the pregnancy. That also explains the text tone. You were throwing people off of the scent.” Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.
“We both agreed it’s probably for the best, for the first few months anyway. I don’t want my child becoming mindless brain fodder in any form of media outlet.” John looked understandingly at Sherlock. “For the first few weeks, I will stay at Molly’s. As often as I can. I will still take on cases; Domestic only. Apparently babies are a leech on ones wallet.”
“And then…” John spread his hands out in the air in a questioning gesture.
“I’ll move back here. See Molly and the baby a few times a week, take on more cases and eventually get back into the good stuff, I suppose.” Sherlock, sat firmly back into his chair, seemingly impressed with his answer.
“You suppose? The woman you confessed your love to, albeit forced, is going to give birth to and raise your child and you’re going to stay here and play Consultant Detective like always? Do you want my honest opinion?” John asked forcefully. There was no way he was leaving without throwing his tuppence worth into the ring.
“I’ve never not been with you.” Sherlock sniffed and turned his head away.
“I don’t think you’ll want to move back. Irregardless of what you think about people wanting to hurt you. You know your brother would always watch out for your family.” Sherlock looked directly at him as he spoke that final word. “I think you think you can just waltz in and play happy families for a few weeks and then detach yourself. Trust me if you can hold that baby in your arms and honestly turn to me and say you can walk away from them, then I don’t know you at all Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the lone wolf you think you are.” John followed Sherlock’s gaze. He was looking at a photo frame from Rosie’s christening. He remembered Mrs Hudson bringing it up once the refurbishment was complete. John smiled as he cast his eyes over his late wife, then he looked to Sherlock and Molly stood side by side.
"Do you love her?” The question seemed to hang in the air.
“Why are you so obsessed with trying to get me to play happy families?” Sherlock sounded bored, but John could tell he’d unsettled something within the Consultant Detective.
“Because you have a chance to grasp something I once had; happiness.” John could feel himself becoming moved. Memories of Mary flooded his thoughts.
“Are you saying I’m not happy now?” Sherlock asked defensively, he pulled his hands down into his lap.
“No, I don’t think you’re as happy as you could be. You can have it all, you know? The job you’ve always loved and a family who will love you unconditionally. You’re a good man, Sherlock. But I really do think this is your last opportunity.” John recognised the look that cast a shadow over Sherlock’s face. He stood up and walked over to his friend and crouched next to him.
“You’re scared you’ll fail.” Sherlock cast John a glance. His quietness spoke more than his words ever could in this moment. “I’m not saying it will be easy, because it won’t. I don’t expect Molly or the baby to give you an easy ride either. If there’s one thing I know about you Sherlock Bloody Holmes is you are not a failure.” He firmly patted his hand on his friend’s back reassuringly.
Sherlock didn’t respond at first. His hand moved to the inside of his jacket pocket and withdrew a small black and white photograph and he sat and stared at it for a small while. John watched quietly from beside him. Sherlock’s face was blank but John knew the cog’s in his mind were working overtime. He hoped he was filing this memory away in that palace of his. Then John did the last thing he expected himself to do and he laughed.
“I’m sorry. Did I miss the punchline?” Sherlock stirred from his trance and raised one of his large bushy eyebrows.
“No, I just imagined you arms deep in a shit filled nappy.”
John took the stairs two at a time as he proceeded up the endless concrete steps. At the top, the fire door was propped open with a plastic chair and John smirked. He pushed the chair aside and walked onto the roof as the London sky line twinkled in the backdrop. The sharp Spring night air stung at his face. The figure leaning over the railings hadn’t acknowledged his presence, just kept staring out into the city, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
John walked up beside him and reached into the pockets of his jacket and removed two whisky glasses and a hip flask. The clink of the glasses caused the tall figure to turn and look towards him.
“What are you doing?” He questioned as John placed the glasses on the ledge and poured two equal, and very strong, measurements of whiskey.
“A toast.” John answered as he handed Sherlock a glass.
“A toast?” Sherlock echoed, John nodded and joined his friend against the railings.
