Harry insisted on sleeping on the couch, despite both John and Sherlock offering their beds to her. She told them they'd already done so much for her and that they could argue about it in the morning. In truth, John was glad to be in bed. This past week had been a hectic mess of emotions, action and then Harry. Not to mention that Rosie had started crawling! Whenever he recalled it, he couldn't help a silly grin spreading over his face, even sprawled out in his bed. As the night breathed around him, he stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He was terribly tired but his mind just wouldn't shut up. He thought about the Moriarty imposter and wondered if Sherlock had come up with anything about him yet. He thought about Harry and how he was determined to help her and finally get her dry. He thought about Rosie, how proud he was and how he'd have to move lots of the things in the morning so she couldn't cause a calamity. And he thought about Sherlock. Gosh, when did he not think about Sherlock? John sighed deeply and realized that his mouth was very dry. He needed a drink of water. So he climbed out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen where he quietly filled a glass of water and then drank deeply, shuddering a little as the cold water slid down his throat and settled into his stomach. Dim light played across the kitchen floor and John's gaze wandered into the sitting room where the curtains hadn't been properly drawn. Harry was sprawled out on the small couch, legs hanging off the side and a blanket half falling off her singlet clad torso. The fire was still glowing and John put his glass down on the bench before walking to the hearth and putting another couple of pieces of split wood over the coals. Then he glanced at Harry again. A small, fond smile crawled over his face. He crossed the room and rearranged her blanket so it covered her a bit better. She moaned a little in her sleep, face creasing in the dim light and began to roll over. John backed away, not wanting to wake her. Just as he was about to go back to his room, he heard a muffled groan emanating from Sherlock's room. Frowning, John crept up to Sherlock's closed door and listened. The sound came again, a sound of distress and John made a choice. It wasn't a choice he was 100% comfortable with but it was a choice he wanted desperately to make. He eased the door open and sneaked into Sherlock's irritatingly tidy room. It was a pity he was incapable of keeping the rest of the flat like that, John thought.
"Don't," Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, tossing in his tangle of sheets, thin arms striking out at nothing. John took a moment to appreciate a sleeping Sherlock, dark hair curled over the white pillow and slender limbs twisted among the sheets. "Don't...hurt...him."
Distress was written all over the other man's face and John knelt on the edge of the bed, wondering if he really ought to listen to his inner desires. He wasn't sure what Sherlock would think but he just couldn't help himself. He didn't want to leave Sherlock to fight off his dreams on his own. John sucked in some air and then hoisted his whole body onto Sherlock's bed before sliding into the crisp sheets. Sherlock rolled over and grabbed at the pillow John was about to put his head on. John covered Sherlock's hand with his own and held it. Suddenly, Sherlock relaxed and muttered something about swearing to keep someone safe. Then he became tense again, twisting and turning away from John so that John had a prime view of his back which was thinly muscled and very pale. Sherlock's body thrashed and John instinctively wound his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close so that he just held him, making sure he didn't throw himself around too much, didn't hurt himself somehow. And Sherlock fully relaxed this time, breaths evening out so he sounded deeply asleep. John, satisfied, closed his eyes and rested his head on Sherlock's back. He was passed out in seconds.
"John?"
John blearily opened his eyes, momentarily confused as to where he was. Sunshine was pouring over him and the sheets were different. He rolled onto one side and there was Sherlock, propped up on an elbow and looking at John as if he were some kind of strange creature lying in bed with him. And then John remembered. Creeping into bed. Winding his arms around the other man...Sherlock looked good in bed, John thought before he could stop himself.
"Hi Sherlock," John smiled, trying to play down the fact they'd just slept together with not all of the participants knowing about it.
"What are you doing in my bed?" Sherlock asked, self-consciously pulling the sheet further up his chest.
"You, uh, you weren't sleeping well," John tried to explain his train of thought from last night. "And I wasn't sleeping either. And I just...you know what? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I didn't think."
