The day that three-year-old Rosie Watson-Holmes saw a towering tiered layer cake in a bakery window was the day that genius detective Sherlock Holmes was spectacularly wrong.

"Daddy, Sherla! Looka the cake."

"I see," John said. "It looks delicious."

"And just baked today," Sherlock observed (somehow).

Rosie couldn't take her eyes off it. "Daddy, can we bake a cake like that one? Please?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but a cake like that would be really difficult." And expensive, he thought. John remembered perusing the prices of cakes for both of his weddings and each time he had questioned whether they really needed a cake after all.

Sherlock squeezed her shoulder. "I doubt even Mrs. Hudson could bake a cake like that," he said. "You have to have special training for it and go to school to become a baker."

"Then I want to be a baker," Rosie insisted, still mesmerized by the swirls of colorful frosting. "When I grow up I'm going to bake lots of cakes just like that one."

"Good for you," Sherlock said, and gently eased her away from the window—London was crowded this time of day and they were starting to cause a traffic jam. He and John exchanged a look over the top of her head that said sure she will. Just that week Rosie had declared that she wanted to be a princess, then a pilot, then a painter, and then a doctor or detective just like her dads. Sherlock knew what her attention span was like and he had no doubt she'd forget all about being a baker in a day.


The very next morning the clatter of pans and kitchen drawers opening and closing woke Sherlock and John at seven a.m. They bounded out of bed ready to fight the burglar, only to see that the culprit was Mrs. Hudson, who was handing Rosie a mixing bowl. The latter was sitting on the counter in her pink bee-covered footie pajamas and chattering happily to her surrogate grandmother, who was wearing her robe and grinning.

"Now that we've got everything we need, the baking begins," she was saying. "For chocolate cake, the first thing I always do is—oh hello, boys!" She waved her fingers at them.

"Good morning, Daddy, good morning Sherla!" Rosie said, beaming brightly. They couldn't help smiling back.

"What's all this?" John asked, gesturing to the measuring cups, beaters, and other kitchenware spread over the counter.

"Little Watson went downstairs and woke Mrs. Hudson up to teach her to bake, didn't you?" When Rosie giggled, Sherlock added playfully, "You naughty girl."

"Oh I don't mind at all. I'm delighted to teach her," Mrs. Hudson said, patting Rosie's cheek. "But I'm afraid you two will have to leave. No one is allowed to see our masterpiece until it's finished."

"Yeah, you gotta go!" Rosie pointed to the living room and Sherlock and John left, amused at her tone but grateful that Mrs. Hudson was so generous with her time. And the fact that they would get cake didn't hurt either.


That morning Mrs. Hudson opened the floodgates to years of nurturing Rosie's newfound passion. Even Sherlock had to admit amazement when their little girl's interest in baking not only didn't fade, it intensified with each new treat she learned to make. The flat was forever filled with the sweet smell of biscuits, cake, cupcakes, muffins, brownies, pies, tarts, and when she got older, bread and croissants and similar pastries.

They were often barred access to their own kitchen, but they couldn't say they minded. Eager to encourage her and proud of her no doubt inherited dedication to her art, they bought more and more ingredients. Rosie's delighted squeal when something came out perfect and her bouncing, infectious excitement when she had a new recipe to try made it well worth the money. It wasn't until both their pantry shelves and their waistlines—for they were always obligated to at least taste everything she made—began to bulge that they begged her to slow down.

"But I need to practice," she whined. "I want to learn how to make everything so I can be a baker when I grow up."

"I know, love, but if we keep stockpiling so many sweets, they'll go bad before we can eat them all," John said. And we'll all be huge and have rotten teeth in the process, he thought, feeling the tightness of his clothes and already dreading his next dentist appointment.

In the end it was Sherlock who solved this problem. The members of his homeless network were as eager for good food as they were for money, and Rosie often either gave her goods away or occasionally sold them in the park for pocket money, much to her fathers' relief. As much as they loved her and were thrilled that she had found her calling, there were times when they thought they'd be sick if they saw one more biscuit or cake.

