Chapter Text
March 2012
Fingers through his hair pushing it back from his forehead wake him up.
John can feel exactly where Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed with a hand buried comfortably in his hair. When he opens his eyes and turns he can see Sherlock’s smallest finger of his opposite hand locked in the small fist of their young son.
“You’re home,” John manages to mumble through a yawn before shutting his eyes once more as the tension leaves his body in a sudden flow. He’s not exactly sure how long he was asleep for, but it couldn't have been for very long.
“Case ran later than expected.” Sherlock answers the unasked question promptly making John focus on him again. “I should have been here for his feeding.” He then mentions by way of apology and greeting.
John smiles sleepily, shaking his head; the pillowcase tugs on the slightly longer strands of his hair he keeps meaning to get trimmed. “No, I like feeding him. It’s fine.”
Sherlock smiles down at him briefly, his attention alternating between John and Hamish. “But you need rest.” Sherlock continues, his thumb rubbing softly against John’s temple. He presses compulsively into the touch he is beginning to feel starved for like before. “I’ll bathe him for the night, you rest.”
Sherlock’s soft words encourage him to glance between his mate and child with renewing energy. Sherlock has a bruise blooming on one of his cheekbones and he lifts a lethargically heavy hand to brush his fingers softly over it. “You’re okay?”
“A superficial blow,” Sherlock assures him as he moves his hand to the back of John’s head, cradling it as he leans down and presses his lips against John’s, taking active part in a very slow and tired kiss.
Despite the softness, John can tell that Sherlock is interested in more than a mere kiss by the way he holds him and nuzzles against his cheek, but Sherlock won't push him for more, more than aware that John hasn't been all too interested since the birth.
It was obvious just how tired John looked daily between taking care of Hamish, the home, and consulting with the GP overlooking his patients for the moment.
As Sherlock kisses him one last time and begins to pull away John lets him go a little reluctantly with a relaxed smile. Sinking back into the mattress and pillows to watch as Sherlock carefully lifts Hamish into his arms, to see all that attention and intensity for his son only at that moment.
With Hamish off the bed and in the capable care of Sherlock he sprawls out and lets himself drift off into a light doze. He has the vague idea to ask Sherlock about how his case went before sleep tries to claim him in his struggle to remain awake.
Waking to a startling bang of plastic against ceramic he leaps out of the bed and rushes towards the noise where he soon realizes is their bathroom.
Fearing the worst John pushes the open door further only to see that Sherlock had kicked the baby tub out of their larger tub and now cradled Hamish to his naked chest. John can only blink slowly as he tries to put all the pieces together between the worry and adrenaline to make sure Hamish was unharmed.
“Christ, what happened?” John manages to breathe out in relief, completely thrown by what had disturbed him and what he was now seeing, going from hearing something violent to seeing something so crushingly tender.
“Hamish decided to relieve himself in his bath.” Sherlock frowns down at Hamish who doesn't seem all that bothered in the change of baths or sudden noise, easily resting his head back against Sherlock’s chest after he’s been shifted slightly and stares wide eyed at John.
John begins giggling when his son gives him a stern look, making him grin and causes Sherlock to glance up and watch them interact wordlessly with each other. He also won’t be forgetting Sherlock’s brief shocked expression when he first walked in and he doubts he ever would.
“So you decided to spread the mess all over the floor.” John teases as he carefully steps further in, avoiding the wet puddle before he sits on the edge of the tub.
Sherlock frowns up at him, still holding Hamish securely to him. “I panicked,” he admits a little grudgingly, look demanding a change of actions.
John laughs again as he continues to see the evidence displayed for him. Sherlock has a pout coming along and John is prepared to distract, “Well go on and bathe him with you then.”
Soon he holds their son while Sherlock fully strips and fills the bath. Then he fondly watches as Sherlock carefully and meticulously washes Hamish who is lulled to sleep by light touches and warm water and familiar hands.
Transferred into his arms once more, John dries Hamish as Sherlock gets out to dry and dress himself.
With Hamish dressed and asleep in his cot, in his room, John makes his way back to the bathroom with the intention to mop up. Instead he finds Sherlock has dropped his used towel on the floor and was now using his bare feet to drag it across the tile in his attempt of cleaning.
Resting against the door frame he waits for Sherlock to finish and come to him. When he does, Sherlock corners him outside the bathroom and presses close and mutely asks for permission. He can tell Sherlock is balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to pull away if he needs to.
The fluttering inside of his chest, the blush traveling across his body, his arm curving around Sherlock’s shoulder as he answers by pulling them closer together feels overwhelming in a good way.
Sherlock whines, something that sounds beyond desperation, before he muffles it himself firmly against John’s mouth.
In bed Sherlock slowly reminds John with both word and touch how desired he really and truly always is.
May 2013
The bed feels far too large. He still wasn't used to sleeping in his own bed, especially one meant for two adults, after sharing with Sherlock more frequently since their more recent and permanent cohabitation.
It is exhausting to go day after day not with Sherlock. Because once again, Sherlock was no longer here, beside him, and this time it has been far more traumatic.
He can’t stand Hamish’s whimpering anymore. He couldn’t take him calling for his papa every morning, every afternoon, every night, every minute John spent with him without Hamish really knowing too much.
