A/N Hey My Lovelies!!! So.... Kristin5687 requested that I write this one shot, so here it is!!! I am on a fucking roll babies!!! Its based on a prompt she tagged me in on instagram, I couldn't get the picture to upload on here, but oh well!! The song I used is an old Irish folk song (I'm pretty sure it's Irish, but it may be Gaelic...If you know, feel free to correct me!) called Buachaill On Eirne. The version I have included is by Celtic Thunder, but I'm not 100% sure the lyrics match... I just prefer this version...Anyway...Enjoy<3
John had always known that he wanted kids, the knowledge just kind of sitting in the back of his mind since he was a teenager. He knew he wanted two, a boy and a girl, with a happy wife and maybe a dog. He knew he wanted to grow old with his spouse, raising their kids in a comfortable house.
Even after Sherlock Holmes stumbled into his life, he clung to that dream, forcing it to the front of his mind whenever he started to think that maybe the detective wasn't so emotionless after all.
No, stop that Watson. Sherlock Holmes isn't interested in a sad little soldier with an adrenaline addiction and a broken mind.
Then Sherlock had died and Mary stepped into his life. He had settled, he could admit that now, but Sherlock was gone and Mary seemed to really like him, for whatever reason.
He had tried to make a good life with Mary, they had gotten married, had a daughter, and for a while, he had even been able to convince himself that he loved her, that he was happy.
Of course, as it always seemed to go, everything fell apart around him far too soon.
Now, Mary was dead, John was back at Baker Street with his daughter and Sherlock, and things seemed to finally be, rather oddly, in place.
He smiled softly as he watched his flat mate trying to calm his fussing daughter, a fondness he had never felt for his late wife pulling at his heart.
"John, something's wrong. Watson won't stop fussing, and she won't take her bottle." He laughed, reaching for the baby and gently slipping a finger along her gums, feeling the telltale lump of a new tooth breaking through the skin.
"She's teething, grab me the clove oil from her kit." Sherlock hurried to obey, a testament to his frustration level, and handed John the vial of oil.
John couldn't resist the smile that pulled at his lips as he rubbed the oil over his daughter's gums. He could see the discomfort on her tiny face, but he could also read the awe that crossed as she glanced at Sherlock, watching the lanky detective gingerly lower himself into his own chair. The injuries Sherlock had sustained at the morgue and Sherrinford had left him with lingering aches and pain, proving that the unstoppable detective wasn't nearly as strong as he thought he was.
Once Rosie had quieted down some, John leaned back in his chair, wiping the drool off the child's chin. He searched through his memories, trying to remember the lyrics to the old lullaby his Nan used to sing to himself and Harry.
Buachaill ón Éirne mé 's bhréagfainn féin cailín deas óg
He felt the questioning eyes of his flatmate, but simply continued singing, his voice wavering from years of disuse.
Ní iarrfainn bó spré léi tá mé fhéin saibhir go leor
He felt the tension in his daughter's tiny body start to lesson as he sang
'S liom Corcaigh da mhéid é, dhá thaobh
a' ghleanna 's Tír Eoghain
He thought back to the nights when his father would get too drunk to care for them, the nights his Nan would call them over and sing them the song.
'S mura n-athraí mé béasaí 's mé n' t-oidhr'
are Chontae Mhaigh Eo
It didn't take long for little Rosamund to fall asleep, the soothing notes of the lullaby coaxing her out of her distressed state.
Once he was certain she was asleep, he made to move, to take the sleeping child to bed, but a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him.
Sherlock was slouched in his chair, his normally bright eyes slowly dimming as sleep took him.
Rachaidh mé 'márach ag dhéanamh leanna fán choill
Gan choite gan bád gan gráinnín brach' are bith liom
John continued singing, watching the other man as he shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
Ach duilliúr na gcraobh mar éadaigh leapa os mo chionn
'S óró sheacht m'anam déag thú 's tú 'féachaint orm anall
He smiled as Sherlock drifted off to sleep, still singing softly to his flatmate. He had seen Sherlock sleep before, that wasn't the surprising thing about the scenario.
What shocked him was how easily Sherlock had fallen asleep, how the younger man still seemed to trust him with everything he was.
Buachailleacht bó, mo leo, nár chleacht mise ariamh
Ach ag imirt 's ag ól le h'ógmhná deasa an tsliabh
John pushed the dark thoughts out of his mind, not wanting to see his best friend's pain again. He saw it enough in his dreams.
Má chaill mé mo stór ní moide gur chaill mé mo chaill
A's ní mó liom do phóg ná'n bhróg atáim ag caitheamh le bliain
John finished the song, lingering for a few moments before quietly rising, taking his sleeping daughter up to their room.
He tucked her in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Good night Bumble." He whispered, grabbing the baby monitor before quietly making his way downstairs. He hesitated when he reached the bottom step, smiling fondly at the sleeping detective.
There was no doubt that he had always felt something for the other man, though he had spent so many years shoving those thoughts and feelings aside, now he had no idea where to begin.
Sherlock sighed, shifting in his seat slightly. Fondness spread through John's chest and he reached for the blanket that was draped over the back of the sofa. He stepped closer to his sleeping friend, covering his too-thin frame with the fabric, leaning closer to make sure he was fully covered.
He glanced down at the other man, noting the way he looked younger than before, the stress he carried on his face fading as he slept.
Regret and pain tightened in his chest, pulling tears to his eyes.
"I'm so sorry Sherlock." He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his friend's forehead, silently praying it would be enough to start the healing process.
"Mmm? J-John?" His eyes met the pale silver ones of his flatmate, his body tensing in fear. They stayed like that for several seconds, Sherlock blinking rapidly in an attempt to dispel the sleep from his eyes. "Wh-what- J-John-"
"S-Sorry, I uh-" John glanced down at Sherlock's lips, any fear or concern suddenly fading as he thought back on the years of pain he could have saved himself if he had just acted on his instincts that first night.
He closed the gap between them, pressing a soft kiss to the other man's lips.
He felt Sherlock tense against him and moved to pull away, an apology ready to form on his lips.
Sherlock sighed and leaned into the kiss, one of his hands cupping John's jaw timidly.
It was simple, soft, and everything John hadn't known he needed.
It had taken them too many years to get to this point, and now that they had finally crossed that invisible line they had imposed upon themselves so long ago, John knew that there was no way he was going to let the crazy detective go.
