A/N: With thanks to the Coven. Who are all invited 'round for dry ice margaritas and chips with homemade salsa. No reservations required.
Sherlock hates these days. The anniversary of her birth, and the anniversary of her adoption. Hates them, though he loves her, wherever she is.
It's been six years. She'd be seven – very nearly eight – years old now. She'd been nearly a year old when she and John had moved back in to Baker Street, and was 19 months old when John had finally decided.
Sherlock had watched, aching for John's pain, while the other man struggled. He'd given his support, and his love, now acknowledged and welcome, unstintingly, but he'd offered no opinion on the decision with which John had been wrestling.
John had never wanted children. Not really. In the abstract, as part of the expected normal, ideal life, yes, there were children. But their presence was there because it was expected, not because it was actively desired.
There had been a chance – a more than slight one, actually – that she hadn't been his. Given all the other lies Mary had told him, it would have surprised no one to discover that John Watson was not Rosie's father. The paternity test had confirmed their biological relationship. It had done nothing to provide John with a sense of connection to the little girl.
John had received the news with a grim smile, and had shouldered the responsibility. He did love his daughter, but in an uncomfortably impersonal way. She was a duty, not a treasure.
Coupled with his lingering anger at her mother, and an always-present sense of regret that things had moved down this path when he'd had so many opportunities to change course ages ago, John's guilt over his failure to bond with Rosie tied him in knots.
Sherlock's own feelings towards Rosie were similarly muddled. She was part of John, and he couldn't help but love her for it. She was also, however, part of Mary, and his feelings there were decidedly less than favorable. Rosie herself was a happy child, quick to laugh, delighted with life. She was easy to love. Except for how she made her father so very sad.
John had discussed it with his therapist. And with Molly and Mrs Hudson. And with Sherlock.
"It isn't selfish, John," Sherlock had finally said, after hearing John's self-accusatory remarks for the hundredth time.
"How is it not selfish?" John had demanded, bewildered. "I want us."
"You have us."
"I know. I know I do. And, God, Sherlock, I'm so, so very happy with that. With this. You and me. After – after everything."
"Water under the bridge, John."
"I do not deserve you," John had said, "but I will work every day to be someone who does."
Sherlock had harrumphed at the notion, and leaned in to kiss John. When John pulled away a moment later, he'd asked again, his tone less demanding, but no less desperate.
"How is it not selfish?"
"You want what is best for her, John, and you believe that placing her with someone else is in her best interest. That it aligns with giving you the life you want is coincidental."
"She should be with someone who loves her."
"You do love her, John."
John had nodded, tears sliding down his face.
Three days later, John had called Mycroft to begin the process of finding Rosie an adoptive family. He had refused to participate in selecting potential candidates, insisting that if he knew where Rosie was he'd be unable to fully let her go. To keep her safe from Mary's past, and from his own notoriety through his association with Sherlock, and to give her the best chance at fully bonding with her new family, he had to cut himself out completely.
It had taken Mycroft five weeks to place her.
Anthea had come to Baker Street to collect Rosie. Sherlock had assisted John in packing up Rosie's belongings in the days leading up to the adoption. Most of it had been sent ahead so that she'd have familiar things in her new surroundings. All that was left was a box and the diaper bag that Anthea slung over her shoulder before taking Rosie from John.
Sherlock remembers wrapping his arms around John as they stood in the doorway and watched Anthea buckling Rosie into one of Mycroft's cars. He remembers the way John had trembled as the car slid away from the kerb a minute later. He remembers the week that followed. It had not been good.
That time is long past now, and though John occasionally has low moods related to Rosie, the years have been good ones. They have been happy, solving crimes and catching criminals, eating take away and drinking tea, falling into bed and waking tangled together.
Still, twice a year, when the packets arrive, John's aching sadness – his guilt and grief and regret and relief – all come crashing back.
Today is 30 September. It's the anniversary of Rosie's adoption, and there is a heaviness in the air. At some point today there will be a knock at the door, and a courier will deliver a plain manila envelope containing photos and updates.
