Little premise: like many of you I didn't particularly like TFP, there were too many things that didn't make sense. So no, this chapter doesn't actually deal with TFP, you're not going to read about how John and Sherlock jumped out of a window to escape an explosion and didn't even sprain an ankle (?), or how the chain around John's foot magically dissolved the moment he was thrown a rope (?), or how Eurus managed to build a prison-like room in the garden of an old mansion and drag Sherlock's unconscious body into it (after chaining John to the bottom of the well) (?).

This chapter deals with what happens after the episode, and since the goal was to keep the story canon-compliant, all those weird events happened. I don't know how, but they happened.

Anyway, this is also the last chapter. I would like to thank you everyone for reading this story, and I hope you enjoyed it. I might write a short sequel but I haven't started yet, so for now this is the end.

Whom to expect: pretty much everyone.

What to expect: Sherlock's apologies to Molly, some Sherlock-Mycroft bonding time, some Mycroft-Rosie bonding time, and of course Sherlock and John finally getting together.

Enjoy :)

6. TFP

He walks into the morgue with uncertain steps and a veil of shame covering his eyes.

Of all the utterly unbelievable things that happened yesterday, meeting his sister, playing her evil game, almost killing himself to save John and his brother, finding out the truth about Victor, and eventually rescuing Eurus from herself, of all these things, hurting Molly Hooper was probably the worst part.

Sherlock stands there, watching her dissect the latest corpse, a Caucasian, middle-aged man. She's so focused it takes a while for her to notice that she isn't alone in the room anymore.

"Hey," she greets, her gloved hands still deep inside the corpse's bowels.

"Hi Molly," Sherlock says tentatively, taking one more step towards her. "How are you?"

"I'm okay, thanks."

That's all she says, her somewhat harsh tone giving away her true feelings beneath the apparent calm.

"Listen, Molly, I came here because I owe you an apology, for what happened yesterday," he says.

She nods, quickly, her glance traveling from Sherlock to the open abdomen before her. "It's okay. Greg texted me last night, he told me all about the… well, your sister and everything. We're fine. We don't need to talk about it."

Sherlock can sense she wants him to leave, but he won't. He hurt her. He humiliated her. She's always been a great friend, loyal and supportive, and he played with her feelings. He has to apologise, he won't leave without letting her know the exact reasons why he acted like that.

He won't be able to live with himself if Molly thinks he was just being mean.

"I thought your life was in danger," he explains. "Making you say those words was the only way to save you…. Although it turns out you were perfectly safe… but I didn't know that."

Molly takes her gloves off, placing it momentarily on the table next to the corpse. "I said we're fine, you can leave. I don't want to talk about this."

"I would have never done that if I hadn't believed I had a valid reason," Sherlock continues, ignoring her words. She needs to understand he wouldn't hurt her like that without a good reason, he's not that man anymore.

Molly lays her hands on the slab, her shoulders hunched over, her head hanging low. "Please Sherlock, just leave."

"Molly, I swear it was never my intention to humiliate you, it was—"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, don't you understand?!" she hisses, her head snapping up. "It's not just that!"

He blinks, unable to understand, his heart wrenching in his chest at the sight of tears veiling her eyes.

"Okay, you made me say I love you, you had to, to save my life, fine!" She's yelling now, her cheeks flushed red. "But what I made you say, Sherlock, that's even worse, that's why I never want to talk about this again, that's why I don't want to see you right now!"

She turns to the wall to avoid meeting his gaze, covering her eyes with an hand. He stands there, immobile, blinking.

"I acted like an idiot, I made you say it first… for what? It's not even true," she continues, her voice trembling sensibly. "You had to make me say it, what's my excuse? I humiliated myself… God, if I think about it, it's so embarrassing…"

"Molly…" he whispers, taking a step closer, wishing he could lay a hand on her shoulder. The creak of his shoes on the smooth floor gives his movements away.

"Please Sherlock, go away… can you do this for me? I need some time," she whispers.

Even if she can't see him, he lifts his hands in surrender. "I'm leaving," he says.

He stops halfway to the door, remembering there was one more thing he wanted to tell her, something that is now more relevant than ever.

"One more thing," he says. He hears her sigh.

"What now?!"

He smiles to himself. It's something he realised while on the phone with her, while declaring his love to her. He said I love you twice. The first time, he had to utter those words to convince her to do the same. The second time, however, it hit him out of the blue that what he was saying was nothing but the truth.

He remembered when John had said that to him, after the Culverton Smith accident, Sherlock remembered thinking that John's words weren't true. John didn't love him. But the moment he said those same words to Molly, nothing about it felt wrong or forced.

John loves Sherlock. And Sherlock loves John, and Molly, in two different ways, but neither is any less love than the other.

"I may not love you the way you want me to, Molly Hooper, but that doesn't mean my words weren't true… you're a precious friend, you've always stood by my side all these years… when I said I love you, I wasn't lying."

He waits for a second, listening to the silence in the room and trying to catch a breath, a word, anything coming from her, but nothing happens. She's still facing the other way, her arms crossed to her chest. He gives up, accepting that he has to go.

Sherlock is one step away from the morgue door when she calls him back.

"Sherlock, wait."

He finally sees her face as he turns around, her eyes are glistening with tears but a little smile is lighting up her face.

"Thank you," she whispers.

She walks hesitantly in his direction, and he does the same. They meet halfway, falling into each other's embrace, holding each other for a minute, his chin resting on top of her head.

"I know you're busy, but I was thinking we could get coffee, maybe later," he says when they part. They never really spend time together outside of this morgue, but he thinks it would be a good time to start.

She beams. "I'd love to get coffee with you. Let me finish this autopsy and then I can take a break."

He nods, his eyes following her back to the slab where the corpse is still waiting.

Sherlock still wonders, from time to time, what's the value that Mary's death has conferred to his life, how to spend that currency.

The answer comes that evening, when Greg texts him.

I checked on your brother. He's doing great actually, busy working as usual.

That is when Sherlock knows that something isn't quite right. No one could ever be okay after all the things that happened yesterday, no one, not even Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock has to do something.

Mary didn't die for him to leave his brother alone like this. Greg was nice to check on him as Sherlock requested, but that wasn't Greg's job. It's Sherlock who needs to be there for Mycroft.

The detective takes a cab to his brother's mansion that same night, at suppertime, when he is sure Mycroft has terminated his working day. Sherlock has been there many times before, but this time feels different. When he turns the keys in the lock, he's not ready for the sense of misery that crashes against him like a wave.

Empty. The house is empty, and dark, and silent, except for the sound of a crackling fire coming from the living room. Mycroft is there, sitting in his chair, his legs stretched towards the fireplace. Staring at the flames, he smokes his cigarette, his other hand busy propping up his head.

Loneliness is all Sherlock feels staring at the backlit silhouette of his brother, while finally finding the answer to a question he's been asking himself for years now.

How does Mycroft not understand what he's missing, isolating himself from people? How does he not understand the beauty of having someone by your side? How does he not understand the importance of friendship to Sherlock?

How does Mycroft fail to grasp a concept as simple as the advantages of caring?

The answer is now evident in front of Sherlock's concerned eyes.

Mycroft doesn't understand because he doesn't know. He doesn't know any of it. He truly is as lonely as he seems.

Yesterday night, after what happened with Eurus, Greg personally drove John and Sherlock home, to London, to the Watsons' house since Baker Street is currently not viable. They talked in the car, about the events of the night first, and then about other cases they've solved together. They even laughed a couple of times, remembering the most bizarre ones.

Sherlock spent the night in John's bed, holding John in his arms. The house does have a guest room, but neither of them wanted to sleep alone.

"Big spoon or little spoon?" John asked, switching off the light on the nightstand.

"It… obviously depends on what I'm going to eat," Sherlock replied as if John had just asked the most stupid question. Why would anyone want to eat soup with a teaspoon, he wanted to ask next, but he was interrupted by John's giggles.

"I almost drowned in a well tonight, you do the big one."

Since Sherlock was clearly still unsure about what this was all about, John simply proceeded to lie down on his side, next to Sherlock, grabbing the detective's hand and pulling it around his waist. The moment Sherlock's body completely adhered to John's, back to chest, Sherlock's nose buried in John's hair, the detective's mouth formed the shape of an 'o' in surprise.

