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Summary: A look into the life of Rosie Watson at various points. Post season 4 finale, and contains spoilers. Johnlock.

Baker Street Girls

"What are you doing here?"

Molly Hooper glares at the lanky man standing on her doorstep, seconds away from slamming the door in his face. He looks properly contrite, almost uncertain, which is not an expression of his she's familiar with.

A gurgling noise draws her attention to his chest, and her glare slips a little as she stares. "Sherlock, why did you bring Rosie?"

Sherlock Holmes drops his gaze to the baby strapped to his chest and blinks, as if he just now realized she was attached to him. He reaches up with a hand and traces the baby's cheek before looking up at Molly. "John had an emergency surgery he had to attend to, and Mrs. Hudson is out. So I…" He gestures wordlessly to the baby carrier strapped to his chest.

Molly sighs heavily and steps back, opening the door further. "Bring her in." As much as she wants to toss Sherlock out on his arse, she can't refuse Rosie.

"Do you even know how to care for a baby?" Molly snaps at him as she puts Rosie on an old towel she's spread on her couch, not bothering to keep the bite out her voice. After that farce of a phone call, she has half a mind to revoke his access to her lab and the morgue. See how many cases he can solve then!

She wrinkles her nose as a stink rises from Rosie's diaper, and the baby gurgles happily and kicks her legs as Molly sets about undressing her. Behind her, she can feel Sherlock hovering, his dark Belfast coat making him seem like a wraith.

"Molly…" His deep baritone rumbles over the space between them, and Molly squeezes her eyes shut, breathing out a shaky breath. It isn't fair, that he can affect her this way.

Sherlock is uncharacteristically silent as he watches her rummage around in her closet for the diapers she now keeps on hand, as she seems to be one of John Watson's most requested sitters. It's not until she's wrapping the fresh diaper around Rosie's soft body that either of them speaks.

"Did you just come here for a nappy change?" Molly demands, feeling a little braver with Rosie comfortably propped on one hip, the girl's chubby fingers reaching out to pull on Molly's ponytail.

"That phone call…Molly, I never should have said those things."

"Then why did you?" Molly snaps, wishing her voice didn't shake so much.

Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales. "Molly, I only said what I did because your life was in danger."

"Oh, that's what it was about?" Molly rasps, near tears. She changes to a mocking tone, struggling to keep her composure. "If you hadn't told me you loved me, I would have died? Is that it?"

Sherlock opens his eyes, and his gaze is steady. "I did it to keep my sister from killing you."

There is silence for a moment, and then Molly sets Rosie back down on the couch, not trusting her shaking arms to keep a grip on the girl. Once the baby is settled, she turns back around. Not glancing at Sherlock, she marches past him into the kitchen.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the flat are the sounds of the kettle being filled, Rosie's gurgles and murmurs, and the sound of the flames under the kettle. Once the tea is brewed, Molly plops two mugs onto the table with more force than necessary and nearly falls in the chair. Pointing to the one across the table, she finally raises her eyes to Sherlock's and fixes him with a direct stare. "Sit."

Slowly, as if worried she might pounce, Sherlock crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair she indicates, ignoring the steaming mug in front of him. Molly cups her hands around the ceramic and takes a sip, wishing she had thought to put something stronger in it.

"Talk."

Sherlock swallows hard, and begins.

"Moll!"

Molly Hooper grins down at the toddler racing towards her on chubby legs, bending down to scoop the girl up. "Rosie! Are you ready to go to the park!"

The girl nods, her blond ringlets bouncing. She reaches up to tugs at Molly's necklace, and Molly successfully untangles Rosie's fingers from the chain. The girl is going through a phase where she is enchanted by sparkly things, especially jewelry.

"If she's this captivated by them now, I worry about what she'll be like when she grows up. I'm not sure my wallet will withstand it." John comments, strolling out of the kitchen with a smile of welcome for Molly. "'Lo, Molly. How're you?"

"Doing all right," Molly tells him, leaning her head back to escape Rosie's perusal of her earrings. "Been busy at work."

"We appreciate your taking her at such short notice," John tells her.

Molly grins at him. "Well, the specimens at the lab and the bodies in the morgue will keep. They're not going anywhere. Not like us," she tells Rosie confidentially, turning her attention back to the girl. "Shall we go feed the ducks?"

The girl shakes her head emphatically. "Swans!"

"She's been rather taken with 'The Ugly Duckling' recently," John explains apologetically, regarding his daughter fondly.

