Chapter 9


The idea had come to John by accident from Mrs Hudson.

In his armchair, John had been sitting at his laptop, staring at a new, blank blog post that he was trying to write. Sophie was on the floor in front of him, flipping through a book. Despite that she was just over two years old, she had the development levels of a four year old and was beginning to read. She didn't speak much, one a word here or there, but John was certain that was by her own choice rather than inability.

Mrs Hudson came upstairs with a plate of biscuits, warm from the open. "John, Sophie, would you care for some tea, dearies? I've brought up some biscuits for you too." Sophie nodded eagerly, looking up from her book. John gave a noncommittal hum, trying to bring himself to write.

But the words wouldn't come.

He couldn't write of Sophie; despite being dead for more than two years, Sherlock still had enemies. It'd be dangerous of him to so obviously announce that the detective had reproduced—which was why he'd asked Rowena Pulver not to mention his child to anyone. The former client hastily agreed.

Mrs Hudson set his tea beside him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's a shame you haven't kept up with your blog, John. I always enjoyed reading it; many others too."

"I only ever wrote up cases or gave boring updates on daily life," he shrugged. "Not much to write about now."

She tutted. "Shame about those cases. Did you ever go back and write up some of the old cases? I remember you planned to…before."

John paused. "No, I didn't. I forgot about that."

"Shame. Those case were so popular, you could have published them in a book and it would have become a bestseller."

He barely heard the landlady return to her flat downstairs, so deep was he in his thoughts. The doctor only snapped out of his thoughts when Sophie was tugging at his pants leg, asking him to climb into his lap. He scooped her up calmly.

It was obvious that she was taking after Sherlock's genes. Her curly dark brown hair was down to her shoulders and was absolute chaos in the morning. She had the same grey eyes and, looking past the baby fat, the same face and cheekbones. The look of intellect in her eyes was all Sherlock, but there were days that the elegance in her demeanor and mannerisms were so obviously Irene Adler.

John sighed. "Do you think I should?" he asked. "Do you think I should publish a book with all my stories about your father?"

Sherlock, whenever John spoke of him to Sophie, was always "your father", while she'd taken to (when she did speak) calling John "daddy".

After a pause, the little girl nodded.

So it was settled.


A few nights later, John invited Lestrade out for drinks. After some usual small talk, John looked to the DI and asked, "Greg, if you can get them for me, I'd like to look over some of the old case files—the cases that Sherlock and I helped with."

"What for?" he asked suspiciously.

The doctor sighed, taking a sip of his beer. "I decided to rewrite some of the old posts from my blog. A Study in Pink and all of those. If I can, I was thinking about publishing them."

Greg thought for a moment before shrugging. "I'll see what I can do. As long as names are changed and such, I don't think there will be a problem from the Met with this. What made you think of it?"

"Mrs Hudson sort of gave me the idea and Sophie liked the thought of being able to hear more about Sherlock," John explained. "I thought…well. I thought it might help."

The DI asked gently, "Help people understand or help you get over it all?"

He shrugged. "Both, I guess. Besides, I had intended on rewriting them before…well. Before, anyways."

"How's Sophie doing?" Greg asked. "I haven't seen her in a couple weeks."

"Pretty good, rea—"

"Greg?"

Both men turned, but neither got up from their bar stools. "Oh, Superintendent," the DI said. "You startled me."

The woman smiled in amusement, exposing two rows of neat and orderly white teeth. She was a healthy tan with dark auburn hair, tied tidily at the nape of her neck. Despite very straight posture and four inch heels, she wasn't very tall, maybe a couple inches off of John's height, but she was leanly muscled with gentle curves. Her light blue eyes glanced to John curiously before returning to Lestrade.

She chuckled. "We're not at work nor on duty, Greg. Do me favor and you just call me Mira and introduce me to your friend here."

"Doctor John Watson," he said, offering his hand.

Mira grasped and shook it warmly. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Doctor," she replied with a light smile. "I was wondering if I'd ever meet you."

To his left, Greg smirked to himself as he glanced between the two before hurriedly excusing himself to leave.

It seemed, to John, like it had been forever since a woman had flirted with him or even showed interest. He grinned back to her. "Let me buy you the next round, if you'd like."

Again, that mysterious, mischievous smirk crossed her face. "I'd like that, Doctor. I'd like that a lot."


*wiggles eyebrows*

You know who that is, right?

Eheheheheh...