Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He was at the laundromat, again.

John Watson stood on the hard linoleum, a crying, vomit-covered baby in one arm, rolled up comforter in the other. He bounced Poppy on his hip absent-mindedly while he scanned the bank of washers and chose one not in use. A few other late-night patrons in desperate need of clean laundry milled about the laundromat, all sharing the dead-eyed stare of the chronically sleep deprived. Near John's feet, leaning against a dryer that shuddered alarmingly during its cycle, Milo played with his toy plane, making whooshing noises with his lips. John shifted Poppy a little higher, adjusting his grasp so her plump body didn't slither out of his arm, and stuffed the soiled comforter into the washer with his free arm. He quickly dumped in detergent, deposited coins, and pressed the button to start the wash.

If you'd asked John five years ago where he'd expected to end up, he probably would not have predicted an all-night laundromat with two children under the age of five, one of whom was still covered in chunks of her own throw-up. Five years ago he'd been finishing med school, with bright hopes of a shining career as a doctor. He'd enjoyed a varied love life and he'd been content to have fun while he could. Then he met Mary. She'd been in the nursing program and they'd met through mutual friends. John wasn't sure if true love was the right way to describe his feelings for Mary, but certainly fondness had been in play. Fondness graduated to commitment with the positive pregnancy test six months into their relationship. Not one to shirk duties, John proposed and, nine months later, Milo Tobias Watson came screaming into the world with a red, scrunched face and a thatch of blonde hair. Any mediocre feelings towards Mary on John's part didn't transfer to Milo; John fell in love with his son at first sight. His own lack of a father figure for most of his life left John promising fervently to spare his own son that same experience. From then on, he committed himself to making it work with Mary.

Not that the relationship ever came easily for them after the honeymoon period had faded. Though Mary had a sweetness about her, she also had a cunning, manipulative streak that came out when they fought - which was more often than John would have liked. Mary could be selfish and demanding one moment, and then turn around and be giving and generous the next. Her mood swings created an atmosphere of inconsistency that wore on both John and Milo.

It was her second pregnancy that brought deep depression with it. Harsh words turned to crying jags that would last days. John tip-toed around his wife, always feeling as though he were walking on eggshells. The pregnancy also left Mary incredibly sick all the time; morning sickness was more like all-day sickness and she struggled to put on any weight during the nearly nine months of pregnancy.

Poppy Lorelei Watson was born one month early, malnourished, and barely making a peep as she surveyed her new surroundings with bright, curious eyes. When Mary left the hospital, it was without her new baby, as Poppy had to stay in an incubator until she gained the strength to survive on her own. John felt like a giant when he held his new daughter and, once again, looking at the face of his child filled him with so much joy and love that he vowed a second time to try harder with his marriage and commitment.

Mary, too, seemed to renew her efforts at being present in the relationship. Gone was the mercurial temperament, the flashes of anger, and the deep valleys of anguish. She balanced a part-time nursing job while sharing parenting duties with John. He soon fell into a comfortable rut of daily routine and - in his mind - domestic bliss.

His life, however, never seemed suited to routine. Just as soon as they found their new comfort zone, something new came along like a truck barreling out of control, and smashed through their contentment. This time, it came in the form of a severe headache. The shooting pain in Mary's temple was so severe, she'd needed to come home early from work. John found her on the sofa when he came home that evening, her eyes squeezed closed, while Milo played quietly on the floor and Poppy grizzled and fussed in her playpen.

The headaches got worse over the course of the next week and finally John insisted she have it looked at. The doctors said the tumor had probably been forming for a long time, but it hadn't effected anything until now. Surgery was out of the question and success with radiation therapy unlikely. Regardless, they began treatment as soon as possible. John's new routine involved holding Mary while she threw up the contents of her stomach, her thin body wracked with shivers. It involved arranging baby sitters so he could drive Mary to her treatments, and making sure the children were completely quiet afterwards while their mother slept fitfully in their room. It involved night sweats and insomnia and more bottles of pills than John could keep track of.

And yet... none of it worked. Mary grew painfully thin, with hollow eyes and stretched skin. Her blonde hair fell out and she wore knitted caps and silk scarves to cover her baldness. Finally, they agree that the treatment wasn't worth the strife and John set about preparing for their last days together. They contacted Hospice, made final arrangements, and after that, they spent their final days focused on each other and the children. Mary held Poppy and Milo as much as she could, memorizing their faces as she rocked them to sleep each night. Soon, though, she could no longer hold them, her body sapped of strength. She spent more and more days in bed, sleeping twenty-two hours out of twenty-four. The hospice nurses stayed longer and longer, easing her pain with morphine and trying to counsel John through the grief process. When she did wake, she and John spent what time they could talking about what she wanted for her children's life.

It was a sunny, spring day when Mary didn't wake up. Her eyes remained closed and John sat by her bedside, holding a brittle hand that felt as delicate as a bird's skeleton, and said his good-byes. He watched her breaths slow and become shallow, until she took one last breath and was gone. It was as easy as a whisper and John suddenly found himself alone in the world with two small children.

He'd skipped right to the anger stage of grief and spent far too long in that vicious, teeth-gnashing phase. His heart felt like a hard lump of coal sitting in his chest, blazing in furious pain when he thought about his lot in life. Looking at Poppy, not yet a year, made him want to go into the kitchen and break every piece of wedding china in their cupboards. The anger filled him and fueled him; it was his son's scared face after he'd yelled at Milo for making too much noise that finally shook John from this stage and convinced him to seek therapy.

