Chapter Text
John was struggling more than he would care to admit. Hidden behind the fine's and okay's was a void, one that Mary left and Rosie only partially filled. He could sometimes see Mary in their daughter, and that hurt the worst; knowing that he offered his emotions to another woman, let Rosie's mother fade away in his arms, and was now taking out the grief and guilt he felt on his innocent daughter, passing her off to Mrs. Hudson when he couldn't bare to see Mary's resemblance one more time that day. Rosie didn't deserve this treatment, John knew that. John's coming and going would developmentally hamper his precious daughter, and he knew that, too.
His daughter. Reminding himself of that always seemed to help him get control of himself. He took in a deep breath and stood up, hearing Rosie starting to stir in her crib. She was closing in on two, now, and was saying small sentences, walking and running, and was mostly potty trained, save for the occasional nighttime accident. John didn't feel right trying to think that he helped in any way. He placed the praise on Sherlock and Ms. Hudson, the saintly mother figure to Sherlock and John both.
Sherlock... He had really changed after Mary died, and even more now that John and Rosie were living in 221b with him. John wasn't sure whether to say it was for better or for-
"Dadda."
Rosie brought John from his thoughts, smiling and standing up in her crib, tiny hands holding onto the top of the wooden railing. She rubbed her eyes with a balled fist and John smiled softly.
"'Ello there my little cuppa," John cooed. Rosie beamed as John walked over - ever since John first called her his "cuppa", she loved it. He didn't know why she did, perhaps it was just the way he said it, but it seemed to calm and soothe her whenever he did. "How did you sleep?"
Rosie looked down in her crib as John stood there, clad in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. She was eyeing her favorite blanket, a bright pink plush one with a teddy bear patch sewn into one of the corners that Mrs. Hudson bought when they moved back into Baker Street. John bent down with a soft grunt and picked it up, hoisting Rosie up and over the crib railing in the process. He set her down on her feet, saying, "Go to the potty and you'll get your blanket, okay?"
As if suddenly realizing how badly she needed to go, she held the crotch of her pants and quickly waddled off to the slightly ajar bathroom door. John listened carefully for a moment to see if she made it or needed help, and when he saw her sit down on the seat he sighed in relief. As he turned to a black dresser to grab today's garments, the bedroom door softly opened. He jumped and spun on his heels to face the door-
Sherlock stared wide-eyed back at him, wearing a white button up, black slacks, and his favorite blue bath robe.
John let out a harsh breath and immediately relaxed, shoulders lowering and fists releasing their fighting grip.
"Christ, Sherlock - Knock next time?" John breathed with exasperation, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other found his waist. Sherlock opened his mouth, paused, then spoke:
"I didn't realize you were awake. Considering your restless evening last night, I was going to bring Rosamund downstairs so you could 'sleep in' this morning." Sherlock glanced at the door, hearing Rosamund clambering off her training potty. John was too busy thinking through the surprise of Sherlock's considerate thought.
"I... thank you." John swallowed, avoiding Sherlock's eyes as he said the words.
"No need," Sherlock replied in his usual indifferent baritone, "You were already awake and-"
"No, for the forethought." John cut Sherlock off, knowing where his train of thought had already led him. He met his eyes, not so afraid of the vulnerability now that he said the hardest part. "Thank you for thinking of that and being willing to do it."
"Ah." Sherlock hummed. "Still, no need to thank me. As you are fond of reminding me, sleep is necessary for proper bodily functioning, and 'sleeping in' is merely a social construct of-"
"Lock!"
Rosie walked through the door opening and beamed at Sherlock, arms raised as she waddled towards him in her purple underwear, pajama bottoms discarded on the bathroom floor. John saw something rare of the old Sherlock, but far more common of the new Sherlock he had come to know over the past few months - this Sherlock smiled, warm and inviting. Realizing the change in Sherlock earlier likely caused the flare up of warmth and peace in John's chest at seeing the product of Sherlock's change in the flesh.
"You didn't wash your hands." Sherlock deduced and told her, firm but not mean. John knew this was the case, but must have had an odd look about him that made Sherlock question it when he glanced at John. He focused on Rosie after a second of glancing at John. "Go wash your hands, please."
She pouted.
"Rosamund..." He said in a warning, this-is-not-debatable tone. She whimpered in frustration and stomped off to the bathroom again, scowling. "I suppose today is dedicated to the Watson's interrupting me."
John smirked softly, seeing the abrasive bit of himself in his daughter's behavior that Sherlock had mentioned. John glanced at Sherlock and said, "I'll help her. We'll meet you downstairs." There was a hint of something in John's eyes that told Sherlock that John had something he wanted to mention, something about Sherlock, but John turned and followed Rosie to help her turn the faucet on and reach the sink. Sherlock hummed in mild acknowledgement and curiosity before he left, closing the door behind him. He went downstairs and resumed his position at the kitchen table, his laptop left open from when he noticed the time and went up the stairs to perform his 'thoughtful' deed.
