3.

"As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe," Sherlock said, turning towards John's chair. "To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery whereas, to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time" – he bent and picked up the rattle from the floor – "if you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle."

Rosie gurgled and chewed on her own fist. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock presented the rattle to her. Rosie took it, then promptly threw it straight back in Sherlock's face.

A few months had passed since the Christening, and it seemed as though John and Mary exploited Sherlock's role as godparent at every opportunity. While Rosie sat in her plastic chair perched on John's armchair, throwing her toys and getting distressed when they weren't handed back to her immediately, John and Mary slept on the sofa of Baker Street. Having not been around for the early years of Elspeth's life, Sherlock couldn't understand why or how they were so tired all the time, but as long as Rosie remained content he would allow her to stay in his living room. Still, he would've preferred it if she didn't keep throwing her toys at him.

"Why is Rosie's rattle on the floor?" Elspeth asked, wandering out of the kitchen with a mug of tea in one hand. She put the tea down, picked the rattle up and danced it around in front of Rosie for a few seconds, then handed it to her.

"She's always throws it when I give it to her," Sherlock grumbled.

"She probably doesn't like you," Elspeth teased. "I can't say I blame her." She unstrapped Rosie from her chair, lifting her into the air before resting the baby on her hip like Mary often did. Rosie chewed and shook her rattle in contentment, and Sherlock watched as Elspeth sat down with Rosie on her lap.

"You're a natural," he commented. Elspeth smiled up at him. "I thought you didn't like babies."

"I never said I don't like them, I just . . . avoid their general presence whenever they happen to be in close proximity and have vowed to never have any of my own," Elspeth said, grimacing. Sherlock smiled. Whenever asked, Elspeth would tell a long-winded story about her mother and the abandonment she'd felt ever since she was young and how it made her feel as though any attempt at motherhood would be damaged by Catherine's doing, but Sherlock knew Elspeth just wasn't maternal. Of course, there was some truth to her tale, but Elspeth otherwise had little interest in babies and children of any kind. "But Rosie is different. She's practically family, so I have to like her. It must be weird for you," she added, glancing up at Sherlock. "You never did the baby thing with me, did you?"

"I was present when you were born," Sherlock said. Elspeth's smile turned sad, and he realised what she meant. "No, I wasn't part of your life when you were a baby."

"Do you ever regret it? Not being there from the start?"

Sherlock frowned. When Elspeth was much younger, he would've said he didn't regret it. Watching her grow into the young woman that she was, however, made him realise how little time he'd had with her when he took all things into consideration.

"I regret it every day," he admitted.

Elspeth tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "So do I, Dad. So do I."


A text alert jerked John from his nap and he fumbled for his phone, pretending he hadn't fallen asleep on public transport. Rosie had been particularly grizzly the night before, so no one got a lot of sleep.

Baker Street? Tomorrow five PM? Lestrade says he has a belter.

John smiled, considering Sherlock's offer. Another text came through.

Mary says it's fine.

His smile growing, John nodded to himself and tucked his phone back in his pocket, watching as people passed him. As he turned his head to follow their path towards the back of the bus, John noticed a pretty woman sitting a few seats away from him, smiling at him. She was younger than him, and John returned the smile before looking away, only to glance her way a second time. She was still smiling at him; John couldn't help but feel somewhat self-conscious. It was always flattering when a woman took interest, but John knew he must've looked a right state after spending half the night up with Rosie. It didn't stop him from admiring his reflection in the window when he got off the bus, though.

John's cheeks turned red. Earlier that morning, he'd been changing Rosie's nappy and waving her plastic daisy at her to keep her entertained. He had tucked it behind his ear so he could use both hands, but completely forgot to take it off again.

Idiot, he thought. There he was thinking the young woman on the bus had actually taken a fancy to him, when all the time she was probably laughing at the ridiculous flower in his hair. He didn't expect to see the young woman standing behind him when he turned around.

"Hello," she said with a Scottish accent.

"Ah. Hello," John said, not quite sure what else to say.

She smiled. She had a very pretty smile. "I like your daisy!"

"Thank you. It's not really me, though, I don't think." John grimaced, watching her fiddle with her hair and run her fingers through it. That was flirting. He was certain of it. Women played with their hair when they flirted, and John couldn't bring himself to admit the plastic daisy belonged to the young baby he had waiting at home. "No, it's too floral for me. I'm more of a knackered-with-weary-old-eyes kind of guy."

"Well, I think they're nice," the woman said. "Nice eyes," she added, laughing. John laughed too, turning away and shaking his head in disbelief as he considered the thought that this young woman was actually flirting with him. She started to rummage through her handbag. "Look, I don't normally do this, but . . . um . . ."

"But you're going to," John said. He knew exactly what she was doing. She scribbled on the piece of paper she'd been holding in her hand on the bus, then handed it to John with a nervous smile. "What's this?"

"This is me," she said.

"Thank you," John said before he could stop himself. He never should've taken the number. He had a wife and a child at home, and it was only because it gave him such a huge ego boost that he even entertained the idea of flirting with this younger woman. Or so he kept telling himself.

He stared at the paper long after she left, then smiled. John had to go in the opposite direction of the young woman, but it didn't stop him from glancing over his shoulder and watching her go. Putting his briefcase down, John took his phone out and gazed at the photo of him, Mary, and Rosie he had saved as his screensaver. He felt a pang of guilt when he looked at his wife. Still holding the paper with the woman's number on it, John approached the nearest bin and pushed his hand into the gap, almost dropping the paper in. He hesitated. Smiled, then grimaced. John knew what he should do. Unfortunately, it wasn't what he wanted to do.