"It's called spooning," John whispered. "Big spoon and little spoon, do you get it now?"

"Fascinating."

The next morning, Mrs Hudson arrived with Rosie and the four of them had breakfast together, telling their landlady the events of the night, only interrupted by her frequent "oh dear". Then, that afternoon, Sherlock had coffee with Molly and had a nice chat with her about bowels and dead tissues.

A day that could have been horrible, devastating even, had turned for Sherlock into a tolerable one, all of this while Mycroft, instead, had sat in his office working and had then come home to an empty house.

Sherlock almost feels bad for him.

"What do you want Sherlock?" Mycroft asks. Although he can't see his little brother, he has recognised his steps.

"I came to see how you were doing," Sherlock replies.

"I'm fine, thanks for your concern."

It's the answer he was expecting. He never dared hoping for a second that Mycroft would admit having troubles, it has never happened before. Sherlock himself doesn't quite know how to proceed. With John it was easy, to get up and hold him, but Mycroft is uncharted territory.

"I also wanted to see if you needed company," Sherlock adds tentatively.

Mycroft twists his cigarettes in the ashtray to put it out. "I don't. I'd much rather be left alone, in fact."

Sherlock catches the unspoken rejection - his attempts at improving Mycroft's mood are far from welcome, but he won't give up.

John has never given up on Sherlock. Sherlock used to push him away all the time, mistreat him even, but John stayed, day after day and week after week, slowly working his way into Sherlock's soul with his friendship, his attentions, his kindness.

Molly has never given up on Sherlock either, and he can't say he ever treated her well. He dismissed her, humiliated her, and she kept standing by his side, always reminding him that he could always count on her. Sherlock could never remember Lestrade's name, for years, he used to insult the inspector's lack of observation skills, and yet Greg stayed too. Mrs Hudson has prepared Sherlock's tea every morning for the last seven years, she cleans his house and provides him with motherly affection, and Sherlock has never said thank you. But the tea is always there, hot and with just the right amount of milk, waiting for Sherlock to get up.

Sherlock has no excuse to give up on his brother.

"If there's anything you need to discuss please call Anthea to make an appointment. I'll be regularly in my office tomorrow," Mycroft is saying when Sherlock walks closer, his hands sweating.

Sherlock kneels down on side of the chair where his brother is sitting, his knees against the wooden floor. It's mildly uncomfortable but this is where his instinct has taken him.

Mycroft is staring at him with wide eyes and a grimace of annoyance. "What now?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. He just leans over and wraps both his arms around his brother's shoulders, making him immediately squirm away.

"What is this? What are you doing?!" Mycroft complains, trying to free himself from the long arms that are wrapped around him.

Sherlock tightens his grasp. "It's a hug. I'm hugging you."

"Yes, thank you for this brief vocabulary lesson, but why are you hugging me?!"

"Because I care."

"You can care while respecting my personal space at the same time."

Sherlock doesn't say anything and Mycroft starts struggling again in a vain attempt to wiggle out of this unwanted embrace. "Sherlock, let me go," he says, but Sherlock just smiles. He's reminded of a happier time, when they were children. Five-year-old Sherlock would appear in Mycroft's room and interrupt his studies jumping onto his lap. Mycroft would always try to push him away at first, but Sherlock was stubborn enough to win his space on his big brother's lap every time.

"We used to do this all the time when we were younger," Sherlock says, a bit amused at the sight of his upset brother.

"Yes, when you were five, now let go of me," Mycroft repeats. However, his struggles are less strong now, just a steady pressure against Sherlock's hands on where they're joined on Mycroft's left shoulder.

"No."

At this point, Mycroft sighs in surrender, and Sherlock has to repress a giggle. It's exactly the way it used to happen thirty plus years ago.

"Fine. Do as you please," are Mycroft's final words as he settle himself so that he's as far away from Sherlock as possible, though still trapped in his arms.

A couple of minutes pass by, and Sherlock smiles when he feels the pressure of Mycroft's body against his hands getting less sharp. Sherlock knows what is happening. Endorphins are taking over, the muscles are relaxing.

The hug has stopped feeling unwelcome, and is instead becoming a pleasant sensation. Sherlock remembers all of this from the first time John has hugged him. He remembers how it felt, weird and nice at the same time, getting nicer and unexpectedly less weird as the seconds went by.

An effective way to establish a contact, and now that this part is successfully concluded, he knows there is a next step to be taken.

The room is silent and dark with the only exception of the fireplace in front of them.

"You did your best," Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft scoffs, immediately understanding what his brother is referring to. "Oh yes, my best. Hiding my sister in a high-security prison, lying to my family about it, then letting her meet a criminal mastermind, who also happens to be my little brother's nemesis, thus giving her time to organise a sadistic experiment that resulted in five dead people and in which you and I could have died as well."

Sherlock blinks, his heart wrenching at the guilt in Mycroft's word and filling with a sense of achievement at the same time. This is it, this is the core of the problem, Sherlock thinks. This is why he came here. They're getting there.

Love never fails, he thinks.

"You're insulting me if you think this is my best, Sherlock," Mycroft concludes.

The younger man takes a deep breath before speaking. "What I meant is you did what you thought was best. You couldn't have foreseen the consequences, you acted on the data you had available at the time. You analysed pros and cons of every move, and opted for the one that could bring greater advantage with the minimum risk possible."

Mycroft looks at him in disbelief. Never in his life had he heard his own thoughts pronounced aloud by another person.

"I would have done the same," Sherlock adds.

Mycroft stares at the flames while his brain processes the newly acquired information, and suddenly Sherlock's close proximity is far from unwanted.

"I called Mummy today," Mycroft whispers. "I told her I had to talk to her, but I didn't say what about. She's coming with Dad tomorrow. I don't know how I'm going to tell them what I've done."

"I'll be there," Sherlock says in a soft, reassuring voice.

"You will?"

"Of course. In case you need backup."

A moment of silence follows.

"Thank you Sherlock."

A couple of minutes pass, the fire keeps crackling in the background. Soon enough Sherlock releases Mycroft from his embrace.

"I was wondering if you had a couple of hours free tonight," Sherlock says, earning himself a puzzled glance.

"What for?"

"We could watch a film. A musical comedy," Sherlock says, pulling out a DVD from the inside pocket of his coat.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You know I detest musical comedies."

"You might quite like this one."

The older man glances at the DVD his brother is holding. "Mamma mia!," he reads aloud before glancing back at his brother as to ask for further explanation.

"The soundtrack is based on songs by Abba," Sherlock says. The DVD was Mary's Christmas gift last year.

Mycroft seems to think about it for a moment.

"Well, I don't have anything scheduled for the next couple of hours," he says eventually.

They watch the film in silence in Mycroft's cinema room. Sherlock glances at his brother, from time to time, delighted at the way he moves his head and taps his foot on the floor on the notes of Dancing Queen.

A smile appears on both their faces.

Baby steps.

"PS: I know you two, and if I'm gone I know what you could become, because I know who you really are…"

As his breath gets caught is his throat, Sherlock glances at John, afraid for a second that Mary might more or less voluntarily reveal his secret, that she might end up letting John know that Sherlock is in love with him. Sherlock checks John's face, looking for signs of confusion, or worse, of sudden awareness, but the doctor is probably too busy staring at his dead wife's face and listening to her voice to actually pay attention to her words. It's better this way.

"…A junkie who solves crimes to get high, and the doctor who never came home from the war…"

John reaches for Sherlock with his hand, and Sherlock takes it immediately, intertwining their fingers together and squeezing as he sits next to John on the sofa.

"… Will you listen to me, who you really are doesn't matter…"

Sherlock is thankful that Mary's speech seems to have taken a different turn than he dreaded. The last thing John needs right now is to learn about Sherlock's secret feelings.

"It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures… there is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted, there is a final court of appeal for everyone… when life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope… when all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there and they always will, the best and wisest men I have ever known, my Baker Street boys, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

For a moment, Mary stares at her webcam in silence. Sherlock's eyes are focused on John, observing the wrinkle on his forehead and the tears pooled above his lower eyelids. Sherlock squeezes his hand even tighter, showing him he's there for him. As an answer, the edge of John's lip crooks up in a thankful smile.