Hm, thoughtful. Sherlock hadn't considered thoughtfulness as a good thing, before. Typically others told him to stop thinking so much. Or was that talking? Sherlock heard both whenever his mind was whirring with deductions and ideas.
Twenty minutes later Sherlock could hear Rosamund and her father descending the stairs as he researched information on an experiment he was considering. Rosie was singing a happy tune and John was chiding her to keep her blanket off the floor lest she trip and fall. The door to the flat opened and Sherlock murmured, "Good morning, Rosamund. John."
"Lockie!" Rosie cheered and ran toward Sherlock sitting in his chair. Sherlock twisted and reached out just in time to catch her as she tripped on her blanket.
"No running in doors, little Watson." He chided her softly as he lifted her, kissing her cheek before he turned her around and sat her on his thigh. He draped the trailing edge of her blanket over her pastel pink trousers, arm holding her jumper-clad torso in place, as he said, "Why don't we play the bubble game while your father fixes himself tea?"
"Bubbals," she clapped excitedly and watched Sherlock poke his laptop and move a weirdly shaped ball around on the table, pressing on it with a finger every so often. When she looked back, The Bubbal Game was in front of them.
Sherlock led Rosie through the task of making the solution to blow bubbles through an online flash game while John made his own concoction in his mug. He made a cup of tea for Sherlock as well, remembering how he liked his tea, and poured a little of Sherlock's into a smaller glass for Rosie. Whatever Sherlock or John ate or drank, Rosie wanted to try, and one of the few things she liked so far was Sherlock's favorite flavor of tea, just with more milk and sugar. John smiled, remembering how her face scrunched up one time when she dared to try John's straight black coffee.
John let Rosie's tea cool before she gave Sherlock and Rosie their tea, keeping Sherlock's water in the kettle to keep his drink warm. Sherlock hummed a thank you before he took a sip, and Rosie reached for John's hand where her favorite sippy cup - a superhero themed cup with activity book stickers covering the outside - was being held.
"What do you say, Rosie?" John prompted, giving her a look.
"Pwease?" Rosie whined, and John set her sippy cup down, checking the lid to make sure it was on tight. "Dank you."
"Your welcome, cuppa." John kissed the top of her head then grabbed the newspaper from next to Sherlock's laptop, walking around the side of the table to sit across from them. John read the front page and his eyebrows raised. "Sherlock?"
"Lestrade already reported the errors to the press," Sherlock remarked. "They'll have a revised story printed by tomorrow morning."
"How could they report it this incorrectly?" John wondered aloud, remembering the twenty or so reporters standing outside the crime scene tape yesterday. The poor woman's death was deemed a suicide by the media before Sherlock and John had even arrived, and despite John tackling her murderer to the cobblestone street about six hours later, they were still pushing this narrative.
"John, you're asking me to understand the incompetence of others," Sherlock reminded John, watching Rosie point to the colored bottles she wanted to mix together. "If you cannot understand it, how do you expect me to?"
"Touche." John sighed, reaching for his tea. He was about to sip it when his phone rang in his jeans' pocket. Sherlock perked up, recognizing the ringtone.
"That's Lestrade." He grinned and looked down at Rosamund, who was now trying to climb off his lap. He helped her down and picked up her blanket as she walked across the flat to her toys on the floor. John had the phone pressed to his ear, greeting the caller with his name.
"Doctor Watson."
Sherlock stood and dropped Rosie's blanket beside her on the floor, then took off toward the door. He grabbed his coat and raced down the stairs to knock on Ms. Hudson's door, but she was already exiting her flat and turning to look up the stairs when he was about halfway down.
"Ah, perfect timing as always, Ms. Hudson. Lestrade has a case."
"Oh," she smiled, "Where's John?"
"On the phone with Lestrade, still." Sherlock sighed. Ms. Hudson smirked slightly - Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why.
"Good thing I was coming up to visit, anyways." Ms. Hudson patted Sherlock on the arm once he reached the bottom of the stairs and tugged his coat on. Just then, they both heard John open and close the flat door. As he began to descend the stairs, Ms. Hudson whispered, "Don't let John overwork himself this time. He can't go around tackling thugs on every case. He'll hurt his shoulder."
"I'm not his keeper, Ms. Hudson," Sherlock gave her a sincere look, a promise in his eyes, "but I will not let him be injured, just as I've always strived to do." She gave Sherlock a look of worry, but wisely chose not to continue the conversation. John turned the corner of the stairwell and met Sherlock's eyes, then Ms. Hudson's.
"Ah, good, I see you've already asked her." John looked at Sherlock. "Lestrade wants to see us at The Yard."
Sherlock frowned, confused. "Why?"
"A man showed up claiming he was being chased by something then became unresponsive. They've got him sitting in Lestrade's office right now."
"Then why are we going?" Sherlock scowled.
"Not entirely sure, but he is covered in blood and had a pocketknife on his person."
Sherlock's frown faded and he stared thoughtfully at John, just as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Hm. Interesting."