Author's notes: I'm writing this mainly to appease my broken heart at the fact that there will be no Sherlock for a long time, if ever. I hope it helps some of you cope too! This story is set right after the season four finale and assumes that everything is exactly as it was in show. It is not anti-Mary (I loved Mary) but will eventually progress to a Sherlock/John relationship (including smut, of course) so please bear that in mind. I plan ten chapters in total, with a second series after that depending. Would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter so please don't hesitate to drop me a comment or review.

Apologies that this chapter jumps around a bit – I wanted to pick up where season four left off but also deal with the (largely not well addressed) events around "The Lying Detective" as well as "The Final Problem" – but following this chapter the story will follow a more structured narrative. For anyone interested in the brief (and pretty dodgy) timeline I've used, see my notes at the end of the chapter.

The decision to move back to Baker Street came on a glorious summer day in London. Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson and Molly had been busy all morning putting the final touches on the restored flat. When the afternoon heat became somewhat stifling, John had suggested that they take Rosie to the local park for a picnic, seizing the opportunity to celebrate both their hard work and the rare weather. He was back to regularly seeing Ella, his old therapist, who had pressed the importance of acknowledging the good times as well as struggling through the bad. And god knew there had been enough of those for a lifetime.

A lazy breeze rolled through the trees above their small group, bringing with it a pleasantly relaxed atmosphere and a lightness that John hadn't felt in months. John couldn't help but chuckle at the uncommon sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the picnic rug – all long, graceful limbs and looking as close to casually relaxed as Sherlock ever got – whilst somehow not losing a bit of the posh, composed demeanour that surrounded him always. He was sans coat and suit jacket, his dark shirt rolled at the sleeves and top buttons open to the warmth of the day, spoon feeding Rosie gelato from a paper cup. He laughed as some missed its target and dripped on Sherlock's ludicrously expensive shirt and Sherlock scooped it up, not phased in the slightest, with a smile that John had come to recognise was specially reserved for his daughter. He felt a sudden surge of affection towards his friend and it occurred to him, with striking clarify, that this is where he and Rosie were meant to be.

It had been an exceedingly rough few months, for everyone, as they each struggled to deal with the aftermath of the tumultuous events surrounding Mary's death, Sherlock and John's falling out, of Eurus, Sherringford and Musgrave, and the destruction of the place he and Sherlock had once called home. John had thrown himself into the careful rebuilding and restoration of 221B, part of him pretending, and perhaps hoping, that the cracks inside himself could be repaired as purposefully as those of the flat. He thought in a way that they had all tried to convince themselves of that, even Sherlock with his stubborn rejection of sentiment.

Between everything else, he and Sherlock been working on cases, though this had been challenging without a proper base. There had been nothing beyond a five really, and though Sherlock had proclaimed case after case to be "dull" and barely worthy of his time, John couldn't help but notice that these condemnations were made with far less disgust than they had been in the past. John could hardly blame him, feeling less than enthused himself at the prospect of jumping right back into the deep end after everything that had happened.

Things between them had been slowly getting better since the turning point of John's breakdown on Sherlock's birthday, when the fateful day at Culverton Smith's hospital and the events since had been so unbearably raw in his mind and heart.

"Sherlock," he'd said quietly, pulling the other man aside just before they left to meet Molly and the others at Speedy's.

"This is for you, it's just something small," John had said, pushing a wrapped gift into Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock had looked taken aback and a small pang shot through John at the idea that he'd probably not received birthday presents since he'd moved away from his parents in his teens.

"You didn't have to..."

"I know," John had interrupted. "But I wanted to."

"Thank you, John, that's very…thoughtful," Sherlock had muttered, a little uncertain and clearly not used to this kind of attention, but a small smile had played about his lips.

John had taken a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with the taller man.

"I also wanted to apologise for what I did to you."

The words had been hard to get out, not because he didn't mean them but because he still couldn't wrap his head around what he had done, even though the physical evidence was quite literally staring him in the face.

"I have no idea what came over me, I barely even remember what happened. I was out of control, I was-"

"You were grieving," Sherlock had broken in insistently, almost sharply, but his expression had been warm and John had seen compassion there that he damn well knew he didn't deserve.

"You weren't yourself," Sherlock had insisted softly. "And I...deserved it."

"No," John had replied immediately, emphatically shaking his head. "No, Sherlock, you didn't. There is absolutely no excuse for what I did. And there are no words to put it right. But all the same…I am so, so sorry."

