Sherlock Holmes paced around frantically in the living room of 221B, the carpet with worn marks from where he had been pacing all morning. His hair was disheveled in every direction, and his navy silk robe was flowing frantically around him as he paced.

"You see, the woman couldn't possibly have been murdered by her husband, the bruises on her neck were far too small of hands to be a grown man's. Nobody else was in the house when she died, so therefore the murderer had another way of killing her, something to do with the bruising around her neck, probably strangled to death and yet! And yet there was no one to strangle her there except her own hands."

He stopped pacing quickly and looked over at John's chair.

"She was choking on a piece of food and choked herself to death with her own hands! Upon further looking I found a piece of apple exactly 45 degrees from where her mouth would have to spit it out. It really was quite obvious, wasn't it?"

Rosie clapped her hands clumsily, looking at Sherlock with happy eyes. She sat askew in the corner of John's chair.

"You are a smart girl aren't you, Ms. Watson," he glided over to her and picked her up in his arms, bouncing her around as he continued to ramble about past cases. "Quite above average for a Watson." She laughed again.

"Sherlock Holmes," came a disgruntled voice from the stairwell. "It is four in the morning why on earth are you teaching my one-year-old daughter about deduction!" his hair was frazzled and staticy, jutting out in every which way. His backward shirt and mismatched socks added to the look of sleepy Watson that Sherlock had seen so many times.

"It is never too early to learn the complicated art that is a deduction, John," Rosie bobbed her head as if she agreed with him.

"It's bloody four in the morning!" John strutted over to Sherlock and took Rosie, who graciously accepted her father's embrace. "Rosie is a growing child, Sherlock, you must know she needs to sleep."

Sherlock gave John a confused look, "I did not sleep as a child nearly as much as you claim is required."

John exhaled sharply and mumbled into Rosie's hair "that explains a lot," and clumsily climbed the stairs up to his and Rosie's room.

Sherlock snorted when he left, not bothering to explain that Rosie had been crying and was simply trying to help.

"People," he scoffed before restarting his experiment on the effects of microwaves on human thumbs.

INTRO PLAYS

"How have you been holding up, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked politely as she set out the morning tea, shoving over his microscope and experiments to make room.

"Mrs. Hudson I don't need to 'hold up' anything." he dramatically picked up his cup of tea and flopped lazily onto his chair.

"Oh I don't know about that, now that there is a baby in the house you're practically a father! Doesn't leave much time for casework now does it dearly." She walked over to John's armchair, the usual occupant was still asleep.

"John is Rosie's father, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, exasperated.

"Oh Sherlock, you never learn do you," she tutted and added two sugars to his tea for him.

Sherlock ignored her comment and went about shuffling through papers, absentmindedly avoiding the conversation.

"You know Sherlock, it's been a while since…" she paused, "the incident with Mary."

He didn't stop looking through the papers and tried to tune her out.

"He's going to start dating other women soon enough."

He kept his face as stoic as ever and lightly adjusted his suit lapels. "Why exactly would I care who John dated?" he asked with a bored expression.

"How should I know, I am just your landlady," she took a sip of her own tea.

There was a silence for a few minutes, the only noise the rifle of papers and sips of tea.

"Morning," John's voice came over the kitchen as he picked up his own tea, Rosie on one arm and the cup in the other. He was dressed for the day in his usual jeans and white jumper. Rosie had on a blue dress and her small hand clutched the wool.

"Morning dear," Mrs. Hudson said happily as she stood up and walked over to him. "He's getting quite antsy you know, needs a case or else he'll go mad!" she whispered in his ear.

"Well that's actually why I came down, Lestrade just sent me a text saying he has a murder."

"Oh, that's wonderful dear!" Mrs. Hudson clapped. "Sherlock, did you hear what John said?"

He looked up from his papers and turned around, "Oh hello John, didn't hear you come in."

"I've been standing here a minute or so…." John trailed off, knowing this particular train of conversation was useless. "Could you watch Rosie for a few hours, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh John, just this one time I'm not your babysitter!" she said with a fake serious tone, taking Rosie from his arms and walking down the stairs to her flat.

"Come on Sherlock we have a case," John called over before replying to Mrs. Hudson, "she has a playdate with Molly at noon!"

"Not your babysitter!" her distant voice called.

John had started putting on his coat before he saw Sherlock hadn't. "Come on Sherlock, we both need a case. Lestrade is waiting."

Sherlock looked a little dazed, but he blinked away the confusion and uneasiness and replied: "right, a case, very good." He placed the remaining papers on the desk and snatched his wool coat from its hook.

