"Sherlock, I'm not letting you take our daughter to see a corpse!" John stood obstinately in the doorway.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Rosie looked up at him expectantly, her wispy hair stirring in the breeze.
"Have you even asked her if she wants to?" Continued John. "She'll go from learning to write her own name to witnessing a crime scene, for f-"
"Our daughter," Sherlock interrupted, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.
"Well-" John couldn't think of anything to say. It had been a reflex; like he knew him name and his age, part of him somehow acknowledged that Rosie was never just his - she'd been Sherlock's from the start. That part of him smiled, while he looked away and fumbled with the door knocker of 221B. "I guess she is. Sherlock."
Sherlock simply nodded in his usual reserved manner. John could have imagined it, but there was almost a gravity to that nod, as if Sherlock were accepting responsibility.
"Rosie," Sherlock reached down for the little girl's hand, and she held it. "Do you want to see a crime scene?"
"Will there be blood?" She asked, eyes shining with innocent interest.
"Lots."
Rosie Watson thought for a moment, until her face broke into a grin. "Yes!"
And as they hailed a cab - Sherlock in his billowing coat, Rosie in her spotty red one - Sherlock glanced back at John in the doorway, who was shaking his head as if to say, 'you win.'
