• Rosie: C-c-c..
  • John: *gasp* She is going to say her first words!
  • Rosie: C-c-cwime sthene
  • John:
  • Sherlock:
  • John:
  • John: Explai-
  • Rosie: CWIME STHENE!
  • Sherlock, with teary eyes: They grow up so fast

John and Sherlock decide to take Rosie on a trip to the Holmes parents’ cottage and John is privately nervous at Rosie’s reaction.

But when they arrive, it’s clear there was nothing to worry about. Rosie is in raptures from the first moment, running about the garden while Sherlock’s father chases after her.

And then they all head inside, and Sherlock’s mother explains that they brought all of Mycroft and Sherlock’s old toys out of the loft, all spruced up and ready for Rosie to play with.

And it’s so wonderful to watch as John realises how loved Sherlock was as a child, and now, as Sherlock leans against the kitchen counter top, as relaxed as he’s ever been, pinching biscuits from a jar until his mother notices and jokingly swats him with a tea towel.

It’s all so beautifully natural and John’s heart aches with it. He hears Rosie giggling as Sherlock’s father shows her how to play Mouse Trap; Sherlock and his mother’s easy conversation:

“Is Myc not coming round, Sherlock?”

“Are you deliberately calling him that now just to piss h-um-annoy him? Think he’s with the foreign secretary, I don’t know.”

“Excellent, I can Skype call him again, he never answers his phone.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was joking when he said you-”

And all of a sudden the ache in John’s heart tightens and he slips out for some fresh air. He thought he had been practically silent but Sherlock is soon right behind him.

“Are you alright? Is there-did I do something wrong?”

And John’s eyes well up at the thought that Sherlock could even think that, and he shakes his head, voice choked: “No, I-of course not, it’s just I’ve-I never had-”

He gestures back inside, where Sherlock’s parents are chatting away to Rosie.

“I never had that,” John finally admits.

And the line of Sherlock’s mouth wavers, and he’s hugging John like his life depends on it.

“You have it here,” Sherlock tells him, soft yet fierce. “You have it now. Always.”

anonymous asked:

John realises how selflessly Sherlock takes care of Rosie, and it helps him realise that Sherlock is actually a person truly and completely capable of loving. Much more than any other person he has ever known.

John and Rosie have been living back at Baker Street for two months when Rosie starts crying in the middle of the day.  John is up to his elbows in soapy water at the sink, trying to clean all the dishes from the mess that was lunch, and Sherlock has been sitting at his microscope for the past hour, hardly moving, working on some experiment or another.  John knows better than to attempt to ask him to help with the dishes when he’s so engrossed.  

Rosie just sits in the middle of the sitting room, screaming.

John curses and, in his haste, he accidentally drops one of the sippy cups, successfully spilling water all over the floor.  He sighs and leans down to pick it up, chucking it back in the sink and throwing a towel down over the spill.  He’ll have to clean it up later, after he calms Rosie down.  It isn’t until he’s almost got his hands completely dry, however, that he realizes Rosie has stopped yelling.

He looks over and almost drops the towel.  Sherlock is standing by the window, Rosie curled up in his arms.  He’s got his lips pressed against her head, and he’s murmuring quiet words that John can’t hear.  Rosie hiccups and takes deep, shuddering breaths, her fists curled into Sherlock’s robe.  After a few minutes, she lays her head down on his shoulder.

John doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at them, and he can’t quite pinpoint why the image of them together like that is making his chest hurt.  He’s seen them play together in the past couple of months; he’s seen Sherlock play Rosie the violin; he’s seen Sherlock read to her.  John’s eyes slide back to the microscope at the table where Sherlock’s abandoned slides and samples sit. 

It wasn’t that he thought Sherlock was selfish enough to ignore a screaming baby in favour of his experiments.  But…Sherlock had been known to tune out almost everything when he was working.  He’d even tuned out the fire alarm once when Mrs. Hudson had accidentally set her stove on fire.  John had had to drag him out of the flat.

But somehow, at the first sign of Rosie’s distress, Sherlock had been pulled from his work.  And now, as John watches, he thinks about all of the other times Sherlock has done something like that in the past few months, smaller things that John hadn’t quite taken note of at the time.  Ignoring texts from Lestrade; coming home with new nappies when John hadn’t even realized they were almost out; emerging from his mind palace when Rosie climbed up onto the sofa with him.  Little things that seemed so small and yet weren’t.