It was not something a parent should have to go through with by themselves.
“Daaaaah,” Hamish whined between hiccups, “pa?” As if Hamish really understood what the situation was. He wouldn't, not at this age.
John squeezed his eyes shut tightly, running his fingers gently over Hamish’s forehead. It’s not like John could give him the honest answer now and have him understand, which was that he didn’t know where his papa was but that he wasn't here now and nor would he be back.
The tightening in his chest lets loose little by little until he can finally open his eyes, forcing himself to calm down.
“He, mine – now.”
John sucked in a shuddering breath. Hamish said a variation of this almost every night, right when they were about to go to bed and his interpretations of the words only got wilder.
“I don’t know, Hamish.” John replies cautiously this time, hating himself a little more today than he did yesterday. “He didn't tell daddy anything.”
“Now. Now” Hamish demanded a little more in whispered words, turning onto his side to try and look up at his face.
“No. I don't know.” John repeats, hoping harder than he’d ever had before that his son wouldn't hate him for it.
Already his son couldn't remember the night John came home without Sherlock. How John had come home cold and shaken, smelling of iron, petrol, and blood. Blood that smelled of his papa that made Hamish cry uncontrollably the closer John held him in overwhelming desperation.
Now John runs his fingers through his son’s dark curls, willing himself not to pull his son in tightly and frighten him just as they were going to sleep.
Tomorrow he’d have to make sure Hamish slept in his own bed. As much as they both enjoyed the comfort, he knew it wasn't right for Hamish’s development. It was one thing to sleep between his parents after a nightmare; it was another to be used as a crutch.
As soon as Hamish falls asleep John softly rolls out of bed, careful not to jostle the bed and wake his sleeping son, footsteps light in his exit.
He did this every night. Because John couldn't sleep.
When he did fall asleep it tended to be interrupted by nightmares.
So he sets about cleaning the living room instead. Picking up toys and books, moving shoes out from under the couch and near the door, sitting in his armchair and staring across at the one Sherlock had always favored as he attempted a short break.
After making the living room look ordered yet inhabited, that never lasted past nine in the morning on a good day, he moved on to the kitchen.
The kitchen, that now lacked odd experiments on the table or inside the fridge or on the counter, left him feeling as if he’d stepped into another dimension each time. He washed every plate, cup, and utensil by hand as he ignored the emptiness of the room. It was a new habit he’d recently picked up.
Afterwards he would sit on the couch and pull out his notes from work and read through them, keeping an ear out in case Hamish woke up or Mrs. Hudson needed his help.
Every once in a while he had the sudden urge to leave Baker Street, just get them out and start somewhere new.
But it was the only place his child knew, the only place where he could have fond memories of a father who committed suicide before he was old enough to know what it really meant.
Like scheduled, Mycroft quietly entered the flat, hardly making a sound as he climbed the stairs and pushed the front door open.
John glances up to look at his brother in law, the familiarity causes him to relax a little.
Because Mycroft was as composed as always when John wasn't and hasn't been for a while.
“He’s asleep.” John croaked, having long been quiet with only whispered words to his son over an hour or two ago.
“I am aware.” Mycroft assures him, walking over to Sherlock’s armchair and sitting down gracefully. “But you aren't John, yet again.”
Licking his lips and reshuffling papers in his lap he forces himself to finally meet Mycroft’s eyes. “I have a lot of things to do.”
Mycroft is quick to reply. Surprisingly not yet tired of having the same conversations. “Things like cleaning? Things that someone hired could come and do for you while you're both not here?”
The anger is quick and uncontrollable. “I don’t want some stranger coming in here!” John snaps, hands clenching tightly into fists pressed against his thighs.
“They could come in while you were at work and Hamish with me. You'd never need to interact.”
John shakes his head vehemently, refusing to see it for the logic it was. He didn't want anyone coming into his territory. It was hardly his anymore with Sherlock gone, no matter what the documents stated. He knew it was a ridiculous worry, but centuries of instincts couldn't exactly be ignored for words on paper.
“I want what is best for you both.” Mycroft continues, speaking carefully. “Let me help. I can while you take the time to rest and see a therapist. I’ll personally see to this flat being clean myself. What you're doing is not healthy, it will only continue to make things worse.”
He doesn't know if he can trust Mycroft or not. Once, what now feels like a long time ago, John would have trusted him with absolutely everything. But now the more he saw him the further he wanted to be from him. Because nothing truly felt right to him anymore, except for Hamish.
Because Mycroft would always do what he had to do, even if it meant destroying their family to keep it alive. Even if it meant he didn't react right to Sherlock's death and caused John to doubt him and then push for his well being.
“I’m sorry. No.” John shakes his head. “I can keep this flat up by myself, thanks.”
“What about the therapist?” Mycroft pushes with an undercurrent of urgency. He has brought this part of the conversation up every night he visits.
John swallows thickly. He knows he needs to talk about these things, would with his family if he could bring himself to. “I don’t know where to start.” He admits, looking up at Mycroft, more than a little lost. He clarifies at the unchanging look on Mycroft's face, “It doesn't feel like Sherlock’s gone. The bond I mean.”