Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. A. N. I did promise a lighter story for this month to my dear Sendai in apology, and this is a start. I have plans for this story! But for some reason, I suspect it will end like December's story…I don't seem to find any time to write it. But I will finish it – eventually! This is a promise.
Of fish, bee, spiders and various larks
By the time Rosie was twelve, body parts and other random experiments had returned to 221B, despite Sherlock still keeping the basement as primary laboratory. It had been Rosie herself to open the gates to that. She'd been tasked with keeping track of one of her papa's experiments while he was on a case. Observing at set intervals and taking notes was certainly something she didn't mind. She minded having to lose her favourite show by going up and down, though, so she just brought the sample into the kitchen – her kitchen, at 221B, because of course papa didn't see the need for a telly in the lab.
From that, things had regressed quickly. John had welcomed the return of the occasional body part and toxic fumes with an odd mix of resignation and fondness. Rosie thought it was rad to have a fridge full of actual human fingers, or whatever the latest experiment entailed, and her few friends agreed with her. As for Sherlock, he was all too happy to go back to old habits, if only partially. Old habits and old flaws…so his clever girl decided, one fine morning, that she needed to make a point. And, as she'd learned from her parents, she didn't pull her punches.
They had a case the day before, so it wasn't a surprise that Rosie would be the first one up – it happened sometimes. And while she didn't have more than a few drops of coffee in her milk, and sometimes bypassed that entirely, she put on the coffee that particular morning, because its smell would always get papa up. Well, unless the case had spanned a number of days, but yesterday it was an easy thing, that had left him more annoyed at uncle Greg than anything else.
Sure enough, Sherlock wandered in, bleary eyed and so quiet, because he didn't want to wake John up one of the few times his beloved felt like sleeping in. He entered the kitchen, smiled at the grinning Rosie who greeted him softly, spoon of cereals halfway to her mouth…and froze. "Put that down, love," he said, throat tight.
"But papa! It's my breakfast, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day," she retorted, and really, the fact that her pout couldn't stick, and kept turning into a smile, should have clued her papa in. But Sherlock had just got up, and even the most genius brain couldn't react promptly when faced with terror before the first coffee of the day.
"Love…your milk is blue. And I, well, I left an experiment in the fridge…oh God tell me you didn't eat any of that yet!" the sleuth pleaded.
Rosie sighed, sounding utterly put upon. "Which day is it, papa?"
He blinked, wrong-footed. "I don't know, and it doesn't matter! You might be dying now, just…Rosie, please…" he snapped.
"Breathe, papa," she demanded. "It's first of April. As in, April Fool's day. This is food colouring, and perfectly harmless. Honestly, I've lived with you all my life. You should give me enough credit not to eat your experiments, even half-asleep, and generally not to put in my mouth anything that has so clearly spoiled."
"You do realise you just took ten years off my life, love?" Sherlock asked, voice shaky with relief, repressing the urge to laugh and cry and sink to the floor. He shook his head to clear it of horrible visions of having accidentally murdered Rosie, and added, "You don't mind if I have a tiny taste of yours?"
"Wanting to be sure it's actually food colouring? Sure, papa, be my guest. You deserve it, though, you know. You forgot to label your latest experiment. I don't care, I mean, I know how to be cautious…but if I have a friend over, I'd like to tell them, 'help yourself to whatever is not For Science.' We talked about this, papa. And dad said he's been trying to get it in your head for decades – but I suppose having your own lab downstairs didn't help with that," she replied, smiling.
Sherlock took an extra spoon and tasted his daughter's weird milk (yup, perfectly innocuous, thank God), before conceding, "I suppose, love…thanks for reminding me of the holiday though, I need to do something."
"Sure," Rosie agreed, getting back to her breakfast and ignoring his father getting a big, new garbage sack and tiptoeing back into his room. Whatever he was taking (and later hiding in a cupboard), she didn't want to know. Dad had to be exhausted, though, to sleep through his lover rummaging in the room, no matter how softly the man could move. Frankly, she was mildly disappointed when dad did get up in time to see her off before she went to school, but seemed to have taken no notice of whatever Papa had done. She'd hoped to know what he'd been up to, but dad was completely unruffled. Pity.
The sleuth was, privately, as disappointed as his daughter by the lack of reaction. He expected to be called into the room and held accountable for his mischief…at which point he could talk it out and tease John. It was so much fun to wind him up! But never mind, if his blogger wouldn't give him any satisfaction, he could live with that. "I need your help," he declared to his smiling husband.
"With what?" John asked, putting down his toast with a tiny sigh.
"Which one of these goldfishes do you think looks more like Lestrade?" the consulting detective asked, turning the computer screen towards him.
John didn't miss a beat, indicating the one he thought was the best fit – a breed named 'white fantail'. "Can I ask why?" he asked then, wondering if he'd get an answer at all.
"Lestrade has French origins, and I have too – on my mother's side, obviously. Now, April's Fool in France is called poisson d'Avril – April's Fish – and a classic prank is to stick paper fishes to people's back without them realising it. I thought I'd just go by the Yard and celebrate it 'properly'," Sherlock explained, shrugging.
"That's not all," John remarked casually. "I know you, mister."
The sleuth smiled proudly at him. His beloved was much cleverer than people gave him credit for. "Fine, I'll admit that there's more to it than anthropological accuracy. It will piss off Mycroft," he confessed.
"How is Mycroft even involved?" his blogger asked.
"A sort of…inside joke between us. Something he said once, about feeling like he's living in a world of goldfishes," the detective said, hurrying to point out "which is his feelings, not mine. He's always been an annoying know-it-all."
"So if we're goldfishes, this makes him what? A jellyfish?" John quipped, eyes twinkling with mirth.
They dissolved into breathless giggles, and when Sherlock finally managed to talk without devolving into another chuckle, he said, "Wish I had such a great comeback back then. Anyways, it's since then – more than a decade, by now – that I keep telling him that caring for a goldfish is not such a bad idea…and really, he does have things in common with Lestrade, if only he deigned to take a hint."
"Are you trying to matchmake your brother, love?" the blond inquired, one eyebrow raising in surprise.
"…Maybe?" the sleuth admitted hesitantly, as if expecting a scolding.
Instead, John hugged him impulsively. "That's so sweet of you! God knows that Mycroft could do with not being so lonely. Off you go to pin this goldfish on Greg, then."
Sherlock kissed him eagerly. "Just let me print it, and I'm off".