Sherlock wasn't lying when he'd told John that Lestrade had an interesting case for them. A young man, Charlie Welsborough, called his father from Tibet in order to wish him a happy birthday. It seemed simple enough – a young man Skyping his dad to say happy birthday wasn't anything out of the ordinary – but as Lestrade explained further, John realised why Sherlock was so excited about it.

"A week later, something really weird happens. Drunk driver – he's totally smashed, cops are chasing him," Lestrade said. John glanced over at Sherlock, trying not to roll his eyes when he saw his friend smiling. Elspeth was perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, listening intently. "and he turns into the drive of the Welsborough house to try and get away. Unfortunately, he smashed straight into the back of Charlie's car and caused a petrol explosion, set both of the cars on fire. The drunk guy survived – they managed to pull him out – but when they put the fire out and examined the parked car, there was a body in the driver's seat."

John leaned forwards in his chair. "Whose body?"

"Charlie Welsborough, the son," Lestrade said. "The son who was in Tibet. DNA checks out. The night of the party, the car's empty, then a week later the dead boy is found at the wheel."

Elspeth glared at Sherlock when he chuckled. "Someone died, Dad. It isn't funny."

"I thought it would tickle you," Lestrade said, reaching for his briefcase and taking out a small pile of folders. He handed one to John when he asked for the lab report. "Charlie Welsborough is the son of a Cabinet minister, so I'm under a lot of pressure to get results."

"Who cares about that?" Sherlock remarked. Elspeth rolled her eyes. "Tell me about the seats." Lestrade handed Sherlock a folder. "Made of vinyl . . . two different types of vinyl present. Was it his own car?"

"Yeah. Not flash," Lestrade added. "He was a student."

"Well, that's suggestive," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Vinyl is cheaper than leather."

"There's something else," John said. He looked up from the lab report. "According to this, Charlie Welsborough had already been dead for a week. The body in the car was dead for a week."

"Oh, this is a good one," Sherlock said, smiling up at Elspeth. She couldn't help but smile back at him; he hadn't been this excited about a case in months. He glanced at Lestrade. "Is it my birthday? You want my help?" When Lestrade nodded, Sherlock continued, "One condition. Take all the credit. It gets boring if I just solve them all."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a withering look. "Yeah, you say that, but then John blogs about it and you get all the credit anyway. Which makes me look like some kind of prima donna who insists on getting credit for something he didn't do."

"I think you hit a sore spot, Dad," Elspeth muttered.

"Like I'm some kind of credit junkie," Lestrade carried on, unaware that John was laughing and Sherlock was confused. "So you take all the glory, thanks all the same." He packed away the reports and files, glaring at Sherlock. "Look, just solve the bloody thing, will you? It's driving me nuts."

"Anything you say, Giles," Sherlock said. Lestrade gave him a look; the one that suggested he had said something not good. "Just kidding."

"Greg," Elspeth said under her breath when Lestrade continued packing away the paperwork. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "His name is Greg."

"It's obvious, though, isn't it?" John asked. "What happened?"

Elspeth stared at John, her eyes wide. "Hang on – we've had this case for two minutes, and you worked out what's happened before Dad and I? Who are you and what have you done with the real John Watson?"

"Ha ha ha, very funny, Ellie. Of course I don't know what's happened, but that's what Sherlock normally says at this point," John said. Elspeth laughed and jumped up from the arm of Sherlock's chair, picking her coat up from where she'd flung it on the kitchen table. No matter how many times Mrs Hudson told her off, Elspeth never seemed to hang her coat up. "So what has happened, Sherlock?"

"That's why we're going to help Greg solve his little problem. To find out what happened," Sherlock said, also standing up and striding from the room. Lestrade looked at John, startled but pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had got his name right. He hadn't heard Elspeth whisper it to her father, clearly, but she wasn't going to tell him so. Instead, she smiled at both the men and followed Sherlock out the living room.

"So how's it going then, fatherhood?" Lestrade asked John.

"Good. Great! Yeah, amazing."

"Getting any sleep?"

"Christ, no."

"You're at the beck and call of a screaming, demanding, baby," Lestrade said, stopping at the top of the stairs to grin at John over his shoulder. Elspeth leaned against the banister and listened. "Woken up at all hours to obey his every whim." Lestrade glanced at Sherlock. "Must feel very different."

"Yes, well, you know how it is," John said, much to Elspeth's amusement as she trailed down the stairs after them. Sherlock didn't seem to understand the joke. "All you do is clean up their mess, pat them on the head."

"Are you two having a little joke?" Sherlock looked at Elspeth, who had paused at the bottom step. "Do you understand what the joke is?"

"Never a word of thanks," John continued. "Can't even tell people's face apart."

"Then it's all, 'ooh, aren't you clever? You're so, so clever!'" Lestrade said.

Sherlock took his coat from the hook at the front door. "Is it about me? Ellie, are they making jokes about me?"

Lestrade made a comment to John about Sherlock needing winding, and that just set both the men off in hysterical laughter that Sherlock still couldn't understand. He looked to Elspeth for some kind of explanation, but she just shook her head and grinned, biting her bottom lip so she wouldn't laugh as well. It was cruel to let them mock Sherlock like that, but he did it so often to other people that it was funny to see him so clueless when it happened to him. Unable to supress her laughter for much longer, Elspeth ducked past Sherlock and headed for the front door, where Lestrade and John were still joking. Sherlock frowned, thinking about what they said.

"No," he said to himself. "Don't get it."


Thank you Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, sidbeak7, and afterain for reviewing! Hope you all enjoy this chapter!