"It's a story about a waterfowl going through its natural life cycle, John," Sherlock comments as he sails into the sitting room from his bedroom. "Of course she finds the biology fascinating. Molly," He nods to her, and his expression softens at the sight of Rosie.

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly returns his greeting, but as usual, his attention is already elsewhere.

"That's a text from Greg," Sherlock comments, glancing at his phone. "The killer has him confused, as usual. Come, John." With that, he's out the door and down the stairs, his coat fanning out behind him.

John follows at more sedate pace, pausing to kiss his daughter goodbye. "Be good for Molly, Rosie."

Silence reigns in the flat, and Molly sighs, picking up Rosie's small coat from where it hangs beside the door. "Let's go see if we can find some swans, shall we?"

"Sherlock?"

The world's only consulting detective looks up to find John hovering, having just come from putting Rosie down in the bedroom he shares with her.

"John?"

John lowers himself into his chair with a sigh. "Sherlock, how is old is Rosie?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "She'll be three in a few weeks." When John doesn't respond, Sherlock huffs out a breath and sets down his phone. "Come now, John. You didn't ask me to confirm Rosie's birthday for nothing. What's bothering you?"

John swallows, and he can't look Sherlock in the eye. "I've been thinking about trying to find a flat. For me and Rosie."

Silence reigns in 221B for a moment.

"Is there something wrong with this flat?"

Sherlock's voice is cool, and John winces. "Sherlock…"

"Is there a reason you don't want to live here any longer?"

"I'm trying to be practical, Sherlock!" John looks up, and Sherlock can see the pain there. "Rosie won't be a baby forever, and I can't keep sharing a room with her. She'll grow up, and she'll want her own room, and this flat only has two bedrooms."

"Nonsense." Sherlock dismisses his concerns with a hand and turns back to his phone. "You'll share my room with me, and Rosie can have the upstairs bedroom for her own."

John's breath stops in his throat. "What?"

Sherlock doesn't look up from his phone. "You wanted to be practical, John. I'm offering a practical solution."

"Sherlock, your room is too small to fit two beds."

Sherlock's eyes flicker up to his and hold. "Why would I need two beds? The one I have is perfectly adequate."

John feels himself flush, and he forces a laugh. Sherlock continues to watch him, and John sees no mirth there, only sincerity and confusion. "Sherlock, you're suggesting that we share a bed."

"Is that a problem?"

John feels his cheeks color, and knows that Sherlock can see. His pulse hammers in his throat, and he brings one more feeble argument forward. "People will talk."

The smile Sherlock flashes at him is whimsical and fleeting as quicksilver, but John feels it down to his bones, and he does his best not to shiver. "People do little else."

John forces himself up the last few steps to 221B and sighs heavily. It's been a long day. Three patients tried to flatline on him, and two of the nurses had called in sick. All he wants is a cuppa and a cuddle with his daughter.

The smell of something burnt is the first thing to greet him as he steps into the flat, and he stiffens, some of his fatigue chased away by a soldier's alertness. "Sherlock? Rosie?"

"In here, daddy!" His daughter's happy high voice floats in from the kitchen, and John relaxes, dropping his bag next to his chair before stepping into the kitchen.

"What..." he swallows and tries again. "What are you doing?"

His daughter grins at him, Sherlock's deerstalker tilted at a rakish angle over her curls, slipping down over one eye. She shoves it out of the way with a flour-covered hand, leaving streaks. She gestures to the glass mixing bowl in front of her proudly. "I'm helping Sherlock with a 'periment!"

"I can see that," John says, tilting the deerstalker back to a normal angle and pressing a kiss to her head. The table is covered in flour and some other white substance, and John eyes the lumps in Rosie's bowl warily.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope, and John turns his attention from his flatmate to his daughter. "How was school today, darling?"

Rosie deflates a little, using a wooden spoon to stir the off-white mush in her bowl. "Okay," she mumbles. "Daddy, do I have to go back to school?" She turns big blue eyes up to him beseechingly, and John feels his heart constrict. So like Mary…

"Sherlock says he'll give me lessons if I stay home," Rosie continues hopefully.

"Did he?" John asks darkly, squatting down so he is on eye level with his daughter as she kneels in the chair. "Rosie, do you not like your school? Your teachers? Is there a problem with one of the other kids?"

Rosie won't look at him, and pokes at one of the lumps in her bowl with the spoon. "No," she mumbles. "But I want to stay here! Sherlock teaches more interesting things than my teachers. Today I learned where the skull came from!"