"Well, it looks as though he choked to death," Lestrade said, leading them into the Chinese restaurant.

Sherlock circled the body of an Asian man who was sitting at a booth, head face down in a plate of noodles. "John, how did he die?" Sherlock looked up.

John looked closely at the body before noticing the bruising on his neck. "Looks as though he was choked to death really."

"Yes, John, I agree," he looked at each of the man's fingers and then his shirt and shoes. He looked up suddenly. "Was there anyone else in the restaurant on the night of his murder?"

"Everyone in the area says he was alone, Terry Wong is his name, we have statements from multiple people," Lestrade said.

"Was there any motive behind the killer?" John asked.

"No, not that we know of, everyone spoke of him fondly and said how sad it was he died." Sherlock looked up from the corpse at this, eyes flashing with recognition.

"Do you have security camera footage?" John asked.

"We have footage from an hour before the murder, say he was killed around midnight."

"I need to speak to the witnesses, how many are there?" Sherlock demanded more than asked.

"Nine customers, two waiters, and two kitchen staff." Lestrade flipped through his notebook.

"Send them all to the flat Lestrade, now come, John, I am sure your daughter misses you." Sherlock grabbed John's arm and started to walk out. Lestrade gave him an odd look and John just shrugged.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called as soon as they got into the flat.

"How was the case Sherlock, enough to keep you busy for a few days?" She carried Rosie into the hallway, who reached for John as soon as she saw him, even though he was just taking off his jacket.

"It will do," Sherlock said grumpily, trudging up the stairs so everyone could hear.

"My, what has gotten into him?" Mrs. Hudson passed Rosie to John, who kissed her head and took her.

"He seemed fine at the restaurant," John pinched his nose, "but he is Sherlock Holmes, something probably set him off, seemed pretty grumpy this morning after you spoke with him."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes twinkled sadly as she nodded, "yes I suppose he was."

At this, John traveled up the stairs to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, client seat set up in the middle ready to go.

"The first witness arrives in ten minutes, John," Sherlock said, legs crossed.

"Right, I'll put Rosie in her room then," he turned to do so but was stopped by a "wait, she can stay." John looked at Sherlock confused.

"Children do seem to bring out the honesty in people," He raised an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes, putting Rosie on the floor. She crawled over to Sherlock immediately and pawed at his boot.

"Shwoc," she blubbered, reaching up at him. Sherlock looked taken aback, but picked her up gently and placed her on his lap, followed by her snuggling up to his chest.

John's heart warmed as he smiled at Sherlock's dumbfounded expression, but he raised his hand and placed it awkwardly on Rosie's back.

"I think she's warming up to you," John chuckled and walked over to him, crouching down and smiling at his daughter who turned to face him.

"Oh.. I'm sorry," a voice came from the open doorway, "am I interrupting?"

John shot up and nervously ran a hand through his hair, "No, no, we're not-"

"Sit," Sherlock gestured at the chair. She eased into it and looked around, at John, then Sherlock, then the baby curled in his lap.

"A nice family you have here, Mr. Holmes," she fidgeted with the rings on her hands.

He didn't respond but stared at her, hands folded under his chin.

"What do you know about Terry Wong?" He asked.

She played with the ripples in her dress, "he was a nice old man, used to work for him a while back."

"Well, why did you stop?" Sherlock sat forward more, still a mask of indifference on his face.

"Well- he fired me," she paused, "but I don't have any hard feelings, Mr. Holmes, I swear."

"And where were you the night Mr. Wong was murdered?" Rosie was sitting upright in his lap now, staring at the woman with innocent eyes.

"I had dinner there with a friend of mine before we left around 11," she looked at Rosie.

"And you didn't see anyone suspicious?" It was John who asked this time.

"No, not that I know of,"

The room was silent for a moment before Sherlock stood up suddenly, Rosie on his hip. "You can leave now." He gestured to the door.

She sat for a moment and looked at John. "I said leave, there are more people coming in you're taking up time."

She nodded to him and scuffed out the door. "That really was quite rude, Sherlock." John scolded. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.

The rest of the suspects came in, all with similar stories. They all seemed to love Mr. Wong, maybe a little too much.

Rosie had been put down for a nap and John and Sherlock now sat in their respective chairs sipping tea.

"We should take Rosie and go to Angelo's for dinner tonight," John said, flipping through the paper.

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, "why would we do that?"

"We haven't been since-" John's voice faltered, "I think it would be a good thing for us to do."

Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a moment, "fine." John hid a smile.

"How do you say he was asphyxiated, Sherlock," John asked a few minutes later.

"From the bruises on his face and neck, I would say he was choked to death."

"But with what? There was no rope found."

Sherlock stood and started to pace, "Obviously the killer took it with him, or he just did it with his hands," he hesitated, "We should go to the morgue and check again, John.." He looked up, eyes focused the way they always did when he focused on a case.

"Sherlock," John hesitated, "Molly works at the morgue."

"What your point?" He looked confused.

"Sherlock-," he sighed and put away the paper. "You know." There was a beat of silence.

"Is this because I told her I loved her?" He sounded annoyed.

"Yes, it is."

"Why does that matter? You take Rosie to see her frequently."

John stood up, "Why does it matter?" John put his hands on his hips, "you love her Sherlock, you said so yourself!"

Sherlock spun quickly, "I absolutely do not, her life was in danger. I had no choice."

John's face softened briefly, "Sherlock, you need to tell her the truth about what happened."

Sherlock sighed loudly, walking to the door and grabbing his coat. "I will deal with the issue," he said sarcastically. John followed him down the stairs, yelling to Mrs. Hudson telling her they were going out for a while and to watch Rosie.

The walk through the hallway to the morgue was silent and awkward, Sherlock's head clouded with the case and John's about Molly. He didn't have much time to worry though, as Sherlock simply burst through the door.

"I need to see the body of Terry Wong," He said, not even looking at her.

She stood there for a moment, frozen. "That's all your going to say?" she put down the metal bowl in her hand. "That's all you have to say, after everything that happened. You calling me, telling me- that, and then hanging up!"

"Molly, I don't love you, I said it to save your life."

The room was silent, "Sherlock," John muttered silently, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Save my life huh? Do you have any idea what you have done to me? To Tom?" Her voice was breaking and tears slipped from her face.

"My psychopath sister was going to bomb your apartment if you didn't say it. I had to get you to say I love you." He didn't move from his spot near the doorway.

"You're all psychopaths," she wiped her eyes and stormed into the back room.

"We still need to see the body!" Sherlock fruitlessly called after her.

"Sherlock that was terrible, you did terribly." John groaned.

"I told her the truth, that's what you wanted isn't it?" Sherlock turned around and left the morgue.

"That wasn't very gentle," he sped up to walk next to Sherlock.

"If she can't handle the truth what am I supposed to do about it."

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, signing pieces of paper to do with the government when Lady Smallwood walked into his room.

"What is it you need," he said coldly.

"Mycroft Holmes, always so welcoming." Mycroft gave her a look.

"Anthea is waiting outside, someone wishes to meet with you."

"And who would that be?" He didn't stand.

"We are not sure," She said, almost ashamed.

"You don't know?" He stood now, "We know everything, how could we not know?"

"they have done an impeccable job at hiding their identity."

"That is quite impossible, Ms. Smallwood." He scoffed, "There is only one person who has ever been able to conceal their identity from me, and they are dead."

"Let's find out then."

The car stopped in front of an old warehouse, not unlike the one Mycroft first met John. He walked in alone, tentatively looking around each corner for the mysterious figure. He stood at the top of some stairs, breathing in the musty smell of the cement walls.

"You Holmes' are all the same you know," She stepped out from behind the shadows, "you think you're so smart but you didn't know after all these years." She came closer and ran a finger along his jaw, "That I was still alive."

Mycroft smiled at her and nodded, "Ms. Adler, how good to see you."

"Mycroft Holmes," she ran a hand up his arm, "it has been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it has." She leaned in even closer, breathing down his neck, "it certainly has."

He took a step back, "I am afraid your seduction won't work on me, unlike my brother." He eyed her carefully.

She sighed heavily, dropping the facade. "It didn't work on him Mycroft Holmes, it never did."

There was a beat of silence.

"And why would you say that?" He tilted his head.

"Because we are far too similar to each other." She bit her lip, "his heart was elsewhere."

"Many people would disagree with you,"

"And why is that?"

"They say he doesn't have one." He folded his hands behind his back and stood up straighter.

"And we both know they are woefully mistaken."

"Yes, my little brother cares more than he wishes he did."

There was a calm silence.

"He saved you, didn't he?"

She looked at him carefully, "and if he did, what would that mean?"

"My brother is not keen on failures, they don't sit with him well."

"He saved me so he could-," She straightened, "move on."