Undaunted, Rosie spent a good bit of her childhood either in the kitchen of 221B or downstairs baking with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock once calculated that her time improving her skills exceeded her time in school by almost a full twelve percent, though it apparently didn't matter; her grades were as good as ever. As was her food.

But by the time she was eight, it was no longer enough for the food to taste good. Now Rosie wasn't satisfied unless her creation looked too beautiful to eat. She began experimenting with frosting, icing, and other toppings and watched YouTube videos on beautiful baked goods. Soon even library cookbooks were cluttering up the tables and threatening to overtake Sherlock's science equipment.

Though he was relieved that she wasn't taking after her mother in terms of career choice, John sometimes wished Rosie's hobby was a little more exciting. To him a nice looking cake was cool for about a minute, then it became less interesting. Figuring one culinary experience could lead to another, one summer he dragged her and Sherlock out to the country and tried to get her interested in grilling.

"I always loved when my parents would let me do this when I was a kid," he told her as he put another hot dog on the grill. "See how it sizzles when I flip it?" He turned it over with a spatula and smiled proudly at the sound.

Rosie was unimpressed. "It's not the same, Daddy. The smoke is smelly and gets in your eyes. And you can't even lick the bowl."

John was crushed. Sherlock tried and failed to console him by pointing out that English weather was never that great for grilling anyway and that Rosie had a seventeen percent better chance at finding employment as a baker. And it seemed she planned to do just that.

For Christmas and her birthday, Rosie begged for her own baking supplies, just like Mrs. Hudson had. "Please? I don't like having to borrow other peoples', I want my own more than anything." How could they refuse? They asked Mrs. Hudson for a list of everything a baker would need. Sherlock shopped online for the best-quality supplies and compared reviews, then "borrowed" Mycroft's credit card to pay for it all. John had his own idea of what to get her.

On Christmas Eve, they managed to find a huge basket that would hold everything they had bought her and arranged it all nicely, with a big red bow to make it aesthetically pleasing. They insisted Rosie stay out of the living room until they could all go in together on Christmas morning. This soon proved to be a bad idea, because at six a.m. they woke up to an ecstatic Rosie screaming, "Wake up, it's Christmas!" and bouncing on their bed.

"Mm, don't remind me," Sherlock mumbled and turned over with his eyes still shut. He was an all-nighter on many occasions, but never an early riser. Getting Rosie to school and fixing her breakfast had always been John's job; Sherlock helped with homework and got them dinner.

Rosie shook John's shoulders. "Daddy, come on, wake up. It's Christmas."

He groaned. "Yeah I know. And it'll still be Christmas in half an hour." He tried to bury his head back in the pillow.

"Dad-dee!"

"Rosie, it's still dark outside," John whined. "Just let us sleep a little longer, okay?"

"But I've waited for hours," Rosie protested. Her fathers knew that by hours she really meant two minutes, but there was enough of a whimper in her voice that Sherlock was almost moved by it.

"John, your daughter wishes to partake in holiday merriment," he said in a monotone, eyes still closed.

"You signed the adoption papers; she's your daughter now. She can be my daughter when the sun's up." John rolled over and snuggled into his pillow.

Not to be defeated, Rosie crawled to Sherlock—he was easier to persuade and Daddy always did whatever he wanted—and blew a big wet raspberry on his cheek. He tried to stifle his giggles to no avail, and finally he gave up on sleep and returned the favor by blowing several on her tummy, sending her into a loud peal of laughter.

"Let's get Daddy," he proposed mischievously, and the two of them covered each of John's cheeks with their lips. It was enough to fully wake him up in good humor, and after a bit more cuddling and a round of "Do you really want to open presents? Really? Really?" and Rosie screaming YES! each time, they led her into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson was already waiting for them, which was fortunate because otherwise she would have missed Rosie's ear-piercing shouts of joy when she saw the basket.