“To fatherhood. A thankless job with ridiculous hours and a shit wage.” He clinked his glass with Sherlock’s and let the liquor run smooth and warm down his throat. Sherlock hesitated a moment, stubbed out his cigarette then swilled the glass twice before mimicking John and polishing off the amber liquid.
“He’s a cracker, Sherlock.” John watched as Sherlock’s lips turned upwards and he looked so proud and dare he say it, content. They stayed silent for a moment. John watched out of the corner of his eye as the emotions of pure love, adoration, fear and terror passed over Sherlock’s face all at once. The same expressions he had once worn a time ago.
“Are you going to ask me?” Sherlock asked quietly.
“Ask you what?” John feigned ignorance, but he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.
“Well I know I’m not holding my son in my arms but-“
“If you could still walk away? Well could you?” A brief silence followed John’s question and a sharp breeze cut through them like a knife.
“No. No, I couldn’t. Just being up on this roof is torture, but I’ve never needed a smoke so much in all of my life. Plus, Mycroft has his army of baboons littered like roaches all over the building, which rules out the main entrances.” Sherlock shared one of his rare bedazzling smiles. John laughed and clapped his friend on the back. He knew that Sherlock was grateful deep down of the security his brother provided.
“Mrs Hudson is going to secretly miss having you around.” John spoke sadly, although his tone was lighthearted. Sherlock continued to smile out into the city. John knew then Sherlock had made his decision.
“I’m also ruling out domestic cases for the next eight weeks at least. You know newborns can recognise their parent’s faces by the time they are two months old?” Sherlock spoke with the excitement of a child in a sweet shop. John responded instantly with a knowing smile, sharing his friend’s excitement of his newfound fatherhood.
“You’re going to be bloody fantastic, Sherlock Holmes.”
I love when people say that they never saw Sherlolly coming, because then I can unfurl all of the proof over the past four seasons, plus the Victorian Special, like a beautiful hidden comet
Or like Alexis Colby in Dynasty, depending on how they demand the proof.
And the best part is, all of our references, all our reaction gifs of Sherlock, or Molly, it’s all taken directly from the context, like, no, you actually just have to pay attention to how they talk and look at each other. It’s like watching Spock and Uhura in the Original Star Trek series (which would have gone somewhere if it wasn’t the 60′).
Anyway, my point is: showing people that Sherlock and Molly might have been started out on a wish and a soft ‘Okay’ after Sherlock swept out of the morgue, but it ended with a beautiful ‘I love you’ is my favorite thing, because they want to know what happens next, and then I can just unfurl all the fanfiction that’s available to them like
But it doesn’t matter what I thought
But it still hurts
Doesn’t it hurt you?
The bullet hole left of your spine?
It has to hurt,
Even you can’t walk off-
Actually you can.
No wait actually listen to me
I’ve been sitting next to your corpse
For hours now, in the subway tunnels,
I’ve earned this
So you can listen up cause we were fine
And alive, the both of us,
And it was my-
It was my bullet in your-
I killed you,
You weren’t supposed to turn on me
sometimes the person in the morgue is someone you love
Characters: Sock and Jonathan Warnings: Suicide mention, vague mortuary-flavored atmosphere Pairings: Sockathan, one-sided in this snippet Words: 754 Chapters: 1 of 1 probably Fill: for prompts 71 and 404 on @wthkinkmeme
A snippet of a serial killer/gravedigger AU I started but didn’t finish years ago. Doesn’t make too much sense out of context but here you go either way. Gimme a kudos if you enjoyed or want more.
Sock had a job. He dug graves for the nearby crematory and whoever else wanted their final resting place to be the serene Primrose Cemetery. It looked nice, as far as cemeteries went. Trees enclosed it on all sides, the woods started on the north end. It was small, historical (the home of three famous pilots and, according to his boss, a senator), and quiet. Out of the way, so that the most traffic that traveled the county road nearby was maybe five cars a day.
At one time this had been good for him. He didn’t need an audience when he buried his parents and he didn’t need anyone watching him off himself after.