"You are The Woman, after all." He nodded in respect, "you have managed to avoid my knowledge for a long time, why come back now?"

"Do you know who I used to work for, Mr. Holmes?"

"How could I not," he growled internally, but kept a straight face, "Jim Moriarty."

"Yes," she ran a hand along the rusted stair banister. "He was my protection and my threat."

"Sound like a fair deal," he said sarcastically, only for her to ignore it.

"I know things that are going to happen, and it will not end well for him."

Mycroft hid his worried expression with a laugh, "why should I trust you?"

"Because why would I lie? Come back here out of seclusion and relative safety only to be thrown to the dogs once again."

He didn't respond.

"I knew about her, you know," she smirked, "Eurus."

Mycroft felt the sweat trickle down his neck, "and how would you know that?"

"Jim told me loads of secrets," she shrugged slowly, "some you don't even know."

"I highly doubt you know anything I don't," he chuckled.

"You didn't know I was here did you?" silence.

"I will see you soon, Mycroft Holmes," she kissed his cheek and winked before strutting out of the warehouse.

" Are you sure this is a good idea, John?" Sherlock was dressed in his usual suit, hair freshly was done up with gel.

"It's good to take Rosie out once and a while instead of being locked up in that bloody apartment." He carried her on his arm as Sherlock hailed a cab.

"There is no reason she cannot come on cases with us, John." He succeeded in getting the cab and they sat down, shutting the doors with a thunk and telling the cabbie to take them to Angelo's.

"Daddy," Rosie pulled at John's white jumper.

"What is it, Rosie?"

"Hungry," Sherlock smirked. "She is a lot like you," He joked.

John ignored him, "we'll be there soon ok?"

They rode in silence until they arrived, walking into Angelo's bracing themselves for his onslaught of praise.

"My god, it's Sherlock and John!" he beamed, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. It was then he realized the baby on John's hip. "And who is this?"

John slid her up a little, "This is Rosamund, my daughter."

"Hi," she waved.

"Well isn't that something, you two finally came around then?" He started walking them to their usual table.

John looked at Sherlock, but he said nothing in response. "We're not a couple."

Angelo barely let a frown pass his face, "Alright then, boys, you know the usual. Anything on the house for you, and for your daughter." he pinched her cheek and she giggled.

They sat uncomfortably for a moment, John's eyes locked on the menu even though he had memorized it long ago. He cleared his throat to break the tension.

"Why don't you ever say anything?" John asked frustrated.

"To what?" Sherlock adjusted the napkin on Rosie's shirt as she clawed at a bread roll.

"When people say-" he gestured back and forth between them, "things."

Sherlock didn't look up, "John, I don't have the slightest idea what you're complaining about."

"Bloody hell Sherlock, yes you do," he mumbled into his wine.

"No, I don't," he sighed tiredly.

Their argument was interrupted by a bubbling Angelo, "what will we be having, boys?"

Sherlock rested his chin on his hand, "pasta with butter for Ms. Watson, I'll just have a salad, you John?"

A still fuming John was able to say, "lasagna," and made sure Angelo was out of earshot before starting up again. "You love correcting people, it is your favorite thing to do."

Sherlock swayed his head, "lots of people need correcting, most everyone is wrong." he rolled his eyes.

"So why do you never correct people," he swallowed thickly, "when they say we're together."

Sherlock's head spiked up and something passed over his eyes before he looked back down, almost embarrassed. "I can always count on you to do that, John."

John didn't know what to say to that.

They sat quietly until their dinner arrived. "Here you are, made it myself." Angelo smiled, utterly oblivious to the tension at the table. Rosie blubbered happily and picked at the noodles with her fingers. Sherlock ate his salad in small bites, both he and John knowing he wasn't going to finish it anyway. John stared at his meal for a long time, silently asking himself why he ordered it.

"Is something wrong with the lasagna, John?" Sherlock asked, setting his own fork aside.

He cleared his throat for the second time that night, "no, no it's just fine." he forced himself to take a bite, but it flooded his mind with memories. He took a big gulp of water and forced it down, ignoring the way it sat like a brick in his stomach.

"John, if this is about earlier-" Sherlock actually looked concerned, only to be interrupted by broken words.

"This is all I ate," he said, "when I thought you had died." Sherlock took to wipe the butter off Rosie's face.

"People tend to bring lasagna when someone dies." The deafening quiet rained over them again.

"And now Mary too," he ran a hand over his face. Sherlock helplessly watched from the other side of the table, flinching his hand slightly before letting it drop.

