"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green,
When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen.
Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?
'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so."
Sherlock heard his wife's soft voice as he entered the front hall of Baker Street. He cocked his head at the sound, and then quietly bid Mrs. Hudson goodnight and headed up to the nursery where Molly would be waiting.
He lingered at the doorway, smiling at the sight before him. In the nursery Molly rose up on her toes, taking smooth, striding steps to rock the baby to sleep. The fireplace crackled warmly, beneath their feet they heard Mrs. Hudson quietly shut the front door behind her, rattling the key in the lock to be certain it was secure. Before Molly could pause in her song, Sherlock fell in stride beside her, then slipping his arm over her shoulders, the other under her arm. Promenading around the room to the lilting music, he admired his wife in the soft light, and too Nicholas, barely awake, his eyelids drooped heavily. Of late he'd been sick, having caught a cold and a low fever. They had been up almost four days straight, taking turns sitting near steaming pots of water. Watson had come and gone from Baker Street, even spending a night to be sure the baby would see through the night. As finicky as the Consulting Detective was in the heat, he willingly endured it; Nicholas curled against his chest, coughing up phlegm as his father soothed his back.
"How is he?" Sherlock asked softly. Molly caught his eye, smiling tiredly while she sang.
"We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm's way.
(I'll be with you in a minute-)" she murmured before taking another breath, starting on the last verse:
"I love to dance, dilly, dilly, I love to sing;
When I am queen, dilly, dilly, You'll be my king.
Who told me so, dilly, dilly, Who told me so?
I told myself, dilly, dilly, I told me so."
That did the trick, and Nicholas at last nodded off.
"Here, I'll take him," he offered, and Molly gently passed Nicholas into his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Fever down?" he asked, voice hushed.
"Yes, and the rest of the phlegm came up earlier today; he had his dinner and has kept it down so far." Molly smiled as Sherlock cradled their son, oh-so-gently pressing feather-light kisses to his rosy cheeks and forehead.
"That's all better, then," he murmured softly with a smile. "Time for bed, wee one," he bent over the crib, gently settling the sleeping babe within.
"Mrs. Hudson ran a bath for you before she left," Molly said when he straightened. He slipped his arms about her waist, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"It would be a waste of water to fill the bath twice, you know."
"So it would." Letting his wife lead the way, he cast one last glance back to Nicholas who was fast asleep, Gladstone, on loan from the Watsons, lay beneath the crib, alert at each breath the baby took. Molly had released his hand, taking her hair down as she made her way to the bath. Sherlock put out the gaslamps in the hall, wondering to himself how wonderfully lucky he was.
"Coming, Sherlock?" Molly called. Already shucking his coat, he smiled wolfishly at her. Following her down the hall, whistling the lullaby she'd only finished singing.
Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green,
When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen.
Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?
'Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.