There’s Always Three of Us
Posted on ao3 here. First kiss, parentlock, Angelo’s, fluff.
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Sherlock climbed out of the cab and bent down to receive Rosie from an exasperated John, who handed the cabbie several notes with a weak apology. She had wriggled the entire cab ride to Angelo’s, and short though it was, things already weren’t looking good for the evening. It was their first outing together with just the three of them, and Sherlock was determined to make sure it was as easy for John as possible so he would remain open to such things in the future. And maybe, one day, they could even start slowly edging their way toward more.
Sherlock hoisted Rosie up so she could wind her tiny arms around his neck and murmured against her temple. “Now, Watson, let’s be good tonight, you and me, so Daddy can have a nice time, hmm? No mischief from either of us.”
Rosie grabbed his nose and let out a screeching giggle in reply.
“Glad we understand each other,” he said, his voice nasal. She squeezed his nose once more for good measure and managed to get one tiny finger halfway up his left nostril.
Sherlock extricated himself from Rosie’s clawing grip and looked up to see John holding the door open, a tiny smile on his lips. Well, if he was wearing that smile then things couldn’t be going too badly.
“Remember our deal, Watson,” he muttered, and stepped over the threshold into the familiar coziness of Angelo’s restaurant. Angelo himself bustled forward immediately, his arms spread wide in welcome.
“It’s been so long, my friends! And who have we here?” He leaned down to look at Rosie, who hid her face in Sherlock’s neck and peeked out shyly.
“This is Rosie,” Sherlock said, smoothing a hand over her back. “Rosie, this is Angelo.”
“Ah, she’s beautiful, and clever too, I’m sure, coming from you two. Your booth is free, please help yourselves. I’ll be right back with a candle and a high chair for your daughter.”
“Oh, she’s—” Sherlock began, but John cut in with a quick “Thanks, Angelo,” and guided Sherlock to their booth with a hand at the middle of his back. The faint contact set Sherlock’s nerves alight, but he tamped it down. Focus. Take care of Rosie. Prove you can do this. Make things easy.
Sherlock carefully maneuvered himself around the corner of the table so as not to knock Rosie’s dangling legs on the edge. On his other side, John slid onto the bench and scooted over until he was practically in the corner, so close that his knee pressed against Sherlock’s under the table. Rosie. He probably wants Rosie back. Shouldn’t hoard her, that’s too far in the opposite direction, balance is key.
Sherlock juggled Rosie until she sat on the cushioned bench between them, her head craned back, enraptured by the hanging lights above them. Sherlock smiled, reached up and tapped one light so it swung back and forth a bit, throwing glittery patterns across Rosie’s upturned face. Her eyes went wide and her mouth rounded into a soft ‘oh’ as she stared unblinking at the spectacle. Sherlock glanced up to see John’s reaction, and his heart seized in his chest at the soft, open look of affection he saw there.
The high chair arrived with a sudden thump, and Sherlock jumped, startled out of the moment. He scooped Rosie up and slid away from John with his heart hammering and devoted all his focus to wrangling Rosie into her high chair as Angelo lit a candle for the table. John was silent throughout but for a brief “thank you” when Angelo popped a bottle of champagne (on the house, of course) to celebrate their daughter.
“I’ll cook you something special tonight,” Angelo insisted. “No ordering from the menu. You drink your champagne and I’ll bring something nice for you and Rosie.”
Sherlock watched John carefully for any reaction, any correction, but none came. He only rummaged in Rosie’s bag for her favorite book and toy and placed them on her tray, then scooted back to his original position, knee pressed to Sherlock’s under the table. His warm smile didn’t fade as he picked up his champagne flute and held it at eye level, studying the bubbles as they rose to the surface in flickering columns.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
Sherlock reached for his own glass and ran his fingers up the stem. He was nervous, why was he so nervous?
“We haven’t eaten here in quite some time, yes.”
John chuckled and set his glass back down, leaving two fingers on the foot. “True. But I meant since the first night we ate here together, the day after we met.”
Sherlock’s heart gave a painful throb at the memory. He’d been such an idiot back then, thinking himself above sentiment, above entanglements, turning down the man who would become his entire world. He knew better, now. Romantic entanglements would complete you as a human being. Indeed, John.
A gentle clink brought Sherlock back to the present, to John’s champagne glass touching the rim of his own.
“To us, yeah?” John said, his eyes firm on Sherlock’s.