"Maybe we should go," he finally said a few minutes later, and so they did. Sherlock carried Rosie, who was smiling as she slept in his arms, unaware of the tension between the two.

Baker Street was silent that night, except for the soft tunes of a long forgotten violin melody. Rosie tucked in bed with John.

Sherlock played this song when they both slept, the song he had written, but for all the wrong reasons. He had danced to it, practiced alone when the sky was too dark to cast shadows through the curtains, one hand low and one up high twirling through 221B. Mrs. Hudson walked in once, seen him dancing alone to the song she knew so well and gave him a sad smile. He had poured his heart into it. The melody flowed through his blood now, but instead of warming his heart like it used to, it cast a sheet of ice in his veins when he heard it.

He played it anyway.

"Sherlock!" John knocked on his friend's door, "Sherlock your brother wishes to speak to you."

"What could my brother possibly want from me?" Sherlock didn't open the door, venom in his voice still bitter about his sister.

"It is somewhat important, brother mine," Mycroft called from the living room.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, wrapping himself in his sheet and trying to make himself look like he didn't have such a terrible night. He looked in the mirror and saw a sad and broken man.

"What is it Mycroft, off making candy apples with the prince of Siberia?" He dragged his sheet into his chair, which he sank into.

"No, brother mine, a certain woman has come to speak with me," Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"Mm, what did she have to say to you?" He asked, sipping tea that had somehow ended up next to his chair.

"Wait, wait, hold on," John interrupted. "A woman, as in the woman, Irene Adler?" He looked nervous for the answer.

"Yes, of course, it's the woman, John, when have I ever taken time to think of another one?"

John looked taken aback, "I knew she was alive, but you sent her the text and she didn't reply…"

"I sent the text because you told me to, John." Sherlock looked up again. John shut up.

"Anyway, she told me you were in danger," Mycroft said suddenly.

"Danger, danger from what?" John stepped closer to Sherlock.

"I'm not sure, she hasn't told me." He shifted uncomfortably.

"So she came over, told you I was in," he did air quotes, "danger, and then she doesn't tell you how. Well, that's very helpful."

Mycroft gave an irritated grunt, "Sherlock, I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation."

"Gravity of the situation, did he just say gravity of the situation?" Sherlock flung his legs over the armchair and reached for his violin. He began to play a very off-key "London bridges falling down".

"Sherlock, maybe we should listen to him-"

"Boring!" Sherlock let his head fall backward on the other armrest, sheet still spilling over the chair like a bucket with too much water.

"I am going to establish extra security around 221B and inform your landlady of the situation, goodbye John." And he left without even a nod to his younger brother.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, his hands on his hips.

"What is it John," he plucked at some strings.

"We- I have a daughter to worry about the safety of! If Irene Adler thinks there is the danger you can bet there is, and I will not risk the safety of my daughter." He huffed like an angry dog and stormed up the stairs.

Sherlock stewed in his chair for a minute before standing to dress. Halfway through, he heard heavy footsteps down the top floor and he tugged on his suit jacket as he left his bedroom. John was carrying Rosie with two big duffel bags, looking to be in a hurry.

"John," Sherlock sighed, "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I really Sherlock? Am I so crazy to want to protect my daughter?" He barely stopped in the hallway.

"John, this isn't like you. You don't leave like this, you live for the danger, the thrill of the chase! We're on a case, remember? Terry Wong? I think I almost have the solution-" he turned quickly and went to prove it to John.

"Sherlock, I don't care about the case! I can't go chasing you around London looking for killers anymore! I have a daughter!" Rosie began to cry at his yelling and Sherlock's pulse started to quicken. John barely seemed to notice.

"Can you protect her? From whatever it is Irene is afraid of?" Rosie cried harder.

Sherlock tried to stand steady, tried to grip onto the wall but when he tried to think, the wail of Rosie's cry roared in his mind palace.

"Well, can you?" John wasn't going to wait much longer.

Sherlock spun in a circle, "Shut up! Shut up!" He held his head in his hands.

"I have my answer then," John started to leave.

"John!" Sherlock called once more, "John please,"

He stopped in the doorway.

"Don't leave," Sherlock wasn't a beggar, so he ignored the pounding in his head and the sobs that raked the girl in John's arms. "Whatever it is, you'll be safe here with me, Mycroft setup guards god knows where." He dared to take a step closer, "You will be safe here. I already failed my vow to protect Mary, but I will not fail you, John." His voice was firm and steady, but his hand shook slightly as he reached out to comfort Rosie, who reached for him instantly.

