I was the one who had it all...
I was the master of my fate...
I never needed anybody in my life...
I learned the truth too late.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were transported back to London from Musgrave first by police helicopter and then by police car. Both – one filthy and soaked wrapped in a grey blanket, one white as a hospital bed sheet with bloodied knuckles – were completely silent the entire way to the Watson home.
Since 221B was still in shambles, Sherlock obviously needed a place to stay for the night. Mrs. Hudson's ground floor flat had, thankfully, survived intact with a few things broken here and there. She was staying at the Watson house with Rosie while the Holmes and Watson trio had been away. She was awake and waiting for them in the sitting room, despite the fact that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning.
"Greg called and told me you were on your way back," she said in hushed tones after they had come inside as quietly as they could. "But I couldn't sleep anyway. I've had this horrible, uneasy feeling ever since the explosion. Oh, look at you two!" Her eyes had adjusted to them in the minimal lighting, and her hands covered her heart. "Oh, my boys, what have you been through?"
"It's a very long story, Mrs. Hudson, and one that I do not want to tell right now," said John as softly as her. Sherlock remained silent as he shed his coat and scarf. "Right now, all I want to do is have a hot shower and then hold my baby girl." He turned to Sherlock. "Since Mrs. H has the guest room, are you good with the sofa?"
Sherlock nodded silently, and John didn't push him to talk; he knew better than that, especially after what they'd been through. He turned back to Mrs. Hudson. "How's Rosie? I hope she hasn't been giving you a hard time."
"Oh, no, she's been an angel," cooed Mrs. Hudson. "Especially after her Auntie Molly popped around for a while."
Both Sherlock and John looked abruptly at Mrs. Hudson with wide eyes. It was Sherlock who spoke first, barely above a whisper. "Molly was here?"
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "This evening. She came over to have dinner with us, and she kindly put Rosie to bed. Even though the little one tried to be stubborn, she was no match for the lullabies that Molly sang. Such a pretty voice she has…" A sad look came over Mrs. Hudson's face. "Poor thing…I've never seen her look so sad when I saw her on the doorstep after ringing the bell. She only said she had a horrible day at work, and considering the job she does, I thought it best not to ask for details." She sighed before patting them both on the cheek. "Well, I'll turn in. See you both in the morning."
After Mrs. Hudson had gone upstairs to the guest room, Sherlock and John stood still for a few moments, absorbing what Mrs. Hudson had told them. It confirmed in their minds what they knew the aftermath of a certain phone call would be for Molly:
She was alive. And completely heartbroken.
Sherlock then, without a word, walked to the sofa, laid down on it, and curled up with his back to the room and to John. The doctor gave a somber sigh, muttered a 'goodnight' and went upstairs to have a warm but quick shower and then bring Rosie to his room for the night.
Because, after everything he had been through that day, no way was he not keeping his daughter close tonight.
When Sherlock woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming through the sitting room windows – late morning, then. He had slept in. He hoped that John and Rosie had done the same.
As he sat up on the sofa, the sound of soft murmurs and coos floated in from the kitchen, which was the next room over. It sounded like John feeding Rosie her breakfast. Looking by the front door at the coat rack, he saw that Mrs. Hudson's was gone. She was an early riser, and had most likely left to start cleaning up her own flat, 221A. He would definitely go there later today, and fully assess the damage of 221B. John didn't have to work until the next day, so he could come with him; Mrs. Hudson would watch Rosie while they took full stock and inventory of all that needed to be done.
That's not the only thing that you need to do today, a small voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Mary spoke. You heard Mrs. Hudson the other day. You broke her heart, and she needs to know the truth.
Not quite ready to respond to that voice yet, Sherlock got up and walked to the bathroom to take care of a few things (a spare toothbrush was kept here for him). Once he was finished, he walked into the kitchen. John was lifting Rosie from her highchair, peppering her face with kisses that elicited giggles and flailing limbs. Not even Sherlock could resist the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly at the sight. And when Rosie spotted him first and gave him a big smile, he couldn't help smiling back.
John, following his daughter's gaze, gave a half-smile of his own. "Morning, Sherlock," he said, walking over to him and holding out Rosie for him to take. "Here, mate. You could use some quality time with her while I change, get the papers and yesterday's mail too."
"Gladly," said Sherlock, accepting his happily babbling, six-month-old goddaughter. "We'll be in the sitting room."