Then Mary starts speaking again.

"Okay, that was for the blog… I think it would look cool for a potential Info section, don't you think? A tribute to me as well, in case I'm dead… and Sherlock, sorry about that first thing I said, I've realised too late how it sounded… I hope you appreciated the way I changed topic."

She winks at this point, and Sherlock feels his own heart swell in his chest while an uncontrolled smile appears on his face. He misses her so much.

He has no idea how she concretely managed to record DVDs and have them sent out post-mortem, but he doesn't really care. He'll cherish both of them as his most precious belongings.

"Now, onto the things I actually wanted to say…" she says next.

John rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder, their hands firmly entwined together, as Mary tells John how much she loved him and how much he saved her and changed her and how happy she was to be Mary Watson. Then she talks to Rosie for a couple of minutes. "A message for your twelfth birthday, sweetheart," she says, her words filled with love and her eyes with the sadness of a person who suspects she will never see her daughter grow up.

"Now you, Sherlock," Mary says afterwards. "You've been a great friend and we've had so much fun together, so I'm going to give you another case… a mission, actually… Well, two. First, it's now your job to keep Rosie safe and John in trouble, for me, will you do it?"

Sherlock finds himself nodding at the screen, and this time it's John who squeezes his hand hard.

"Second," Mary continues, leaning in towards the camera. The next sentence, she whispers it: "In case it wasn't clear, you have to convince John to move back to Baker Street."

She laughs, because she obviously knew John would be here to listen, and Sherlock laughs too, with her, because his brain is still wired that way.

"And for… you know, that other thing, Sherlock…" she continues, winking, "just go for it. Trust me. Go for it and it will be okay."

Sherlock suddenly tastes something salty in his mouth, and he realises it's his own tears spilling from his eyes. He rests his head on John's as Mary pronounces her final goodbyes.

Then, the screen turns black, and John buries his head on Sherlock's chest, enveloping him in a hug.

They remain like that, embraced together and breathing in each other's scent, their hearts beating in unison, Sherlock's hand cupping John's nape and softly brushing the short hair there with his thumb.

"I was already thinking of moving back to Baker Street, you know," John whispers when they part after a while, drying his tears with the back of his hand. "This is Mary's flat… I don't want to live here without her."

Sherlock gets lost for a second in his puffy red-rimmed eyes, observing the residual wetness lingering on John's eyelashes. "You really want to move back?"

"Yes… though I wasn't sure you liked the idea."

"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock asks, genuinely wondering. John and himself and Rosie living all together under the same roof sounds like an actual dream. Like the good old times, but even better.

"Well, because… We'd need to baby proof everything… you'd need to actually tidy up after your experiments… be more careful in general… with the, er… the drugs… and things like that," John explains.

Sherlock almost laughs. There was a time in which his experiments were everything, but now if he had to choose between them and Rosie living with him on a full time basis, he would pick Rosie in a heartbeat, without ever second guessing his decision. He's been staying in the guest room at John's place since the explosion and it's a dynamic he loves, having meals together, playing together, reading a book sitting in comfortable silence in the same room as John. As for the drugs, Sherlock will manage, for Rosie.

He and John might not be romantically involved, probably will never be, sooner or later John might even meet another woman, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel like family to Sherlock.

"I am willing to bring some changes into my life in order to have you and Rosie live there again," he states eventually.

John smiles fondly. "All right then. Once Baker Street is good to go, we're moving back."

Sherlock nods. Thankfully the actual explosive placed inside the bomb was not nearly as destructive as Mycroft had imagined. It wasn't meant to harm them, merely to scare them. The explosion wasn't even powerful enough to tear down the walls or the floor. With the workmen working full time as they are now, Sherlock has estimated it will take a couple more weeks until they can move in again.

In the meantime, he's staying with John, which is far from being a bad solution after all.

John checks the watch on his wrist. "Time to pick up Rosie," he says. She's been staying with Mrs Hudson that afternoon, in her five-star suite in a luxury hotel in Central London – all generously paid by the British Government to make up for the inconvenience.

Sherlock finally takes off his coat while John grabs his keys and heads to the door.

"By the way, what was…" John says suddenly, his hand suspended in mid-air above the door knob, "what was Mary talking about, when she told you to go for it? Go for what? What was she referring to?"

Sherlock's stomach twitches in his belly as he pronounces the only safe answer he can come up with in a matter of seconds. "I don't know, actually. Probably something related to the other DVD, I reckon. Or maybe there's a third one that was supposed to be delivered before this one."

A wave of relief surges over Sherlock when John nods, seemingly convinced of the answer. There may come a time in which Sherlock decides to go for it, to open up his heart to John and reveal him his deepest secret, but that time is not now. Not even soon, probably.

That night, once dinner is over and Rosie is asleep, they sit at the kitchen table in front of one another, each busy with their own computer. While Sherlock catches up on his tweets, deleting the fans' ones in order to keep clients only, John watches Mary's video again and again, his earphones securely in his ears. And at some point, the truth about her words to Sherlock sinks down on him. The beginning, I know what you two can become. The middle, how it sounded, the way I changed topic. The first time John watched it, he missed the meaning behind those first words, too shocked for them to register in his brain. Now however, they stick like glue. Then the final part, go for it, linked to what Mary had said in the first video. The man we both love.

To John there's only one explanation that makes sense, only one way in which that introduction might have sounded. Ironically, it's an explanation that he can't even begin to process, because if it were true, it would challenge all his beliefs and the very foundation of his friendship with Sherlock.

John's eyes travel beyond his screen to look at Sherlock, at the way the light from his laptop is almost reflected on his pale face.

The more John watches Mary's video, the more he is convinced his theory is correct. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as he thinks back of the way Sherlock blatantly provided a generic answer when he was asked about the meaning of Mary's words. Is this true, then, John wonders, and if it is, he doesn't understand how he managed to miss it.

A part of him wants to shut up about it, pretend he never formulated any hypothesis on the fact, but the other part simply craves the truth. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweaty and cold at the same time, and his mouth is dry as if he hadn't just finished a cup of tea.

The second part wins. John needs to know if Sherlock is in love with him, and it's an answer he needs right now.

"Sherlock?" he says, removing both his earphones.

The detective hums in acknowledgement, prompting him to go on without glancing away from Twitter.

"Can we talk?" John asks, continuously licking his lips without even realising it.

"We are talking."

"Yes, no, I mean…" John stutters, an uncertainty that has Sherlock finally looking up. "Can I have your… er, full attention, please?"

The second Sherlock's eyes meet John, he understands what this is about, and his heart sinks to his stomach. His hand trembles slightly as he closes his laptop, watching John do the same and waiting for the dreaded question.

"It's about Mary's video… about what she said to you," John says, and Sherlock clenches his fists under the table for the tension building in his body as he forces himself to remain calm on the outside. He's going to deny everything, and any unusual movement could give away the truth.

"What about it?" Sherlock asks, his voice flat and even, his nails digging so hard in his own palms that it hurts.

It takes two seconds before John speaks. "I've… I've just watched the video again, and there is something I want to ask you, but I need you to promise me you'll be honest… can you do that? For me? Hm?"

This time Sherlock just nods, bracing himself for what is to come, well aware that if the situation isn't handled correctly, his relationship with John could be ruined forever. No more Baker Street. No more Rosie. No more cases together.

Possibly no more John.

John fidgets with his hands on the table, his bad leg bouncing up and down, and he takes a deep breath.

"Do you… er, do you have…" John needs to breathe again before the words come out. "Do you have feelings, for me?... Besides, er, friendship?"

There. The bomb has been dropped. There's no escape, Sherlock thinks, just stay still and wait for the flames to reach you.

He told himself he would lie and deny the evidence if needed, but John specifically asked for honesty. If Sherlock lies now, he can't ever confess his love to John ever again, or John will understand Sherlock has lied to him, and will leave.

If Sherlock tells the truth, however, John is going to leave anyway, because John doesn't see Sherlock that way. The chance that John requites Sherlock's sentiment is very slim.

A decision has to be made eventually, and Sherlock, who has never confessed his love to anyone before because he's never been in love before in the first place, decides to put his fate in the hands of someone who has.

