Archive of Our Own

There were a couple of reporters a few days back, after a case, the usual flurry of activity and microphones and the "care to make a statement" question. Though John typically didn't pay them much mind, that day they had found him by himself, on his way home from an errand. They were in his bloody way, annoying and buzzing, pressing him and invading, a swarm of mosquitoes scenting fresh blood, a pack of jackals having isolated a wildebeest, nipping at his hamstrings. Bloody relentless. An attempt at dodging them, a few steps brushing past one with a microphone and camera, he managed to snap a few scathing things at them as he'd tried to pass unnoticed (failed) and unscathed (also failed). He would barely have been able to recall what he'd snapped at them after a few minutes, let alone three days later, when Sherlock met him at the door. Frustration was evident on Sherlock's annoyed face and had soon circled around them both. There was a dark, stormy cloud over Sherlock's typically pleasant, angular, distinguished features.

"Seriously, John. What on earth were you thinking?"

John's eyes were wide, and he stopped short inside the doorway, back home on Baker Street. Rosie had a few toys strewn about, but for the moment she was occupied. "I have no idea. What are you going on about?"

Sherlock was holding a folded newspaper, and chose that moment to slap it against his own palm. "Not fun anymore?"

"What's not fun anymore?"

"I should ask you that. You're quoted as saying that this," and he paused to make a broad gesture around the flat they shared, at Rosie, at their shared lives, "isn't fun anymore."

"What?" John almost hissed, repeating Sherlock's words.

"Isn't fun anymore." A narrowing of Sherlock's eyes and a displeased purse of the lips was all he needed to convey his disappointment at what he obviously perceived as John's feelings.

"I never said ..." he began, then his words withered, slowed, faded to nothingness, an evaporating mist leaving only echoes. "Oh, maybe I did."

"There's likely video of it, if you want me to go digging."

"No." While the memory was a bit vague, it was - unfortunately - also ringing a few bells.

"If you were trying to throw them off the scent, the comment was brilliant." Sherlock's baseline was a bit snarky, sarcastic, and could easily wander into a biting, annoyed territory. He was, John realised, a fair bit past acerbic.

"I wasn't."

"Exactly. Not smart. Nor brilliant." He made a gesture as if considering the source, and what else should he have expected.

"Just a minute, you know I..." He could feel his own agitation grow, and his defensiveness kicked in, made him bristle. "I absolutely didn't mean ..."

"They didn't know that. The press, your blog readers - though far from being the most intelligent on the planet - family, friends, acquaintances." Sherlock huffed. "If you meant some of the challenges of working in the public eye, well it must've been quite understandably - and unfortunately - misunderstood."

Chagrined, John slid his mobile from his pocket, recalling that there had been a text message or two that he'd seen come through but that he had blatantly ignored over the last hour or so, or that he'd skimmed and didn't quite understand. Molly, Harry, and Greg... Sherlock was right, apparently, and he'd certainly garnered a bit of attention with his comment that was now apparently being widely disseminated. Swallowing hard, he scrolled through them quickly, then glanced up at Sherlock again with concern as Sherlock wordlessly handed him the news article and let him read it before starting in on him again.

"We need people on our good side. We need supporters." He shuddered a bit as he clarified, "Fans, if you must. Good press, more business, more clients." Sherlock backed off a little, turned to flop dramatically into a chair. "And though I'm sure you were taken out of context, hopefully anyway, can I ask what you were meaning when you said this isn't fun anymore?"

"The questions as I recall it now, were mostly about why the blog has been more dormant lately, why the updates have been fewer and farther between. When I'll start writing more again."

Slight shrug. "You haven't updated it lately."

"For obvious reasons."

"Yes, you do seem to have a penchant for wanting our changed relationship to slip out. Your adjectives to describe things --"

"To describe you, you mean."

