His hands are shaking, noisily rattling the lock as he tries to get his key in, and the lights are on inside, so he isn't surprised when Mrs. Hudson opens the door for him before he can work the latch.
The stun gun she's brandishing is somewhat surprising but she puts it to one side and hugs him and says, "Oh, John," and so that's all right.
"What's happened?" she asks despairingly.
"Um, well," he says, stumbling past her, "Sherlock's secret sister turns out to be a mad psychopathic genius and she set up this sort of mental obstacle course for him and-"
John stops, shakes his head to clear it, and says, "Mrs. Hudson, I just need to see Rosie now. Please."
Mrs. Hudson's aged face looks mournful and wary and she says, quietly, "You shouldn't waken a sleeping baby."
"I'm, I'm not going to hurt her, I just-"
It's impossible for him to continue and Mrs. Hudson seems to see that, and says, relenting, "Go on and have a shower first, all right? You smell like you've been in a swamp."
Mrs. Hudson is often right about this sort of thing. He may well have gotten a dose of cryptosporidium or legionella or some other waterborne pathogen tonight. So John goes to the shower, strips off his clothes, and stands under water as hot as he can bear. It doesn't help the shaking.
There's a quiet tap at the door mid-wash, and when he gets out he finds a t-shirt, boxers, and pajama bottoms neatly folded on the floor. His dirty laundry has vanished, too, and he has to sigh at the amount of invisible work that the women in his life have been doing for him for the last several months.
John dresses and combs his hair, and when he's back in the hallway asks quietly, "Am I decent to see her now?"
"You're always decent, John Watson," Mrs. Hudson scolds him, "You're just tidy now. Go on then."
Rosie, when he lifts her carefully out of her crib, does wake up. But she doesn't cry. She just looks up at him with sleepy blue eyes, yawns with her perfect rosebud of a mouth, and starts sucking her thumb. John carries her over to the antique rocking chair that he'd refinished for Mary in that happy month before Rosie was born but they were back together.
Rosie cranes her head back to look up at him, but she's so sleepy she quickly gives up and lets it fall with a solid little "thunk" onto his chest. He'd held her like this the night she was born, and she's more than tripled in size since then, but she's still so small, so fragile.
Her mother is standing in the corner, watching them. She hasn't done that for a while, and John squeezes his eyes tight shut. When he opens them again, Mary's still there, smiling sadly at him.
"I think you may be stuck with me tonight," she whispers softly. And that's all right, John decides, because after the last few days a quick visit back to crazy, where things aren't quite so bad, sounds ideal. But he doesn't let himself look at Mary, instead burying his nose in the fine fluff of Rosie's hair and inhaling that indescribable scent of baby… a combination of milk, talcum, and just a hint of wet nappy.
Beneath her flanellette onesie, beneath her soft skin and the padding of chub that cushions them, Rosie's bones are fine and flexible. The sutures in her skull haven't ossified, yet, to allow for the growth of her brain over the next few years. Both sets of teeth are still buried deep within her jaw.
You couldn't mistake her bones for a dog's, even in the dark and the wet, even with cold-numbed hands. A puppy's, maybe, and as he has that thought John realizes that he's whispering, "Little girl, I'm going to keep you so safe, I promise, I promise."
They rock, and the baby sleeps, until a warm hand on his shoulder makes John startle, because Mary can't touch him… as in fact she hasn't. The hand is age-spotted and knobby-knuckled, but strong. Mrs. Hudson whispers, "I've made you some jam sandwiches. And a cup of tea. It's herbal."
He raises an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes and says, "It's chamomile. You certainly don't need any caffeine at this time of night."
John unhooks one arm from his sleeping daughter and takes the steaming mug from her. The jam sandwiches (cut into triangles, crusts off) are sitting on the changing table, the tea is steaming hot and rich with honey, and he sighs. It's over. Whatever happens in the future, for tonight it's over. He can tell, because there's tea, and jam sandwiches.
"Do you want to tell me what's happened?" Mrs. Hudson asks quietly, pulling over the ottoman and sitting near him.
He absolutely does not. He's witnessed five deaths today, and discovered a sixth, that last infinitely worse than all the rest. He's felt the water rising to cover his mouth and even as his body desperately fought it there was still that part of his brain that said, "Yeah, maybe this is for the best" and he really needs to address that at some point.
But Mrs. Hudson's clearly worried, and asks, "Please, at least- is Sherlock all right?"
At that, John smiles, because there was one unexpected bright spot.
"He's fine," he says, "Or he will be. If he's got any sense he's over at Molly's right now."
"Oh," Martha replies, "So probably Leinster Gardens, then."
"Behind the clock face at Big Ben," John agrees, "There's eyes on him. And he's as safe as he ever gets."
And maybe, if Sherlock doesn't fuck it up too badly, he'll even be happy. John puts a soft kiss on Rosie's hair. Safe and happy are two good things for Sherlock to be.
As for what John will be… well, safe, certainly. Happy may be out of reach for now, but safe, here with his baby girl and his friend (not his housekeeper), he's got in abundance. And he's the storyteller, in the end.
So, quietly, he begins, "Well, I can tell you that Rosie is never going to meet her exciting new auntie Eurus. After we left you yesterday-"