That person is Mary. She was married to John. She has confessed her love to John. She was also Sherlock's friend, and she told him she wanted him and John to be together if she were ever to be out of the picture. And then, in her video, she urged Sherlock to trust her and go for it. He wonders if it was all made on purpose, those sentences in her video, so that John would understand and initiate the discussion, because Mary knew Sherlock would have taken ages to do so himself.

Once again, Sherlock decides to trust Mary. She saved his life, twice. He has no reason not to trust her.

He glances down, in case Mary was wrong, because he does not want to see John's disgust when he hears the final reply. "Yes I do," Sherlock whispers eventually.

John swallows dry as his doubts are confirmed. Sherlock waits, without finding the courage to look at John, staring instead at his own hands still clenched in his lap, his blood pumping with such force through his veins that he's afraid his heart is going to burst.

"Okay," is the only thing John can say after a couple of second of deafening silence. "That's, er… that's fine."

His voice was more high-pitched than usual, and Sherlock has obviously caught that. It's not fine, he thinks. Mary was wrong. He's ruined everything.

"So you are… er, gay, in fact?" John asks next, clearing his throat more frequently than necessary.

The lump in Sherlock's throat is so tight that he can't speak. He just nods, still unable to look up, remembering how different he felt when he came out to Mary. That instance was liberating. She was nice, and friendly, and they laughed and joked afterwards.

"Okay," John says again. "That's fine, it's-it's fine. It's fine."

There's just shame now, and embarrassment, and things will be awkward, assumed John doesn't leave immediately. Sherlock wishes he could go back five minutes, and deny John's assumption, and everything would be fine. He has lived forty years without being in love, or in a real relationship, he could have gone without for the next forty as well.

Now it's too late.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock chokes out, his shoulders hunching over a bit more every second. He knows he will have to look up at some point, see the disappointment and rejection in John's eyes, but he isn't ready yet.

"No, no… there's nothing to be sorry about… it's fine," John repeats, wondering if he has repeated the word 'fine' too many times. "It's okay… I just need some time."

And he truly does, because this changes everything. He thinks of all the sweet words he told Sherlock, the hugs, the light kisses, the cuddles, even, the night spent in the same bed, nothing that a straight man normally does with another man, John knows that. Yet, when no one could see, he let himself engage in such behaviour with Sherlock because Sherlock didn't care about cultural conventions. Sherlock was asexual, or not interested, married to his work, and John could see him as just Sherlock, not as a man made of flesh and bones. If anything, Sherlock was straight, as proved by the flirt with Irene Adler. Which allowed John to consider himself straight as well. It was always just Sherlock in his mind. What they did was nothing more than that, two close friends enjoying some non-sexual intimacy when hidden from the world.

But now that Sherlock is gay and very much interested, John doesn't know what that means. His mental paradigm doesn't work anymore. He wonders what the intimacy they've shared for years actually means. Has John lead Sherlock on? Has John subconsciously wanted to lead Sherlock on? The enjoyment coming from their shared physical space, was that really just platonic? Is there more? Has there ever been?

He remembers wondering about this once before. He remembers thinking that what he felt for Sherlock was stronger than his feelings for any other person, ever. But then Sherlock faked his death, and was away for two years, and John met Mary, which reconfirmed his heterosexuality.

Now everything is suddenly up for discussion again, and everything is a mess, and John definitely needs time.

"So you won't be moving back to Baker Street?" comes Sherlock's quivery question, bringing John back to reality.

"You don't want me to move back anymore?" John asks, for the first time concretely realising how this all is going to impact their friendship.

"I do. Do you?"

"Why wouldn't I want to move back?"

"Because you seem…" Repulsed, disgusted, Sherlock wants to say, but doesn't. "Uncomfortable… you said you need time…"

Something snaps in John's mind as he realises how badly he's been handling this situation. Sherlock, his best friend who has probably zero experience with relationships, has just come out to him, and all John could do was to think about his own sexuality. Not an actual word of comfort. And he even said he needs time - John's heart wrenches in his chest at the idea that Sherlock might have interpreted that as 'I need time to accept you'.

The only thing John knows is that he would do everything to avoid losing his best friend. His own doubts will have to wait.

Sherlock deserves better than a couple of 'okay'.

As John gets up from his chair to switch sides on the table, Sherlock replays the conversation over and over again in his head, thinking of all the moments in which he could have taken everything back and didn't. Just because John is still moving back doesn't mean things will ever be the same between them.

Idiot, Sherlock screams in his head, feeling nothing but despise for himself because he ruined the best thing of his life, his friendship with John. Mary was wrong, so wrong, she thought Sherlock might have had a chance with John, when this is probably the farthest scenario from the truth.

Sherlock is busy cataloguing all the things that will be different now that he hasn't noticed that John is now sitting next to him, whispering all over again how this all is fine and trying to sound convincing in doing so. However, the second John rests his hand over Sherlock's clenched ones, the detective is brought back to reality, and he finally finds the strength to meet John's eyes.

He's surprised when he doesn't see any trace of disgust there.

"Okay?" John asks softly, taking Sherlock's now relaxed hands in his own. "Nothing is going to change between us. We're still friends… we'll always be. Mh? Okay?"

John's thumbs trace little circles on the back of Sherlock's hands, making him believe for a moment that perhaps he hasn't ruined everything after all.

"What about you needing time?" Sherlock asks tentatively, looking away once again. This time however his gaze falls on their joined hands. He follows John's thumb across his knuckles, mesmerised by the tenderness and regularity of the touch.

"I don't need time from you… I need time for me… to figure out a couple of things," John simply replies, but it's not nearly enough for Sherlock. The barest hint of hope has made its way into his heart. He blinks.

"About?" he says.

John wasn't planning on digging this deeper inside of himself and of his problem, but he now believes that the least he can do is be honest with Sherlock just like Sherlock has been with him.

"About my own idiocy… we've been, er, quite intimate, with each other, for-for a while, and… well, apparently it was much easier to brush it off with a lame excuse rather than consider… er, consider that… that I should reconsider my… preferences," John stutters.

Sherlock's eyes grow wider and wider as those words register into his brain, his mouth hanging ajar with disbelief.

"I don't think I understand correctly," he says, because John's earlier words suggested Sherlock might have a chance with him, and Sherlock simply cannot believe it.

John smiles, almost embarrassedly, the motion of his thumbs on Sherlock's hands coming to an halt. "What I mean is… it turns out it's not that easy to… to challenge your heterosexuality when you've been a straight man for more than forty years."

Sherlock is sure his heart is still beating only for scientific reasons, because hearts beat, that's what hearts do. But if he were to say whether his own heart is beating or not, he would need to assess it, because the revelation behind John's words is too big to comprehend.

"So… in fact, you're saying… that you are now actually… willing to… challenge your heterosexuality?" Sherlock asks, afraid of the answer.

John bites his lower lip nervously. "I don't… I don't know. I understand it's not the answer you need right now, but… I really don't know. Can you… accept it? That I don't know?"

Sherlock has to bite his own lip too, but it's not out of nervousness. It is to repress a smile. Mary was right then, there was a chance, she knew, and trusting her is probably the best decision Sherlock has ever made in his whole life.

He can live with John not knowing, because it means soon there will be a definite answer. It might be a rejection, but it might not be, and never in his life has doubt been so beautiful.

"It's hardly the first time you lack knowledge on a subject," Sherlock says eventually, earning himself the faintest giggle from John.

Their hands are still joined together. Sherlock gives a light squeeze.

"So you said nothing is going to change," he says after a second of silence. Now that the long term effects are sorted out, he needs to understand how their relationship is going to work on a daily basis while John figures himself out, and possibly afterwards, should the outcome be unfavourable.

"You're still my best friend… nothing will change that," John says confidently. "We're family."

Sherlock can't help smiling at that label that he himself attached to John the day the bomb exploded. It's incredibly relieving to know that however things will turn out, they're family.

A part of him wants to ask John more detailed questions, like if he'll be still allowed physical contact. Now for example, Sherlock feels would be the right moment for a hug.

He doesn't ask, and soon John goes back to the other side of the table. Sherlock's hands feel cold now that they're not being held anymore.