“To us,” Sherlock echoed, low, almost a whisper. He raised the glass to his lips, hiding the sad, crooked smile he couldn’t control, and closed his eyes as the champagne danced bright and dry on his tongue.
Then a warm hand covered his where it rested on the table, and his eyes flew open. John smiled at him, hesitant, and Sherlock took in all the details automatically: a bit sad, nervous, elevated respiration, dilated pupils, licking his lips…
“Hey.” John squeezed his hand gently. “Let’s try this again.”
John released his hand and leaned back, smoothing his hands over his wrinkled trousers. He took a moment to gather himself, then looked up at Sherlock from under long lashes.
“So… do you have a girlfriend?”
Sherlock fought to keep the smile from his face and leaned back as well, stretching his arm along the back of the booth. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”
John looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Ah, right, sorry. A boyfriend, then?”
“Not going to tell me it’s fine if I do?”
John met his eyes, then let his gaze wander down Sherlock’s body. “It’s fine if you’re gay.”
“But not if I have a boyfriend.”
John’s eyes darkened, and he pressed his knee into Sherlock’s under the table. “Do you?”
Sherlock chuckled and took a sip of his champagne, savoring the building warmth low in his stomach. “No, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
“Hmm, okay,” John said. He laid his arm over Sherlock’s along the back of the booth and let his thumb trace over the fabric stretched tight over his shoulder. “Would you like to?”
Sherlock coughed a little nervous laugh but nudged John’s foot with his own under the table. “Depends who it is.”
And John let the act fall away, slid closer until he could brush his fingers over the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“How do you feel about beat up old army doctors with a weakness for posh detectives?” he murmured.
And Sherlock leaned in, letting his lips brush over John’s cheek before whispering hot in his ear.
“Sounds like just my type.”
John let out a harsh breath and cupped his hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, pulling their bodies together in a tight hug. Sherlock dropped his arm from the back of the booth and wrapped it around John, holding him close, breathing hard through his nose through the swell of emotion. His heart ached as if it were trying to climb out of his chest and into John’s where they were pressed together, beating hard and fast and painful in the best way. John used the hand on the back of his neck to guide him back far enough that he could drag the tip of his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, then press their lips together so gently—once, twice, three, then four, each kiss so small and containing so much.
When John pulled back, his eyes were wet and his smile was so broken and hopeful that Sherlock had to kiss him again, reassure him.
“Yes,” he whispered to John, nuzzling the graying hair at his temple. “Yes, yes, yes.”
Then a crash, a clatter, and Rosie’s high-pitched squeal of delight—they leapt apart just in time to witness Rosie throw her sippy cup on the floor, right on top of the book she’d dropped.
They burst out laughing, all the tightly-wound tension of the moment dissipating into a hazy cloud of pure, simple joy.
“I’m sorry, Watson, were we ignoring you?” Sherlock said as he fished the items off the floor. John handed him a wet wipe to sanitize them, but Angelo showed up with a better distraction.
“Now, now, Rosie, let your dads have some time together,” he said, sweeping a small plate of cheese ravioli onto her tray. “I made this just for you, little one, so eat up.”
Rosie promptly squished both hands into the pasta and squeezed all the filling out, then brought one whole fist into her mouth.
“Probably no use getting a bib out at this point,” Sherlock said.
John barked a laugh as Angelo placed a large bowl of gnocchi between them, along with two warm plates.
“Carry on, gentlemen,” he said with a wink, and left them blushing and pleased.
They toasted again and helped themselves to Angelo’s delicious cooking, with occasional breaks for soft kisses and triage cleaning of Rosie’s person. First the gnocchi, then tiramisu for them and strawberries with cream for Rosie, until all that was left was a full, sleepy baby and a single sip of champagne for each of them. John molded himself to Sherlock’s side with an arm around his shoulders and held his champagne glass up.
“That night…” he murmured, leaning his head against Sherlock’s temple. “It was the first night of the rest of my life. And this feels like another first night, too. But this time, it’s the rest of our lives, right? Together. All three of us, if you want it that way.”
Sherlock picked up his glass and watched Rosie over the rim, slumped over in her high chair and covered in cheese, her little chest rising and falling with steady, sleepy breaths. Golden hair, John’s eyes and nose, already clever and mischievous and full of curiosity.
Your dads, Angelo had said.
Sherlock gently tipped his glass against John’s.
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Posted on ao3 here.
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