Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock/Johnlock
Tags: Love Confessions, Love Letter, After TLD, The Hug Scene ™, Repressed John, Establishing Johnlock, First Kiss, Inspired by Song, Romantic Gestures
“Romantic entanglement while fulfilling for other people–”
“–would complete you as a human being.”
John is right. Sherlock has no doubt about it at this point. It has taken him long enough to realise and longer still to accept it but, with all the data at hand, there is no longer room for any other conclusion.
Yes, John is right and Sherlock has to do something about it.
*Inspired by Vance Joy’s LAY IT ON ME*
There really is no other way, Sherlock decides as he watches John finish his tea.
They are both sitting in their chairs, a fire happily crackling beside them, filling the flat with dancing, golden light. Rosie is perched on John’s lap, her little fingers reaching for his face and teacup. John dodges them expertly and bounces the leg she’s on. At the movement, Rosie lets out a high-pitched giggle, her mouth opening in rapture and revealing soft, pink gums. John chuckles and settles his arm more firmly around her, tugging the little girl closely to his chest.
The sight warms Sherlock more than the fire.
Rosie is growing so fast, he thinks as he watches her clap excitedly. Every time his gaze falls on her, she seems to be bigger by an inch at least, with more golden hair curling on her little head and a new sense of understanding in her round, blue eyes.
He can’t believe it’s been only a few months since her mother died. Rosie seems to be doing just fine now, but Sherlock can’t help but wonder if she notices the sudden gap in her life, if her brain can fathom the loss she has already suffered. Hopefully, she is too young to comprehend it.
John seems to have come to terms with it, at least. Ever since that fateful day at the hospital, when John had hit rock bottom as his fists and feet had met Sherlock’s body, ever since he had broken down later, on Sherlock’s birthday, at this very spot, his reins slackened enough for once to grant him weakness and vulnerability, he seems to be doing better every time Sherlock sees him.
His face tells of more sleep (even when taking the strain of being a single parent to a baby into account) and his hands disclose that he has widely given up on drinking. When he’s taken Sherlock to his check-ups at the hospital, and now, when he’s monitoring Sherlock’s recovery himself, John is calm and collected, a little more solemn than he used to be maybe, but he looks relieved, freed from a burden, as if it had taken this violent thunderstorm to finally wash off some of the dust and guilt that had settled on him over the years.
Sherlock has thought about this afternoon for the past five weeks, has replayed it in his mind palace second by second more times than he cares to count: the way John had cried in his arms. Sometimes his skin still itches with the memory of John’s soft skin under his fingers. The scent that had wafted off John’s hair, familiar and yet overwhelming, seems to linger in the air and re-enter his nose when he least expects it.
But that’s not all Sherlock thinks about.
stormborns
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