He'd run a shaking hand across his face, forcing himself to take another deep breath.

"Well, I forgive you, John. Completely and unreservedly," Sherlock had replied quietly in his low baritone.

John had huffed out a small exhalation of relief and pulled Sherlock into a brief, slightly clumsy hug, which Sherlock had returned with surprising ease.

"So," Sherlock had said with an air of finality as they broke apart. "Cake?"

"Cake," John had confirmed with a nod.

And their eyes had met then, both smiling genuine smiles at one another for the first time in ages. It had felt good.

But whilst Sherlock had forgiven him with such grace, it hadn't been so easy for John to forget. He was acutely aware that it wasn't the first time he had touched Sherlock with violence and was ashamed to recall his reaction when Sherlock had "returned from the dead". The recollections still gnawed at him in both his waking and sleeping hours. They had piled onto the already extraordinary amount of guilt he carried with him – over Mary's death and his affair, such as it was, over not being a good enough father to Rosie and not being a good enough friend – and compounded with his grief to sit like a dead weight around his shoulders and lead within his stomach. When he was awake he had tried to focus on Rosie – on being the best parent he could be, on relishing the moments of simple joy that she was so blessedly capable of bringing him. It was in his sleep that he couldn't escape the thoughts that chased him relentlessly and held him captive. Still, John was coping – barely, gradually, painfully – but coping.

And then, just a few short months later, Eurus had erupted into their lives, shattering any kind of normalcy that they had succeeded in rebuilding with those around them. His and Sherlock's relationship wasn't the only one that suffered as a result. Though Sherlock had explained everything to Molly Hooper, and had apologised sincerely and without reservation, it was only his later actions that would make her finally able to properly forgive him. Sherlock had promised her that he would do better, he would be a better friend, and John had seen him strive to do just that through his actions – paying her far greater attention, acknowledging her value and talents, and thinking before he spoke. John watched as their relationship slowly healed and became stronger. Though still far from perfect and not without its cracks, it gave John hope for the future.

Sherlock and John had been forced to start again, this time to literally rebuild the pieces of their shattered lives through the flat they had once shared. When the job was finally done, it seemed inevitable that he and Rosie eventually move in. John had been living in limbo – not willing to let go of his former life but also not willing to move forward. He hadn't been working, unable or unwilling to put Rosie into care so soon after her mother's death, opting instead to spend his days with his daughter whilst living off his quickly dwindling savings. But after a particularly trying day, John had to finally acknowledge to himself that living in their home in the outskirts of London, what felt like a long way from his support network of friends, just wasn't working. As much as it pained him to leave the home he and Mary had lived in together, the home in which they became a family, he couldn't imagine the kind of life he and Rosie would have with Mary's ghost by their side, ever-present yet never truly with them. Though he had stopped seeing her not long after his breakdown and confession about the text affair, he had to admit that the living situation wasn't healthy for him or, therefore, for Rosie.

John had cautiously floated the idea of moving back in with Sherlock, who had immediately agreed and had been beyond wonderful throughout the whole process. Though slightly flabbergasted and vaguely wondering what had happened to the sociopath he once knew, John was utterly appreciative of everything Sherlock had done for him and Rosie. He'd helped with packing, knowing exactly when his presence rather than his words were needed as John painfully packed away the pieces of his life with Mary, then the move itself and helping them get settled into John's old room and, to John's immense surprise, he'd gone so far as to baby proof the flat. Mrs Hudson had even permitted Sherlock to use the empty basement flat to keep his experiments away from curious hands ("I've never been able to rent the bloody thing out anyway, dear," she had insisted).

It wasn't until all was said and done, and John had practically collapsed into his old armchair as Rosie napped upstairs after a long day of moving, that John registered just how surreal it felt to be once again living at Baker Street. He glanced at Sherlock – curled up comfortably on his chair across from John, silk dressing gown wrapped around him, engrossed in something on his laptop – and allowed himself a small smile.

"Tea?" he asked.

It felt good to be home.

Please note that I intentionally haven't used years. Ideas sourced from reading a variety of sources, but since it's widely accepted that there are timeline ambiguities/inconsistencies, it's really just my guess and what works for the purposes of this story.

Timeline of relevant dates

November – Sherlock returns

May – John and Mary's wedding

February – Rosie's birth

November – Mary's death

January – events of "The Lying Detective"

March/April – events of "The Final Problem"

June – 221B Baker Street is rebuilt