Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and all of its characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This is my post-TFP resolution – semi-parentlock, among all other things. This is based on what I could make out of the official ending.
Dear Mrs. Hudson,
I suppose you're having a blast in your Mexican holiday. It must have been too much for you to witness such drama in the flat that you had to take a few months off. I understand, but next time, please leave the door to your kitchen unlocked before Sherlock destroys it again. "With that Aston Martin," he said, "I won't contemplate on compensating for the damages anymore."
"A bit quaint for John Watson to write a letter," is what you're probably thinking right now. But the thing is, I haven't written for a while now, so this is more of my outlet. The blog - you might ask? It's on indefinite hiatus, but I might as well as discontinue it for the better. People might talk. My therapist (back to Ella, whom I had to ask assurance that she's no longer reporting stuff to Mycroft) said I'm healthy enough not to need one, and in between cases, I have paid more attention to Rosie than to myself.
Ah, speaking of Rosie, my beloved daughter. Every day, I feel like she is becoming a bigger part of my life, perhaps at the expense of helping Sherlock in his cases. That's not a problem to Britain's most talked about sleuth, though - "It is a delight to have Rosie around," he would say, as he shoves away all the fresh blood and bones from the table so that I could prepare the formula for Rosie.
It actually came to a point where one night, I was on my jammies, trying to chase after Sherlock, who's carrying Rosie to "seal the murderer's fate at the London Eye." He told me it doubles for a trip to a kiddie ride. I almost had him chained to Rosie's baby chair after I caught up to them.
The biggest surprise, though, is Mycroft.
At first, he'd stare at Rosie as if he's observing the alien from that ET Movie. Whenever he visited, he'd give Rosie a quick nod, as if my daughter would understand he was greeting her. Then came the next month, where Sherlock and I had to be away for a week for a client, and no one was free to take in Rosie for the meantime. (Molly - bless her - has just gotten married by then and was on her honeymoon.) Just then, Sherlock suggested the seemingly impossible.
"Let Mycroft take care of her for a week."
"Have you finally lost it, Sherlock?"
"I know my brother. He's perfectly capable of looking after Rosie."
"I really don't trust your word on that."
"Really? Why?"
"I don't want my daughter to end up in Sherrinford just because he wouldn't take her to get some ice cream."
Sherlock smirked upon hearing this. "Truly, you ought to know more things about your future relative."
A week after dealing with a criminal who's made a marmite out of his ex-girlfriend's limbs, I really didn't think, of all the crazy events we had gone through, that I have to experience begging for Mycroft to let go of Rosie because his babysitting duties are over.
Poor sod got too attached and almost cost my daughter diabetes because they clicked when it came to sweets. He's just as caring as Sherlock when it comes to children, and by caring, I mean in the weirdest way possible.
I guess that's it. I actually wrote this letter to ask when you'll be back. The cops are no longer out looking for your herbs. Sherlock did Lestrade another gigantic favor yet again, so he's letting you off the hook. So, do come back, and we look forward to having tea with you.
Stay safe.
Sincerely,
John
P.S. Consider this as an invitation for something private in Hedsor House. Only a few people are counted - Sherlock has planned everything to the minutest details. This coming April, it's not only Mrs. Turner who's got married ones.
P.P.S. Sherlock asks a favor for you to say goodbye to the "snow boys" on his behalf. They will no longer have any kind of transaction under my watch. I want him clean.