Chapter Text
Sherlock didn't like mornings.
He had never liked them. There was something intrusive about them—too much light, too many sounds, too many expectations. But on that particular morning, the problem wasn't the world waking up. It was the fact that he hadn't slept.
Again.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. He didn't remember making it. He'd probably done it reflexively, following an old, automatic routine, like so many other things in his life.
The silence in the apartment was not comforting. It was thick. Every little noise—the creak of the heater, a car passing outside, the distant ticking of a clock—seemed to echo too loudly inside his head.
He pressed his fingers against his left temple, taking a deep breath.
"Work."
It was the simplest command I knew.
It works like it always has.
The problem was that something inside him wasn't obeying.
---
John showed up around ten in the morning, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He knocked twice on the door and went inside before Sherlock could even answer, balancing two bags and a cup of coffee to go.
"I brought lunch," he announced excitedly. "Mary said you'd probably forget to eat."
Sherlock looked up slowly. "I haven't forgotten."
"Of course not," John replied, with a smile that wasn't quite provocative. It was affection. A simple, unassuming, dangerous affection. "I just thought you might… be remembered."
Sherlock didn't answer. He watched John move around the apartment as if he still lived there, as if Baker Street continued to be a shared space. Perhaps, emotionally, it still was.
John put the bags on the table, started talking about his work at the hospital, about a difficult patient, about how Rosie had learned to make a new sound — something between a laugh and a scream.
"She'll show you when she sees you," John said, smiling. "She's getting smarter and smarter."
Sherlock felt the tightness in his chest even before he realized the thought that had caused it.
When you see me.
As if it were obvious that she would see him. As if it were guaranteed that he would be there. Present. Accessible. Whole.
He looked away. "John," he said, interrupting the flow of words. "You don't need to come here every day."
John blinked, surprised. "I know," he replied. "I want to."
Sherlock felt something stir within him. An almost childlike impulse to say, “ Then stay .” But the thought was crushed before it could fully form.
"That's... unnecessary," he insisted, his tone harsher than he intended.
John frowned. "Are you kicking me out?"
"I'm suggesting efficiency," Sherlock corrected. "Your time would be better spent with your family."
John was silent for a moment. His expression changed—not to hurt, but to something confused.
" You are also my family ," he said simply.
Sherlock froze.
John said that as if stating something too obvious to question. There was no dramatic weight, no intention to hurt. It was simply… a fact, in his mind.
In Sherlock Holmes's version, it was a threat. — No — he replied, too quickly. — I'm not.
John opened his mouth to argue, but held back. Perhaps he had learned, over the years, that some battles weren't worth the energy.
"Okay," he simply said. "But still, I'll stay."
And it stayed that way.
He sat down at the table and pushed one of the bags toward Sherlock.
" Eat."
Sherlock obeyed more out of exhaustion than out of willingness.
---
Later, alone again, Sherlock realized something disturbing: John truly believed he was alright.
Tired, perhaps. Eccentric, certainly. But well.
It was almost fascinating, from an analytical point of view, how someone could live so closely with another person and still not notice the cracks slowly spreading inside.
Or perhaps John realized it — and simply didn't know what to do with it.
Sherlock preferred to believe the first option.
It was less painful.
He tried to work. He opened old files, reread reports of closed cases, made notes that led nowhere. His mind refused to focus. Each thought slipped into another, forming a chaotic, noisy chain.
At one point, he realized he was looking at an old photograph.
It was years ago. John, himself, and Mary—pregnant, smiling, with John's hand on her belly. Sherlock remembered that day exactly. He remembered the discomfort, the genuine happiness he had felt for them, and the silent decision he had made at that moment:
I'll stay on the sidelines .
It was the logical choice. The only acceptable one.
But logical choices also had consequences.
He turned the photograph upside down with a brusque gesture.
---
Mary showed up late in the afternoon.
Sherlock didn't hear the doorbell the first time. He was sitting on the living room floor, his back against the sofa, his knees bent to his chest. The second time brought him back to reality with a start.
He opened the door more slowly than usual.
Mary studied him in silence for a second longer than was socially acceptable. "You're not well," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"I'm functional," he replied automatically.
