it is what it is.
“What’ll be the title of this one, then?” Sherlock asks as he removes the red-haired wig from his head. He throws the wig cap away with wild abandon - he has at least four more - and ruffles out his curls.
How they can remain immaculate is beyond John’s reasoning, but then again, not everything can be explained by logic or reason. That’s why he’s around. “’The Red-Haired Stepchild’?” John muses with a shrug. He rips off the fake mustache with a hiss - he thought that ghastly thing would come off cleaner - and rubs his upper lip. He sees Sherlock smirking in delight and throws the mustache at him. “I’ll come up with the title after lunch. Tea?”
“Please,” Sherlock replies with the tiniest of smiles. He falls upon his new chair, a more modern uptake of the same one lost in the fire, and puts his feet upon the table.
“Just going to check on Rosie first,” John adds as an afterthought before disappearing to the upstairs bedroom. He comes back down a few moments after; the coos and happy tone in his voice signal his return before Sherlock even sees his feet on the stairs.
By the time John and Rosie are in the sitting room, Sherlock is grinning and bright-eyed. He holds his hands out expectantly. John pulls Rosie closer to him with a pout.
“I’m her father, I get to see her first,” he reasons before planting kiss after kiss on his girl’s head. She kicks with glee and flails her stubby arms.
Sherlock crosses his not-so-stubby arms and glares at the sight. “Well, I’m her Papa,” he argues, “and she’s still getting to know me.”