"My own baking supplies!" She rushed to the basket and showered each item with adoration. Sherlock put his arm around John and leaned into him, smiling as they proudly watched her exclaim over her spatula, muffin/cupcake pan, mixing bowl, whisk, cake cutter, rolling pin, measuring cups and spoons, oven mitts, icing spreaders, and various sizes of pots and pans. When she had paused for breath, John said, "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"Thank you!" she shouted and ran to hug their legs. "Thank you so much; I love you!"

"We love you too," John said. "But I think you missed something."

Mrs. Hudson giggled delightedly. Rosie's eyes grew so big John thought they might pop out of her head. "What? Is there more?"

Sherlock pointed to a slip of paper, a receipt to be exact, sticking out of the basket. "There's one more present for you right there."

Rosie sprinted over to the paper and plucked it out. She looked a little confused and for a second they worried she couldn't read it—she was only at a third grade level, after all—but then she screamed again. "Cake decorating classes!"

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands and squealed herself. "Ooh congratulations, love. Those are so much fun; I took one years ago and loved it."

"Now you'll learn to decorate cakes just like a real baker," John said before being nearly tackled by Rosie's hug.

"This is the best Christmas ever!" she screeched loud enough to make John wince.

"You say that every Christmas," Sherlock teased. His heart was swelling so much he had to join them in their hug. "Nothing but the best for our little baker."


Every gift in that basket received a considerable workout, including the cake decorating classes. Rosie learned fast and was soon making beautiful borders and edgings. By ten she was rivaling supermarket quality, and by sixteen she was looking into culinary schools.

"I'm amazed she's so sure of what she wants to do," John said one night in bed. "I went from wanting to just be a soldier to studying to be a scientist to nursing and back again before I finally decided to be a doctor. And even after I got into medical school, I was changing specialties every other week. Thought I wanted to be a cardiologist for a while."

"I thought I wanted to be a pharmacist," Sherlock said. "No, not for that reason," he said, annoyed at the look John was giving him. "Criminal investigator was also appealing. As was scientist."

They mentioned this to Rosie the following day and she told them her plans. "After I graduate I want to open up my own bakery, and I want to make it especially for LGBTQ+ people."

Oh? This was something they hadn't heard. "I'm tired of bakeries not serving us when we're planning our weddings," she declared. I want there to be a place where couples like you two know that they can get good service. I may have to work as an assistant in another bakery for a while to save up the money, but that's what I eventually want."

Sherlock and John had never been prouder. When they went to bed again, they made an agreement. They monitored Rosie's grades when she made it to culinary school and she made them proud every time. Mycroft secured her an internship and she excelled at it. Sherlock began taking money for cases and seeking cases that paid, even if they were boring ones. John worked extra shifts at the clinic. Both of them tightened their belts. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence, they let her chip in.

Finally on the night of her graduation, when they and their friends were clustered around a booth at Angelo's, they presented her with their present. It was one envelope.

Rosie opened it carefully and so slowly they thought they would burst from impatience. The check fell out, and a note with it.

To our wonderful daughter Rosie,

According to our numbers, this should be enough to get your bakery started. We're unspeakably proud of you and all that you've accomplished. You are the best thing that has ever happened to either of us and are the most hardworking, kind, and caring person we've ever known. We love you and look forward to trying all the treats you make as a professional baker.

Love forever and always,

Dad and Sherlock.

She was choking on tears by the time she finished, and the hug they gave her got the whole restaurant clapping. Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly cheered and joined in.

"A-are you sure?" she asked with a hiccup. "That's—that's so much money."

John held up his hand. "It's an investment. We're investing in a delicious and reliable service for people like us."

"As well as a lifetime of free food," Sherlock joked—somewhat ironically, as he ate less than anybody.

Rosie carefully put the check in her bag. "I'm going to open a bakery with food that's so good, no one will want to go anywhere else."

"We'd expect nothing less," Mrs. Hudson said, and that got them all clapping again as Angelo arrived with their food. As soon as everybody else had begun to dig in, Sherlock and John exchanged a slightly passionate kiss. Not only had they survived parenthood, they had raised a little girl into a grown woman who was making the world a sweeter place in every sense of the word.