Follow-up to 'On the Steps of the Palace' requested by spezzie3.
Matilda was warm all over. A heavy arm was curled over her shoulders; her knees were hooked over what felt like the arm of a chair. Blinking, she opened her eyes, squinting to adjust to the light. It was always dim in the back room of Uncle Mycroft's special office. There were comfortable cots and two soft chairs. A heart-beat was under her ear, and she rubbed her cheek against the soft material of a sweater. She heaved a sigh, inhaling the clean scent of laundered wool. Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she looked up.
"Daddy!" she scrabbled around in the chair, throwing her arms around him and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Sleepily, he smiled, returning her embrace.
"Hey Tilly,"
"I missed you!"
"I missed you." She sat down again on his lap, studying him.
"You need to shave." He laughed, rubbing his chin.
"I do at that, you need your hair brushed."
"Where's mummy?"
"Last I saw she was forcing Uncle Sherlock to eat something."
"Why were you gone for so long?" she asked suddenly.
Matilda was old enough to recognize the weariness her in her father's eyes, and that sometimes his eyes were cloudy, though she didn't know it was from worry and bad memories he'd rather not think of. His eyes looked sad today, sad and grateful. He took a breath, and she had come to understand it was her father's way of choosing his words carefully.
"I was on a case with Uncle Sherlock, it was a very dangerous case, and I had to do a lot of difficult training. But I came in every night and told you all about it."
"Is that why you were guarding the Queen?" She asked.
His smile fell somewhat, thinking back on the past forty-eight hours. Over five months of undercover training to blend in with the Palace Guards for three hours of a guard-post, to watch for a car rigged to blow up half of St. James Place and Buckingham. They'd heard about this plot ages ago, it wasn't until late September that informants of Sherlock's got a frantic message to him that things were moving swiftly, and by mid March a certain old foe of Sherlock's would be back. Moriarty, now, was gone for good. When John shut his eyes he could still see that maniac's corpse riddled with bullets. There was no escaping death this time, though John wasn't sure if he quite believed it. James Moriarty had cheated death once; surely he couldn't do it a second time? Sherlock though had been more determined than ever to end it once and for all. He had come away the victor, and though the scars of this war would not soon fade, Sherlock was trying to look forward.
"The future is brighter, John," Sherlock had said with a trying smile. He wiped blood that was not his from his hands onto his ash-coated trousers. "It will be better. For Molly and Matilda's sake, John," Sherlock continued. "My God, he cannot get them, John."
He had been more frantic than even John felt, and he realized how much the consulting detective truly cared for him and his family. Of course he knew Sherlock loved them all, he'd risked everything once before. This time there was fire in Sherlock's eyes and he had made a vow to protect them, whatever the cost.
The cost had been dear, but nothing that could not be rebuilt, and thankfully only minimal casualties. The soldier in him said that was the best possible outcome. Sherlock, still unused to seeing civilians bleeding on the streets from terrorists was somewhat shell-shocked. Molly, the blessed woman, tended to him, and John, after giving her a proper greeting and only mostly keeping his tears to himself, went in search of his daughter.
He found her curled up on one of the cots, innocent as the day was long, oblivious to the terrible things going on outside of the bunker. Weary, bones aching, John picked her up, cradling her against him before sinking into one of the chairs. He'd wept over her for a while, sorry and grateful at the same time. Sorry she had to grow up in such a dreadful world where people like Moriarty lurked in dark corners, but thankful that she was safe, that she had people who loved her, people like Sherlock and, yes, Mycroft. Love surely was stronger than all the meanness in the world, wasn't it? When she'd woken in his arms, he dried his eyes and put on a smile for her. Now she sat on his lap, happily telling him about her art project.
"I'm making Uncle Sherlock an ashtray, for when he sometimes smokes."
"Oh, I'm sure he'll love that," John smiled. "Hey, speaking of which," he looked over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze, giving a delighted cry. Leaping off his lap, she flung herself at Sherlock. Looking up from his shoes, the weariness melted from the consulting detective's eyes as he picked her up, tossing her in the air.
"Well, well, my Lady Guinevere," he greeted her and kissed her cheek. "I understand you are making me a delightful ashtray. Perhaps your mother will be convinced to let me smoke more often," he looked at Molly, a knowing smirk gracing his lips. "After all it would be rude not to use the gift."
"One cigarette a week, Sherlock, you know the rule."
"And that's when you're not on a case," John added. Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.
They would remain underground for the rest of the night, until the debris was for the most part cleared away. For now, they could rest, knowing London was safe.