Chapter Text
I
The shift happened slowly. John fell asleep on the sofa in the middle of a stubborn case, Rosie nestled neatly against his chest. Sherlock, amidst evidence files and several troubling web pages, only noticed when John's snores began to fill the otherwise-silent flat.
His chest rose and fell smoothly, right hand brushing the wood floor, left resting on the soft curve of Rosie’s back, mouth open just slightly, a mirror of his daughter’s expression.
Warmth spread through Sherlock, spilling from his heart and bleeding to the very tips of his fingers. It was a feeling he got very often now, between being around John nearly all the time and caring for Rosie; but the name for it had been lost, buried under shame, guilt, and grief.
He watched the two for several long, peaceful moments, the edge of the case fading away and exhaustion setting in. It was the first time John had slept in the flat since the Sherrinford business had settled; with the excuse of Rosie and not wanting to wake Mrs. Hudson, John would leave in the evening, after forcing both Sherlock and Rosie to eat dinner. It was fine. Good.
But seeing him asleep, relaxed and comfortable on the sofa of 221B, made Sherlock wonder if this had been what he'd missed most - not having someone to discuss serial beheadings with.
Hazily, he stood, setting aside the autopsy file. A blanket rested on the back of the sofa, wrinkled slightly from being sat against. He leaned over the two and took the blanket carefully, draping it over John’s legs and up to Rosie’s shoulders.
It was oddly alien, both being able to witness such a tender moment and notably promoting it. When John awoke, he would see the blanket, and know that Sherlock had not simply walked away without any feeling other than annoyance, but supported him with his mistake and cared for him in a rather humanly manner.
Six years ago, this would have bothered Sherlock. But now, he slept better than he had in months, knowing that John and Rosie were close by and warm.