Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Two years.

It had been two years since Sherlock Holmes had seen John Watson. Two years of mutual pining, of reliving memories, of literal torture. No amount of physical pain Sherlock endured in his work compared to the pain he felt each time his memories engulfed him.

And after all of this, here he stood, at the entrance of a rather high-end restaurant, surveying the room for John.

The room was dimly lit, each table decorated with linen tablecloths, fresh flowers and silver plated dinnerware. The John Sherlock knew would never dine at a restaurant as upmarket as this. He furrowed his brow, deducing just why he'd be here.

~~

John rearranged his cutlery for the third time since Mary had left for the bathroom, looking around anxiously. Something was off.

He felt for a familiar square box in his jacket pocket, reassuring his nerves that it hadn't been stolen. £9000 was more than enough to spend on a woman he'd only known for a year.

The past year with Mary had been...interesting. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been scared to grow close to anyone since the fall, or perhaps it was the fact he had to convince himself he actually liked a woman.

He couldn't help but think of Sherlock as he felt the soft velvet in his pocket. In another world, maybe it could of been them in the restaurant together. Maybe it still could.

The thought of Sherlock being alive crossed his mind every day, a faint whisper of hope. Anderson's theories stayed in his mind on a consistent loop, replaying each time a tall brunette crossed his path. Maybe he was just in denial, or maybe he'd known Sherlock too long to know that he'd never just...die.

~~

Spotted.

Sherlock's heart played like a drum, his hands trembling as he swiped a bottle of champagne and faltered towards John's table.

Fancy restaurant, nervous mannerisms, a suit...he had to move fast. He had easily deduced John's plans for the night, and was determined to stop them.

"Your champagne, doctor."

Sherlock leaned over the empty place opposite John, setting the bottle in a bowl of ice.

~~

Doctor?

John looked up from his lap, meeting the eyes of the tall brunette he'd longed for all along.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes suddenly misting.
"You..." John stood up slowly, knocking the ring box onto the floor. A symbolic mistake. "You dick."

A smile tugged at his lips as he brought Sherlock into a hug, much to Sherlock's surprise. He held John tightly, ignoring the staring faces around them.

The years apart seemingly faded away, along with the others in the restaurant. In that very moment, they were the only two people in the building - nay, the world.

"I knew it." John pulled away, holding Sherlock's face in both of his hands. It was real, he was real.

The flicks of dark blue painted his friend's eyes, his fresh vanilla scent comforting him as he held him close.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock searched John's face, attempting to deduce his emotions. Nothing.

He sure as hell didn't deduced what happened next.

Their lips met softly, hesitantly. Feeling Sherlock lean into the kiss, John's heart began to thump louder and louder. It was real. He deepened the kiss, holding him closer than ever, as Sherlock's hands found John's waist.

Heaven.

"...John?"

Hell.

Mary's voice shocked the men, both of them pulling away guiltily. Her eyes darted to the box on the floor, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

A sharp pain hit John's heart as the woman stormed to the table, collecting her coat with a laugh of disbelief. He never meant to hurt her, but in all fairness, he never meant to kiss him. It just...happened.

"Mary, I'm-"

"Save it." She stalked towards the exist, her face growing red. So much for the ring.

Sherlock laughed awkwardly, combing his hands through his curls. He looked around, waiting a few seconds as the entire restaurant gossiped.

"Did you see that?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"I knew they were-"

John took a deep breath, leaving a few notes on the empty table for the drinks.
Sherlock grabbed John's jacket from the back of the chair, once again swiping the champagne.

"Dinner?"
"Starving."

Chapter Text

Sherlock had perfectly prepared a stag night for John in which they would be able to both have fun and remember the night. He had spent the past week in secrecy, mapping the night out down to a T - he was confident that this would be the best night of their lives.

After all, who doesn't love bars that remind them of murders?

~~

Unfortunately, the plan did not work out how they had expected. Sherlock had underestimated the exact volume of drink both men could handle, and they had arrived home - wait, how did they arrive home?