Sherlock prefers the birthday packets, not because they are materially different in any way, but because it's easier to distract John then. The anniversary of the day the met fell only days after the first packet had arrived, and Sherlock had seized on the opportunity to begin a tradition of celebrating the occassion. John had appreciated both Sherlock's motivation, and the obvious sentimentality of the manner in which Sherlock diverted John's attention.
It's harder to distract John and cheer him up in early October. There are no convenient reasons to celebrate, and a good case cannot be guaranteed. A week after the fifth anniversary of Rosie's adoption Sherlock had gone out and bought a ring.
A year later, the anniversary has come around again, and the ring sits tucked into a pair of socks in the back of his sock index. He has spent months wrestling with the idea. He realizes the gravity of the question, and knows he can't ask it solely to give them a reason for joy at a time of year when a bit of sadness seeps in at the edges of their lives. He has considered his own position on the institution of marriage, and the likelihood that John would want to marry again after the first time.
Over the last year, the more he's thought about it, the more the idea of being married appeals. In his observations of John over the same time, Sherlock has also become convinced that John would be receptive to the idea.
He is determined, therefore, to give John this time to grieve for the little girl he let go, and then, in a day or two, to 'pop the question'.
Still, sitting in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, watching as John returns from answering the door, manila envelope clutched in his hand, Sherlock hates this day.
He watches John sink onto the couch, fingers fumbling slightly as he opens the envelope. John reads the reports, and Sherlock reads John. Rosie is clearly still a happy, healthy little girl, thriving, at home and in school. John puts the report aside and picks up the first photo. His smile is bittersweet. Sherlock's heart aches.
John moves to the second photo, and then to the third. On the last one, he pauses. He frowns, puzzled, then draws in a breath in what might be a gasp.
"John?"
John looks up at Sherlock, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and a wide grin. He begins to laugh.
"Come see," he says, and Sherlock is already moving.
Sherlock steps over the coffee table and sits next to John on the sofa. Leaning close to John he looks at the photograph in John's hand, then up to John's still smiling face, and back to the photo.
Rosie is seated outdoors at a round table in a sunny garden, hosting a tea party for an assortment of elephants. Carved figurines of wood and stone, cloisonne and metal, are interspersed with a handful of plush toys.
John runs a finger over Rosie's image, tracing her smile and the long blond hair in a plait over her shoulder. He tapped his finger over a worn pink elephant seated at Rosie's right hand.
"Remember this?"
"Of course," Sherlock replies. "We picked it up that day we were investigating the torso in the case at left luggage at Waterloo Station."
"We didn't pick it up, Sherlock. You did. While I was busy taking notes you finished examining the case and vanished. Came back ten minutes later with that elephant in a Marks and Spencer bag. You got that for her."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, gaze flicking up to John's face. "I'm pleased she liked it and still has it," he says, studying John closely. "That's not what made you laugh, is it?"
"No, it's not," John replies, shooting Sherlock a quick smile.
"What is it?"
"I've been worried, you know? The pictures and the reports come, and they say she's happy. They show that she's happy. I've just, well, never really been able to trust it, you know?"
"Why not?" Sherlock asks.
"Because … well. Because I'm happy. And I wondered if I'd made some sort of trade. My happiness for hers. That the photos and reports they sent were curated somehow to give the impression that things were fine, but maybe they weren't. I know Mycroft would never have placed her with anyone who wouldn't love her, but I just couldn't let myself believe it."
"But you trust it now."
"I do, yeah."
"Why?"
"Because I know where she is. I know who she's with. I know it's real. Her safety. Her happiness. It's really real."
Sherlock stares at the photograph in John's hand, studying it for the information John says is there. He doesn't know what he's looking for, and turns back to John, bewildered.
"It's the elephants," John says before Sherlock can ask. "The figurines, not the toys. I know them. I bought this one myself," he points to a small pink stone figurine roughly cut into the shape of an elephant. "I was attending a conference in Doha. Visited a market while I was there. Watched a craftsman on a street corner carve this. Bought it from him when he finished. To add to the Major's collection."
