Sherlock Holmes shifted his weight to his other foot and frowned. He was missing something but what? He took a step closer to the couch, staring intently at the wall above, his eyes flicking from photograph to newspaper clipping to coroner's report. Something, some small but intricately important detail was eluding him and he simply could not see it.
"What do you think, Watson?" he asked the toddler bouncing contentedly in the harness strapped to his chest. "If this was a murder - which it obviously is, I mean look at his right thumb - then how did the murderer get into the locked bathroom and out again? The window had been sealed for years so they can't have gotten in through there."
"Gah," the baby agreed, idly gumming one pudgy knuckle.
"I'm missing something!" he groaned, stepping up onto the couch, shoes and goddaughter still on.
"Dah!" she cried, gently punching the wall in front of her.
"What is it, what did you see?" Sherlock leant down to study the photograph John Watson's daughter had just indicated. It was the close-up shot of the old-fashioned keyhole of the bathroom door, taken to show the lack of a forced entry.
There was nothing remotely remarkable about the photograph. The brass doorknob was in need of a polish, and the area around the keyhole was somewhat scratched from the many times the key had been inexpertly inserted into the cavity, but there was nothing to suggest it was -
Sherlock's phone beeped loudly, derailing his bullet train of thought. Leaning back he dug one hand into his trouser pocket and retrieved the phone while he laid the other on the child's head, gently stroking the soft, fine blond hair was just starting to grow into delicate curls.
The consulting detective of 221B Baker Street glanced uninterestedly at the screen before accepting the call and putting the phone to his ear.
"Lestrade," he greeted formally. He listened for a few moments, gave a curt goodbye and, remembering he had the baby strapped to his chest, managed not to leap into the air with joy.
"Yes!" he hissed, punching the air and whirling to the door to fetch his coat. "Little Watson, my dear, our luck is turning. Lestrade's got another case, a gang murder he thinks - and there is nothing better for a stuck mind than to focus on something new. Just you wait," he said as he donned the heavy Belstaff, "your godfather will have both cases solved by supper!"
He bopped his chin to land a soft kiss on the baby's head, eliciting a trickle of delighted laughter. Sherlock smiled as he pulled the door open and ran down the stairs. He loved that sound.
When he reached the half-landing he remembered he was heading off to a crime scene. Turning on the ball of one foot he leapt nimbly up the stairs and back to 221B. Sherlock grabbed the kit bag left beside the door, heaved it over one shoulder and flew back down the wooden steps. The baby, who Mrs Hudson was convinced would grow to be an adrenaline junkie like her parents, laughed as the air wooshed past her with the speed of her chariot's haste.
"There she is," Lestrade exclaimed, his voice rising two octaves as he spoke, "there's my little niecey! Come here to Uncle Greg!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as the most highly decorated detective inspector in London pulled the baby from the chest harness and proceeded to babble an uninterrupted string of nonsense and coos to her. Sherlock let the kit bag fall with a thump to the ground and, leaving his goddaughter in the so-far-reliable hands of Greg Lestrade, went to inspect the body.
The overcast light of late afternoon London cast the corpse in grey half-shadows, as though all colour had been sucked from the alley. The body in question was a young man in his late teens or early twenties, one bullet wound to the left temple and a sigil carved into the flesh of his exposed chest. Drawing out his magnifying glass, Sherlock leant forward to examine the mark. It looked like a snake entwined around a classic Catholic cross, with three crown-like sunbursts emanating from the top of the design. This was the reason Lestrade was considering this a gang murder.
Sherlock was sure he knew this sigil, but from where? It would take a trip to his mind palace to answer that question, which meant leaving Little Watson with Mrs Hudson or Lestrade for a time. Employing one of the babysitters would also mean he'd have the chance to hunt down the clues like the old days with John -
Sherlock gave his head one sharp shake. Focus, Sherlock, he told himself in a voice that sounded like his brother's. What is the body telling you? Focus.
Once his inspection was complete, he straightened up and went to debrief Lestrade. The DI had the Little Watson in his arms and was teasing her with what looked like another new TY Beanie Baby. Sherlock suppressed a sigh as he approached. The child had more toys than digits and more than half of them had come from Lestrade.