"What about Irene Adler?" John asks after a minute or so, out of the blue.

Sherlock realises that John's mind is probably working full speed now. "What about her?"

"Well, you know… you saved her life… you admitted you text her… she knows your birthday… I thought, you know, you were… interested."

"I saved her life because I am a decent human being, contrary to popular belief, and she had done nothing to deserve her death," Sherlock says. "The other two… I suppose I can say I text her because she's a friend."

John laughs at that definition, and Sherlock tells him about their meeting in Russia, although he'd promised her not to disclose it.

"So you were never in love with her," John says.

"No," Sherlock replies. A second later, an amused smile appears on his mouth as a memory resurfaces in his mind. Mary had said so, that John believed Sherlock was in love with Irene.

"What?" John asks noticing the subtle change of mood.

"Mary told me you believed I had feelings for Irene," Sherlock replies, watching John's expression go from curious to startled as he adds a piece of the puzzle.

For some reason, so far John thought Mary was assuming everything about Sherlock's feelings, that she had deduced them.

But of course, of course it's clear now that they actually talked about it.

"Mary knew because you told her," John says. "You talked to her about your feelings for me."

"Yes, I did."

John knew Sherlock and Mary were friends, but he had no idea they were this close, so much that Sherlock trusted her enough to reveal his feelings. It makes John feel a bit better, though, to know that said feelings weren't so blatant to be caught by a third eye. It means he can stop wondering how he managed to miss them. They actually were well hidden.

"What did she say?" John asks then, curiosity back in his voice.

Before Sherlock can reply, John figures out the answer by himself. "She told you to go for it. Of course."

Sherlock nods with a fond smile. "Obviously," he echoes, mentally thanking Mary because he would have never gone for it if it wasn't for her.

John doesn't ask any further questions that evening, but his mind spins and spins, reliving the last seven years of his life in the light of tonight's revelation. A lot of things take a different meaning. That's why the drugs while John was on his honeymoon. That's why Sherlock left the wedding early. And the thing he said on the tarmac, 'Sherlock is actually a girl's name', John understands now what Sherlock had meant to say instead.

And yet, Sherlock never complained, he always put John and his happiness first.

A couple of hours later, when they're both pyjama clad and ready for bed, they bump into each other as John walks out of Rosie's room and Sherlock of the bathroom.

"Good night John," Sherlock says. He's going to proceed in the direction of the guest room, but John stops him wrapping his arms around the detective's waist.

Sherlock melts into the hug, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. They're still allowed to hug, then.

They hold each other in silence for a minute while John mentally thanks him for every little thing Sherlock has done for him over the years.

Definitely the best friend anyone could ask for.

"Good night Sherlock," John whispers.

Albeit reluctantly, Sherlock has to let go.

Mary didn't die for Sherlock to forget about his sister.

He visits Eurus regularly once or twice a month, mostly on Sundays. A one hour and a half helicopter ride is what takes him to fly from Central London to the small island where Sherrinford is located.

He always brings his violin along, because Eurus doesn't speak anymore, and the only way they can communicate is through music. So they do, they play in unison, Bach or Mozart or Vivaldi or whatever they are feeling, and they keep playing until their arms are cramping.

Sherlock's memories of her resurface gradually, week after week, he starts to remember her face first, then her voice, then the things they used to do together. Distant, faded memories become more and more vivid with the tune of their violins.

He remembers her playing, when she was so young it was hard to find a violin that would fit her tiny hands. Mummy had travel to London to find one, because Eurus was only two when she started showing interest towards music and the local music shop in their town didn't have a violin that small. Sherlock remembers that he was out playing, or bothering Mycroft, and the house would fill with a soothing melody coming from Eurus's room. She taught him how to play, when he was five and she was four, but it took him years to master that art the way she had.

She's still the best player between them. Sometimes he wishes he could stop playing for a moment, and just listen to her, but he can't. If he stops, she stops, and the contact is broken, and that's the last thing he wants.

He's here for her, to be with her and let her feel she's loved, no matter what.

One day, instead of playing a renowned classic, she plays something different. He stops, frowning, thinking that maybe it's a minor work and he doesn't know it, but no, this is different.

Eurus is playing herself.

He listens and learns and memorises and then when she starts all over again, he plays too.

He is rewarded with a thankful smile and it's so much more than he was asking for.

Another Sunday she lets him teach her a song he composed, filling his heart with joy. He picks the waltz he'd written for John and Mary.

Usually once they're done playing, he puts his violin back in its black case, he waves goodbye and leaves. She doesn't do anything. She remains still, watching him through the glass, her eyes back to being cold and unresponsive.

That day, however, something is different. When he looks up to wave goodbye, her hand is resting against the glass and her eyes are piercing his in an attempt to catch his attention.

Sherlock immediately walks closer and rests his hand above hers. She wants something, he can sense it, he can read it.

"Eurus, what do you need?" he asks softly. He hasn't spoken actual words to her since they rescued John from the well.

Her lips remain sealed, but her eyes, oh, her eyes, those are pleading him for something he can't understand.

"I'm here for you, but I need you to tell me what you need," he repeats.

The only thing she does this time is to glance at their joined hands, and somehow it is enough for him to finally understand.

It takes him ten minutes to convince the guards that he needs to enter her cell, that he needs to go beyond the glass, and that no, she isn't going to hurt him. Two armed guards take him there, the door to her cell is as thick as the one in the Tower of London, the one that gives access to the Royal jewellery.

As soon as Eurus sees him approaching with no glass barrier between them, she closes the distance between them and falls into his arms.

He holds her, like he did that night, he holds her whispering to her ear that everything is okay, that he's there for her.

It turns out they have two ways of communicating instead of one.

Now, every Sunday that he visits, they start playing their violins, and then at some point she does something to signal her desire to have him inside the cell. Every time he complies, holding her and talking to her. Once he brings with him an old photo album that his parents kept hidden, and he shows it to her, sitting next to her at her desk. It's full of pictures of their early childhood, and Sherlock still wonders how on earth he could have forgotten about her.

Among all the pictures there's one with all five of them, shot in the garden on a nice summer day. The colours aren't bright anymore, they probably never were, and time has added a layer of sepia to the tones, but Sherlock finds it beautiful.

"See Eurus? This is our family, do you remember?" he asks softly. "This is you," he adds, tapping with his forefinger the happy little girl on the picture. "This is me." He snickers because he has his pirate hat on. "This is Mycroft." He snickers some more at the face of his young big brother who definitely looks like he wasn't amused by whatever they were doing. "This is Mummy, and this is Dad… do you recognise them? They came here to see you last month."

He doesn't expect her to reply, she never does. She usually nods to acknowledge his words, or smiles at most. This time instead he's shocked to hear her feeble voice pronounce one distinct word.

"Family."

He grins, looking at her in disbelief. "Yes Eurus, family. This is our family."

Sherlock tries to get her to say something else, and fails miserably. It's okay though, he thinks. She's said a word, and even that one word is a sensible improvement considered she hasn't spoken in six months.

For the first time, Sherlock believes she's going to be okay eventually.

He brings more photo albums the following time. Even if she stops being in the pictures at some point, she still looks at them with interest, listening to her brother's voice narrating the events behind every single shot, at least what he remembers. Which is surprisingly more than he imagined. Some things he thought he'd deleted years ago, but it turns out they're still there, buried somewhere in his mind palace.

At some point, among the photos of Sherlock's graduation from university, an odd one pops out. It's from Rosie's Christening. Sherlock remembers his parents asking for a copy of that photo, but he doesn't know how it ended up in there.

He's going to dismiss it and put it aside, but Eurus stops him.

"Family," she whispers.

He frowns, his glance traveling from her to the album. "What did you say?"

With a shy movement she rests her open hand above the recent picture. "Family," she repeats more firmly.

He takes the photo in his hand, observing him as a smile makes its way on his face. There's all of them, John, Mary, Molly, Greg, Mrs Hudson. They all have the brightest smile that lights up their whole faces, except for Sherlock, who looks serious as always and has his phone hidden behind his back.

That was such a happy day. If he'd known what would have happened in the following months, he would have enjoyed it more, spent less time on Twitter and more in the company of his friends. Of his family.