"Yes ... seem to have crossed into a blatantly obvious confession zone. You don't seem capable to avoid it. So you have just... " They'd been flatmates a long time again, after the showdown at Sherrinford, after everything, and they were now sharing a bedroom, their bodies, their entire lives. And jointly, also together, sharing and raising and enjoying John's daughter, who was calling Sherlock Papa and John Daddy. But both had agreed that keeping that from public scrutiny, and off the blog for the time being, was a wise and professional career move, just to compartmentalise, to stay out of the public eye particularly with her in the short term. "So instead of editing more carefully, you haven't been writing."

"It's more work than it should be. I don't find it all that enjoyable, when writing is such effort. Tedious." Sherlock tilted his head, an accusatory glare for what John realised was approaching whinging. "It's not fun anymore, that part. And I was more referring to the press and the relentless hounding, you know."

"You blamed the fans." John could have cringed at the disappointed expression Sherlock was wearing. "John, you can't blame the fans. Our fans. Whatever's got you all riled up has very little to do with the fans and their expectations."

"I know, but --"

"It's the fans that keep you in that ridiculous top shelf scotch you seem to have found a taste for. It's the fans, John, that care enough to watch for a new blog or something newsworthy."

"It was just a comment, and I don't see what the big --" He stopped, regrouped. "You know, Jesus, they were relentless. Asking me when the next post was coming out, what you thought about your blogger in that snide tone, and pressuring, really hassling me..." John was gearing up, recalling their questions and their hounding. "So yes, actually I can blame them. And they wouldn't leave me alone."

"I know," Sherlock said, "that they rattle you more than they should." He sighed. "Well, they wanted news, so you bloody gave it to them on a silver platter."

"I couldn't help it."

"So instead of keeping quiet or carefully sidestepping the question, you turned it back on them, complained about their expectations."

"Apparently. I swear I didn't mean to come across such a --" He left the word unsaid, gesturing helplessly. He lifted his eyes, looked at Sherlock again, their gaze holding. A faint smile then began on Sherlock's face, spread a little to John's. "Because you know I love this. Being here, you and Rosie, to be more specific. All of this."

The disappointment on Sherlock's face changed into something a little bit softer, more compassionate. His smile grew and encompassed the small crinkles at his eyes, the smile John loved, the smile that was saved for special moments, for Rosie, for him, for those intimate moments when it was just the three of them in the flat. Those moments in the soft light of the bedroom, propped up on a pillow, waiting for those sweet occasions when the room was dark, relaxed, away from the rest of the world, the bloody blog, anywhere else. Their safe microcosm, their haven, their sanctuary. Both knew without speaking it aloud that they had indeed paid their dues, a high price to be there together on Baker Street.

The place where Sherlock smiled, just so, just for him. The place where their touches, their gentleness, their passion could be unchecked, private, and satisfying.

"It was unfortunate, of that there is no question." Sherlock sighed again, but there was a resolvedness to him.

John nodded, a big breath. "I know. Wrong of me."

"A little pathetic," Sherlock agreed, "but not irreparable." A little twinkle snuck into his eye, chased by a lopsided bit of a smirk of his smile, the left side of his mouth just a hair broader than the right. It was something John hoped no one would ever point out, fearing it would never be seen again. "Maybe it's time for a little damage control."

"Damage control?" John repeated the word in part because he knew it drove Sherlock round the bend. "You mean ...?"

"I guess. Show them it is fun, still fun. Maybe it's time we are seen together, having fun, maybe a few shared moments." Sherlock smiled at him then more broadly as an idea apparently struck. "Or, what would you think about ..." He narrowed an eye at John. "Perhaps you would rather just go public with it? With this, with us?"

"We had agreed... Are you saying you want to just go public, then?" 

"Perhaps." A sidelong smile, something had occurred to him. "But by being clever. A clever post. An announcement."

"Good for potential clients, I would agree." He frowned then, more serious. "What about Rosie?"

