Sherlock Holmes curls his fingers around his daughter’s tiny, perfectly formed foot.
Feels the weight of it, the warmth of it, press against his palm.
Quite without his consciously deciding to, he brings it to his mouth to kiss and as he does he finds his throat has suddenly grown tight-
She is small, and vulnerable, and perfect, his daughter, and the knowledge of this fills him up with more feeling than he can possibly articulate.
So he closes his eyes. Doesn’t even try to. Molly lies asleep to his left, breathing softly, her hair matted against her head and bedraggled, her face pale from tiredness. She still smells vaguely of blood and sweat; The birth had been hard on her, harder than Sherlock had prepared himself for, and now she needs to rest-
As he thinks this, as he remembers this morning’s panic, the fear that his Molly would be taken from him, he has to force himself not to grip the baby tighter-
He has, after all, learned the hard way about holding onto things too tightly.
And for that reason he makes himself loosen his grip. Makes himself breathe deeply and calmly. He doesn’t want to alarm his daughter, or her mother: The danger from both is past. In the morning, he tells himself bracingly, in the morning Molly will wake up and he’ll show her the wonderful little being they made together. They’ll talk about a name, though personally Sherlock’s rather set on “Mary.” They’ll coo and smile at their child, and be thankful for her presence, and when he imagines that Sherlock’s heart feels so great and mighty and full in his chest that he fancies it might burst-
And so he holds his daughter close.
Breathes in the scent of her.
She gurgles slightly in her sleep but doesn’t wake; Feeling thankful for her continued slumber, Sherlock returns his investigations. He feels the delicate porcelain of her skull and marvels that it take up little more than a quarter of his palm. He touches her toes. Her pudgy little hands. In length, each one matches his thumb, they’re so small. They flex reflexively, even in sleep. He runs his knuckles gently over ten miniscule, perfect toenails, their edges scratching slightly against his skin, and smiles at the marvellous symmetry of it all-
Beside him Molly turns in her sleep, murmuring his name. Reaching out for him. He takes her hand and feels, for the first time in his life, that he has something truly precious in his keeping.
He is glad of it.
When John finds him later that night, he’s fallen asleep.
One hand is in Molly’s, and his little daughter is curled in against his chest.
This is my Fall Altar dedicated to Luna )0( It is full of crystals, “witchy” books and family heirlooms. The porcelain skull belonged to my Grandmother in which she used as a coffee mug! X) Blessed be♡