Now and Forever

2

‘I hate you.’ Violet said very seriously to Aaron, who rolled his eyes and untangled his headphones. ‘Course.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Archie moaned, trailing along next to his father. ‘You can carry Sammy and Bella at the same time but you won’t ever carry me.’

Ben sighed and patted his elder son on the head. ‘Darling, I’ve been carrying the twins all the way through the park-‘

Archie’s bottom lip trembled and he looked up at Ben with an expression almost identical to Sophie’s when she had been his age. ‘Daddy…’

Ben hesitated, staring at his son, wavered and opened his arms in defeat. ‘Ok.’

John laughed and grabbed the pushchair containing Samuel Scott and Bella Shirley, the nine month old twins. Sammy, the peaceful one who clearly took after Ben was fast asleep while the feisty yet lovable Bella was wriggling and staring at the world around her in wonder.

Sherlock, who had been tagging along beside Ben, shifted Kit to his other arm.

John had come over to help him tidy up his bookshelves after Mary kicked him out of the flat for ‘breathing too loudly’. The two men had been slowly stacking books in a mostly awkward silence when Mycroft had burst through the door, dragging his daughter behind him, with Kit clutched inelegantly to his arm, and begged Sherlock to babysit them for a few hours whilst he tried to buy Lestrade the ‘perfect anniversary gift’.

Sherlock had consented, mostly because he couldn’t stop himself shooting wistful looks at his ex-fiancé and it was most likely freaking John out.

Aaron had turned up about an hour later, much to the delight of six year old Violet, who adored her fourteen year old sort-of cousin. Aaron had looked considerably less thrilled to see the little girl.

They had made a fort, made cookies and for the first time in three months things weren’t completely awkward with John. It was almost like old times. John had cleaned cookie dough off Sherlock’s face with his fingers, Sherlock had agreed to play John’s favourite melody on the violin and then they cleaned up together whilst the kids played in the fort.

‘I’ve not seen you much, Sherlock.’ John had said quietly. ‘How are you?’

 Sherlock had hesitated, briefly, wondering if he could tell John about the nightmares, the nightmares of blood on his hands, all the people he killed, some stabbed, some shot, some with broken necks, all surrounding him, chanting his name, and then they smothered him with cold, dead hands and there was darkness.

And Moriarty was standing in front of him repeating, over and over, ‘Did you miss me?’

Sherlock wet the bed at least once every three or four days. Every night he would wake up in a cold sweat, writhing in the too cold sheets in the too empty bed as he tried to calm himself down.