On cue and hearing her name, she looked up, babbled something, pushed to her feet, then got sidetracked on something else that caught her eye. John watched a moment just to be sure she wasn't about to destroy anything else. And to make sure Sherlock hadn't left something sharp, dangerous, toxic, or otherwise inappropriate laying about.

Sherlock was also watching her, and smiled at her ease of being distracted even as he knew, when she was in the mood, she could also be fairly focused. On him at times, like her father, he thought to himself wryly. "I'm fairly certain she's not a potential client."

"Sherlock."

"Oh, you mean, will us coming out impact her negatively?" Sherlock huffed. "Who would dare bother with her? Later, I'm sure she'll be given less grief and not more, once word gets around."

"Fact over speculation," he agreed, with a small nod. John's brow furrowed a bit as he contemplated it. "Lestrade?"

"Won't care. Won't be surprised either."

"Molly."

"Pretty sure she picked up on it when she was over last week, you had come out of the bedroom, zipping up and asking if I'd seen your shoes. All the while fussing about my having no boundaries with your clothing again." One of John's shirts had been violated in the name of science. Again. "It was old, and worn. It needed a noble finish, a valiant send-off, and a proper disposal."

"You're projecting. And leave my bloody wardrobe alone." He wasn't done listing potential problems. "Mrs. Huds--"

"Oh for god's sake, John. She of all people already knows. You're not exactly quiet."

"Well, neither are you, for that matter."

"Yes, but I'm not the one naming people who already know." Sherlock grinned at him then. "And Mycroft knows. Be assured of that." John gave an off-hand shrug, knowing it was a true statement. Sherlock shook his head. "If you're not on board for something more creative, post another of your ridiculous blog entries, but let me proofread it first. Might want to work an explanation in about why you have been quoted as saying this isn't fun anymore. Apologise for your words."

"But it is fun, and ... oh screw it." His eyes grew wide as soon as the words came out and he realised that Rosie was nearby and incredibly perceptive when there was something not meant for her, be it a word, something fragile, or an open beverage of any type just waiting to be upended. At not even two, she was rather opportunistic, perceptive, and impulsive as any other toddler. The other day it was John's mobile which now sported a crack in it, and the week before that, it was Sherlock's deerstalker which now sported peanut butter handprints. John's pay cheque once had suffered utter destruction, and hadn't that been a difficult explanation to his office manager.

Rosie of course had heard the word, tuned in on it, began to repeat, "Scew it, scew it." She toddled over to the couch, a few toys within her reach. "Scew!!!!" A pink glittery child's book pounded with a muffled swat of her pudgy palm as punctuation each time she repeated John's mistake.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "John, good grief. You should perhaps think before engaging your mouth. Around the press as well as your daughter." He stood up again, set on finding something to distract Rosie, saying "Exoskeleton," to her quietly as he settled on a plastic animal skeleton that she hadn't seen in a while, handed it over. "Ex-oh-skell-a-ton. Try that, Rosie, all right? Perhaps eventually your daddy will learn his lesson." Rosie turned her big blue eyes to Sherlock, their bond almost palpable. "Exoskeleton," he said again to her.

"Scew it, scew it," she said again, laughing even as she took the toy, then dashed it repeatedly on the floor until a piece snapped off. Another smash, another plastic shard.

"No," John said, answering Sherlock's suggestion about the blog rather than redirecting Rosie. He smiled wanly as he watched Sherlock attempt to mitigate the damage to the toy skeleton Rosie seemed bent on destroying. "Not interested in a full length blog post at the moment."

"All right then. We'll make it official. Public disclosure." There was a lull followed by a frozen moment, a sudden, abrupt epiphany. "Or, something even better."

"Yes. I'm sure you have a plan, then."

The grin was equal parts mischief and anticipation. "Yes, that I do." That twinkle, the lopsided grin, the satisfaction Sherlock had, with John, Rosie, with circumstance went hand in hand with the man who was overall satisfied. Exactly where he wanted to be. "What's more, I'll be sure to make it fun for you as well."