John stood still for a moment, watching Sherlock take his daughter from his arms. He patted her head and shushed her calmly. "You're ok, Ms. Watson," he said quietly into her ear.

John melted a little, allowing a trusting smile to cross his face, "Alright, I already trust you with my life," he pried one of Rosie's hands from Sherlock's shirt and held it gently. "I trust you with hers too." Sherlock concealed his smile in her hair.

"John, how could all these witnesses be connected?" He crossed his legs at the computer.

"I'm not sure, how could they all have a motive?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. "None of the witnesses had a motive."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "This has been established?"

Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes, "Really, John, use your head."

"Just tell me would you?" John pretended to sound annoyed.

"If it wasn't one of them, then it was all of them." He said it like common sense.

"How can you prove that?" John stood from his chair to walk over to the computer.

"They started a group over social media, talked about how much they hated him," Sherlock smirked and scrolled through the facebook group for John. "They were all lying."

"But that's not enough proof for arrest," John added.

"No," Sherlock stood and straightened his suit.

"So what are we going to do?"

"Nothing," he didn't seem to care, "We know they did it, they did not beat me." he shrugged. "Why does it matter if they get arrested, there is simply nothing we can do about it."

John seemed baffled, "Well we can't just let them all roam the streets!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again, "there's nothing we can do, John, but balance has been restored to London." John still looked confused. "Tea?" Sherlock said happily, heading towards the kitchen. John nodded just as the phone rang.

"John Watson," he said.

"John," Mycroft said over the line.

"Over the phone, wow Mycroft, losing your touch?"

"There has been no word from Irene Adler," he said, ignoring the comment.

John shifted nervously, leaning against the wall. "Thanks for the update I suppose," he said.

The phone call ended. "That was rather abrupt," John blinked.

"My brother is not the best at social skills," Sherlock poured their teas into mugs.

John chuckled when he took it, "And you are?"

"I have managed to find myself someone who can tolerate me," Sherlock sat in his chair, "all the people that are ever near Mycroft are paid to be."

John looked sadly at his tea, "Sherlock I don't just tolerate you." He shook his head slightly, "You're my best friend."

There was silence for a moment and Sherlock reached for his violin, standing in his normal corner in the window he played a casual melody that bounced off the walls. John smiled into his tea and tried to read his book, the fire warmly burning next to him.

For a while, along with the pop of the fireplace and occasional turn of John's book page, the echoes of Sherlock's violin were the only sounds in 221B.

"Here you go John," Mrs. Hudson said quietly from the doorway, a sleepy Rosie in her arm.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said when he came to get Rosie and kissed her cheek. "Goodnight boys," she headed back down the stairs, her footsteps heard from the creaks in the wood. Sherlock's violin didn't cease, for on calm nights like this Sherlock would play John and Mary's wedding song to help her sleep.

It was her favorite song.

When John had settled into his armchair again, a half-asleep Rosie in his lap, Sherlock began the song. His fingers had memorized the melody long ago, but John never tired of hearing it for his eyes had stopped watering when he heard it a while ago.

When the fire died down and the waltz was over, Rosie groggily mumbled a word in her sleep.

"Dada," she said.

"I'm right here, Rose," John smiled a little, standing carefully to take her to bed.

"No," she said again, "Dada."

Sherlock put down his violin and looked at her, "doesn't she know you're her father?" his tone was curious.

"I'm right here, sweetheart," John said again, but she opened her eyes a little more and smiled a dopey grin, reaching for Sherlock she said it again, "Dada."

Everyone froze at once. Sherlock's eyes went wide along with John's.

"Did she just-" Sherlock swallowed.

"Yes, I think she did." John smiled at him and walked over. Sherlock backed up and held out his hands defensively.

"John I have no idea where she got that from, I certainly wasn't teaching her-"

"Sherlock, It's ok," he chuckled a little, warmth spreading over his heart. Sherlock still looked hesitant. "Really, it's ok." He nodded his head encouragingly, handing over Rosie to Sherlock. He held her as if she would break when he touched her.

His voice was breathy and quiet when he spoke, "I'm sure this is just a one-time thing, John." He said nervously.

"Maybe it is," John smiled, "maybe it isn't."

Sherlock stayed frozen.

"We're raising her together Sherlock, that's what we agreed to when I moved back into the flat," He made a move to step forward, but chose not to, "It was bound to happen eventually."

"Time for bed, Ms. Watson," Sherlock whispered, but she was already asleep in his arms.