A good listener is not only popular everywhere, but after a while he gets to know something.

~Wilson Mizner

Sherlock

After a very brief and quite logical – once he reconsidered it – discussion about 'we're not this kind of parents who change their children in a cold, underground parking lot, Sherlock' they changed both girls in the bathroom for disabled on the ground floor of NSY. Strictly speaking Sherlock was doing the changing part while John kept handing him necessary items.

At least neither of the girls shat themselves in a manner that would warrant hosing down in the sink. That was definitely a plus. The minus was that instead of two nappies he had to change four because nearly as soon as he handed to John one freshly changed Rosie to finish up dressing her and started working on changing Josie Rosie decided that it was a great time to poo. Same thing happened when he handed changed Josie to John, took Rosie from him to change her.

"Does waiting for them to poo while they're already wet falls under parental abuse?" he asked John when he disposed fourth dirty nappy in the bin.

"Probably," answered John. "Don't worry, you're doing fine. And count your blessings. When that one," he pressed a kiss to Rosie's downy head, "was a new-born she could decimate three nappies within an hour."

Now they are sitting in a restaurant. It's a small, hole-in-the-wall type of place but as Sherlock had learned many years ago, it's practically the only place in Westminster that all of the things which John demanded when Josie and Rosie started fussing: soup on the menu and a parking spot nearby.

"Perhaps it's a bad idea," says John once the waitress took their orders for drinks and disappeared.

He means Josie, the thought flies through Sherlock's head immediately.

"I might not be the best role model on the planet but I assure you…" he starts the retort but John cuts him off quickly.

"You thought that Josie?" asks John, he looks quite shocked and shakes his head. "I meant the car," he adds with a grimace.

"What about the car?" asks Sherlock feeling slightly surprised.

"Nothing really," answers John with a shrug. "I thought about downsizing that monster into something smaller and easier to park but I've been quite forcefully reminded that we live in one of the most congested cities in the world and that finding parking space here is like participating in hunger games."

Sherlock feels himself frowning as he asks, "What hunger has to do with parking?"

John's mouth twitch and he says, "Pop-culture. Some ridiculous dystopian movies that Mary made me watch when we first got together."

"So that isn't a recommendation," nods Sherlock.

"Not really. If I had to choose a dystopian movie to watch I would choose the Maze Runner. Quite enjoyable but would bore you to tears," says John simply. "No, what awaits you, and consequently me is Disney Princesses. But not for a while so you can, you know, let it go," he adds and smiles to himself as if he just told a joke. "What do you want?"

"I'm not really hungry," answers Sherlock with a shrug.

"Not really healthy too," responds John. "I'm not going to press you into eating but could you at least try to share a soup with Josie?"

Sherlock sighs and eyes the menu. There's a split pea soup which he likes. There's also tomato one and celery soup. He likes the former and is indifferent to the latter two, unless the tomato one is one of Mrs Hudson's and celery one is one which John makes.

He skims the menu until he finds tenderised chicken breast fillet. Josie and Rosie both have their incisors so they should be fine with soft meat. Potatoes would be great to go with it but he and John prefer chips to mashed but mashed would be better for the girls. What to add to it? Creamed spinach maybe.

"Split pea. Chicken breast with mashed potatoes and whatever you suggest for the sides," he says finally.

"Will you survive boiled baby carrots?" asks John. "Or creamed spinach?"

The waitress arrives with their teas and apple juice for the girls and takes their orders. Luckily for them before they left John stuffed two empty bottles into diaper-bag so once he pours juice into them both girls settle quite happily with their drinks.

While they wait for the soup, they sit in silence that doesn't feel oppressive but doesn't feel comfortable either. John doesn't talk and Sherlock isn't sure what he should say. Is John still thinking that Mary killing Daisy was his fault? Probably not, if he was, he wouldn't be at his phone. He's not using it to call anyone but keeps staring at the screen between scrolling and eyeing Rosie. What he's looking for?

He gets his answer shortly after once the waitress arrives with their soups and John puts the phone down. The screen doesn't go dark immediately and Sherlock has a chance to spot '1 Bedroom Flat for Rent' before it does.

Why he's looking at properties to rent if he already has a place on his own?

Sherlock waits only long enough for the waitress to leave before he pounces.

"Why you're looking for a flat to rent?" he asks briskly.

He catches John mid-blowing the spoon of soup and he freezes like that for a moment before his eyes fly to his phone on the table and then back to Sherlock. Then he finishes blowing and tries the soup. He puts the spoon back in the bowl and swirls it for a moment before he sighs.

"Because after what I learned today, I'm not going to that flat for longer than it would be necessary to pack our stuff," he says.

"Why?" asks Sherlock.

"Murderous, supposedly dead wife that's actually dead for real two months after she was buried?" says John with a grimace.