"So you haven't killed her yet?" Donovan asked in with her usual smiling sneer as he walked past."
"Nnnope," he answered, not taking his eyes of his goddaughter.
The detective inspector looked up as Sherlock approached and, raising his eyebrows in greeting he took the usual pre-deduction deep breath.
"Wait, hang on a second," Lestrade cut in, stopping Sherlock short before the first word was formed on his lips. "Me first."
Understanding, Sherlock slumped and levelled a look of deepest contempt on his colleague.
"Now now, don't give me that - we had a deal, yeah?" Lestrade's stern tone was effectively negated by the satisfied grin spreading across his cheeks. "So, when's she last eaten?"
"Two hours, thirty-three minutes ago."
"Is she passing things regularly?"
"Yes, you asked me that yester-"
"Is she sleeping okay?"
"Yes, soundly, you know tha-"
"Does she like that tiger I got her?"
"Yes, she likes it as much as the other four hundred toys you gave her, Lestrade, the body –"
"She still got that cough?"
"No, it cleared up –"
"Good." Lestrade's grin widened in unison with Sherlock's deepening frown. "Your turn."
Taking a second to check his temper, Sherlock took another deep breath. Lestrade listened to the avalanche of information with his usual patience and was only distracted twice by the baby attempting to eat his lapels. When he finished, Lestrade looked down once more to the smiling infant, a painfully wide smile exposing so many teeth Sherlock was sure the poor child would have been frightened, were she not a Watson.
"Well, well, looks like Uncle Sherlock's done it again, eh little one? He just made Uncle Greg's job a lot easier, didn't he?"
Sherlock felt he had by now deserved at least three medals for putting up with Lestrade's baby voice.
"Why don't you just talk to her like a person? She'll think it's acceptable to talk in that ridiculous voice if you –"
"She's a baby, Sherlock, she likes to hear people sound like her. Don'tcha Wattie? Don'tcha?" She burped in agreement, one hand reaching for the lapel again.
"Please, don't call her 'Wattie' -"
"Aw and now unkie Sherlock's getting all pis- all bothered because he knows I'm your favourite, isn't that right?" He diverted the mischievous hand and tickled her tummy.
"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock scowled.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock, it's just a bit of fun! And I have to call her something other than 'Little Watson' until you pick a name for her, haven't I?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and avoided the sticky issue of names. "Yes, well, some of us actually have work to do. Like I said, I know that mark from somewhere but I need time to chase it down. Can you mind the little miss for a few hours or shall I call Mrs Huds-"
"Oh don't worry, I can take her back to the office. How long d'you think you'll be?"
Sherlock pretended not to notice the DI's sudden glee. "Don't know. Not long. I'll be home to put her bed, of course. I'm sure Mrs Hudson can take her later if you decide to earn your pay check."
"Ha ha, very funny," Lestrade mocked. "You got everything in the bag?"
"Yep," Sherlock drawled. He leant forward and kissed the little forehead, whispering a temporary goodbye.
"You sure there're enough nappies?" Lestrade pressed as Sherlock turned to leave.
"Yes, Gerry –"
"It's GREG!"
"Of course it is," he called over his shoulder. Leaving crime scenes had become a far more involved task than it was when Jo - than it used to be.
"Oi! Sherlock!"
"Oh, god, WHA-AT?" he groaned, whirling around with clawed hands itching to curl around the time-waster's throat.
"You take care, you hear me? Be back to read her her bedtime story."
Sherlock relaxed slightly. He put two fingers to his forehead in an only half-mocking salute.
O*O*O*O
There is something peculiar about the feel of a gun on the back of one's head. On the surface it simply feels like a ring of cold, hard metal, often shoved painfully into the cranium. Yet a cold shiver of fear and death accompanies the ugly muzzle, like a silent growl from a vicious beast parched for blood. The body freezes instantly, afraid to goad the beast into attack by any sudden movements. The muscles along the spine tense, as though determined to protect the spinal chord from the fangless jaws of flashing death. The stomach seems to shrivel, cowering away from the danger as adrenaline floods through the veins like so many tiny tsunamis.