"Yes, Eurus, family. That's correct," he says, his eyes studying the picture to take in every single detail, his heart swelling in his chest because every single person in this photo has loved him and made him the man he is today, and if that isn't the definition of a family he doesn't know what is.

"This is John, do you remember John? You know him," he whispers, mindlessly tracing the contours of John's face. It's been months since Sherlock declared his love to him and nothing has changed, for better nor for worse. Sherlock is starting to accept that this silence is John's way to let him know that the sentiment is unrequited. He'll be fine with it. As long as John is his best friend and they solve cases together, as long as they live together and cuddle up on the sofa when they feel like it, as long as Sherlock can play with Rosie and read her a bedtime stories, he'll be fine with not being in a romantic relationship with John.

"This is Molly, you know her too… she's a great friend, you know, she's always there when you need her… this is Greg, he works for Scotland Yard, I think you've met him that night… he's a brave man, and kind, and has the patience of a saint… this is Mrs Hudson, she's my landlady… she makes the best tea, and the best fry-up too… you'd like her very much, all of them…"

His finger slides down until it rests above Mary.

"This is Mary… she was a bit my sister too," he says. "She isn't with us anymore, she… she passed away last year…" He wonders if he'll ever be able to talk about her without his throat tightening. "She died to save my life…"

He feels Eurus's eyes on him and he gives her a little smile before looking at the photo again.

His smile grows wider. "… and she gave me the most beautiful gift I'll ever receive…"

He caresses the image of Rosie with the pad of his finger. She was so tiny, he thinks, she would fit perfectly in Mary's arms. Now she seems to grow a bit taller every day, she's constantly learning new things, she runs around 221B and her laughter fills the air. Sherlock loves her more than he can say. It's like the amount of love he feels for John and Mary had summed up together and completely taken over his heart.

He can't even fathom his life without her, and he's already dreading the moment John will move out taking Rosie with him. It will happen, sooner or later, because of logistics if not because of John meeting another woman. Still, Sherlock sometimes lets himself indulge in dreaming a life where he and John are together, and he himself is the second parent that Rosie deserves.

"This is Rosie… she's my-John's, John's daughter," he says eventually. "Your niece."

Eurus takes the picture from Sherlock's hands, staring at it, touching it with reverence.

And Sherlock gets an idea.

He has to run it by Mycroft first, so he books an appointment with him the following week.

"Have you gone mad?" Mycroft asks after having heard Sherlock's idea.

"It's nothing unreasonable."

"Nothing unreasonable you say?! You want Eurus to have tea at Baker Street, as if she was an old friend!"

"She sort of is, don't you think?"

Mycroft takes a deep breath trying not to lose his calm. "She is a murderer. A psychopath."

"She's my sister," Sherlock replies just as calmly.

"She is my sister too, but this doesn't erase what she has done."

Sherlock leans on his elbows on the desk. "Even murderers are regularly granted visitation rights with their families."

Mycroft sits back against his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock thinks he's getting somewhere.

"Plus I have assessed her, and I firmly believe she is harmless," he adds.

"How do you know?" Mycroft asks, his arms crossed to his chest.

Sherlock doesn't have an answer to this. He feels it, that she isn't dangerous anymore, and he believes spending some time away from Sherrinford might be good for her mental health. He even hopes that soon she'll recover enough to be transferred to a normal detention facility, one with normal visitation hours and that is possibly reachable with a cab instead of an helicopter.

He tells Mycroft all of this, getting a nod of acceptance in return.

"Fine," Mycroft says. "But this is a massive liability for the government, so I request the presence of two armed men with you at all times, in case something goes wrong."

Sherlock smirks. "With us? You're invited too."

Mycroft frowns. "I am… invited?" he asks, doing nothing to mask his confusion.

"You're family, of course you're invited."

For a second, Sherlock believes the tiniest hint of a smile has crooked his brother's lips.

"You know I dislike this kind of social gatherings," Mycroft says next. "But I'll check my schedule and RSVP."

"Greg will be there too… Greg Lestrade," Sherlock says, hiding his own smile behind his joined hands when Mycroft's head snaps up, his eyes wide and even more confused.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I just wanted to let you know that other people are invited... and that Greg is one of them… In case this influences your decision."

"It doesn't," Mycroft states immediately, just the lightest flush across his cheeks. "Why would it?"

"Oh, no reason at all."

After that, Sherlock quickly leaves, hiding a giggle and ignoring his brother's question that is getting shouted at his back.

"Sherlock, what are you implying?!"

Telling John is a whole different story.

"She tried to kill us, and you want to bring her here?!" John says, startled, pacing up and down the sitting room.

"She isn't dangerous anymore," Sherlock explains from his chair, "and there will be armed guards just in case."

"She chained me to the bottom of a bloody well and now what, I'm supposed to treat her like family? No."

"She's my sister, John, and she needs…" Love. Understanding. "She needs a family."

"Your parents are her family, have lunch there. For sure they'll be happier than I am."

I don't want to have lunch there, Sherlock thinks. He does love his parents, very much, but they can be quite anxious at times, they would assail Eurus with questions and expectations, and the atmosphere would be tense and overorganised, and Sherlock doesn't want that. He wants his sister to see a relaxed, loving environment. He wants her to meet the family he handpicked for himself.

"She's not that person anymore. She has changed, believe me," Sherlock says without addressing John's remark.

John's hands are firm on his hips. "Sherlock, no. Plus there's Rosie here, there's no way I'm letting a serial killer anywhere near my daughter."

"Eurus would never hurt Rosie," Sherlock says promptly.

John scoffs. "Yes, because she's never hurt children before. Never killed them, never drowned them in a well."

Sherlock glances down, knowing that John has his reason to be concerned, but also knowing in his heart that the Eurus he's been visiting with regularity would never harm a living thing, let alone a little girl.

"Trust me, John, she isn't—"

"She isn't that person anymore, she's changed, I know, you've said that already," John hisses. "But what if she isn't? What if this is all an act to play another sick game with us?"

"It isn't, I know it isn't."

"This is not up for discussion, Sherlock, I am not putting Rosie in danger. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to her."

At this point, Sherlock starts losing his cool. John hasn't met Eurus again after the night at Sherrinford, John doesn't know how much she has changed.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, John, listen to me! No one will be in danger, Eurus is—"

"Norbury, Sherlock."

Mrs Hudson's voice reaches his ears, making his words suddenly die in his throat. Glancing sideways, he sees her leaning on the doorway, her head tilted down, a disappointed look in her eyes. Clearly she's been there for a while.

And she's right.

John is right.

The risk is minimum, but it exists.

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," he whispers, looking down at his hands in his lap. He was going to make the mistake once again. John said he couldn't live with himself if anything happened to Rosie, and Sherlock knows he couldn't either.

"Norbury? What is that?" John asks, a question that both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson ignore.

"If we find someone to babysit Rosie, can Eurus come here?" Sherlock asks tentatively, his eyes rising to meet John's.

The doctor's expression is still confused but has softened a bit.

"I think it's a good compromise," Mrs Hudson says, approaching them. "Personally I would love to meet your sister, Sherlock," she adds, her hand rubbing his upper arm.

Eurus has destroyed part of her house, and yet Mrs Hudson is willing to meet her, just because it's important to Sherlock. He'll never be grateful enough for her presence.

Under his friend's and landlady's inquisitive gaze, John slumps in his chair. "You said there will be guards here."

"The whole time, yes," Sherlock confirms, taking strength from Mrs Hudson's warm hand on his shoulder.

John nods at this point, though still unsure, his hand rubbing his forehead. "Mh, okay… but Rosie isn't staying."

"We'll find someone to watch her for a few hours," Sherlock says, unable to hide a relieved grin.

Sherlock loves the way everyone treats his sister nicely, in spite of everything she's done. They treat her like the human being Sherlock knows she is, and he'll be forever grateful to all his friends for this. They're doing this for him, after all.

Eurus never speaks, but Sherlock wasn't expecting her to. However, she does smile, from time to time, like when Mrs Hudson offers her the first cup of tea, or when everyone compliments her after she plays a duet with Sherlock on their violins.

A smile is all Sherlock could have asked for the day.