Rosie dropped the word a few more times, and despite themselves, they shared a chuckle over her antics amid the broken pieces of plastic dinosaur bones. John intervened quite quickly when Rosie spotted the remote control to the telly, explaining the concept of treating precious things with care. Over the top of her head, John and Sherlock met eyes and smiled at each other over the relevance of those well-chosen words.

++

The case had garnered a lot of press and notoriety, and when the dramatic resolution occurred in a rather visible place, press, law enforcement, and bystanders already there, they were both on tenterhooks, prepared, waiting and wondering. And very much, game to move on.

Sherlock stood near DI Lestrade as Greg fielded some questions, and very shortly the facts were delivered, the details explained, and as Greg left the camera and journalists, John approached Sherlock.

A whisper, low, "You ready?" from Sherlock.

"Lead on," John replied from Sherlock's side, slightly behind him, not quite touching but very close. "Very nice, by the way, standing there looking bored."

"I am bored. Not acting at all." His voice was quiet, head down, speaking in hushed tones back to him.

"Still. You play the part well." John turned then, their private conversation over. He assumed his half-step behind Sherlock, his preferred position, watching the room like a security detail or a bouncer at a club, arms behind his back, shoulders broad and accentuated by the stretch of his arms. From that vantage point, he continued not only watching the room but admiring the turn of Sherlock's jaw, his shoulder, the way the light caught his hair.

One of the more sassy reporters asked a case-related question of Sherlock, which he side-stepped around and giving his typical 'it was obvious to anyone who observes' answers. "Perhaps, John," Sherlock said, his tone with a bit of a biting edge, "you might have something to say about this, you know, in your blog."

"Perhaps." As they'd agreed, he kept his tone steady and even. 

"Dr. Watson? Can we expect an update anytime soon?"

Another reporter interjected quickly in the pause after the question. "Any truth to the rumour that you're seeking other employment?" One of the reporters seemed anxious for any kind of a response, and the room itself seemed to pay attention to that, waiting for an answer.

John hadn't heard that one, and could feel Sherlock's questioning look as he turned toward the speaker. It wasn't a surprise, though, he supposed. "I have not. Although I have," and he hedged here, making sure to speak clearly, "we have, actually," John began, turning his head in Sherlock's direction and taking the slightest step closer, so that his shoulder was pressed right up against Sherlock's armpit, "been negotiating some things. Important things."

"Will you be leaving your medical practice too?"

"Sherlock, are you going to be replacing your blogger?"

"Are you leaving Baker Street for good this time?"

They didn't have to work hard at looking both clueless and enigmatic, surprised at the question as they locked eyes and held that for a moment as a few other questions pummeled at them. The set-up was even better than they'd anticipated. The clicking of a camera or two could be heard. John bristled as he always did, his eyes blinking slowly a few times, jaw clenching a little in actual annoyance, and finally pulled his gaze away. "You can expect an announcement," he said clearly, the room seemingly more focused, listening intently, "by the end of the week." As previously discussed, they left the room together, ignoring further questions and keeping silent.

Sherlock breathed deep as they left the building, keeping a slow pace as they walked past various media, press, onlookers. Though he chose not to look around, he sensed that there were still camera lenses pointed in their direction. "Think they're interested?"

"Interested, yes," John said. "I think I heard someone ask if you'd fired me." He chuckled at that. "They're scenting something."

Sherlock nodded, "But buying it, probably not yet." He chuckled, keeping his smile under wraps, met John's eyes as if keeping a secret. "But they will."

++

John did end up writing a blog post within a few days. The title heading was, Counting Down. It was short, simple post, and contained only two website links. 

Click here.

The first link took the user to the governmental instruction page on marriage procedures. The second directed the reader to the local newspaper, the record of those who had applied for marriage, the posting of which started the required twenty-eight day waiting period. In that listing of recent applicants were the names, Holmes, W.S.S., and Watson, MD, J. H.