"Lovely," John mutters, and then straightens. "All right, it's almost time for dinner," he announces, lifting Rosie out of her chair and onto the floor, plucking the spoon out of her hand. "Go wash up, love."

As soon as she's out of earshot, John stalks over to his flatmate. "Sherlock."

Sherlock finally disengages from the microscope and blinks at him. "John. When did you arrive?"

John ignores him and points to the bowl that Rosie abandoned. "What have you been letting her play with? Sherlock, if there are eyeballs in there…"

Sherlock cuts him off with a snort. "That is a mixture of flour, baking soda, water, and grapes. Rosie came home from school, Mrs. Hudson was out, and I needed to analyze these samples." He gestures to the slides in front of him. "I thought it best to allow her to think she was assisting me. It kept her out of my work, and she learned something of basic chemistry."

John breathes out a long sigh and runs a hand over her face. "Please tell me you'll let her be a child before you turn her into your lab assistant."

Sherlock huffs out a laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. That's what we have Molly for." There is a scraping against the floor as he pushes his chair back, and then John feels long hesitant fingers against his cheek.

"John." Sherlock's voice drops into a lower register, and John looks up to find Sherlock staring down at him. "I promise I'll let Rosie have her childhood." His throat works as he swallows, and John can see the pain that flares in his eyes for a moment. "I know what it is to have it robbed from you."

John slips an arm around Sherlock and tugs him forward, feeling the muscles of the other man's back flex under his hand. Their dynamic changed a year ago when John moved into Sherlock's bedroom in order to give Rosie her privacy, but this kind of intimacy is still new to them both.

John brushes his hand against Sherlock's jaw and watches as the muscles work under his touch. The vulnerability Sherlock exhibits when John touches him always makes the breath catch in John's throat, moved by trust the other man exhibits.

Rosie's clattering feet on the stairs pull them apart, and by the time she reappears in the kitchen doorway, Sherlock is back at his microscope, color mantling his cheekbones, and her father is leaning over the table, scooping the spilled flour into a rag, his head bent.

"Mrs. H, what was my mother like?"

Mrs. Hudson straightens from pulling the latest batch of biscuits from the cupboard and presses her hands against the countertop to steady herself. Composing herself, she picks up the tin and turns around, finding a ten year old girl watching her solemnly.

"Why do you ask, duck?" She asks, hoping to keep her tone light.

Rosie nibbles on her biscuit thoughtfully and applies herself to her cocoa with the same seriousness, inspecting it for the proper number of marshmallows first. Too much time spent with Sherlock… Mrs. Hudson thinks, shaking her head.

John and Sherlock had gone racing after their latest criminal without a by-your-leave, which is how Rosie came to be sitting at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table close to midnight, her blond curls spilling down her back and clad in her favorite fuzzy pyjamas, decorated with crowned swans.

"Dad talks about her," Rosie tells her, "but no one will tell me what she was really like."

Mrs. Hudson considers this request, choosing her words with care. "Your mother was a brave woman," she says quietly, and Rosie fixes round blue eyes on her, biscuit forgotten. "She was funny—she was always teasing Sherlock and John—and she loved you with all her heart." Feeling her eyes mist, Mrs. Hudson pushes away from the table.

Rosie watches her rummage through a drawer for a moment, and takes the photo Mrs. Hudson offers her.

Mary Morstan Watson looks back at her, cradling a pink bundle to her chest. Rosie peers at her mother's face. The only photo she's seen of her mother is the wedding portrait that she keeps on her bedside table, and this one seems…softer. In this picture, her mother looks less like a princess and more like she would give the best, warmest hugs.

"Keep it," Mrs. Hudson tells her quietly, watching the girl hungrily drink in the details of her mother's face, and seeing the way her fingers curl around the edges of the photo and clutch it to her.

"Did she know about Daddy and Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson's breath catches, and she looks up to find Rosie watching her, head tilted. Oh, Lord…

"Your mother knew how important Sherlock was to your father," she says finally, and Rosie nods once, satisfied.

"Where could she be?" John paces the flat, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair for the fifth time in fifteen minutes.

Sherlock reflects his agitation, standing by the window and nearly vibrating with anxiety, his fingers flying across his phone, the rapid click of his keypad keeping time with John's heartbeat. "Not down by the river," he mutters, sending messages shooting across his London network, looking for an eleven year old girl with gold curls and a blue romper who didn't come from school that afternoon.

"Christ, Sherlock," John swears, throwing himself into his chair only to surge back to his feet. "Do you think someone took her?"