Mary sighed. "Sherlock…" she began, but stopped. She surveyed the apartment, the unusual mess, the forgotten teacup, the violin out of its case. "How long has it been since you slept?"
He didn't answer.
Mary came in, closed the door behind her, and took off her coat. "John thinks you're just... overwhelmed," she continued. "That this will pass."
Sherlock felt a bitter taste in his mouth. "And you?" he asked, his voice low.
Mary met his gaze. "I think you're punishing yourself," she replied honestly. "And I don't know exactly why."
Silence stretched on. Sherlock looked away, unable to sustain that direct attention.
"You distanced yourself," she continued. "Then you moved closer. Then you distanced yourself again. You're exhausted, sensitive to stimuli, more defensive than usual. This isn't just work."
"You don't understand," he said.
"Maybe not," Mary agreed. "But I can hear."
He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Listen to what?" he asked. "Things that don't make sense? Poorly defined emotions? A structural inability to function as a proper human being?"
Mary approached slowly and sat on the arm of the armchair, keeping a respectful distance. "You don't have to function like anyone but yourself," she said. "But that doesn't mean you have to suffer alone."
Sherlock closed his eyes. The pressure in his chest increased. "I don't know how…" he began, and stopped. The words refused to come out. "I don't know how to exist there. With you."
Mary waited.
"I like you both," he said finally, the phrase sounding almost like a forbidden confession. "Both of you. Rosie. And this… this should be simple. But it isn't."
Mary felt the weight of what he didn't say. "Because liking means caring," she added carefully. "And caring hurts."
Sherlock nodded, imperceptibly. "I don't want to…" his voice faltered for a second. "I don't want to ruin anything."
Mary swallowed hard. "You don't ruin anything by existing, Sherlock."
He shook his head. "I mess things up," he said. "I've always messed things up."
Mary remained silent. Some wounds wouldn't immediately show. "John misses you when you're away," she said after a while. "He just… doesn't notice it the same way I do."
"He doesn't understand anything," Sherlock replied, more sharply than he intended.
Mary wasn't offended. "He perceives things differently," she corrected. "He sees what's on the surface. You... hide it very well."
Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling the weariness weigh on his bones. "I don't know how to ask for help," he admitted.
Mary felt the impact of that sentence like a gentle but profound blow. "Then don't ask," she said. "Just accept it when it appears."
He opened his eyes. "This isn't fair," he murmured.
"No," Mary agreed. "But it's human."
---
That night, John called.
Sherlock barely answered. He stared at the vibrating phone on the table for far too long.
"Hey," John said when he finally answered. "Is Mary there?"
He's already gone.
" Ah. " Pause. " She said you weren't feeling well."
Sherlock closed his eyes. " I am."
" Sherlock " John sighed. " You've been acting... strange."
There was concern there. Genuine concern. But still superficial.
"I'm tired," said Sherlock.
We all got tired.
Not like that.
John was silent for a moment. "Want to come over for dinner tomorrow?" he asked. "No pressure. Just… food. Rosie. Normalcy."
Normality .
The word seemed absurd.
"Perhaps," Sherlock replied, his indecision evident.
"Okay," John said, relieved. "Maybe it's something."
When he hung up, Sherlock dropped the phone on the sofa and ran his hands over his face.
---
In the early morning, he woke with a start, his heart racing, his body covered in cold sweat.
It took him a few seconds to understand where he was.
Baker Street. The sofa. The darkness.
The feeling, however, persisted: tightness in the chest, shortness of breath, a diffuse, nameless anguish.
he sat down slowly, resting her elbows on her knees, trying to control her breathing.
"It's not an attack. Not yet."
He knew how to recognize the signs.
He ran his hand over his face, his fingers trembling slightly.
he thought of John. Of Mary. Of Rosie sleeping peacefully, oblivious to any emotional complexity.
He thought about how much he wanted to be there — and how much it terrified him.
The silence of the early morning enveloped him.
And for the first time, Sherlock wondered—not as an intellectual exercise, but out of genuine fear:
What if I can't keep going like this?
The question hung in the air, heavy, unanswered.