Now, two years later, John was mostly okay... most of the time. He still went to therapy once a month and sometimes - particularly now - he felt like he didn't know what he was doing. But he'd found several reliable baby sitters who watched the children while he was at work and, when he wasn't at work, he split his time between sleep and making sure Milo and Poppy were happy and well-adjusted. John Watson's favorite hobby was sleep, mainly due to the fact that he never managed to get much of it. Tonight, in fact, he was missing out on his precious few hours of sleep because nearly three-year-old Poppy woke with a fever and thrown up all over herself and the last of the clean bedding. John had eyed the overwhelming stack of laundry piled near his washing machine and remembered that he'd meant to call a repair man to fix the non-functioning machine. Knowing he had no choice, he'd gathered Poppy's bedding, Poppy herself, and woke up a bleary-eyed Milo to make the trek to the one all-night laundromat he knew about, several blocks away.

Getting the bedding going, John took Milo and Poppy into the customers-only bathroom and tried to wash the worst of the sick off of Poppy's pajamas. He'd forgotten to grab clean night-clothes for her on their way out, so she would have to look a mess until he had her blankets clean and dry. Returning to the bank of machines, John found several uncomfortable chairs to settle in. He rocked Poppy gently, touching her forehead to make sure her fever hadn't grown worse. He was sure it was just a virus, or even a case of over-tiredness. Milo sat in a chair next to him, his head drooping forward as sleep threatened to overtake him. John, too, felt his eyes grow heavy, the swish of the washing machines soothing him to slumber.

It was at that precise moment that the laundromat door flew open and a tall, disheveled man with a mess of black curls stalked in. His electric blue eyes roved all over the room and his thin, long-fingered hands twitched at his sides. He wore sweat pants and a ratty coat, both of which had seen better days and could probably have used a turn in one of the washing machines. The man surveyed the room and then began pacing up and down the rows of dryers, muttering softly to himself. John was fully awake now, eyes on the man warily. He snaked his hand into Milo's and squeezed comfortingly while his other arm tightened around Poppy.

The man stopped in the middle of one of the rows and now seemed to be counting the ceiling tiles. Suddenly, he leapt on top of one of the driers with a clang and poked at a tile.

"It's here! I know it's here!" The man said in a singsong voice. "I left it here!"

Alerted to the ruckus, the old woman working the night shift at the laundromat came out of her office and tutted. "Sherlock Holmes, get off my driers!"

The man - Sherlock - turned his manic gaze to the woman, but surprisingly complied. He climbed off the drier and looked meekly at the woman. "M-my things. I left them here."

"You did." She said, nodding. "I have them in my office, remember?"

"Oh. Right." Sherlock's voice took on a far away tone. "I'll just...."

"Sit over there, dear." The woman waved to the row of chairs in front of the washing machine. "I'll get your things and call your ride."

Subdued, Sherlock drifted to the row and chairs and took a seat several spaces away from John. His eyes fixed on the swirling washing machine that held Poppy's comforter and he stared, open-mouthed, at the whirl of colorful fabric. After a few minutes, the old woman came bustling out with a tattered messenger bag.

"Here you are, Sherlock." She handed the bag to Sherlock, who took it without looking away from the machine.

The woman noticed John staring and she smiled at him. "Don't worry, dear. He's harmless. Has a bit of a struggle, you see... but he's a good soul. I'm Martha Hudson, by the way."

Martha held out her hand and John briefly dropped Milo's hand to shake it. His eyes darted back to Sherlock. "Exactly what sort of struggle?"

Martha glanced back at Sherlock, then whispered from behind her hand. "Drugs. His brother's been trying to get him clean, but it looks like he's relapsed again. Don't worry, I've called his brother and he'll be here to pick him up soon. But he really is harmless. Just gets a bit confused."

It was at some point during this exchange that Milo slipped out of his chair and padded over to the raven-haired man. He stood in front of him, staring, wide-eyed and John only noticed this when he heard Milo's high-pitched voice asking a question.

"What's your name?" Milo said, poking at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock turned his vacant stare towards Milo and cocked his head. John jumped up and brushed past Martha. "Milo! Come back here!"

The electric blue gaze met John's stern face and John's breath hitched in his throat. Sherlock's eyes were so intense that John couldn't help but be drawn to him. He stared for a moment, transfixed, before shaking his head and pulling Milo back from the man. Sherlock watched, his brow furrowing.

"H-how old?" He finally asked, waving his hand at Milo.

"He's almost five." John muttered. "Sorry we bothered you."

"No bother. No bother." Sherlock said, rocking a bit in his chair. "He's got your face."

John couldn't help but laugh at this because what Sherlock said was true; Milo was his miniature doppelganger, the spitting image of himself at that age. "He does." John said, amused. "Do you have children?"

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed at John's question. But before he could say anything more, a prim-looking man with sparse ginger hair bustled through the door and made a beeline for Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" The man snapped. "I've been worried sick."

"Worry-wart." Sherlock mumbled, allowing the man to haul him to his feet.

"This really is the last straw." The man - presumably Sherlock's brother - said, his voice tight and frustrated. "I'm booking you back into the rehab center tomorrow. No getting out of it this time."

Sherlock's brother nodded politely to John as he pulled Sherlock behind him. "Terribly sorry, sir."

John watched them leave, his mind working to process what had just happened in the space of no more than fifteen minutes. He felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him, but he wasn't exactly sure why.

"Daddy?"

John glanced down to Milo, who held out a slim wallet towards him. "What's this?"

He took the wallet and flipped it open. Inside was a small amount of cash, a credit card, and an I.D. card belonging to one Sherlock Holmes.

John sighed, "Guess we'll have to return this to its owner, buddy. But not tonight. Let's get things finished up and go home."