Nevertheless, the duo were now playing a simple game of "who am I?" whilst sloppily drinking whiskey.

"Am I a woman?"
No, but you sure act like one.

Sherlock snorted into his drink, looking over at John with drooped eyes.

"Yes."

"Am I pretty?"
Very.

"Vvery," He slurred, filling up his glass with slippery hands. "You're very pretty, John Wwatson."

The grip on John's drink loosened, the glass falling to the floor and the contents spilling. He leaned over to pick it up, accidentally stumbling to the floor as a result of his head hitting his best friend's.

Sherlock looked down at the man, who was now on his knees, and smirked. He parted his lips, attempting to focus on just one of the Johns in front of him.

"Your turn." He gulped as Sherlock filled up the glass in John's hands. He was certainly going to need another drink.

"Am I making you nervous?"
It was a question, wasn't it?
Sherlock had already deduced the answer anyway.

John closed his eyes, a pointless attempt at sobering up. He set his drink on the floor, wiping his palms on his thighs before standing up slowly.

The room began to spin around him, he couldn't tell if it was from anxiety or the fact he was the drunkest he'd ever been.

A hand sunk into his shoulder as the men navigated their surroundings together. They laughed, stumbling around the room like idiots. It took a while before they realised they were both in each other's arms - Sherlock's hands on John's waist.

"Yyes." John replied.

Sherlock chuckled, biting his lip. He felt John's warmth beneath him, his pupils dilated a significant amount. Hell, he could practically hear the man's heart beat.

Sherlock's lips grazed against John's, "Good." He whispered, his breath ragged.

John violently crashed his lips into Sherlock's as if he'd been starved his whole life. His kiss was hungry, passionate, fast. It told a story of longing, of desperation, and was far more addicting than any drug. Perhaps it was the drink, or perhaps it was the fact he'd waited long enough. The constant teasing, the denial, the passing comments had all lead up to this.

Sherlock cleared the desk with one arm free, not wanting to let go of the man in his arms, and lifted John onto it. He pulled him close as John's hands flew to Sherlock's hair, messing and pulling. The taste of whiskey passed between the two was a drug in itself, the high only fuelling their kiss even more.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson said I could just-"

The client froze.

Sherlock pulled away, his arms still held tightly around John's waist. Their lips were bright red, sore from passion and eyelids drunkenly drooped. They looked towards the door, attempting to register what on earth was happening.

John gestured for her to sit down, of which she politely refused with a puzzled look.

"You were saying?" Sherlock mumbled, his words merging into one. He narrowed his eyes at the woman, refusing to move from his position.

"Mrs Hudson told me to come upstairs, said you were just playing a game. Erm, I can come back later?" She began to close the door.

"No- NO! The game John, the game is..." Sherlock jumped away, falling into the designated client chair on his way to the door.

"ON!!" John shouted after him, attempting to stand up. He leaned against the desk, dazed, smiling drunkly to himself.

It certainly was the best night of his life.

[A/N- I'm sure this will be the first of many the sign of three chapters LMAO]

Chapter Text

You always hear people talk about "the calm before the storm" - what about the calm after the storm? It's a confusing kind of bittersweet, a moment of comfort only found within love.

Perhaps, during this time, you'd console with friends, take up walking, find people with similar stories - or in Sherlock and John's case, sit in a soothing silence with odd sighs from a calmed baby.

The silence was unlike the quietness at Baker Street, it was pained - yet somehow seemed to heal them both. They were comfortable enough to not need words to communicate, just nods of their heads and small hums. The men, despite not speaking, had found themselves becoming closer than ever - both physically and mentally.

Sherlock shuffled towards John, who was deep in thought on the grey sofa. The scenery in the Watson's house was a lot different to Baker Street: with a lighter colour scheme and somewhat fluffy pillows. It was strange, but something he would eventually get used to.

He looked the doctor up and down, his heart beating like a drum. His sentiment for John had began to grow at an alarming rate through the past few weeks, making the detective slightly uncomfortable with all of these new...feelings?

