Saturday, 17 June, 2017

10:47 p.m.

"I can't read another personal column in the Daily Gazette." John folded the newspaper, leant back on the sofa and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "We've been working on this case thirteen hours straight. My bloody eyes are crossing," John huffed, rubbing them with his fists. "And if I keep this up I'll mean that literally."

Sherlock commanded the middle of the sitting room, standing amidst the chaos of his current investigation, surveying the information wall above John's head. The scattering of notes, photos, and maps pinned to the surface may not have made much sense to John, but the detective had already found important clues in the new case they had accepted just that morning.

"I think we're on to something now, John," Sherlock dismissed John's complaint. "Mrs. Warren's lodger who never leaves his rooms may, in fact, be involved in organized crime! This is how he's sending messages—"

"—The only message I care about, Sherlock," John stretched and stifled a yawn, "is the one my foggy brain is telling me. I need sleep…" now the yawn interrupted him, "and I have the early hours in the surgery tomorrow." John rose stiffly from the sofa, and took his mug to the kitchen.

Sherlock tensed. He watched John put the uneaten biscuits back in the tin, wash the mug and set it, thoroughly cleansed and wiped-dry, back in the cupboard. And as he had done nearly every night for years, John reached for his jacket, prepared to leave. Although Sherlock had thought he had detected a shift in John's deportment of late, the detective saw once again he had been wrong to expect anything different so soon. Wishful thinking was not practical.

Weeks since his truthful revelation, Sherlock had been encouraged by subtle changes in John, little indicators, hints that forgiveness and healing had begun. Several weeks ago, John had met Lestrade for a pint at a favorite pub, something he had not done since the cottage fire, then last week, the detective had overheard his friend on the phone with the letting agent discussing options for his house. The agent had rung John in the evening when they were working; John had merely strolled to the kitchen to respond to the agent's questions, remaining within earshot. It had been easy to overhear that John had decided to let it as a way of generating more income. When John had rung off, however, neither he nor Sherlock had acknowledged the phone discussion, but continued their previous exchange about aspects of a certain case.

Three days ago, John had left—forgotten?—by the flat door a small backpack, zipped tightly, severely challenging Sherlock to respect its privacy. On John's next visit to Baker Street, the backpack was no longer there. As John had already let himself into the flat before Sherlock had returned from St. Bart's, Sherlock knew who had moved it, but the missing bag was not discussed during the ensuing evening. After John had left that night, an excruciatingly curious Sherlock had gone to the upstairs bedroom and opened John's wardrobe. Several shirts and trousers hung on the bar and a pair of John's trainers rested on the floor. Basic undergarments and socks were in the top dresser drawer.

A standing invitation to return to Baker Street had remained unspoken for months, but Sherlock had not even dared to hint about it after he had so sorely let John down. Why should he think John would consider flatsharing as a step forward and not a step backwards? Clothes in the wardrobe were an encouraging sign, however, especially since John had initiated these steps on his own. Give it time and John will find his way.

At the landing, John fumbled with his jacket, hitched it over his shoulders and then hesitated as if he remembered something. He gave his head a slight shake, removed his jacket and hung it on the peg. Squaring his shoulders decisively, John spun on his heel and headed to the third-floor stairs.

"G'night, Sherlock," was all he said as he began the climb.

John? Sherlock peered in astonished disbelief.

As if he heard Sherlock's thought, John turned on the steps, came down to stand in the doorway, and scanned the flat with unmistakable nostalgia before catching Sherlock's eye. "My place has been cleaned up for tenants, my things packed up, I can't stay there. Moving out and on, for now…that's best. Besides, there's room in your empty fridge for my groceries and I think Mrs. Hudson would appreciate someone who can actually prepare his own meals." John let the implications hang in the air, although the truth was clearly visisble in the warmth of his eyes.

"What if Mary were to come looking for you...?" Despite himself, Sherlock whispered the difficult question, fearing that its utterance would ruin everything.

"You mean Heather Barnet, don't you?" John scratched his head thoughtfully and turned away. "You've told me how clever she is; but she doesn't have to be all that clever to know where to look. G'night." He continued up the stairs and closed the bedroom door.

"G'night, John...," Sherlock whispered to himself, stepped over the clutter of their current case, and dropped into his leather chair. He steepled his fingertips under his chin and sat motionlessly for several minutes examining the gift and the consequences of John's decision, the promise of their futures together, and the sentiments stirring deep within him.

Welcome home, ...my dear Watson.

Leaning back with his hands on the armrests, Sherlock gave a soft sigh. His smile grew in the silence of the flat, and even though his audience... his friend...John was not present to listen, it spoke volumes.

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Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss: "Whatever else we do, wherever we all go, all roads lead back to Baker Street – and it always feels like coming home."

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88&&88*

Author's Final Note

I know I stated "If Season 4 follows canon trajectory, Mary (and baby) will die. This fic makes no predictions how."

I remain most certain that I have not predicted with any accuracy what Season 4 will bring, maybe because I fear it may be heartbreaking. Will Mary die? What will happen to the baby*? What lies have we been led to believe? These are questions heading into Season 4 that I cannot answer. All I tried to do in this story was find some middle ground between the Mary-haters and the Mary-lovers, give John the thrill of having a daughter at least temporarily, and to leave the interpretation open in the end. So, depending on how you interpret the ending, I have held to my statement.

But most importantly, I wanted to show how Sherlock and John's extraordinary bond of an enduring friendship has a language of its own.

There were many who encouraged me to write this story. From the beginning kate221B was instrumental in advising me on medical and britpicking matters; when she passed the baton, baillierj was quick to grab it and run with it, for which I am ridiculously grateful. I am also thankful to each of you who left reviews. You cannot know how good it was to hear your cheers from the side. It helped me get to the finish line.

While several of my closest FF friends have offered sound advice, I wish to extend my utmost thanks to my faithful beta baillierj, my devoted englishtutor, and my nameless expert in Canon Holmes. Those occasions when I've needed to quote BBC content, I have probably referred to any of the transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, so I am quick to acknowledge and be forever grateful for this tremendous body of work. In addition I must thank chai4anne who in one of her reviews expressed her hope "that the case of the missing Heather Barnet is not quite over yet." Through a series of stimulating PMs, she gave me reason to tie up this loose end. I hope I have satisfied that wish in an unexpected way.

It has not only been my privilege to entertain you with my spin on the Sherlock series (to which I claim no rights, whatsoever), I have to admit your willingness to read and review has made all the difference to me.

It's been fun!

Wynsom

*[On December 12, 2016 the baby has been identified as Rosamund Mary Watson as part of a teaser for the upcoming airing of Season 4. I have corrected the name in my story from Cherlynne to Rosie as per the BBC baby's name, in case there might be some confusion among my previous readers.]