Sherlock Holmes was unpleasantly familiar with the sensations associated with a gun to his head, although he did have one distinct advantage over his fellow targets. As soon as the gun is registered - if indeed the assailant succeeds in sneaking up on him, which is rare - Sherlock's brain shifts up a gear, analysing every possible means of escape and evasion, from verbally distracting the attacker with intimate knowledge gleaned from the particular squeak of his custom-made Swedish leather shoes against the bare concrete floor of the converted warehouse, to physically incapacitating the would-be murderer.
On this particular occasion, the impressively tattooed member of the Valentinos gang not only managed to catch the great Sherlock Holmes unawares but also jabbed the muzzle of his Smith & Wesson .42 handgun sharply into the detective's curls and cocked it.
The metallic click rang through the cavernous space, bouncing off the great crates of skilfully disguised heroin and thundering through Sherlock's mind like the gunshot it preceded.
"Don't move." The thug's voice was higher than Sherlock would have thought.
He froze, crouched behind one of the crates packed with white powder. Fool, he berated himself, you should have heard him coming. He could hear the man's heavy breathing behind him, could feel the cold metal muzzle of the gun pressing uncomfortably into the back of his head. His mind was completely blank. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to disarm or distract the attacker.
"How'd you get in 'ere?" he demanded, and Sherlock could hear the feint slick as he readjusted his sweaty grip on the weapon.
Sweaty? With an icy jolt Sherlock's brain reengaged. The guard was nervous - why? Was he alone on duty? Was he new, uncomfortable with a gun, with threatening a man? Was he ill, high?
Lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender, Sherlock slowly stood and turned to face him, taking a long, silent sniff as he did so. There was no hint of drugs amid the stink of the man's sweat.
The gun wavered as it pointed at Sherlock's nose. He kept his expression calm as he met the thug's eyes.
He was just a boy. He couldn't be more than sixteen years old. Sweat trickled down his forehead like tiny racing rivers, crisscrossing each other over the tattoo on his neck. Acne littered his face and his eyes were wide with unhidden fear.
"Hello," Sherlock greeted casually. "Nice evening, hm?"
"What are you d-doing here?" the boy asked, his aggression not quite covering the stammer.
Sherlock smiled. "Oh you know, just fancied a stroll among the heroin. Really soothes a troubled mind, you know?"
The gun shook again and Sherlock's smile widened. He let his hands flop to his sides with a muted fwop.
"You ain't supposed to be in here, mate –"
"And neither are you, by the looks of you," Sherlock interrupted casually. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
The boy's expression hardened, his fearful twitches settled into an angry scowl, and his hand tightened around the grip of the handgun.
"I ain't the one who don't belong here, mate," he threatened, steadying the gun's nozzle at Sherlock's brow.
Sherlock smiled. Faster than the eye could follow he flung his hands forward, out of his pockets, a billowing cloud of white powder following them. He ducked as the cloud engulfed the startled teenager, and the sharp blast of light above him sent the bullet sailing safely past with the usual firecracker BANG! echoing endlessly in the capacious space.
Sherlock swung a leg in a wide arc, knocking the boy's already unsteady knees out from under him. There was another burst of light, this time aimed at the ceiling, another bang, and a muffled thwump as the felled body hit the concrete with a grunting uff. Sherlock stood up and, undercover of baby formula, ran for the exit.
"Oooh there she is!" Mrs Hudson cooed, taking the baby from Lestrade without to much as glancing at him. "How's my little darling doing today, hmm?"
"Pretty well, thanks," Lestrade answered cheerily.
"Oh hush you," the landlady scolded, waving a perfectly manicured hand at him. "Come in and have some tea."
Without waiting for an answer she turned and took the baby inside, whipping the little Hudson original knitted hat off once over the threshold. The thin golden hair stuck up like ripened wheat for a moment before being carefully and thoroughly patted down by a purple-nailed hand. Chuckling to himself, Lestrade sidled sideways over the threshold into 221 Baker Street, the large kit bag scraping slightly against the doorframe despite his efforts to be thin.