"It's just a flat," shrugs Sherlock.

"No," John shakes his head. "It's a space which I shared with my murderous, lying and criminal wife. A space to which she happily came back after she murdered a man and then nearly killed another," he pauses and shakes his head again. "The point is, I'm not going back there if I can help it, even if we will have to sleep under a bridge."

"Why you would have to sleep under a bridge or look at another flat to rent if you already have a place with cheap rent and landlady that's not your housekeeper but if you will let her she'll mother you and Rosie with all her might?" asks Sherlock.

"You aren't seeing it, are you?" asks John sceptically.

"I'm seeing very well, thank you," he replies.

"Sherlock," says John and he sighs heavily. "221B is a two-bedroom flat. You're keeping Josie so that means that you already have two people living in a two-bedroom flat."

Oh, so that's the problem. The most pressing one on John's mind and not 'I'm not sure about bringing up my daughter in the same flat with a guy who just got out of the hospital after an extended drug binge'. Well, it isn't on John's mind for now.

"And what you're forgetting is that said two-bedroom flat is located in a three-storey building," he retorts. "You're also forgetting that your bedroom," he doesn't say old, he never had, "is the size of the living room downstairs…"

"Even if we will stick the girls in one bedroom, we're still one bedroom short," John interjects.

"Not if we put a wall in the middle of your bedroom," says Sherlock. "Sure, they will be rather narrow and we would have to do something about the wall of the washing room to get a door into the corridor but we got through worse," he pauses. "I think that the best would be leaving them downstairs due to the proximity of the bathroom to minimise the distance that would have to be covered if one of them got an another 'how the hell did that got up there' incident."

"That's now," nods John. "What about ten years from now? Or even less if they wouldn't want to share the room?" he asks.

"Three storey building," replies Sherlock simply. "One which history I happen to know on that," he adds dryly. "When she first bought Hudders lived in the attic. Well, technically it was servants' quarters but she remodelled it into a studio. It has a tiny bathroom which would certainly need upgrading but we can do that by getting rid of the kitchen because we won't need another one. So, by the time Josie and Rosie will need separate rooms we would move them to the second floor and put you in the attic," he pauses and smirks, "or put me in the attic if by that point you will start complaining about your bad hip."

"Arse," snorts John and he smiles, it's a quick, crooked thing but it's still a smile so it counts. "What about your experiments? And clients? What you're going to do about these?"

Sherlock frowns for a moment. It's a good question. 221B isn't exactly babyproof place unless one keeps at least one eye on the baby at all times and seeing as there will be two of them... Not to mention clients come at all times of the day and the girls would need to sleep, also have something more than one room between them and complete strangers.

He smiles to himself when the solution presents itself.

"I could move that to C, not without renovating it though, but I can turn the kitchen into a lab space so you wouldn't have to complain about body-parts in the fridge," he replies. "The room can be turned into office space for meeting with the clients."

"And what? You will be dragging your chair back and forth between first floor and the basement?" asks John teasingly. "You kept whining through the entire week that time when we switched chairs because you lost a bet. It's too high, the seat is too short…"

"Like I said, 221 Baker Street used to have four individual flats," answers Sherlock simply. "Where do you think that mismatched furniture came from?" he smirks. "Both our chairs have a double in the attic, I also think that I spotted the very same rug which is in the living room. There was also some left-over wallpaper that's over the sofa. So, with some effort C could be transformed into an office space that would be only minimally different from the living-room and I can get around the minimal difference. Plus, it will be a while before I will start taking anything that cannot be solved online or a nine so…" he shrugs.

"You are sure about it?" asks John, he sounds uncertain. "You really want us to move in with you?"

That's an incoming no, he realises but he's not going to give up just like that. He needs John in his life and with John comes Rosie and if making space for them in his life is what John needs…

"Would I offer it if I didn't?" he asks simply. "You want to leave your flat. Which is fine. The floor plan there sucks anyway. You have one bathroom there and it's an en suite, the kitchen is tiny and open to the living area which is fine as long as you aren't entertaining guests which… Who needs to see dirty dishes?"

"You don't," John interjects but he's grinning.

"Not to mention it's too far away from the hospital and there aren't any good day-cares in the area, don't even start me on schools… You need a car to do any proper shopping or riding at least two different buses. No proper parks in the area too, unless you count that sneeze and you will miss it square half a mile away. Getting takeaway there takes ages and you always have to pay for the distance if you're ordering from a good place or remain on the mercy of subpar restaurants," Sherlock is on a roll now.

"Glad to hear finally hear what you really think about my place," says John but he doesn't sound angry so Sherlock takes it as a small win.