++

They knew that it wouldn't take long for it to be figured out, for photographers or reporters to decide to come check out their claims, confront them about the indirect announcement. So once they'd settled Rosie with Mrs. Hudson, they set out for a bit of domestic shopping and to grab dinner out. But more importantly, to set up a few photo opportunities. They were right, it didn't take long at all.

One photo was taken before they'd even left Baker Street, Sherlock's long arm holding open the door. Sherlock in the entryway, his feet straddling the porch and the foyer. One long arm held open the door, eyes focused only on John. Sherlock with his coat draping elegantly and swirling, unbuttoned, his clothing visible - bespoke trousers and pale button front shirt open at the neck. John, in his usual black coat over jeans, was just crossing over the threshold, his mouth open, smiling, laughing at something Sherlock must've said. One of his hands had risen and was over Sherlock's against the door, just helping, holding the door as well. The other hand was also up, a gesture or in conversation. Both of them were quite clearly moving toward each other, laughing or looking perhaps as if speaking animatedly as John passed in front of Sherlock to exit to the street. It could have been argued that they were just, perhaps, about to move closer for a kiss - or simply two people occupying a close space at the same time, except for the focus of Sherlock's eyes, the direction of his gaze, the look of fondness and affection, both given as well as returned.

Another image caught them in one of the aisles at Whole Foods. With a backdrop of the produce section, the picture showed John's sincere smile, laugh lines, eyes crinkling as he looked adoringly and completely entertained by his shopping partner. There was an intimacy between them, and he'd grabbed at Sherlock's hand to draw his knuckles toward his lips, the grin and the concern and the small kiss about Sherlock's fingers. They were close, arms mostly entangled, definitely close. If there had been a question on the steps at Baker Street, it was no longer speculation. A few aisles over, and a photo was taken of Sherlock impishly sneaking a sugary breakfast cereal into the trolley and John shaking his head and laughing at his antics.

From somewhere behind them in the line at the checkout, another picture had been taken of both of them serious, studying something on the printed receipt, hands both holding the paper between them, eyes bright. They were perhaps closer than friends would typically stand, Sherlock's chest pressing into the back of John's shoulder.

Although they were not on the front page, a small story and photos appeared in the newspaper the following day. Under the photo was the caption:  Keepin' it Fun? There was another photo, an inset, of the pair from the back, John's hand solidly wrapped around Sherlock and resting possessively on his hip that neither of them actually remembered being taken. The short article, written with a sassy point of view, seemed to credit Dr. Watson's verbal faux pas as being the stimulus for the relationship reveal. The final line in the story alluded to the possibility that John had done it intentionally as a PR stunt.

Sherlock read the article aloud, snickering at that comment.

"You realise that's not true. I had no intention of being that manipulative. That's much more your style than mine."

Sherlock was silent. Ominously silent. Deathly silent.

John turned to face him full stop, curious and a little surprised, intrigued, and watching him closely. "A PR stunt? Really?"

A low reply, "Of course not."

John considered that answer, and indeed knew better than to suspect that Sherlock wasn't completely on board with their plans. "But deliberately set up?" Sherlock looked away, his lips compressing into more of a line, a colour suffusing his cheeks. "Should I take your silence as a confession?"

Knowing John was studying his profile, Sherlock waited another few seconds before turning back to face John. "Who do you think told the reporter that day where you would be and what question was almost certain to set you off?"

"You did not!"

"Oh, really? I thought you said, manipulative behaviour was more my style than yours." John's shocked expression made Sherlock chuckle and restored the twinkle to his eyes. "I was quite keen to get things moving in that direction." He approached, wrapped an arm around John's neck to pull him close and kiss the side of his head. "Your predictability and cooperation was greatly appreciated."

John shook his head, unable to stop the grin even if he'd wanted to. "You're a bloody wanker, you are."

"You seem to be smiling an awful lot these days for someone not having any fun anymore."

++