Although this was mainly about showing family to Eurus, Sherlock figured it would be a good occasion for Mycroft as well, who eventually did join the gathering. Sherlock secretly keeps an eye on his brother, studying his interactions. As foreseen, Mycroft seems to particularly enjoy Lestrade's company, evidence supported by the ridiculous amount of time the two men spend discussing politics, among other topics. Such a scene makes Sherlock smile fondly – it's about time his brother found himself a goldfish.

When Sherlock escorts Eurus back to the helicopter that will take her back to Sherrinford, she finally says the first words of the day.

"Thanks," she whispers. It's enough to make Sherlock's heart melt.

"We'll do this again, I promise," Sherlock says, before pressing a kiss on her forehead. It's a promise he intends to keep.

Back at Baker Street, he's surprised to see that everyone is still there, including Mycroft, and that Rosie is back too.

"Lock!" the little girl utters joyously as soon as she sees him, walking towards him with a pace that is quick and not as clumsy as it used to be. He picks her up immediately, thinking she's growing up remarkably fast.

Just weeks ago, he used to be 'Lo' and John used to be 'Da'. Now they're Lock and Daddy, though Sherlock sometimes reverts to Lo when she's tired. The only name Rosie has mastered is Molly, while Greg sounds somewhat similar to egg.

Mrs Hudson is Nana. No one really knows how that happened, because no one ever referred to her as Nana, but after a day spent at John's parents', Rosie came home and started calling Mrs Hudson 'Nana'. John never corrected her.

Mycroft obviously is Mike, and that's a bit Sherlock's fault.

"Rosie, this is Uncle Mike," Sherlock cooed to Rosie's ear, the day he finally introduced her to his brother, on her first birthday. "Say hi to uncle Mike," he said, waving his hand and watching Rosie do the same.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, dear Rosamund," Mycroft said, talking as if she was an adult. "My name is Mycroft, by the way."

"She can't say that," Sherlock pointed out.

"She'll never learn if you don't teach her," Mycroft remarked.

Name issue aside, Mycroft didn't show much interest in Rosie at first.

"It's nothing personal, Sherlock," he explained. "I'm as interested in her as I am in any other human being… so not at all, to clarify."

Gradually he warmed up to her the way he does with all people that find him charming and funny.

"Up," Rosie uttered, stretching her little arms upwards towards Mycroft, who sat in John's chair discussing the latest case with his brother.

Mycroft glanced quickly at Sherlock. "What does she want?" he asked.

Sherlock had to focus really hard not to laugh at the look of pure terror in Mycroft's eyes. "She wants you to pick her up… obviously."

While he spoke, Rosie had started pulling Mycroft's trousers, leaving the man no other choice than pull her up into his lap, giving her the most awkward smile Sherlock had ever seen on anyone.

"Doggy," Rosie said next, showing Mycroft the little stuffed dog she was holding. Mrs Hudson's gift.

"Yes… that's a dog," Mycroft said slowly, still not very confident about this whole situation.

"Doggy, doggy!" Rosie repeated more enthusiastically, and once again Mycroft silently asked his brother for help.

Sherlock leans forward on his elbows against his knees. "She wants you to play. She usually likes when people impersonate her toys."

"I'm not a ventriloquist, Sherlock."

"You do voices though," Sherlock said with a knowing smile. The memories are confused and a bit faded, but he remembers Mycroft doing voices for him and Eurus when they were children.

"I used to, when I was a child myself," Mycroft remarked.

"She'll start crying if you don't."

At those words, Mycroft promptly took the stuffed dog from Rosie's tiny hands. "Hello Rosamund, I am Mr Doggy. How do you do?" he said with a nasal voice down one tone from his usual one, moving the toy towards Rosie's nose.

Sherlock caught the hint of smile that appeared on his brother's lips the second Rosie started laughing.

"I would like to inform you that you can add me at the bottom of the list of people who can babysit Rosamund," Mycroft said that same day, just as he was leaving.

"You want to babysit her?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised.

"I said you are free to add me at the bottom of the list. If no one else is available, I can perform the task."

Sherlock read between the lines, and since then has made sure to regularly ask Mycroft to babysit. And slowly the Ice Man, the brilliant Mycroft Holmes, grew fond of Rosie Watson.

Once Greg and Molly have left, and while John helps Mrs Hudson with the dishes, Sherlock and Mycroft put Rosie to bed together.

"There's an East Wind coming, Rosamund," Mycroft whispers to Rosie.

"Eat wind," she repeats.

"Yes, East Wind… It's a force that brings joy and happy dreams to all children…"

Sherlock smile happily at those words. The day has definitely been a success under every point of view.

Much later than evening, everything has gone back to usual routine. Sherlock and John sit across each other, in their respective chairs.

John slowly sips his cup of tea. "What you did today was amazing," he says.

"Thank you John, but I did nothing remarkable."

"Nothing remarkable? The way you're helping your sister after everything she's done, that's not remarkable, that's… extraordinary," John says, a realisation sinking down on him. He plays with the almost empty mug in his hands, the liquid inside spinning with the motion. "You are extraordinary," he adds, almost a whisper.

Sherlock mutters something else, downplaying his actions, but John isn't listening anymore. He gulps down all of his remaining tea in one sip, putting the cup back in its saucer with a clink. Suddenly everything is clear, so obvious that John feels his heart might explode in his chest if he waits one more second.

In a swift movement, he jumps up from his chair and leans over towards Sherlock, leaning both hands on the armrests. Sherlock is still speaking when John silences him by pressing his lips against the detective's plump ones.

The entire world stops and ceases existing, the only thing that Sherlock's mind can register is the contact with John's lips, his warmth and his taste of Chai tea. It's too much and not enough at the same time, and over way too quickly. John pulls back after just two seconds, leaving Sherlock wide-eyed and flushed, his mouth agape, his heart beating so hard that he can feel it in his ears.

Sherlock blinks, repeatedly, almost floating, his stomach filled with butterflies. John has kissed him, for real, not on his cheek, not on his forehead, on his lips, a true kiss.

"Sherlock?"

After months of silence on the topic and years of denial, John has decided to kiss him, and oh, wasn't it pure perfection. Sherlock has kissed before, but none of it was like this, this powerful and overwhelming and utterly flawless.

"Oi, Sherlock, are you okay?"

Never, even in his wildest dreams, could Sherlock imagine John would have kissed him eventually, would have chosen him. Because that's what John has done, he has chosen Sherlock as his partner, in life as well as in work.

"I, er… I suppose I should leave you some space."

Sherlock finally snaps back to reality as a rush of cold air hits him, sign that John has moved away and is now sitting back in his chair, expectantly gazing at Sherlock. As he nervously tortures his lower lip with his teeth, John starts wondering if he's made a mistake, if impulse has lead him down the wrong way. Sherlock confessed his love months ago, and neither of them mentioned the topic again after that night. What if Sherlock has moved on, John wonders with growing concern.

"Look, Sherlock, if I've just made a massive mistake, please—"

"You kissed me," Sherlock interrupts, his hands joined in his lap, a light shade of pink colouring his cheeks with emotion.

John relaxes a little, his lips curling up in a lopsided smile. "Yes I did... I'm sorry it took so long… I-I wasn't ready."

Sherlock knows John has just summed up six months of doubt and constant questioning and old feelings and residual guilt in one simple sentence, but for once in his life he doesn't really care about explanations.

"So in fact you're ready, now?" is all Sherlock wants to know.

The smile on John's face widens. "I am, yes… if you are."

"I am."

"Okay, good, that's good."

"So are we agreeing we are entering a relationship?"

A laughter erupts from John's chest, because this is definitely the least smooth start he's ever experienced, but then again, this is Sherlock. Of course things would be different.

"It's fine by me, yes," John replies, and for the first time since the beginning of this discussion, the straight expression on Sherlock's face gives way to a shy, v-shaped smile.

This is all real, then.

"Am I allowed to kiss you again?" Sherlock asks.

"Come here."

Sherlock does. He joins John on his chair, sitting half on his lap and half in the tight gap between John's hip and the chair itself, their arms tangled around each other. It's vaguely awkward, but neither of them seems to care.

John snickers lightly. "I've never dated anyone taller than me."

"You're not that tall."

"Yes well, I usually pick shorter partners."