A comforting and thoroughly enjoyable ritual had mysteriously materialised in the wake of John and Mary's death. Whenever Sherlock needed to go off on some consulting detective adventure, Lestrade would often be left with the Little Watson, as Sherlock called her. 'Left with', however, wasn't quite the most accurate phrase considering Lestrade had taken to 'procuring' the ever-smiling young girl as often as his job would allow. And sometimes a few more times when it didn't.
When that did happen, when Sherlock showed no signs of returning anytime soon, Lestrade would, willingly or not, be obliged to drop Little Watson off to her aunt ("I am not a grandmother, Greg!") in the evenings. He would then watch with unfading amazement as Mrs Hudson would expertly prepare tea, biscuits - and if Lestrade looked the least bit hungry, an entire plate of sandwiches - with one hand, the other curled contentedly around the little girl perched on her good hip, and chatting all the while about everything from the neighbours to Sherlock to policemen to Molly to Mycroft's badgering to whatever scandal had piqued her interest in the papers. Lestrade would sit at the small table in the cramped kitchen, listening happily to the old woman's nattering, and feel the stresses and tensions of the day melt away like butter on a hot crumpet. He and Mrs Hudson would chat for at least half an hour, usually longer unless he had to be back at the station soon. Given that Mycroft had contacted them both today, he wasn't surprised that the conversation turned more quickly than usual to Sherlock.
"So how is he, really?" Mrs Hudson probed. "I hardly ever see him now, you know, he's always off gallivanting with his job, or else he's upstairs with the little miss, and it's only if I go up there I even get to see her - unless of course he needs to go out without her, then I'm just expected to drop everything and mind her! Not that I mind, really, I mean she's such a good little thing, isn't she?"
Mrs Hudson's ability to speak for minutes on end without breathing never failed to astonish and amuse Lestrade.
"Oh, she is," he said warmly, his gaze returning to the tiny fingers negotiating an entire half of extra buttery crumpet into the frustratedly waiting mouth. He felt his heart swell slightly at the sight of her, which it often did. He had never really thought of having kids, what with his work and less-than-perfect marriage, but now he knew what it was like to be an uncle and it provoked a joy in him he had never even conceived possible. "Never gives me a lick of trouble, hardly even cries, even at the station with all that ruckus bangin' about. But as for Sherlock ..." he paused, leaning forward on the table. "It's hard to say. I won't claim to ever have been a good judge of the guy, I mean you never know what's really going in on that head, do you?" Mrs Hudson nodded sagely, lips pursed. "But ... he does seem happier now. I think he might actually be starting to get over it a bit. He talks more, about non-case stuff, I mean."
He thought for a moment, glancing at Mrs Hudson to judge her reaction, whether or not he should bring it up today. He decided she could take it. "He talks to John less. Out loud, anyway." As he had suspected, Mrs Hudson's face pinched slightly, but she nodded again.
"I've noticed that, too. He used to always be chatting to him in his room, I could hear him. Now he just talks to her."
"He still does those little shakes though, when he gets distracted."
"Well what would you expect? John changed his life, coming here. You can't expect someone to move on after that, not in five months. Gosh, has is only been five months?" She put a hand to her chin, looking over to the calendar hanging beside the clock on the wall. "It feels like –" she faltered, sniffing. She turned her moistened gaze to Lestrade, looking at him from under her perfectly plucked eyebrows. "It feels like a lot longer, doesn't it?"
He nodded, his own brows rising as he thought about it. "Feels like a lifetime, in some ways. Feels like a week in others."
Silence hung between them for a moment, weighted by the claws of grief which even now refused to loosen. Wattie's delicate eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as she continued her unsuccessful attempt to eat the half crumpet. Without seeming to notice, Mrs Hudson reached up and broke the little cake into more manageable, mouth-sized portions. Wattie glared at the decimated treat for a moment before plunging one of the largest pieces into her mouth. Her expression cleared as she munched to one of quite triumph.
Lestrade smiled. "This little one makes up for some of it, though doesn't she? We didn't loose all of them, did we?"
