A little over two weeks after Isabel's first birthday, a woman showed up at 221b. John answered the door with Isabel on his hip. Sherlock was sleeping, because the last few days he'd been on a case. Isabel was hugging John's side, looking at her with tired eyes. She waved her hand. "Hi Gram."
"Hi baby. Hello, sir, you are?"
"Erm, John Watson. I live here. You are?"
"Margaret Allen, Katrina's mother." John's eyes got a little wider and he nodded. "I talked to Mr. Holmes on the phone earlier, is he home?"
"Uh yeah. He's sleeping though." She looked at her watch.
"Seems like a strange time to sleep, four."
"He's been working lately."
"Ah." The cool April air swirled inside the flat.
Sherlock woke with a start. Someone was here. He rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, but he felt a need to find out who it was. Pushing aside a pile of Isabel's toys and blankets that were on his legs, he pulled on his robe and got out of bed. It was five. Past naptime, then. He glanced at the crib. Sure enough, Isabel was there, thumb in mouth, bum in air, Mummy dog under her arm and a blanket draped over her as she snoozed. She breathed in deeply, yawned, opened her eyes, and blinked up at Sherlock. He stood there, looking at her. She sat up, then stood.
"Da-ee," she said, grabbing for him. He picked her up, laying her on the bed to change her nappy. He'd gotten good at it. When he picked her up again, she snuggled into his chest, gurgling.
"You hungry?" he asked, walking out his bedroom door.
"Mhm. Milky. Pwease."
"How bout green beans instead."
"Ucky."
"Pears?"
"No!"
"Bananas."
"Nummy! Yay anana!" The talking from the other room had ceased. Sherlock smelled tea. "Who's here?" he said quietly.
"Joh-on an Gram." She was still working on the last part of John's name. John thought it was cute. Sherlock thought so too, just less so than John did.
"Hm" was all Sherlock retorted. He set Isabel on the ground and grabbed for a banana. There wasn't any left. Sherlock frowned and grabbed a sippy instead, filling it with apple juice, which was not Isabel's favourite but it was all they had. He grabbed a rusk too; they seemed to be out of food. Sherlock didn't necessarily care that he wouldn't be getting any food, he could order Chinese if he was ever hungry. Isabel, however, could not. Conclusion: John needed to go shopping. Isabel was still at his feet so he handed her the rusk and sippy, which she gratefully walked around with. Sherlock made his way to the living room to see a familiar face; Katrina's mother. She'd called and asked to take Isabel for a few days. He obliged.
221b was awfully boring without a one year old toddling about. John cleaned the flat, Sherlock played his violin. Nothing from Lestrade. He was bored.
Very bored.
He even shot the wall a few more times. Added a nicotine patch to the two that had been on his arm. He slept on the couch with his feet in John's lap. He moped around the kitchen with a chemistry set until something caught on fire (Sherlock's pyjamas) and John stopped that.
He got a phone call, and he didn't answer. John did, and handed it to Sherlock. "Ah, Sherlock. She. Won't. Stop. Crying," came a hiss from Margaret.
"Well, have you done something?"
"I tried feeding her-"
"What did you try?"
"Baked beans and hot dog."
"She doesn't like either of those things. Try peas, chicken, green beans, bananas, pears, and grape juice. Those are her favourites."
"She keeps yelling."
"Put her on."
"Da-ee?" She was crying and he could definitely tell.
"Hi Isabel."
"I-wan-co-hum," she squealed. "I-wan-Da-ee-an-Joh-on-an-Mum-ee-dog!"
"Where's your Mummy dog?" He'd found the problem.
"I-dun-o!"
"Her Mummy dog?" asked Margaret.
"Yes, it's a patched up dog with purple ears. You'd better find it."
"Okay, I know where it is. I took it away when she was not eating."
"You can't take that dog. Ever. You get major freak outs if you do. You know that now."
"Yes, thank you. Okay, that's all I needed." There was a faint "Wub you Da-ee" before the line cut. John raised a questioning eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.
"Took her dog because she wasn't eating." John shook his head.
"Bet they learned their lesson quickly."
A few days later, there was a knock on the door again. Mrs. Hudson answered it. A tired looking Margaret Allen stood there, holding an unhappy looking Isabel. "Hello. The boys are on a case currently, so..."
"Here, just take her." Isabel was sucking on her fist, clutching her Mummy dog. Margaret handed her to Mrs. Hudson, and put the bag on the ground. She turned back towards the cab that had brought her and was gone. "Hmph." Mrs. Hudson took Isabel into her flat until the boys got back.
Sherlock was feeling victorious when he and John returned home. He'd just solved a case, saved a small boy. Anderson and Donovan had fumed, Lestrade had arrested the perpetrator and everything was fine. Well, the boy was in the hospital, but he was recovering. "Boys?" called Mrs. Hudson as they went up the stairs. "Isabel's back!" Sherlock raced back down the stairs.
"Thank god. It's been so boring," he said, walking into Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"She's sleeping, on the sofa. She's been sleeping since she got here."
"When did she get here?" he asked, walking over and staring at the sleeping baby.
"Couple hours ago. She's been coughing. I think that she has a cold." She was shaking and sweating, sucking on her thumb. Sherlock picked her up, muttered a quick thank you to Mrs. Hudson and went upstairs.
"I think," said John, "that she has the flu." Isabel coughed. Sherlock tried to give her a banana but she shook her head.