"No, you thought," Sherlock was frowning at him but not in a displeased way.
"Pardon?" John said. He hauled himself into a sitting position and brought his knees up to his chest, still looking at Sherlock, wondering if he should dare to hope.
"You held me," Sherlock spoke in a halting, sort of dreamy tone. "Last night. And then I slept better than I've ever slept in my life."
John didn't quite know what to say. Was Sherlock mad? Was he happy? John wasn't very good at figuring out what emotion, if any, Sherlock was feeling and the little frown wasn't helping matters. For one thing, it distracted John immensely because it made the space between Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch together in little ripples and eyes to become slightly shadowed. It also was Sherlock's occasional poker face, hiding what he really thought of something. Or, it was his confused face which John rather thought it might have been.
"I liked it," Sherlock said in a voice like a small child.
John wasn't sure he'd heard quite right. "You what?"
"I liked it," Sherlock repeated, flopping down from his propped up position on his elbow so he lay flat on his back among the sheets and blankets.
"You liked it," John nodded slowly, letting that idea sink in. "Okay."
He was just considering kissing Sherlock when he heard a cry issuing from his room upstairs. Rosie. With a little sigh, he threw the sheets off him properly and swung his legs out of bed. As he was about to rise, he felt Sherlock's bony hand trace the curvature of his back, fingertips sliding over his spine.
"I've always appreciated your lines, John," he said quietly before removing his hand. John sat very still, the ghost of Sherlock's hand still touching his bare skin, goosebumps erupting, and not because he was cold.
"My what?" he said, voice a little hoarse. Sherlock chuckled a little.
"Your lines. The way your body fits together."
John thought that was possibly the most unromantic way of saying someone was good looking but coming from Sherlock, it was huge. A broad smile covered his face all at once and he threw himself back down onto his back so he could look up at Sherlock.
"Well thanks," he grinned. "But I think the appreciation is mutual."
With that, he flung himself up again and left the room, padding up the stairs to fetch Rosie. She was sitting up in her cot, little fists clutching the bars. Instead of crying, she was babbling incoherently, seeming to enjoy making sounds with her mouth. John waved at her and then covered his eyes with his hands.
"Where's Rosie?" he asked, eyes still covered. Then he whipped his hands away and stared at Rosie with a wide grin. "There she is!"
Rosie burst into giggling laughter and shook her hands, eager for more. So John, fully engaged now, covered his eyes and slowly moved closer to the cot. "Where's Rosie?"
Rosie made a babbling sound that almost sounded like...John pulled his hands away from his eyes and stared at his daughter in disbelief.
"Say that again," he whispered, eyes wide. Rosie babbled some more and then it happened again. It sounded awfully like 'dadda'. John moved to the cot and hoisted her out while she continued to babble, clearly pleased with herself. She'd been trading the gurgling for babbling for a while now, John realized, though he hadn't noticed at the time. First crawling and now...
"Dadda!" she cooed happily, tugging on John's hair with her fist. A bubble like helium spread through John's chest and he began to laugh, telling Rosie she was a very good girl. How proud of her he was. Hastily, he clattered down the stairs and bust into the sitting room where Sherlock was pacing in front of the fire, his dressing gown trailing behind him.
"Sherlock, listen to this," John said urgently and kissed Rosie's cheek, hoping she'd do it again. "C'mon Rosie. Do it for daddy."
Rosie blew a few bubbles and then started babbling again, grinning all the while. Then she pulled John's hair. "Dadda!"
Sherlock stopped pacing and stared, wide eyed. "Did she just...?"
"She did," John could hardly speak, he was grinning so much. At that moment, Harry rolled off the couch with a crash and hastily leaped to her feet, staring around her in alarm. When she saw John, Sherlock and Rosie, her face relaxed and she looked a little sheepish. She sat back on the couch with a yawn and pulled her blanket over her legs.