Mrs Hudson sniffed again, withdrawing a crumpled tissue from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes dry. "No," she agreed, her voice wavering ever so slightly. "No, we didn't. She smiles just like he did, doesn't she?"
"Yeah. And that little squint she does when you pull a funny face? Gets me every time, she looks just like John when she does that. And her laugh always reminds me of Mary. Y'know I've a theory about that?"
"What?"
"Her smile and all. Whenever I see Sherlock alone with her, and granted that's not too often, but there was this time a couple of days ago; Sherlock came to pick her up at the station, and I had to go debrief Donovan about an interview. And I looked over to my office - and you know you can see into it, it's all glass really - and I saw Sherlock, our Sherlock, playing peekaboo with her!"
Mrs Hudson snorted. "Sherlock?" she clarified incredulously.
"Not a word of a lie, I'm telling ya - the world's only consulting detective was playing peekaboo with a nine month old to make her smile!"
Laughter filled the kitchen for a few moments, Wattie adding her high-pitched bubble of a laugh just because the grown-ups were chuckling, and spraying the table with spit-soaked morsels.
Lestrade sobered. "Just to make her laugh," he repeated sadly, watching John and Mary's daughter suck the last of the butter from her little finger. "My theory is, and I know he loves her and wants her to be happy," he clarified quickly, "but my theory is that a lot of the time, Sherlock makes her smile and laugh so he can remember them. See them again, if only for a second."
"Even with that big head of his," Mrs Hudson whispered, her eyes filling up once more as she mopped up the bits of crumpet, "he's just like the rest of us when it comes to missing them."
The unmistakable rattle of a key in the front door broke the sombre stillness. Mrs Hudson jumped slightly and automatically reached for another crumpet, buttering it in record time and half-handing, half-flinging it onto Lestrade's plate before Sherlock had made it over the threshold.
"Hudson!"
"In the kitchen," Mrs Hudson called to the hallway. "And stop calling me 'Hudson', I'm not a river!" she added irritably. Lestrade snorted around a mouthful of crumpet.
Sherlock swept into the kitchen in a flurry of Belstaff. He made straight for Little Watson, scooping her up out of Mrs Hudson's lap and dropped a kiss on the little round cheek. Once she was safely settled on his hip he turned to Lestrade.
"How was she?"
"Perfect little angel, as usual." Sherlock smiled at the toddler and she punched his cheek.
It was an odd image. On the one hand there was nothing more natural than seeing a godfather dote upon his goddaughter, nuzzling her cheek and cuddling her. On the other, no matter how much time passed, Lestrade couldn't quite get used to seeing the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, genius extraordinaire, act so affectionately and ... well, human, towards anyone. Sometimes it seemed to come to him as easily as his deductions, others Lestrade wondered if some unspoken promise to John drove him to show such uncharacteristic warmth to the little one.
"As I expected," Sherlock said rather proudly. "Oh, and I solved your case for you, thought you'd like to know."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh did you now? So who killed him then?"
"The baby!" Mrs Hudson warned in her scandalised mock-whisper.
"Don't be silly, Mrs Hudson, she doesn't mind," Sherlock reassured her absently before continuing in the same breath, "that mark I couldn't place earlier, on his chest? It was left by his old gang to warn others against betraying them. He defected you see, you can tell by the fresh tattoo, and his old gang didn't take kindly to –"
"What's that on your arm?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted him, reaching out and turning his left arm into the light. She gasped.
"It's nothing –" Sherlock began dismissively but within seconds Mrs Hudson had snatched the baby from his arms, deposited her on Lestrade's lap and pushed Sherlock into her vacated chair with far more strength than you would expect of a pensioner.
"You got shot?" Lestrade exclaimed once Mrs Hudson had peeled off the bloodstained sleeve to reveal a deep cut drawn as though with a ruler across Sherlock's arm.
"I thought you looked pale - look it's still bleeding!" Mrs Hudson fretted. "I'll go get my first aid kit - you," she said firmly, pinning Sherlock in his seat with dangerously raised eyebrows and an unwavering index finger pointed between his eyes as though it was a gun - "you sit here 'till I come back, you hear me?" She turned to Lestrade as she left the kitchen. "Don't let him move."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade with an expression of tolerant exasperation. Greg didn't return the lighthearted smile.