As he voices his deepest fears, Sherlock wheels around, crossing to stand in front of him in three steps. "No," he rasps, his voice a growl, his hands coming up to wrap around John's shoulders. "We've scoured the grounds of her school. There was no signs of a struggle."

"But if it was someone she knew—"

Sherlock's grip on his shoulders tightens, forcing John to look up into his eyes. "She is a foolish girl who decided to explore the city, John. Greg has all of Scotland Yard combing the streets, I have my network, and Mycroft is finally doing something useful with his surveillance and is looking for her. We will find her."

"You swear?" John whispers, and Sherlock lowers his head until their foreheads press together, their noses bumping. His voice is ragged, and Sherlock shifts, releasing his shoulders to wrap his arms around John's waist and pull the other man flush against him. John melts into Sherlock's embrace, nearly sagging. "Do you swear?" He whispers harshly against the skin of Sherlock's throat. He tips his head up and finds a maelstrom swirling in Sherlock's eyes. "Do you swear we'll find our daughter?"

Sherlock's kiss is as fierce and firm as a vow, and John leans into him. He bunches Sherlock's shirt in one hand and buries his other in the dark curls, needing the reassurance that only Sherlock can provide.

Greg's voice on the stairs tears them apart, panting. "John!"

Then the door of the flat opens, and Greg stands there, gripping the shoulder of one mud-splattered urchin.

An urchin with blue eyes, who takes one look at the two men standing there and sets her chin mulishly.

"Rosie!" John is there first, Sherlock half a step behind. He wraps her up in her arms, nearly lifting her off the floor, as if she were still a baby. He releases her only to take her by the shoulders and give her a little a shake. "We were worried sick! What were you thinking?"

"Where was she?" Sherlock fixes his gaze on Greg, who gives him a wry smile.

"Found her near an abandoned factory with some of those kids you use in cases." Greg nods at them both, then pulls his phone out as he turns away, calling off the rest of the search.

Sherlock's phone chimes, and he lifts it to his ear. "Yes, she's here," he says coolly. "Yes, she's safe. Thank you for once again proving how ineffective your surveillance is, Mycroft." There is a pause. "Yes, we'll be taking her to Mummy's next week. No, that will not be necessary."

Dropping his phone back into his pocket, Sherlock kneels down next to John, who has been attempting to pry information from Rosie for the last several minutes and is having no success.

Sherlock takes one look at the girl and raises an eyebrow. "Rosie, were you on a case?"

Slowly, solemnly, the girl nods.

"Rosie…" John blows a long breath and hangs his head, releasing her to run his hands through his hair. Shoving himself to his feet, he begins to pace the flat again.

Sherlock leans close, keeping his voice low. "Did you solve it? Did you catch him?" Rosie's eyes sparkle, then dim, and she shakes her head again, clearly disappointed.

"Sherlock!" John's voice cracks the air behind them, and he strides back over. "This is not funny! We are going to have a long talk about this, young lady. You cannot run off like that!"

At this, Rosie's head snaps up, and she speaks for the first time. "Why? You do it all the time!"

John stiffens, and Sherlock rises to his feet with the lazy grace of a jaguar, putting out a hand to placate the other man. "John…"

John ignores his murmur and plants himself in front of Rosie. "You disobeyed me, Rosie. You wasted the time of the police and Mycroft, and you've made Sherlock and I frantic. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Why are you the only ones who are allow to have adventures and fly off without a word?"

She watches the color flush into her father's cheeks, and watches him take a deep breath as she braces for her punishment. This is not going to be good.

"Rosie?"

Mrs. H! Rosie has never been happier to see the landlady, and she doesn't wriggle as Mrs. Hudson wraps her in a warm hug, even though she's getting a little old for such things.

Mrs. Hudson pulls away and clucks, brushing ineffectually at the mud crusted in Rosie's hair. "What have you been doing, duck?"

"Mrs. Hudson." Rosie can tell her father is struggling not to yell. "If you don't mind, I need to discipline my daughter."

"You can discipline her after she's had a bath and doesn't stink like the Thames," Mrs. Hudson snaps back, herding Rosie upstairs before John can say anything else.

"Thanks, Mrs. H.," Rosie grins as she climbs into the tub, prompting Mrs. Hudson to prop her hands on her hips.

"Oh, don't think I'm too pleased with you either, duck," the older lady warns. "You nearly caused my poor heart to give out! Where were you?"

Rosie sighs, shoves some bubbles aside, and begins.

