#icelovers

“You’re also her godfather- hang on, did you just say “her Papa”?” John asks with a baffled look. He swears he sees an embarrassed blush, but Sherlock hides his face before John can confirm the sight. “I thought we agreed-”

“Yes,” Sherlock says quietly, sounding disheartened.

“Did you really think I’d change my mind on who you are to Rosie?” John presses, stepping closer, still holding his daughter. Sherlock doesn’t look up until they’re only a foot from him. Then, John takes a deep breath and says, “It’s ‘Dadda’ or nothing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock says, throwing his hands up. Rosie jolts in John’s arms, so Sherlock twiddles his fingers in reassurance. She smiles at him and makes a weak attempt to reciprocate. “What’s she going to call you, then? ‘Father’? Nice and approachable, not at all menacing-”

“I’m more Papa than you are,” John fights back, not answering the question.

“You’re her father, yes,” Sherlock explains. “Dad is most similar to that. And Dadda is too similar to Dad. Therefore, you are her Dad. Or Daddy. Or Dadda. Whatever comes first. Whayever she likes. I’m Papa.” Sherlock crosses his legs and looks at John with a raised brow. “End of discussion, John.”

John sighs, knowing there’s no use in fighting a petulant child. “Someone’s getting cranky,” John sighs with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock furrows his brows. “She’s only just woken up,” he says of Rosie, “she’s happy as a clam-”

“I meant you,” John corrects. He passes Rosie over to Sherlock. “You need a cuppa before you start wailing and need a change.”

“Ha-ha,” Sherlock retorts. He grins when John flips him the bird over his shoulder. “Better that you don’t see that yet, Rosie,” he tells the infant in his lap while bouncing her. It amazes him that she’s already able to sit up on her own as she is now - with just a little support of his hand, of course.

He gives her a soft kiss to her forehead and stands, putting her safely in the pen play area they have assembled in the middle of the floor. He grabs a tiger plushie and wiggles it before her tantelisingly. She grabs it and begins gnawing on the tail. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs fondly before heading into the kitchen with a stretch.

“It’s nice, this,” John says when he hears Sherlock enter. His inquisitive ‘hmm?’ and surely-piercing gaze make John smile. “Coming home to. Well. This.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, looking about the flat that they have rebuilt for their new life together. The one that should have been all along. “I agree, 221b is better suited with you back in it.”

“That’s not really what I meant,” John says, turning around. His hands touch the cabinet’s edge as he looks at Sherlock. “221b is nice. It’s home. But it’s what’s... who’s in it.” He nods out towards the sitting room. “Rosie.” He looks to the floor, knowing that the kindly, surprising, lovely woman below will be up to check on her goddaughter and hers boys soon. “Mrs. Hudson.”

John’s blue gaze settles on the man in front of him: tall, well-dressed, not at all the man who first deduced him in that lab. He’s softer now. More vulnerable. Scarred and scared in equal measure. And very, very loving.

“Sherlock Holmes, walking in the door with me, asking for tea,” John concludes. A half smile lifts his lips.

Ever embarrassed to be John’s choice, Sherlock looks at the ground to gather his thoughts. He approaches and closes the distance between the two of them. “Happy to demand a cuppa of you anytime, John,” he teases.

“Mhm, among other things,” John says. His smile grows.

Sherlock mirrors the expression. “I don’t think of sex as something demanded if it’s happily given, and I would say it is.”

“Not in front of Rosie,” John says quietly with a boyish giggle. Sherlock is grinning now, and it only makes John duck his head more.

“Oh, we still have months before we need to worry about what she sees or hears from us, my John,” Sherlock teases, coaxing John’s head back up with a finger to his chin. He plants a kiss on John’s lips that tastes like a long, familiar adventure: just the two of them against the rest of the world. He takes a few steps forward until their chests brush. John sighs through his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, pleased at the development.

Just as hands begin to drift to waists and belt loops, the kettle begins to whistle. “Damn the cuppa?” Sherlock asks against John’s lips. John raises a brow and turns around to attend to the tea. He fails to see Sherlock’s pout but smiles when he feels arms wrap around his middle and a forehead on his shoulder.

“Quit pouting,” John chuckles, “it’s only noon and someone needs to be put down for a nap before anything happens.”

Sherlock nips John’s shoulder playfully. “I don’t need a nap-”

“Talking about Rosie,” John tells him.

“Ah,” is all Sherlock can say.

John turns and hands him his mug of tea. Sherlock takes it, grateful for the warmth it gives. His hand lingers over John’s fingers before they fall away. His free hand takes John’s fallen hand and raises it to his lips. John strokes his cheekbone with his thumb, a soft, affectionate smile still on his lips. “Keep that up and the press’ll be onto us in no time,” John chuckles, taking his hand back so he can have his tea.

“Sod the press,” Sherlock huffs, leading the way into the sitting room. He moves his chair to face Rosie, and John moves his to face Sherlock. Rosie ignores them both, too enthralled with her tiger toy. “They get the narrative wrong all the time. They’ll say it’s some groundbreaking development or a sudden game-changer or-”

“It’ll make history?” John suggests.

Sherlock points. “Exactly, John.” He sips his tea - pure perfection, as usual. “When really, this has been a thing long coming. At least on my behalf.”

“Mine, too,” John assures him. He glances Rosie’s way. “Things just didn’t seem to happen at right time for it, though.”

“Except now,” Sherlock says, his eyes fixed on John.

“Except now,” John agrees, looking his way as well. “And things are okay now.”

“It is what it is,” Sherlock offers with a half smile.

“It is what we say it is,” John corrects, “and what we make it.”

The two of them raise their mugs with one hand each. Their other hands have found each other. They always seem to now that they have the chance to do so. And no one can take that away from them there, safe and home and together in that small flat on Baker Street.