"The Major? Sholto?"
John nods and explains, "It was sort of a running joke. He came back from leave one time early in my first tour and discovered that his nephew's toy elephant had somehow found its way into his pack. He put it on the shelf in his office with a photo of his sister and her boy. After that, the lads picked up elephants here and there and slipped them into his office. Bill got him that one there, the enamel. And that brass one came from Remi. Not sure who gave the others, but I recognize them from his office."
"So, Rosie is serving tea to Major Sholto's elephant collection."
"She is, indeed," John says with a laugh.
"You think she's with him."
"I do, yeah."
"And that's … okay?" Sherlock asks.
"More than okay. He always said he wanted a family, but said he wouldn't put someone in the position of raising his kids without him while he was overseas. If he couldn't be there, be part of their lives, he wouldn't do it. But he wanted to. Wanted kids. He just … wanted to serve more. And then, after the accident … between his injuries and his determination to stay out of the public eye … he wasn't likely to find a partner or start a family."
"And now, he has Rosie," Sherlock concludes.
"It's perfect. She's wanted, and loved. She's happy," John replies, then frowns briefly.
"And safe," Sherlock says, deducing the path of John's thoughts. "Mycroft would not have placed her in danger. He would have assured that no threats against Major Sholto remained, and would have assigned a security detail regardless."
"Right, of course. That's good, then," John replies, collecting the photos and reports and leaning forward to lay them on the table before shifting back again, angled to lean into Sherlock. Sherlock takes the hint and lifts his arm to wrap it around John's shoulders, taking the opportunity to press a kiss to his temple.
"Is it all right, then? You knowing where she is?" he asks.
"I think so, yeah," John replies. "It wouldn't have been, then. I wouldn't have been able to stop myself checking in. Making sure she was okay. That she wasn't scared or sad. Second guessing all the decisions her new family was making for her," John sighs. "It had to be a clean break. To let her settle in without my interference, bond with them, to give us both closure."
"And now?"
"Now? Now I know she's happy, Sherlock. And I'm happy. You're happy?" he asks.
"You know I am."
They sit in silence for a while, Sherlock running his fingers up and down John's shoulder.
"You should ask."
Sherlock's hand freezes in its movements on John's arm. He doesn't need to ask what John means, though he doesn't know how John knows.
"Should I?"
"Yeah. If you want to."
Sherlock pulls back slightly and studies John, who is leaning into his side, still smiling at the picture in his hand.
"I want to."
"That's good, then," John says, looking up and smiling. "Because I want you to."
"John," Sherlock says, slipping off the couch to kneel at John's feet, "will you marry me?"
"Of course I will."
Sherlock rocks forward to meet John as he leans in for a kiss. He feels a warm wave of affection, and no small amount of relief. He not only didn't mess this up, John said yes. He pulls away with a grin and jumps to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his rush to get to the bedroom and the box in his sock index. John is laughing at him when he returns, his smile bright as he extends his hand.
"How did you know?" Sherlock asks as he pulls the ring free from the box and slides it onto John's finger.
"I do your laundry, you berk," John replies with a laugh, his expression turning contemplative. "I was worried, for a bit, when I found it. About how far you would go for me. Not that I don't know just exactly how far you'll go, but I was afraid, you know, that this was a thing you'd do just to distract me, to make me feel better. But then the box sat there. And sat there. And I watched you. I watched you considering the idea, seriously, and fretting over the timing. And I knew that you would probably still arrange things around news of Rosie, but it wouldn't be about her."
"It would be about us," Sherlock agrees.
"Sentimental sod," John laughs.
Sherlock gives him a mock scowl, but finds he can't hold it, his lips twitching up into a smile.
"Only for you," he says, sitting next to John. He looks at John's hand where it's resting on his thigh, over the photo of Rosie and the elephant tea party.
"We could invite them," he says, nodding to the photo. "To the wedding. If you want."
"We could," John agrees. "Have to ask her dad. See what he thinks."