~ "I Do It Myself" ~

For the 'Independence' prompt, and a late entry for day one of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week on Tumblr: 'A Ros(i)e by any other name (fanworks focusing on Molly & Rosie's relationship)

He was reclining on his sofa, doing some important housekeeping (Hudders had intruded, but he'd ignored her and she'd gone away, clucking "Bloody Mind Palace!") when his phone erupted with a jarring melody – not Molly's text alert, which he would also have ignored for the moment, but her ring tone. She was calling him. She was well aware of his low tolerance for phone chatter, therefore it was something urgent– at least it had better be, he thought darkly.

Unfortunately, it was.

"Molly?"

"She's gone! Rosie's gone! I took my eye off her for seconds, seconds! Oh, my God! Sherlock!"

"Where are you?" He sat bolt upright, his blood freezing.

"Regent's Park, the play area by the duck pond," she managed, pulling herself back from the edge of hysteria.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

It was less than that, for he grabbed his Belstaff and ran all the way, and that particular area of the park was fairly close to Baker Street and very familiar to them both. They'd brought Rosie there countless times, together and individually, entirely without incident (well, save for a skinned knee or two), and Rosie had never shown the least inclination to wander away from her godparents, therefore… but no, that didn't bear consideration, not until he had all the facts that could be gathered.

And, in what seemed a miracle of timing, the facts were laid out before him as he came rushing upon the scene: Molly, hoarse with terror and repeated shouting into the trees and shrubbery that formed the perimeter of the deserted play yard, then spotting him and running toward him; but Sherlock panted, "There! There she is!" and gripped Molly's arm, pulling her around so she could see.

Molly gasped, then froze, clapping a hand over her mouth. Sherlock left her there and strode toward their errant goddaughter.

Rosie was running toward them, through the larger, more populated play area designed for older children that was adjacent to her own, though separated by some ten yards of grass. She was obviously in fine fettle, looking pleased as punch. "I do it!" she chirped loudly. "I do it myself!"

Sherlock dropped to one knee as Rosie came up to him. "Rosamund Mary–"

"I went to the loo all by myself!" Rosie insisted, pointing back toward said structure, which lay just beyond the larger playground. She caught his coat sleeves in her small hands and shook him, determined he should be impressed, but then she looked up at Molly, who was now approaching, and her sunny grin faded. "Aunt Molly?"

"Oh, Rosie!" Molly breathed in a shaking voice, and snatched the little girl up into a fierce embrace.

Sherlock got to his feet again and observed the fraught reunion until Molly gave a shuddering sob. Then he said, "Alright, come here, you miscreant brat," and gently took Rosie from her godmother, who turned away, blotting at her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her cardigan.

Rosie asked in a concerned voice, "Is Aunt Molly alright?"

"She will be, but you must never leave without telling her, Rosamund, do you understand?"

Rosie's lower lip trembled. "It was a surprise!"

Sherlock kissed the soft, round cheek. "I daresay you had the best of intentions, but we must know, always, that you're safe, it's very important. You gave Aunt Molly a dreadful fright when she couldn't find you. She even called me on the phone to help her!"

"Oh!" Rosie looked over at her godmother, wide-eyed.

Sherlock said, "In fact, she's had such a scare that I believe she needs to sit down for a few minutes, while you finish playing."

Rosie turned to him again and said quite seriously, "You should cuddle her. That will make her feel better."

Sherlock replied, deadpan, "Excellent advice."

Rosie nodded, and then caught sight of two familiar playmates approaching with their pretty college-aged au pair. "Put me down, Uncle Sherlock!" she demanded, and he complied. She ran blithely off to greet the newcomers, and the three quickly repaired to the toddler slides.

Sherlock, however, led Rosie's godmother to the nearby bench where she'd apparently flung her bag down at the height of the drama.

They sat and Molly groped for her tissues, blew her nose, and dabbed at her cheeks. Then she finally dared to raise her eyes to Sherlock's and they immediately filled with tears again, her lips quivering pitiably. He put his arm about her and let her lean into his shoulder, weeping, though he said, bracingly, "She's fine, Molly. Just asserting her independence. She is almost three years old."

A sodden chuckle escaped. "I know. I do it myself."

He laughed, too, and gave her a squeeze.

Presently, she regained some control and sat up with a shuddering sigh. "I just love her so much. If anything were to happen…"

Sherlock wanted to tell her, It won't! We won't let anything harm her! But he'd learned some dreadful lessons in the last few years, so he said, instead, "We'll do better from now on."

"Yes. I'll do better. You were magnificent! Quite literally running to the rescue."

"A pointless exercise, as it turned out."

"Not pointless at all," she said, and took his hand in hers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

After a moment she said, unhappily, "Do you think we should tell John?"

"No."

"No?" She looked up at him.

He shrugged, giving a slight grimace. "We won't have to. She'll probably do that for us."

Molly stared, quickly realizing he was correct. "She is uncommonly articulate for her age."

"And enjoys nothing more than telling a good story."

She bit her lip, then shook her head. "We can't encourage her to keep secrets from her father."

"I'm afraid that would, indeed, be opening Pandora's Box."

She nodded, resigned, and leaned against him once more with a despondent sigh. He kissed the top of her head, then settled more comfortably to join her in watching their beloved goddaughter at play.

~.~