The flat was quiet. Sherlock was having himself a trip to the mind palace while John sat in his chair, his daughter- four now- on his lap. The two had been leafing through a picture book before a tiny hand settled upon the page.

"Daddy, why don't you and Sherlock do this?" His little girl asked, pointing to the dramatic kiss scene in the fairy tale.

Watson widened his eyes momentarily before he took in a breath, trying to decide how to approach this particular subject.

"Because," he began slowly, "that's something you do with-" a short pause, "-ah, someone you love."

She looked at him with big eyes filled to the brim with confusion.

"Of- of course I love him. Just- just not- not like that."

"No," she said, dragging out the vowel in the melodramatic four-year-old "grown ups are morons" voice. "Sherlock told me that when you look at someone you want to kiss your wrist-thingy gets all fasty."

John's face contorted in confusion, "'Wrist thingy'?"

"'Fasty' is not a word and the 'wrist-thingy'- for the third time- is called a 'pulse,'" Sherlock interjected blandly, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Oh, sorry," she mumbled. "But-but your p-'puhlls' gets all fast, and-and then your eyes- the black part in the middle- gets all," she unclenched her fists in front of her eyes as an illustration, "vwoosh."

John cast a furtive glance at Sherlock before turning back to the bundle of excitement on his lap with an ever-so-slightly nervous chuckle. "I don't think Daddy's pulse does that when-"

"No! It does!" She exclaimed, "I held your wrist and checked yesterday when we were home from-from the supermarket!" The little lady was nothing short of exasperated by this point, "It got all fast and-and-and your eyes get all 'vwoosh' when you talk to him sometimes! And your hands get all sweaty! So-so you should kiss because then you'll be happy like on the telly!"

By this point she was every so slightly out of breath and her little cheeks were tinged pink. She was most vexed from having to explain to a stupid grown up- her own father no less- what his own feelings were. Grown ups were undeniably exhausting.

John coughed uncomfortably and stood up. He excused himself to the kitchen to make some tea, thus leaving Sherlock and his daughter to their own devices. She slipped off the chair and climbed up onto Sherlock's stomach, making him let out a slight "oompf" from the weight. She poked at his cheek a time or two before he obligingly peeked open an eye.

"You want to kiss Daddy, yeah?" she whispered conspiratorially.

Sherlock didn't bother holding any surly facade and allowed a smile to tug at the side of his mouth before letting his eyes slide shut yet again and tilting back his head.

"Excellent deduction," he muttered under his breath.

Hi. Tiny ficlet. Woo.

I honestly had this headcanon one day, and. um. Baby Watson ships Johnlock. She's been hanging out with Mrs. Hudson, obviously. Also, they had better have actually kissed in the bloody show before John's baby is bloody four. Writers WILL be shanked if we are still sitting in misery by then.