Hey everyone! If you're like me, you've just been itching for some more Sherlock, so here we are! This story will be composed mostly of one-shots of Rosamund Watson and what it would most likely be like growing up with such an odd and mixed family. Hope you enjoy!
The man sat down in a leather chair, shifted forward in his seat, and folded his hands together. His grey suit wrinkled slightly as he rested his elbows on his knees and inspected the small person sitting across from him.
"Miss Watson."
"Mister Holmes," she acknowledged and crossed her own short legs.
He smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach his steely eyes. "I see that you already know who I am."
"I'm four years old, not stupid" she said seriously as she took a sip from the apple juice pouch that the dark-haired woman had gotten for her as she waited. That same woman had moved up against a wall on the opposite side of the room and was tapping tirelessly at a device. She didn't look up, but a wide smile spread across her features.
Rosie rather liked her.
The man raised an eyebrow, "Even so, age and intelligence are not necessarily mutually inclusive things, my dear." The corners of his eyes creased and he straightened up in his chair, "Well then, if you know who I am, do you know why you're here?"
Her knotted blonde hair fell in front of her face as she thought, "Is it because you're lonely? Daddy says that you don't have any friends and I think that's very sad." She pushed her hair behind her ear and took another sip of her juice. Her daddy had also said other things, but the last time she had repeated them, Mrs. Hudson had hit him with a towel and Rosie got sent to timeout.
"I don't need friends." Mycroft Holmes scrunched his nose at the thought.
"Mr. Holmes, I haven't even started Year 1, and even I know that everyone needs friends." She smiled widely, "I can be your friend if you want!"
"I am not everyone- and we've gone off topic. I've brought you here for a specific reason and I intend to follow through." He leaned into the back of his chair, "I need to know your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes."
Her face brightened and she sat up straighter. "I like Sherlock, he's teaching me how to play chess and he promised that we would play checkers tomorrow."
"Yes, well-" Rosie continued enthusiastically over Mycroft's interjection.
"Oh! And when he and Auntie Molly take me to the park, he tells me funny stories about the people there! Molly doesn't like it though," she said thoughtfully.
Mycroft frowned slightly, "We're not talking about Miss Hooper though, we are talking about you, Rosamund Watson. Why-"
The woman put her phone down. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I believe John Watson is here."
As if on cue, there was a loud banging noise and shouting from outside the door. Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Miss Watson, I believe we're done here."
"Mycroft-bloody-Holmes!" The door burst open and slammed against the wall with a noise that would've made the room's occupants jump, if they weren't all accustomed to the dramatic tendencies of John Watson. "Did you seriously kidnap my four-year-old daughter to interrogate her!?" Rosie's father looked ready to pounce on Mycroft Holmes and land a few punches on his unconcerned face.
Rosie finished her juice quietly and then leapt out of her chair, "Hi, Daddy- guess what we did at school today!" She ran over and threw her arms around his waist with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. John blinked and then looked down at his daughter who was grinning madly up at him.
He took a deep breath and glared at Mycroft for a moment before bending on one knee and greeting Rosie with a half-smile, "Are you okay?"
"Of course she's fine," Mycroft rose from his chair and spoke for the first time, "I wouldn't harm a child."
John let out an odd noise, a mix between a growl and a laugh, "You're lucky you didn't, because right now, she's the only thing stopping me from committing murder. Come on Rosie," John took her hand and guided his daughter towards the door, "Mrs. Hudson's invited us for dinner."
Both Watsons gave one final look towards the elder Holmes brother; John's, a murderous stare, and Rosie's, a toothy smile and wave.
Mycroft moved beside his assistant who had returned to her phone, but now wore a smirk on her red lips. "Before you even say anything, just remember I can have you fired and sent out of the country before the post arrives next morning."
She looked up and laughed, "No you couldn't, sir."
And when the post arrived the next morning, Anthea did indeed still have a job and she delivered Mycroft Holmes a letter addressed to him in glittery pink writing. She never asked him what was in the envelope, but if she would have snooped, she would have found a hand-drawn picture of two smiling stick figures sitting in chairs and drinking juice taped to the inside of Mycroft's desk drawer.