John rose suddenly, smiling at Sherlock before walking to Rosie's cot. He picked his daughter up gently, cooing at her faintly, and brought her down to where Sherlock was sat. They played with her with quiet voices, Sherlock rattling her favourite bear with a smile.

John watched him with admiration, his smile growing as their eyes connected. He searched Sherlock's deep blue orbs for what felt like forever, his thoughts running wild.

After everything, he was still the one. Sherlock was still the one to make John smile, to calm him, to make him feel truly safe. Throughout the years, those dark curls became his weakness, his home. Nothing could compare to the man in front of him, the feeling of his heart skipping, his body relaxing, his smile forming.

He'd thought that Sherlock would of deduced his adoration for him by now, but alas, the man still waited for the day he realised. Some days, the wait would feel especially long - and some days, it was all worth it for moments like these.

John broke the eye contact nervously, reluctantly standing up straight and cuddling Rosie to his chest. He carefully made his way up the stairs, rocking her slightly.

The setting sunlight shone through the living room window, illuminating the room in an orange light and bouncing from one object to another.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock spotted a glimmer of sunlight reflecting from a glass case. Enclosed was a CD.

"Miss You."

"John...?" Sherlock shouted, startling himself a little with the loudness, "John, you need to get down here."

He loaded up the television as John hurriedly tucked Rosie into bed and practically leaped down the stairs. Heart now pounding, he stood next to Sherlock as a familiar blonde woman appeared on the screen.

"I know you two; and if I’m gone, I know what you could become," Her voice echoed throughout the house as she took a deep, shaky breath in. Whatever she was about to say wasn't going to be easy. "...because I know who you really are."

John straightened his posture, wiping his damp hands on to his trousers.

"He loves you, Sherlock. Always has done. And I want you to know, John, that he loves you too." She chuckled, wiping a loose tear from her cheek, "You're both idiots for not realising."

Sherlock combed a hand through his tangled hair, beginning to pace back and forth as the woman continued explaining. How could she of known? He was Sherlock Holmes, for god's sake, nobody could deduce such a thing from him.

"Turn it off." John whispered, a strangled expression on his face.

Immediately, Sherlock made his way to the television. He fumbled with the remote, growing frustrated at the loose connection.

"Do something, boys."

The video ended with a black screen, the dvd pushing out and falling to the floor as the men locked eyes.

It could of been five minutes or five hours until the baby monitor rang with Rosie's cries. For a few seconds, their eyes lingered on each other's bodies, reluctant to let go.

"I should-"
"Yeah."

John took a heavy breath, making his way up the stairs.

Arriving at Rosie's cot, he scooped her into his arms, rocking her slowly as unanswered questions bounced around the empty room of his mind. How could she of known? And why now, after all this time?

The stressed expression on her father's face only made Rosie cry harder, attracting the attention of another familiar face.

"Need any help?" He lingered in the doorway nervously, desperately trying to show he cared.

John nodded with an awkward smile, rocking Rosie faster.

"See, John-"

Sherlock faltered towards John, wiping his palms against his trouser legs. He stood behind the man and hesitantly brought his arms around him, holding both Rosie and John. The father leaned into his warm embrace longingly, allowing him to take control.

"Like this." He whispered into John's neck, resting his head gently on his shoulder. He rocked the baby slowly, calmly. To John's surprise, she settled down within seconds.

After a few minutes, John lay Rosie to rest peacefully and tucked her in to her favourite blanket. He turned around to face Sherlock, who was watching him with a small smile.

"Look," Sherlock started with a whisper, careful not to wake the child.

Before he could finish, John's lips were pressed against his. The world came to a stop as Sherlock held his waist and returned the kiss. The subtle taste of tea and cologne comforted John more than anything else, the feeling of Sherlock's tight hold bringing him to safety.

For the first time in months, both men finally felt comfortable, secure. For the first time in months, everything was okay.

Thank you, Mary.