Walking into the sitting room, Sherlock wasn't up for any active play with the baby that morning (for understandable reasons) so he sat down on the sofa with Rosie on his lap. Looking around him, he saw a few picture books by the sofa in a messy, haphazard pile. "Well, Rosamund Mary, we may as well look at one of these," he sighed. "Oh, I cannot wait for the day I can go through a chemistry book with you…"
Rosie seemed perfectly content with this as she tried to chew on her entire right fist (she must still be teething then).
So, Sherlock leaned down and looked over the selection of picture books, looking for the one that he would be the least annoyed by. Suddenly, one image caught his eyes: a young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing a yellow dress. His own mind conjured a similar memory, of another young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing a yellow dress…at a wedding just over a year ago…
His hand moving with a will of its own, it reached down and picked up the book that this image belonged to. Holding it in front of Rosie – and taking in the entire picture on the front cover – he softly read the fitting title aloud.
"Beauty and the Beast…well, let's give this a try, Rosie…"
The little one offered no objection, merely snuggling more securely in her godfather's hold and continuing to chew on her own fingers.
"Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind…"
A heavy weight seemed to fall into the pit of his chest, and the weight only increased as he continued to softly read the story. As the story continued, certain phrases from the story were more brutal than others:
"If he could learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time."
"Though Belle was quite beautiful, the people of the small village viewed her as strange an unusual. She showed more interest in books, learning, and what lay beyond the village than she did about fine clothes, gossip, and finding a man to marry."
"As the Beast led Belle through the castle, she never dreamed that a home could be so dark and cold. When the Beast looked over his shoulder at the girl, silent tears were running down her cheeks."
"After the remaining wolves had run away, the Beast was wounded with bites and scratches. After looking at Belle, he collapsed into the snow. Belle, quite frightened from the whole ordeal, turned back to her horse. After all, now she could go home to her father. She was no longer in the castle with this terrifying Beast…but this terrifying Beast had just saved her life, when he'd had no reason to at all. Now he was hurt from doing that, and he needed help. She could not just leave him there to freeze, even die. So, Belle walked back to the Beast, kneeled down beside him and covered him with her cloak."
"She glanced this way, I thought I saw, and when we touched, she didn't shudder at my paw. No, it can't be…I'll just ignore…but then, she's never looked at me that way before…"
"The mirror showed that Belle's father was sick, perhaps dying. Hating to see the distress on her face, the Beast turned to look at the enchanted rose. It had wilted greatly, and only a few petals remained; there was very little time left to break the curse, and he knew now that Belle was the only one who could help him do that. But the Beast could not keep her with him if it would only cause her pain."
"As Belle rode away from the castle and into the forest to find her father, the Beast watched from his West Wing tower. And as she faded from view, he let out a mighty roar of heartbreak to the sky."
"The Beast climbed over the rooftops as fast as he could towards his tower balcony, where Belle stood with her hand outstretched. Finally reaching her, he reached out his paw and gently took her tiny hand in his. 'Belle, you came back!' he said with joy; his other paw cradled her face as she smiled. But Gaston had followed him, and before either knew what was happening, he had stabbed the Beast a fatal blow with his knife."
"The rain continued to fall on the Beast's now lifeless body as Belle still begged him to stay with her. And as she whispered, 'I love you,' through her tears, the last petal of the enchanted rose fell…"
"Sherlock."
The consulting detective was brought out of the quite engrossing story, looking up and giving a very stupid-sounding "Huh?" Rosie, who'd been quite happy as a clam on her godfather's lap listening to his voice, let out a little whimper because he had stopped.
"What is it, John?" said Sherlock, having to clear his throat before speaking (it felt quite clogged for some reason). Then he took a closer look at John, and his worry grew. John stood before him with a very somber, almost grave, expression on his face; he was holding out an opened envelope that contained a folded piece of paper.
"I found this in the mailbox. You'd better read it."
As Sherlock carefully took the folded paper from John, the doctor took Rosie from Sherlock's lap. "Come here, my love," he softly cooed, and cuddled Rosie to his chest. "Let's give your godfather some privacy."
John was almost out of the room when Sherlock's voice stopped him: "But John…it's addressed to you, not me."
The good doctor gave a deep, sad sigh, reading all of the even sadder subtext in Sherlock's almost desperate tone of voice. He looked over his shoulder at his best friend; the man looked terrified. But John wouldn't relent.
"Read it."
With that, he and Rosie left the room. Sherlock looked down at the envelope and felt a cold, creeping dread fill his chest.
John's name was written on the envelope.
In Molly's handwriting.
A/N: The lyrics at the beginning come from the song, which was written for the live-action of Disney's "Beauty and the Beast," which I tell pieces of in this chapter; all credit for that goes to Disney and the creative team behind this amazing story.