One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Its what we're used to

tarame10 this is a little thing for you from the prompt about having John always pressing kisses to Rosie's injuries and one day he does it to Sherlock. Hope it's alright! -V

It's always too sudden, she's always too far ahead, safely in sight but still to far to grab when she stumbles and falls, her knee getting scuffed on the concrete.

Her bottom lip wobbles, her soft blonde curls hanging limply as though they too are affected by her mood and her eyes tear up slightly.

Sherlock's there in a second, gone from Johns side and already lifting Rosie into his arms and fussing over her before Johns truly sunk in.

Tears are running down her face, falling into the soft creases that laughter creates on her face and John can't help but smile. If he'd known Sherlock could be like this...if someone had told him eight years ago when they first shared a flat he would have laughed. Sherlock playing peekaboo and talking in a high pitched voice whilst he named the various pigeons and ducks that litter that park.

He heads over to them, his steps even, the limp long gone and his hands perfectly steady as he scoops his daughter into his arms.

"My gosh what happened here?" He says in a playful voice.

"Daddy!" And the word is said between giggles, her injury long forgotten despite the small trickle of blood down from her knee already being delicately wiped away with a cotton handkerchief procured from thin air.

"Come John, I believe our little bee requires ice cream to make it all the way home" Sherlock says softly as he begins to lead them home.

In the time Rosie has got to know sherlock she has wound him around her little finger, she knows exactly how to get him to do anything and he always gives in, even when John says no, he'll only find a more discrete way of fulfilling her wishes.

They head to the Willy Wallers ice cream parlour on the way home and They get Rosie a busy bee ice cream made of wafers and honey with chocolate chip eyes.

She stays silent without complaint, not noticing the honey smudged on her cheek and John pretends not to notice the soft smile of his detective as he watches her.

They get home with no more incidents and John gets a warm wet cloth and cleans Rosie's knee gently, careful never to hurt her before sticking a pink plaster over it with little yellow bees on it. He then presses a gentle kiss over the plaster.

"There all better" he says and he smiles more as Rosie's eyes watch him in awe.

"Thankyou daddy!" Is all she says before hugging him tightly.

****

This is something of a habit. Every injury Rosie ever gains, even just a simple knock against an inanimate object ie the coffee table and a single kiss will be pressed to the area.

It's what he's used to.

It's parenting law, to press a kiss despite there being no affects other that psychological, both John and Sherlock know this but they never question this fact.

And so with this habit ingrained and yet never spoken. It leads to one night. Sat in the kitchen under old fluorescent lighting with Sherlock sat, legs dangling, on the edge of the table, the edge of his shirt pulled up, slightly bloodied, to reveal a gash caused by a miscalculated five and getting caught on a fish hook that was then ripped out before he'd even realised it snag him.

It's what leads to john then being sat on one of the kitchen stools cleaning the wound and putting antiseptic on it and then iodine leaving a orange colour on the pale skin. He's careful with his movements as he always is, placing the gauze over it once he's used some steri-tape to hold the wound closed and brushing his thumbs over to stick down the edges.

And it's ingrained habit now.

It's what's he's used to.

It's this ingrained habit that he can't ever be rid of now as he leans forward brushing his lips softly over the gauze, not noticing the tensing of muscles and stifled gasp of his shocked friend.

He looks up at sherlock then, the mans looking away as if nothing happened and there's a faint tinge of pink on that soft pale skin and John cant help it. He'll tell himself that if all this goes to sh*t. That he couldn't help it when in all cases, that's not the truth. He knows exactly what he's doing.

You don't earn a name like john three-continents Watson for nothing.

His hand reaches up, certainty making his blue eyes seem clearer than ever before and his palm moving to cup a sharp jawline, his thumb brushing a soft delicate Cupid bow before he leans forward and kisses where his thumb has been.

He feels the man against him tense further before relaxing with a soft sound and tentatively kissing back, large yet slender hands wrapping around his waist, the movement sure but also inexperienced.

And he kisses him deeply, no words spoken, eyes falling shut yet finally seeing.

It's what they're used to.