(One vision of how Sunday might end. Implied major character death. Spoilers based on the trailer for TFP, Setlock, and speculation.)
Sherlock was unsurprised when he heard the car pull up behind him. He’d tried to be careful as he’d passed the bedroom John and Rosie were sharing, but he suspected part of Mycroft’s security protocols included moving the squeaky floorboard at random and he’d hit it square on. Even without tracking him, John would have known exactly where he’d come at this hour.
It was, after all, the fourth day he’d stolen out of Mycroft’s house to watch the sun come up over the rubble that had once been 221 Baker Street.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Sherlock glanced over at John, surprised to see he’d brought Rosie with him, strapped to his chest in her carrier. He raised an eyebrow. “She woke you up, not the squeaky floorboard.”
“We would have caught up to you at the car if herself hadn’t chosen a spectacularly good time to soil her nappy in an epic way. By the time I’d changed her she was wide awake, so I decided not to wake up Mrs. H.” John smoothed a hand over the sleeping baby’s head. “She fell back to sleep in the car.”
They stood without speaking for several moments, taking in the wreckage of what had once been their home. Everything that could be salvaged had been taken away days before, so there was very little to see. The street had been blocked off completely since the explosion, and that plus the early hour meant it was strangely silent.
It felt like standing at a gravesite.
Eventually Sherlock could stand the silence no longer and cleared his throat. “Anthea’s arranged for demolition to begin tomorrow, and I suspect the property will sell quite quickly. It’ll probably be a Topshop by next year.”
“Setting aside the fact that you know what Topshop is, that may be the most depressing thing you’ve ever said.”
Sherlock rocked back on his heels a little and chose to not take the bait. “It might be less depressing than someone else living there in some overly modernized chrome and glass box of a flat. I find that to be an idea I cannot bear.”
“I thought Mrs. H was willing to rebuild?”
“It would never be the same, not for either of us. It’s gone, and she’s made some noise about moving out of the city entirely, and it might be time for me to be gone as well. I find London…holding less appeal than it once did.”
Out of the corner of his eye he watched John swallow hard, his fingers tightening on the straps of Rosie’s carrier.
“Could be a…good time for a change. Have you thought about where you might go?”
“Sussex.” Sherlock waited for the quick inhale that would mean John had put the pieces together wrongly.
It came faster than he’d expected.
“Janine lives in Sussex.”
Sherlock managed, just barely, not to roll his eyes at John’s tight tone. “She does for now. She’s moving to Nice and selling her cottage, which she’s offered to me. At well above market value, naturally, but this is the game we play. It’s quite lovely,” he continued, ignoring the way John’s jaw tightened at the implication that Sherlock had seen it. “Three bedrooms and huge windows. It’s on a large piece of property with a vegetable garden and beehives, and the study’s the perfect size should the local constabulary ever be out of their depth.”
“Sounds like a lot of room for one person.”
Now Sherlock did roll his eyes. “But perfect, perhaps, for three.” He emphasized the last word, and waited again.
Another quick inhale. “You…want me…us…to come?”
Sherlock looked at him the way he’d looked at him a thousand times–simultaneously patronizing and fond–and saw a faint flush steal over John’s cheeks. Perhaps he was being unduly vague. “John. You cannot imagine that I wish to ever be parted from you again. If you do not wish to move, then I will stay. Not in that monstrosity of a house Mycroft left–he should have willed it to Anthea, and I plan to give it to her–but another flat. But…” He trailed off, his courage beginning to wane.
He felt John’s shoulder nudge his. It was surprisingly bolstering. “But?”
“There’s a small general practice for sale, not a mile’s walk from the property. Not much further is what all records show to be an excellent independent school for when Rosie is old enough to need it. There’s no Chinese delivery, but Janine assures me the village restaurants are quite adequate. And if we miss it…when we miss it…London is near enough.” He came to the end of what he had planned to say, and waited.
He could hear the sly smile in John’s voice without turning to see it, but he turned anyway. John was grinning at him, his eyes alight like Sherlock hadn’t seen for a very long time.
“Well.” He shrugged, a grin stealing onto his own face. “We will eventually need somewhere for Lestrade when he comes to beg our help.”
“And for Molly when she’s run out of places to send spare body parts.”
“And Mrs. Hudson will get tired of traveling eventually, and she’ll need somewhere to sleep when she comes to bake us scones.”
They kept grinning at each other until Rosie stirred and let out one insistent cry, looking between the two of them sleepily.
“Quite right, Rosie. Sussex it is,” John said, and slid the back of his right hand against the back of Sherlock’s left. Sherlock turned his hand so their fingers slotted together, and squeezed lightly.
They stood there, hands linked, watching the sun come up over Baker Street.
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