Sherlock blinks. "Is this a deal breaker?"

John can't help smiling adoringly at Sherlock's genuine concern. John decides to answer with a gesture instead of words, and he brushes his lips against Sherlock's once more, his heart melting as he feels Sherlock going rigid in his arm for a second before relaxing completely into the kiss.

At first it's just lips on lips, brushing, pecking, nose against nose, getting to know each other from this new exciting perspective. Much to John's surprise, it's Sherlock the one who deepens the kiss, his tongue probing John's lower lip the way Janine taught him, to ask him for access. Finally those skills are coming in handy, Sherlock thinks in a moment of rationality, before starting his exploration of John's mouth and making everything disappear, except John's warmth and smell and taste and the way his tongue is slowly dancing with Sherlock's.

Definitely not revolting. Splendid. Amazing. He catalogues everything, for future reference.

John hand is on Sherlock's nape, gently but firmly pressing the detective more into him, never letting go. John breaks the kiss snickering once again when his other hand finds its way across Sherlock's flat chest.

"What?" Sherlock asks.

"Sorry, I've never… you know, I'm more used to…" John stutters, giving up when he realises Sherlock is not following, and the topic doesn't really matter anyway. "Never mind."

He presses his lips against Sherlock's mouth again. They go on for what feels like hours, tasting and teasing and exploring, hands combing hair and rubbing backs, and soon what started as a sweet tentative becomes much more heated.

A low hum escapes John's throat the second Sherlock nibbles at his lower lip, a sound that somehow goes straight to a part of Sherlock that he wasn't expecting. His cock twitches with interest in his pants, surprising Sherlock almost enough to distract him.

Fascinating, he thinks. He usually gets erections because of physiology, or chemicals, or himself mindlessly tugging at his own penis when he is very bored. He never really got an erection in presence of another person before.

But then again, he'd never kissed John Watson.

However, as his blood keeps rushing south making his cock harder and harder in his pants, some doubts cloud his mind as well. He seizes the occasion to voice them the moment John breaks the kiss to take a breath.

"What are the rules of this new relationship?" Sherlock asks, forcing himself to appear calm in spite of the situation.

John frowns, his pupils noticeably dilated. "Wha-what? Rules?"

"Yes, rules. What does this relationship entail?"

"I, er… I don't know… there are no rules, we just do us," is John's attempt at an answer. The doctor leans forward trying to resume the kiss, but this time Sherlock avoids him.

"Are we going to go on dates?" the detective asks.

"Dates? Er… if you want to, yes, why not."

"Are we going to sleep in the same bed on a regular basis?"

"Again, if you want to, I'm all for it," John replies giving Sherlock a knowing smile. It's not as if they've never shared a bed before.

Sherlock bites his own lower lip before proceeding to the next question, the one he actually wanted to ask. "Are we going to have sexual intercourse?"

This time, John's tongue darts out to wet his upper lip, his smile becoming something Sherlock has never seen before directed to himself. To Mary a few times, but never to himself before. Flirty, he would define it.

"I should hope so," John whispers, his voice so low that it almost vibrates in the air. He pulls Sherlock down to resume their kiss, without noticing the level of anxiety in the detective is suddenly much higher.

John wants to have sex. Obviously. John is a sexual man, of course he wants to have sex. One would say Sherlock wants it too, as it is evident by the arousal in his pants that has only flagged a little bit. He opens his eyes to glance down, immediately observing that John is finding himself in the same situation.

Flattering and alarming at the same time. Sherlock wants to make John feel good, he wants to feel the texture of John's skin under his fingertips on every inch of his body. There's no doubt on Sherlock's willingness to pleasure John. The mere idea of John writhing and moaning in Sherlock's arms, because of Sherlock's ministrations, makes the detective's cock harden further.

It is the opposite scenario that seems to be cause for concern. The idea of losing control, of feeling his mind shut down even momentarily. That alarms him.

"What's wrong? Did I says something…?" John asks softly, his eyebrows furrowed, noticing Sherlock wasn't responding to the kiss as eagerly as before. "You… you don't want to have sex?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath, registering the concern in John's eyes and realising the stakes are high but honesty is necessary. "John, I think you should know that my experience on the field is extremely limited."

"Limited? What do you…" John starts, clearly confused but figuring it out during the sentence. "Oh." He's almost grinning now. So Mycroft wasn't lying that time, Sherlock is in fact a virgin. The last virgin partner John had was in his first year at university, and he knows it's almost animalistic, but the idea that Sherlock Holmes, gorgeous genius, is untouched by anyone makes all of John's blood rush southwards. He imagines for a moment the world's only consulting detective spread out beneath him, pale skin covered in sweat and goosebumps, muscles trembling and contracting under his touch, shaky whimpers and lustful moans of pleasure.

If he's honest with himself, he can hardly wait.

"It's fine," John adds, licking his lips. "It's going to be a first time for me too."

"With a man?"

"With my best friend of seven years, I was going to say… but yes, with a man too," John says, as he softly strokes Sherlock's cheek and prepares to kiss him again. "We'll take it slowly."

Sherlock finds himself nodding, a part of him knowing everything will be fine. This is John, and everything that involves John is good, from cases to kisses. Sex will be no different, he tells himself.

John's hand entangles in Sherlock's hair and pulls him down to resume their kiss. They kiss, and kiss, for minutes, or hours, who knows. Sherlock revels in the caresses of John's tongue on his own, of John taste in his mouth and all over him, torn between the thought that they should have done this seven years ago and the awareness that, if they had, Sherlock now wouldn't have Rosie. His goddaughter? Or just daughter, perhaps, now that he is in a relationship with John?

It's an idea that thrills him, and a topic he decides he will bring up at some point.

"Are we getting a dog?" Sherlock asks instead, his breath laboured, his lips swollen.

"A-a dog? What?" John asks, obviously disoriented by the sudden change of topic, and wondering what exactly is going on in Sherlock's mind that makes him think of dogs while they make out.

"For Rosie."

"A dog for Rosie?" John repeats.

"Yes, John, do try to keep up, it's not that difficult."

"Do try to fill me in," John remarks. They might be in a relationship now, but Sherlock Holmes is still a cock. "Why do you-why? What's this about?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Since it's very likely she won't have siblings, I thought a dog would be beneficial for her."

The frown on John's face fades gradually, replaced by a playful smile. "For her, huh? So this has nothing to do with your own wish to have a dog?"

When Sherlock looks down, guilty, instead of answering, John knows he's said the right thing. He can't help giggling.

"We'll think about it, okay?" John adds. "Maybe a small one, to begin with."

As John tries to close the gap between their mouths, Sherlock stops him with a finger. John just accepts they aren't going to have a normal make out session, probably ever. As if it's normal to have a make out session at forty-four, he thinks.

"Where are we sleeping?" Sherlock asks. "Upstairs or downstairs?"

"I-I don't know… I didn't think about it."

"I think the best option is having our room downstairs, and Rosie's upstairs," Sherlock says. "It might not seem a good solution for now, but I believe it is on the long run. She'll like her privacy when she's a bit older and she wants to study, or have friends over, or sexual partn—"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm going to stop you here." John clears his throat nervously. "Look, I'm very flattered that you've, er… thought this through… but if there's one thing I never want to talk about, ever, is my toddler daughter's future sex life. Okay? But we can take your room, yes."

Not that John cares about the room, or a potential dog, or dinner dates. He has finally made peace with himself, and found the strength in his heart to let himself be happy again. And he is, now, happy, in Baker Street, with his daughter asleep upstairs and Sherlock Holmes all tall and brainy and adorable in his lap.

Finally, after months, maybe years of lies, John has come to terms with his feelings, with the fact that he's in love with his best friend, a man, not that being male is, after all, Sherlock's most remarkable feature.

It's fine. He's happy. Being with Sherlock makes him happy. Nothing else matters.

"Can I kiss you again now, or do you have other questions?" John asks, briefly licking his lips in anticipation. "Because I really like kissing you."

Sherlock nods, the faintest hint of a rosiness spreading across his cheeks. "I like kissing you too. You can… proceed."

John does, eagerly.

As it turns out, the Baker Street boys will engage in various activities in their scruffy flat. Not just arguing.

THE END