The rain is so loud that Molly nearly doesn't hear the knock at her door. "What on earth?" She mutters, opening it to find a bedraggled twelve year old Rosie Watson standing there, looking terrified.

"Rosie?" She asks, ushering the girl inside. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

Rosie tugs the towel Molly drapes around her closer to her chest and bites her lip. "I'm bleeding."

"What?" Molly immediately begins to scan Rosie's exposed arms and legs. "Where? Did someone hurt you?"

Rosie shakes her head mutely and points.

"Oh." Molly bites back a smile and nods solemnly. "Let's go to the bathroom, and then you and I will have a talk, yeah?"

Closing the bathroom door behind the girl, Molly grabs her phone and calls John.

He answers immediately, and Molly can hear the undercurrent of panic in his voice. "Molly? Have you seen Rosie?"

"She's at mine," Molly tells him, and has to smile at the heavy sigh of relief that rattles over the line.

"Christ. If I wasn't already gray…" John pulls the phone away from his mouth, but Molly can still hear him. "Sherlock. She's at Molly's." Molly hears a sharp question in Sherlock's deep bass, and then John clears his throat. "Is she all right?"

"She's perfectly fine." Molly reassures him, and then hesitates. "John? Have you talked to her about her monthlies yet?"

There is silence on the other end, and then, "No…no, that…hadn't come up. Is that why she's at yours?"

"Yes."

Another heavy sigh. "I'll come round in a few, talk to her."

"No." Molly blurts, pausing in filling the kettle. "No, John. This is a girl thing. Let me talk to her. If you come over and try to talk to her, you'll both end up embarrassed." She shudders at the idea of her father trying to give her such a speech.

"You would do that?" The relief in John's voice is crystal clear, and Molly grins. "Thank you, Molly. Just call, and one of us will come get her."

"Anytime," Molly assures him, placing the kettle on the stove and ending the call just as the bathroom door opens.

A tense silence has settled over Baker Street, and John can sense it the moment he steps into the building.

His nerves straining for the slightest movement or hint as to the situation, he climbs the stairs to his flat. I hope Rosie hasn't taken Mrs. Hudson's car for a spin again. I'm still making payments from the last time!

He opens the door to 221B soundlessly, and finds Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring at a slight figure who is perched uncomfortably in John's chair, looking as if he might flee at any moment.

The teenage boy turns his head at John's entrance, and if anything, he pales further. He swallows hard, and gets to his feet unsteadily.

To his credit, he approaches John and puts out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson."

John takes it, eyebrows raising at the strength of his grip. "You must be Rosie's young man."

"Y-y-yes," the boy stutters, and swallows. "I hope to be."

"All right, Tom?" Rosie's voice sounds from behind him, and John releases Tom's hand. Turning, he finds his sixteen-year-old daughter frozen in the doorway, looking at the tableau in dismay. "Bollocks."

"Language," John reprimands mildly. "We were just getting to know Tom."

"That's what I'm afraid of," his daughter retorts, crossing the worn carpet to kiss his cheek.

Tom looks relieved when she takes his hand and tugs him towards the door.

"Thank you for the fascinating conversation, Thomas." Sherlock rumbles as he gets to his feet and pads to John's side. He grins, and while Tom shrinks back, John smothers a laugh, and he can see Rosie duck her head for a moment to hide a giggle.

Unlike the soft smile that John sees every morning and Rosie can summon with a laugh, Sherlock is currently presenting Tom with a wide smile that makes him look like the unhinged psychopath that most people think he is.

"None of that," Rosie scolds as she ushers Tom to the door.

"Be back by midnight!" John calls after her, and Rosie tosses him an impish grin over her shoulder, so like her mother that John feels his chest constrict, even after all these years.

"Don't wait up!"

As the door clicks shut behind them, John shakes his head. He tips his head up to survey his partner. "Should I be worried?"

Sherlock hums and wraps an arm around John's waist. "No. He's much too concerned with football and is barely passing his chemistry courses. Rosie will lose interest in three weeks at the most, and no hearts will be broken."

"Good," John sighs, settling into his chair and watching in contentment as Sherlock does the same.

Sherlock sends off several texts, and John raises an eyebrow. "Asking Greg to pick young Tom up in a car if it's barely two past midnight and ordering Mycroft to keep an eye on them?"

Sherlock gives him a smirking, wolfish smile, and Lord, John loves this man and his devotion to their daughter. "Why should this date be any different than her others?"

"One of these days," John warns him, chuckling, "she'll outsmart you."

"At last," Sherlock sighs. "A worthy opponent."

Fin