Hovering over the crib, Sherlock felt more like a mother bird than a father. He flitted around the nursery, tidying up for whenever John decided to return from the grocery. But his nerves continually returned him to the crib, watching the sleeping child within.
Sherlock gently leaned over the rail, bracing himself with one hand as the other caressed his child's silky soft cheek. At his touch, a small, quiet sigh escaped the babe's mouth, moving her tiny chest up and down, momentarily breaking her steady rhythm. The sound brought a smile to Sherlock's face.
John rarely left Sherlock alone with Mia. Sherlock was positive it was because John thought Sherlock would do some rash experiment on her. It made him chuckle, the baritone sound filling the tiny yellow and teal room. His caress of Mia's cheek paused, he inhaled deeply. Baby powder, diapers, lotion, mild hints of spit up. His heart swelled with joy at these scents. They resembled nothing of the scents that permeated his former life; blood, latex gloves, stale cab air, and Anderson. Briefly, he wondered what Anderson was doing these days, but swept the thought away as Mia stirred underneath his hand.
Bending slightly, Sherlock plucked his daughter from her bed, swiftly swaddling her in a nearby blanket and clutching her to his chest. Fussing was something Mia rarely did, and when she did in fact cry, John was often the one first to the scene. Sherlock didn't fault John for his diligence. John was indeed the more caring of the couple, more inclined to understand Mia's wails, more apt to proceed gently while playing peek-a-boo.
But Sherlock reveled in the act of fathering this beautiful bundle in his arms. She was sweet, endearing, trusting just as her Daddy was. But underneath her mop of dark curls, behind her bright blue eyes, Mia was as sharp, tactful, and cunning as Sherlock. She had truly gotten the best of both men. For that, Sherlock was grateful. He cherished the time he got to spend with Mia, reciting Shakespeare, telling her stories of when Daddy and Papa used to go running through the streets of London chasing the bad guys. She had a habit of cocking her head to the side as Sherlock told her stories; Sherlock was positive nothing in the natural world could make him happier than that pose.
He absentmindedly rubbed the child's back as he walked down the stairs into the sitting room. He wandered over to his chair by the fireplace, sitting carefully so as not to disturb the angel on his shoulder. When he was settled, Sherlock began singing a lullaby, and soon both father and daughter drifted off to sleep.
When he returned, the only sounds that met John at the door to the flat were the dulcet tones of his loves, snoring quietly by the fire.