John swallows hard, setting the rag aside, and that’s when Sherlock looks up at him, just the ghost of a smile gracing his features.  John smiles back, and his throat feels tight because Sherlock is happy like this.  He’s content with John’s child in his arms, rocking her until she’s calm, abandoning his own wants for hers.

Rosie falls asleep in Sherlock’s arms, and he takes her upstairs to put her into her crib.  When he comes back down John has made up his mind, and he’s never seen Sherlock look so shocked as when John kisses him right then and there.

Miscommunication

“Miss Anna is stupid.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was trying to undo the largest possible knot that a four-year-old could ever create on her shoelaces and regarded Rosie’s frowny face with curiosity.

“What kind of a crime against common sense could your art teacher have committed?”

A small huff escaped from the pouted lips as Rosie tugged on one of her short plaits.

“She said I couldn’t finish my work at home. And that one picture is enough.”

“One picture is usually enough for your art lessons, isn’t it? Sometimes you even continue to draw the same thing on the next day.”

“Yes, but…” the bottom lip was now out. And trembling. And blue eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

Oh, boy.

If he had Rosie in tears in the changing room, some idiot from the daycare may think he was kidnapping her or whatever they thought in cases like that and no kind of document (he actually carried one, just in case) was going to save him from having John called at that blasted conference of his.

“Come on, little Watson. Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“But…” she sniffed deeply (with a rather disgusting sound effect that attracted honest looks of admiration from the other children in the changing room). “But it was supposed to be a sup… sulp… you know. The unexpected thing!”

“Surprise?”

Of all times for John to be away…

“Yes! That one. And if I tell you…”

He finally pulled the resisting laces apart and presented the shoe to Rosie, who pulled it on and started lacing it properly, her tongue stuck out to help concentration.

“But if you don’t tell me, we won’t be able to resolve the problem.”

She finally knotted the laces properly and stood up, allowing him to hand her the light jacket, as the June afternoon promised to be a bit rainy.

“I…” she sighed again, deeply.

Being usually on the morning (dropping-off-at-daycare) shift, he rarely had to deal with little Watson directly after her leaving the supposedly helpful institution. Her state of mind seemed perturbed by whatever the problem was and he felt suddenly underqualified to deal with that case. Sleepy? No problem. Grumpy? Experienced with grumpy. Hungry? Seven solutions, differing by the season of the year and her current preferences. In tears due to a missing sock? He kept spare pairs in his drawer, carefully ordered by the hue. He could even deal with sick, allergic and high on sugar.

But little Watson annoyed with the world at large was a new experience.

“I wanted to finish this” she finally said quietly and yet rebelliously, pulling a folded piece of paper from her small bee backpack.

It looked like a postcard. A postcard on which someone started to draw a flower. A rather nice rendition of a sprig of forget-me-nots, if he guessed correctly - especially when the little artist’s age was taken into account.

“A postcard with a flower, very appropriate, I suppose” he looked at her downcast face and pinched features. “Why wouldn’t Miss Anna allow you to finish it at home? And if she didn’t, why do you… Oh, you smuggled it out of the class? Should we ask uncle Greg to arrest you now?”

“B-but…!”

Calme toi, little Watson” he pushed her chin up in order to look her straight in the eyes. “Why was Miss Anna so adamant about you not taking this one to finish at home?”

“Because of the sup… the unexpected thing!”

“Ah” he blinked, trying to work out the vagaries of a young female teacher’s mind. “And why do you need two? If everyone else was making one?”

Rosie’s snort and eyeroll betrayed in a second how much of both nature and nurture went into that child’s upbringing. The eyeroll was all John, but the snort was one hundred percent him.

“Because other kids just need one. And I need two!”

He pressed his knuckles to his lips for a moment, looking for the right approach. Little Watson always had a reason. Even if he didn’t see it immediately, Rosamund always had a logical explanation to everything she did, even if that explanation might have been silly for everyone else (he always took her side, though, because, obviously, other people were stupid and they just couldn’t see).

“Very well. Why would other kids need one of these and you need two? What are you going to do with each of these?”

Rosie pursed her lips even more.

“I wanted to give one to Dad and one to you.”

“That’s… nice?” he raised his eyebrows in an encouraging expression. “But… why?”

She made another face (this one was pure John, absolutely), that one that said “silly Sherlock” (or “you idiot” if John was making it).

“Because it’s a Father’s Day card?” she said so softly he almost didn’t catch it.

But catch it he did.

He could predict what the daycare employees did if a child was crying when an adult was picking them up. He wasn’t sure what they did if an adult was the one with the tears in his eyes.

CHAPTER 2