“No. You don't get to just walk back in here and think everything will be okay! No. It has been two years. Two fucking years, Sherlock!”
“Shut up. You left us. And I don't just mean (Son's Name) and I. I mean everyone. John, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, Molly-”
“Molly and My-”
“Don't interrupt me, dammit.”
Sherlock shut up after that, casting his glance to the side for a brief second. After his reunion with John, which didn't go quite as planned, he thought things would go much smoother with his fiancée. Turns out, he was wrong. Again.
“Can I speak now?” He nodded. “Good. Now you listen to me. You jumped. You died. And I had to hear about it from John. I was sitting here with (S. Name) and you were off faking your suicide. Two years...”
Sherlock edged a bit closer, careful not to anger you further. He still didn't speak, knowing you were about to speak again.
“Not a word. Not a breath. Your son is four years old. He has spent the past two years without a father. Without his father! Two years without you. Sherlock...”
He could see the tears building up in the corners your eyes, (e/c) orbs glassy. Just as he was about to reach out for you, a quiet voice called out. It made his entire form freeze.
“Mommy?” The young boy stood in the doorway, blanket in hand. He was rubbing at his tired eyes, legs wobbling as he walked closer to you and Sherlock. “I heard yelling..”
You pushed right past Sherlock, kneeling down in front of your boy and resting your hands on his sides. “Hey, you,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his dark curls. “Sorry about that. Let's get you back to bed. It is far too late for a cute little boy to be up. He needs to be getting his strength up so he can be ready to fight the dragons in the morning.”
(S. Name) giggled sleepily, clinging to your neck as you lifted him up and off the floor. He rested his head on your shoulder and then noticed the other adult in the room. “Mommy,” he patted your back to get your attention and pointed to Sherlock. “He looks like the pitures of daddy..”
You turned to face the man, arms holding tightly to your son. “We'll talk about it in the morning, baby.” Before you could take him to bed, Sherlock put a hand on your shoulder stopping you, the other laying on (S. Name's) back.
Your eyes went wide, shock written on your features. He waltzed in here and now wants to put his son to bed? You refused to admit that your increased pulse was because of him and his close proximity. You were just tired. That's all.
“I can't forgive you.”
“I know.” Your grip loosened as Sherlock's arms slipped around the young boy and pulled him to his chest. The boy was already falling back to sleep, his head nestling against his father's shoulder. His fingers were curled around Sherlock's shirt, a content smile on his face. The sight of your boys back together made your heart flutter and your own smile grown. But when Sherlock looked up at you, you swiftly hid it and looked away.
“Come on. Let's get you to bed,” Sherlock murmured, placing a kiss to the top of his head and walking off with his own grin. Things may not be the best now, but in time it would heal.
For now, the family, though broken, was back together.