"No! Not hungry!"
"You have to eat, baby."
"No! I wan to sleep." John handed her a sippy filled with grape juice. She took a drink and spit it back up, crying and rubbing her eyes. Sherlock sighed and picked her out of the high chair, bringing her into his bedroom and laying her on his bed. She sniffled and curled up under his blanket, falling asleep almost immediately.
When Isabel woke up, she did not feel very good. She crawled off of Sherlock's bed, lowering herself to the floor. She wanted juice. She saw the discarded sippy on the counter and climbed up to get it. She sat on the counter and drank her grape juice, staring at Sherlock and John, who were arguing. Mrs. Hudson was standing by the door with her arms crossed. She heard the word 'hospicle'. She didn't know what that meant. "Aw heeeeell no, Jawn. You fix her up," said Sherlock, bobbing his head and shaking his finger.
"She needs antibiotics, gurl," said John, hands on hips.
"Boiz, you're both cray cray, take that baby to the hospicle, now," cried Mrs. Hudson. Isabel shook her head. Something was definitely wrong.
Sherlock was angry at John. John was happy with himself for convincing Sherlock to take Isabel to the hospital. Isabel was looking out the back window of the cab from her baby carrier, coughing. She looked at Sherlock and whined unhappily. John gave her the sippy. She drank it until her eyes started to droop closed. Sherlock was still staring out of the window unhappily. There was another route to the hospital that would've gotten them there sooner. He just wanted to get the antibiotics and leave. Just as it looked like Isabel was about to fall asleep, her eyes opened wide and she stared at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't notice, as he was staring moodily out the window as people and buildings raced past. John watched as Isabel took her sippy and flung it with all her might. It bounced off Sherlock's head.
"Wha-? Ow! Isabel, no!"
"Da-ee, you are bein' a grumpy!" Sherlock's mouth opened like he was going to say something, then snapped shut as the sour look left his face. John laughed. Isabel scowled at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped being as moody, and was grinning like a madman.
When they got to the hospital, John took the antibiotics, because he was afraid that Sherlock would take them home and use them in an experiment.
It was a quick trip.
They could tell when Isabel was well again. She stopped sleeping as much, and was done being a grouch. Sherlock figured it out when she woke him up by bouncing on his stomach like a trampoline. John figured it out when, later that same day, she clung to his leg and wouldn't let go as he walked around the flat, and she was giggling like mad. She also began climbing on the countertops and highjacking bananas and rusks.
When John walked into the flat with groceries, it smelled strongly of vinegar. Sherlock was sleeping on the couch, which is where he'd been when John left. He could hear Isabel giggling from the kitchen. He walked slowly inside to find a disaster area.
"Hullo Joh-on." There were bubbles everywhere.
"What in the world?"
"I foun bubbles in vine-gar and baking soda." She scooped up bubbles from the floor into her already bubble-filled hair. She laughed and splashed in her puddle of bubbles. "You wanna play?"
"Oh goodness gracious, no," said John, setting groceries on the counter and rubbing his temples. She pouted.
"Why don't you wanna play with me, Joh-on?"
"You need a bath." Isabel squealed.
"Yay! Then you play?"
"Maybe," he said, picking up the vinegar soaked child and holding her away from his body. He carefully made his way to the bathroom, trying not to let any vinegar or bubbles touch the floor. Once inside, he filled the bath with warm water and bubbles, and left again, shutting the door. "Sherlock!" he said loudly. Sherlock's head jerked up. He licked his lips and turned to John.
"Yeah?"
"Isabel filled the kitchen with bubbles."
"What she use to do that?"
"Baking soda and vinegar." Sherlock's eyes widened.
"She's smart."
"No shit, Sherlock. She's your daughter. She's in the bath. Go bathe her while I mop the floor." Sherlock reluctantly stood up and headed to the bathroom, a smirk on his face. John wholeheartedly blamed Sherlock for the incident. He was mopping a mountain of bubbles because of Sherlock's ways. Isabel had learned that because Sherlock would set her in a bumbo on the counter (which she could easily get out of) with a sippy cup and a set of toy keys, which didn't keep her entertained. Then he'd experiment for a while, making sure to clean it up before John came home, else John would throw away the experiment. He finished mopping quickly, putting cleaning supplies away in the baby-proofed cupboards. He busied himself with putting away groceries, until he heard a gigantic splash. "Oh hell." He was in the bathroom in a flash.
Sherlock had slipped on Isabel's vinegar sodden clothes and landed in the tub, butt first. He did not look happy about the fact that he was sopping wet and Isabel was rubbing bubbles into his hair, saying, "Da-ee needs a bath, too." She looked up at John as he walked in. John was laughing. Doubled over laughing. Sherlock scowled at him. "Joh-on gonna take a bath too?" He shook his head, wiping his face.
"No, I'm sure that Daddy was dirtier than me." Isabel nodded in agreement, rubbing bubbles onto his face.
"Da-ee," she whined. "You're supposed to take off your clothes!" Sherlock just shook his head. John laughed more.
He stopped laughing when Sherlock splashed him.
When Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with the post, she was greeted with a sopping wet, bubble covered Sherlock, who was carrying Isabel, who was wrapped in a towel and patting Sherlock's wet hair. John followed with a wet jumper on. She sighed and shook her head, mumbling, "You boys are crazy," and setting the post on a table before heading back down the stairs.
