The first thing John notices when he enters 221B is the presence of a young woman. He stops in the doorway when he notices her, one shoe already off, the other dangling from his foot. He stares at her. She stares at him. Her appearance is grubby; soot covers her face, dirt and grime covering nearly every inch of bare skin. Her clothes are in only slightly better condition – ripped, stained, covered in lazily sewn patches.
" ...Hi?" John says slowly. He hears a calm "'Lo" and notices a small bundle in her arms, one pink, slightly grimy foot sticking out of the end – a baby.
" ...Um. Sorry, are... How can..." John isn't sure how to respond to this. He's used to strange things popping up in the flat when he gets home from work, but a whole person – two whole persons, actually – is a bit new. And extreme, even for Sherlock.
"Don't worry, mate," She says with a grin. He's nodding weakly when she continues, "I'll be out of your 'air soon enough, promise." She readjusts the baby in her arms. "You're John Watson, yeah?" He nods again and slowly lowers his other shoe to the floor. He gravitates toward the kitchen – tea, tea is what he should do. Tea is normal, tea is safe. Jesus Christ, what - "It's nice to finally meet you, act'ully. Mr. 'Omes's been going on and on bout you. It's nice to 'ave a face to go with the stories."
"Stories?" John peeked out into the living room. He held out the kettle – tea? She nodded, accepting the unspoken offer. He set to work.
"Yeah, stories. Mr. 'Omes still comes by the 'ouse, tells us about your adventures all the time."
"Yeah, sorry, what?"
"The 'ouse. You know." She gave him an amused look.
"'Fraid I don't, actually. Sorry, who-" He was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming open and shut. Sherlock's voice boomed up - "Back, Rosie! Got it!" - followed quickly by the thump thump thump of his shoes as he hurried up the stairs. John edged into the living room as he entered the flat, flinging open the door to the living room in a flourish of limbs and coat. Rosie rolled her eyes.
"'Bout bloody time, yeah?" She scowled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and approached her, holding out a plastic bag, Tesco's label proudly crinkling as it swung to and fro. "Here. That's the right type." It was a statement, but John could hear a slight hesitation, questioning himself. Rosie glanced inside and grinned up at him, nodding. "Yeah. Thanks a mill, Sherlock, you're a life saver."
"Yes, well." The detective waved a hand dismissively, then flung the bag to the floor – a small box of powdered baby formula fell out onto the carpet – and he held out his hands. "Here, I'll take him. Go, shower. Leave your clothes by the door." Rosie's grin widened at his words, and she handed him the baby in a flurry of 'Thank-you's and 'You're a saint's. John marveled as the woman strode past him to Sherlock's bathroom – she obviously knew her way around the flat. As soon as the door shut, he rounded on his flatmate.
"What – who the hell is she?" He hissed. Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention. He was rocking the baby back and forth with a practiced ease, texting on his mobile with his free hand. "Sherlock!"
"Mm- Sorry, what?" Sherlock replied distractedly. He glanced up at John, then looked back to his mobile. "Oh. That's Rosie. This is Arthur." He added as an after thought, nodding down at the baby.
"What are they -"
"She was out of baby formula. I owed her a favor." He replied by way of explanation. Which left rather a lot to be desired, if you asked John, but it was an explanation none-the-less. He sighed and returned to the kitchen, finishing the preparation of their tea. He heard the shower running. Rosie's clothes lay in a neat pile outside the door.
Eventually, Sherlock made his way to the clothes. He grabbed them, not seeming to mind the dirt that smeared on his hands, and tossed them into the washing machine, following up with some detergent and starting the machine. John didn't even know he knew how to use the machine in the first place, but he supposed that he shouldn't be surprised – of course Sherlock would only do laundry when he felt like it. John elected to say nothing, and Sherlock accepted the tea he offered him. He continued to bounce the baby in his arm, sipping his tea.
"So." He said eventually. Sherlock gave the slightest twitch of his head – yes, what? - and John cleared his throat. "Um. Who is she, then?"
"You're repeating yourself."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Members of that Homeless Network of yours?" John could figure that much out on his own, at least. Nothing else really made sense. John took the slight twitch of his flatmate's mouth – good, John, you're learning – as a confirmation. He let it go; if Sherlock was okay with some random homeless woman in their flat, well. Why shouldn't he be? He trusted her – at least enough to let her alone in their flat for a run down to Tesco's - and that was enough for John. The flat was relatively silent for the next ten minutes, until the bathroom door swung open. Rosie stepped out, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown and drying her hair with a towel. Sherlock immediately jumped up from his seat on the couch and crossed over to her, holding out Arthur.
"You've been good to Ol' Grey Brain, Arthur?" She cooed at him as she took him from Sherlock's arms. He huffed. "Don't call me that. I am not a child anymore, Ro-"
"Yes, you are, and you always will be." She snapped back. She propped the sleeping baby against her shoulder and said, "Mind if I use it agai-"
"Don't ask stupid questions." Sherlock snapped back. John was intrigued. How well did this woman know Sherlock – and for how long?
Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and threw himself back on the couch. "Give John the clothes, he'll put them in the wash with yours."
Rosie only smiled fondly at his brooding grunt, then turned to John with a smile. She was quite pretty, John realized – and a lot older than she appeared before, at least five years Sherlock's senior. "You put up with a lot, love. Thanks for that." She gave his face a short pat, then moved back into the living room. "Your face'll stick that way if you don't watch it, Sherlock!" She shouted into the flat. Sherlock's reply was simply an unintelligible grunt – it was more fond than anything, though.
Hours later, after Rosie's departure, John and Sherlock sat in the living room. The telly was on, and neither one was watching, not really; Sherlock was sprawled across the couch, hands steepled at his chin. John was in his chair, typing up his latest blog post. The telly was background noise – neither one liked when the flat was quiet.
"You didn't owe her."
"Mm?" John glanced over at Sherlock. "I said, you didn't owe her."
"Hardly." Sherlock replied. He closed his eyes, returned his hands to his chin. " She helped me on a case a while back. I didn't have any money to give her at the time, so..." John turned back to his computer screen. "She needed formula. I had the means to give it to her." And if she and her baby got a shower and clean clothes while they were there – well. John smiled, shaking his head, and glanced at Sherlock. There was a ghost of a smile on his face that he knew he was intended to see. John's smile widened.
He returned to his blog.