Michaela Greer Holmes was quite possibly the most accomplished person in the room, relatively speaking, of course.
The little one had astounded absolutely everyone at the tender age of 44 hours.
She had completely thrown her paternal Grandfather, Sherlock, off his game by arriving in an extraordinarily ordinary way. Her grand entrance had unfolded precisely according to the plan – to the letter, in fact - in the maternity ward at St. Bart's.
Sherlock didn't just think outside the box – he actually lived there. Not even he could have predicted a debut this boring. It just wasn't done in his world. Ask anyone in his family circle – in-laws and out-laws alike – and they would wholeheartedly agree.
Trust his frankly no-nonsense Goddaughter-turned-daughter-in-law to deliver her first child in such a sensible manner. Rosie Holmes never did suffer fools gladly – and evidently that included a zero tolerance for foolishness in herself, as well.
Michaela Greer had not only amazed, but had highly impressed (and amused) her grandmother, Molly Hooper, by throwing her grandpa Sherlock so completely off track with that routine and uneventful arrival. Though many people had come arguably close over the years, nobody had quite been able to manage to derail his sensibilities quite as thoroughly as she did now.
It was their brother-in-law Greg Lestrade's assessment of Sherlock's reaction that Molly liked best – the retired New Scotland Yard DI, always with his hands busy these days – sometimes with a guitar, but many times at some sort of renovation project in the cottage he shared with his wife Eurus - had said with the dry sarcasm he had practically trademarked that Michaela Greer had "solidly knocked Sherlock's bubble off the centre of his level."
Michaela had relieved her maternal Grandfather, John Watson, by arriving that astoundingly routine manner – something that neither of her parents had done. The back seat of a speeding car and a holding cell at a remote maximum security facility were hardly standard operating procedure for the idea birthing experience. Like Sherlock, John had fully expected drama, because hey – that's just how the Baker Street boys rolled - and prepared himself for every eventuality he could possibly think of. He was both stymied and immensely relieved when none of the dreaded yet strangely expected scenarios actually came to fruition.
Decades of being flatmates with Sherlock Holmes had taught him that life as he'd come to know it held few surprises anymore. That nothing exceptionally strange had actually transpired had been the most surprising thing of all. Trust his gorgeous, amazing new granddaughter to prove her old grandpa wrong.
"You are quite possibly the only person I will ever tolerate pointing out how mistaken I can be. Don't get used to it though, sweet one. It's strictly a limited time offer." He had held her and thought back to Mary, wondering what kind of a grandmother the ex-assassin might have made. A bloody protective one, no doubt, was the only conclusion he could really come up with on such short notice. The speculation didn't last long. A tiny grunt from his newborn granddaughter snapped him back to the present. John Watson was amazed to realize it was even possible to fall in love so solidly again. He had thought he had already given his entire heart to Rosie that very first time he had held her.
Michaela Greer had caused her Great Aunt Eurus Lestrade to smile wistfully as she cradled her, asking Greg if he ever wished they'd had the chance to be together back when they first met, when they would have still been young enough to have one of their own. The topic had honestly never come up before – it really hadn't occurred to either of them - so Greg wasn't quite sure how to respond. He paused thoughtfully as he softly traced the lines of their great-niece's face with his finger, memorizing every detail of her flawless little features. When she scrunched her face and appeared to smile, he preferred to think she was tickled and delighted at his touch, even though he knew that most likely she was simply winding.
On the other hand, looking at her heritage, this baby was likelier than not to be exceptionally advanced, so it was quite possible, he thought, that she really was amused. In admittedly facetious retrospect, he was more surprised that she hadn't emerged making some sort of deduction about what the cafeteria at St. Bart's had served for lunch that day, based upon her mother's particular digestive gurglings just prior to labour. Pure folly of course, he realized, but babies had a way of making the most logical adult whimsical and silly. Mycroft in particular was a classic example of THAT.
"I like to think everything turned out exactly the way it should have, love," Greg had finally said, nuzzling Eurus's temple and giving her a leisurely peck. "Besides," he pointed out with perfect old copper logic, "this way we have all the fun of spoiling her and none of the expense and sleep deprivation."
Eurus already had an idea forming for a guitar duet, but whether with her cello or her violin, she hadn't quite figured that far ahead yet. Well, maybe she could write it for a trio.
"Your maternal grandparents couldn't possibly figure out how to name your mother Sherlock, yet your own parents have found a way to name you after your great uncles Mycroft and Greg," Sherlock had softly huffed to his granddaughter, when Greg had handed her over. Greg had simply grinned with smug satisfaction. He hadn't even known there was a feminine equivalent to Gregory, so he admired Rosie and Will's determination to find one. Baby names had never been his department anyway.
"Well, I always knew Rosie and William were far more imaginative than Mary and John," Sherlock said to the baby, with an air of authority. "There isn't a bit of femininity to either of those names and yet your parents managed it." He brought his hand up to gently take the tiny, perfect hand that was waving about and stretching. She grasped his finger with a mighty squeeze, drawing an adoring smile from him.
"I suppose if they give you a brother someday, they'll find a way to name him after Grandmother Molly and Great Aunt Eurus," he said, softly kissing the tiny knuckles that were wrapped around his finger. Michaela yawned and stretched, tightening her grasp even further, wholly unconcerned with her grandfather's mock dismay.
"Oh, now don't you listen to your curmudgeonly old granddad," Molly cooed to the newborn. "Your daddy is actually named after him, granddad just prefers to ignore that. It's not anyone's fault but his own that he chose to go by Sherlock instead of perfectly good names like William and Scott. The old git likes to forget that your great Aunt named your daddy after both him and Grandpa John."
Molly and John, with their medical backgrounds, would pass it off as the utter oblivion of a newborn just days old, but Sherlock would insist that Michaela's look of passive disinterest was pure Grandpa Sherlock.
Mycroft would have taken that as a sign that his new great niece took after him as well. Nobody, not even Sherlock, had mastered aloofness quite like he had.
Indeed, Michaela had amazed everyone most of all with the effect she had on her great uncle Mycroft. The distinguished old gentleman had positively turned to goo when he had held her for the first time, smiling and cooing to her softly, then speaking to her plainly and clearly of how beautiful and special she was. Nobody was going to condescend to HIS great-niece with that ridiculous baby-talk, if he had any say in it.
It had taken Rosie and Will to wear Mycroft down over time, and his wife Lady Alicia Smallwood had slowly but surely kept picking away at the supposedly impenetrable exterior of emotionless rigidity. Over the course of years, Mycroft had aged and softened to the point where he no longer cared to deny himself the luxury of sentiment. Suppressing emotion and discounting it had served him well for most of his life, and likewise sentiment had served him well enough once he had surrendered to it, though it had only been in the last few years that he had finally revealed any of that side of himself to anyone.
That Rosie and Will, the proud, already exhausted parents to the little bundle of amazement that was Michaela Greer, had been blown away by the entire experience, was hardly a surprise to any of their own family. Even though they had logically known what to expect, they discovered, unexpectedly, that they really hadn't known what to expect. You could see something coming a mile away – but expecting it and being prepared for it were two different things entirely.
Rosie knew that her maternity leave from New Scotland Yard would be precious time with her daughter, and Will was quite ready to step in after cutting back his hours at the lab. Eventually, the all too rapid passage of time would bring them to that point at which life must return to a more permanent state of normal routine.
Michaela Greer Holmes would never be without someone willing to care for her, spoil her, and generally cater to her every whim - and that, they all knew, would be the singular thing about her that would astound absolutely no one.