"What?" Sherlock asked, finally registering Lestrade's scowl.
"You got shot," he repeated, unimpressed.
"It's not like it's the first time. It's just a graze –"
"That's not the point, Sherlock."
The consulting detective's brows quirked in confusion at Lestrade's tone and he sighed. He may be a genius, he thought, almost affectionately, but he is still the biggest idiot I know.
He leaned forward in his chair, curling his arms around Wattie, who seemed content to snuggle into his shoulder for the moment, sucking her thumb and judging the ceiling tiles. They could hear the distinct sounds of rummaging and mild, exasperated swearing coming from the hall above. He fixed Sherlock with a serious gaze and decided it was time to go after the damn bush.
"Listen, Sherlock. You can't keep going off like you used to –"
"I don't see why not, I make sure –"
"No, listen to me, Sherlock," he cut across him, his voice low and urgent. "You can't keep going off like you used to with John." He saw the faintest flicker of pain shimmer across Sherlock's eyes at the sound of the name. "What you do - and the way you do it ... it's dangerous, Sherlock. And it's not like it was, now, it's not just your own neck you're risking. Have you even thought of what would happen to Wattie if you got yourself killed?"
Sherlock's eyes fell on the dozing girl in Greg's lap, and for once he didn't object to the nickname.
"You've been doing a great job with her, Sherlock, don't get me wrong," Greg continued, "but all that work you put in to keep her happy won't mean a damn thing if you get your head blown off and she's dumped in the system." He paused to let the words sink in and was relieved to see Sherlock's face twitch in fear. "And that's what'll happen, you know. I won't be able to do a thing; it's not my division. I got no jurisdiction with guardianships. John's sister might, if she showed up, but no judge in their right mind would give a nine month old to a relapsing alcoholic. We'd lose her, Sherlock, we all would. She'd go to some stranger and never hear a thing about her parents, or her godfather." Sherlock was staring at the warm bundle in Greg's arms, his brow pinched. "And between you and me, if we lost you - God forbid - but if we lost you and they took little Wattie away ... I don't think Mrs H would survive that, not after John." He hesitated. "To tell the truth neither would I." He ducked his head, trying to catch Sherlock's eye. "Already lost you once, mate. Rather not do it again, yeah?"
Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet Lestrade's. He opened his mouth to speak but before the words could form they heard Mrs Hudson's triumphant return. Instead, he gave one, very small, nod.
"Found it!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed as she reentered the kitchen. "It was in the back of my wardrobe of all places - here, Sherlock, let me have a look at that arm."
Sherlock remained uncharacteristically still and silent during Mrs Hudson's ministrations, staring sombrely into his thoughts, his gaze occasionally flicking to his goddaughter. Greg took the opportunity to really look at him. He was paler than usual, probably from the blood loss, but his cheeks did look fuller than they had a few months ago. Greg knew he was doing far better than he had in those first weeks, when he had remained an unshaven mess in 221B, refusing to speak or eat. For all intents and purposes he looked almost back to normal now.
Almost. His eyes and lost some of their keen brightness the night John and Mary had died, and in these rare moments of vulnerability, when Sherlock's careful mask slipped, Lestrade could see the deep sorrow within.
When Mrs Hudson had satisfied herself that the wound was of no immediate danger ("You really should go see a doctor, Sherlock, and mind it doesn't get infected!") Sherlock rose to his feet and carefully took Little Watson from Lestrade's arms. He bade them both goodnight, nodded once more to the detective inspector, and left.
Sherlock sat in his chair with his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. Little Watson was sitting in John's chair, casually sucking on her nighttime bottle. One of John's old jumpers was wrapped around her pudgy form, keeping her warm against the evening's chill. He hadn't had the energy to light the fire.