"What'd I miss?" Harry blinked several times.
"Oh my god," John still couldn't quite believe it. "Oh. My. God."
Without warning, Sherlock dashed over and embraced John and Rosie tightly, kissing John on the cheek as he did so.
"Cute!" yelled Harry from behind them before dissolving into giggles. Sherlock drew away, face flushing with embarrassment and John shot Harry a withering look only used between siblings.
"You're so immature," he said before turning on his heel and striding into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Rosie, as it turned out, loved chewing on toast with butter and jam and ended up with jam almost from ear to ear and giggling, as if she knew that John would have to give her a bath and that it would result in everyone anywhere near the bathroom getting wet and bubbly. Once John had cleaned up her highchair, he took her to the bathroom to run a shallow bath. Meanwhile, Sherlock and Harry ate together, returning to their serious conversation from yesterday. John really didn't know what they were talking about but assumed it was something to do with kicking bad habits and addictions. He dipped his finger into the water in the bathtub and nodded. Just warm enough. Rosie was sitting on the floor and he managed to wrestle her out of her pajamas before hoisting her into the bath. The moment her feet touched the water, she let out a squeal of delight and kicked a splash of water into John's eyes.
"Ugh, Rosie!" he blinked rapidly and Rosie giggled with delight. Shaking his head in despair, John lowered Rosie the rest of the way into the water and began washing up. She grabbed her squeezable orange rubber fish from the lip of the bath and clenched it tightly so it hissed out any air it had stored away.
"Dadda," Rosie said, tossing the fish into the water.
"Rosie," John smiled, making sure she was sitting properly in the bath before grabbing the baby shampoo and squirting a small dollop into the palm of his hand. He massaged it into her hair and then began rinsing. They spent a while in the bathroom, Rosie splashing happily and saying 'dadda' every now and again, obviously positively delighted she could say something like the grownups. Once she was sick of being wet, John swaddled her up in a thick fluffy towel and bundled her off to the change table in his room where he dressed her in some warm pants, a thermal top and a cute jersey Molly Hooper had bought. After brushing Rosie's hair, John settled her on his hip and headed back to the sitting room. Harry was just accepting a towel from Sherlock. Clearly, he had made it known she needed a shower. As she left the room, John put Rosie on the floor so she could have some crawling/rolling time.
"So," John said as the door to the bathroom slammed shut and the plumbing began to rattle and gurgle.
"So?" Sherlock asked, straightening his dressing gown with a tug. "So what?"
John shrugged. "I dunno. Thought you might have something interesting to tell me."
Sherlock turned in a full circle, staring around the flat as if searching for inspiration. His gaze flicked over Rosie and his face scrunched into a fond grin. Then he continued rotating until he was facing John.
"The couch is two and a half inches further to the left than it was yesterday," he announced, somewhat grandly but also dissatisfied.
"And that qualifies as interesting?" John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shrugged, as if to say 'well, you asked.' Then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, he began pacing in front of the window overlooking Baker Street.
"Boring!" he exclaimed, turning sharply on his heel to continue his pacing. "What's got into the criminal classes these days?"
"Christmas is coming," John folded his arms and moved in front of the fire, enjoying the heat emanating from the flames to sink through his clothes.
"So?"
"So, they're taking a break. You should take a break."
"I can't take breaks!" Sherlock strode away from the window, throwing his hands in the air. "My brain will rot!"
He bunched his fingers into his dressing gown and then pulled it away from his body, as if it were clinging to him, constricting him. John could see the sheer frustration boiling inside of him, the boredom and the irritation of being domestic.
"Well, have you found out anything more about that Moriarty imposter guy?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock said in a short, sulky tone. Moodily, he stomped to the wall where the yellow spray painted smiley face was with its bullet holes puckering the paint and wallpaper and ran his index finger over it, a grim look on his face.
"Oh," said John and thought he'd best leave it at that. Christmas was coming after all.