He was in his mind palace, taking a much-needed trip to the Watson Wing. He needed to hear John's voice, or at least, the best echo of it his memory could provide. He longed to talk to his old friend, ached to question him about his daughter. Am I keeping my promise, John? Is she truly happy, truly safe? What if I were to die on a case? At least then this ache would stop, but what would happen to her?
The John Watson in his mind had no answer for him, only a smile and a thousand tiny details Sherlock still feared he might forget.
Sherlock heaved an uneven sigh. He didn't know how to do this. He was no parent. He couldn't even think of a name for God's sake! Of course, he knew thousands of good names, from different countries and languages, but very time he came close to speaking one aloud, one thought stopped him short.
You wouldn't have called her that.
No matter how strong or beautiful or appropriate a name might seem to him, it wouldn't be the one they would have chosen.
Joan. John would have laughed.
Mary. She'd have been embarrassed.
Charlotte. Too royal.
Jennifer was murdered, Rachel stillborn, Shan, Ruth, Rebecca, Jessica - name after name after name whirled around his head in a dizzying array of sounds and connections, and none of them carried the importance, the honour of belonging to John and Mary Watson's only child. It was impossible.
Why had he never pressed John about the name? They had spent weeks trying them out and Sherlock had laughed and half-jokingly suggested names of famous murderers and criminals. He should have helped them properly, made sure she had a name before -
The activity tracker on Sherlock's wrist vibrated dully, wrenching him out of his regrets. He pressed the button on the side, restarting the idle alert, and rose to his feet. Little Watson's eyes followed his movement. She let go of her bottle and reached for him as he scooped her and John's jumper into his arms. He pressed his nose into her chest and took a deep sniff, the two familiar, beloved scents calming his aching heart for one glorious moment.
He tucked the curly-haired head under his cheek and began to sway gently from side to side, slowly dancing them around the living room. Little Watson found his thumb and held it in her tiny fingers as she watched her home sweep gently by.
This was the best painkiller Sherlock allowed himself. Feeling the tiny heart beat the precious pulse against his chest calmed him as nothing else would, and he closed his eyes as he held her. She would fall asleep soon and he would return to work for a few more hours, before his tracker would interrupt him again with a reminder to sleep. He still had to figure out how a man in a locked bathroom had been murdered. And Lestrade would want the details of the gang case soon, too, and then there'd be another case.
But for now, he would dance.
Slowly, like shadows retreating from the sun, the day's pains and efforts melted away. His grief mellowed, soothed by the warm weight in his arms and his mind slowed to the speed of his shuffling steps.
Little Watson yawned against his chest, reminding Sherlock that she couldn't sleep in his arms again. He danced her gently up to his room and settled her into the cot on the far side of his bed. He left the jumper wrapped around her and covered the stretching bundle with a blanket.
She looked up at him with beautiful, sleepy blue-green eyes as he nestled the bear Mary had bought her by her cheek. He was about to lean in to bestow the last kiss of the day on her forehead, when she smiled at him and said, quite clearly,
"Dada."
Sherlock froze, bent half over the railing of the cot. He blinked.
"What did you say?" he breathed.
Her smile widened, pleased with his reaction. "Dada!"
The wonder of hearing that little voice form its very first word was eclipsed by the gut-wrenching horror of its meaning.
"No, darling, I'm not 'dada', I'm Sherlock, I'm your godfather, no, no, John is your dada, sweetheart not m-"
He stopped mid-babble. Little Watson was looking up at him, her eyelids drooping, waiting patiently for him to kiss her goodnight. She didn't understand what a godfather was. She didn't understand what an orphan was, either. She understood who took care of her, and, somehow, she knew what children called their male caretaker - a mystery he was sure ended with either Lestrade or Molly.
Sherlock blinked again and he realised how simple this all was for the little girl. Why couldn't it be so simple for him? She would still know John, he would make sure of that. But he could hardly expect an infant to get their tongue around Sherlock, now could he? Besides, if he wasn't a father to her then ... who was?
Finally, he smiled and closed the remaining distance to the tiny forehead, pressing his lips against it for a few moments longer than usual.
"Yes, my dear Watson," he whispered as she snuggled deeper into her father's jumper. "I'm Dada. Goodnight, sweetheart."