"It's hateful," Sherlock admits. "It's too suburban to have city amenities close by and too close to the city to be suburban. At least in the suburbia you would have a proper house you wouldn't have to share with another family and your own backyard that wouldn't disappear once you would put a swing in there. So, in overall it's a meh."

"It is," John agrees. "But it was an affordable meh when I bought it and if you saw the one in which I lived after I moved away from Baker Street after…" he pauses. "You would be having opinions," he smirks. "In fact, you did have opinions."

Sherlock looks at him in shock and he feels like kicking himself. He should have suspected it after he realised that John was talking to hallucination of Mary. If Mary's sudden, untrue now but true when it happened, tragic death caused him to hallucinate her wouldn't the same sudden, tragic and also untrue death of his friend cause the same issue.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I know," sighs John and stirs his soup before he tries it and offers next spoon to Rosie who takes it and mashes her lips happily.

It's also a cue for Sherlock to do the same for Josie, so he does, offering her a spoon and watching if she likes it. She does.

"It wasn't as bad as being at Baker Street though," admits John quietly at it makes Sherlock look at him. "I tried, for few weeks but…" he pauses. "Worse than seeing you and knowing that you were dead was…" he pauses again. "Everything," he sighs. "Making tea for two even though I was the only one to drink it, same with food. But it wasn't as hateful as this overwhelming silence. Getting a call from Mr Chang nearly a month after you died that someone needed to pick up your dry-cleaning, you probably remember him, poor man was nearly blind as a bat and half-deaf too…" he tries to smile but it's more than a grimace. "But even that wasn't the worst," he sighs and his eyes get glassy, "it was the fall itself, over and over and over and over," he grimaces, "in dreams or awake, sometimes I was getting there already too late, sometimes I never left but nothing I tried to do or say…. At times I was going right over the edge with you…"

Unlike John who is trying to hold back the tears Sherlock has no problem with not holding his. He knew the very moment when John recognised him at the restaurant that he made a horrendous mistake by turning it into a joke. He saw how distraught and barely holding himself together John was at his grave. He knew that John's grief was genuine, had to be genuine because John's very life depended on it. Turning that grief into a joke? He deserved every single punch John threw his way that night. He should have that meeting in private get Mycroft to give John some warning, he should have stressed out how necessary to John's survival and safety was keeping him unaware. He should let him rant and rave instead of trying to dazzle him with cleverness.

Slowly he reaches out, placing his fingers over John's left hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry that you had to see it. I'm sorry that I had to keep you in the dark," he pauses. "Until the very last moment I thought that I could find some way around it but Moriarty left me no choice, John. You had to believe in my death. Not because you didn't matter but because you were one of the few people that mattered the most. Moriarty didn't put his snipers on my parents, not even on Mycroft and even if he had Mycroft had whole secret service at his disposal," he shakes his head. "If his men didn't see me jump… I didn't have a choice. I wish I had. It wasn't even supposed to last as long as it had."

John looks at him, then at their joined hands and asks softly, "How long it was going to last?"

"Three months," sighs Sherlock. "Initially and that was to what I've agreed. Three months of confirming the information which Mycroft got out of Moriarty about his web and helping Interpol and local police forces in rooting them out. But the deeper I kept digging the farther the web stretched out and I wasn't certain if there wasn't any back up plan that involved your immediate demise should I dare to show my face back in London again. Three months turned into six and before I turned around a whole year gone by and I was nowhere near to being done. I grew impatient, sloppy even," he pauses to sigh again. "Got myself caught several times and had been nearly caught more times than I liked. But I had to finish rooting out Moriarty's most trusted."

"Did you?" asks John gently.

"After the first year I promised myself that I wouldn't let it become two," says Sherlock. "The last stretch was supposed to be Serbia but the man I was looking for was a ghost, people heard of him but no-one saw him. I had what I thought were rock solid papers but I didn't factor in the fact that I would get burned. I narrowly escaped and had to lie low in Germany before Mycroft managed to root out the spy in the embassy. Second year went by there. I returned to Serbia in the summer and started over and unlike earlier my progress was smooth. At the time in my cockiness I didn't realise how smooth. I got caught, again, I managed to escape, didn't factor in that they simply let me escape. I should have asked for an extraction but I was this close to being done," he pauses. "And then I got caught, once more and this time the umbrella wielding twerp had to get down there to get me out. Because he didn't want to endanger the operation, I had to wait…"

"How long?" asks John.

"Too long to grow sick of Serbian hospitality," shrugs Sherlock. "Lovely people as long as they aren't criminals."

"Sherlock," presses John.

"Long enough to be happy about being rescued, even by Mycroft," he adds with a grimace, he doesn't want to talk about torture sessions.

"Your back," says John quietly.

Shit. How did he? Right, doctor. The doctor's at St Mary's hospital were urged by Mycroft to not disclose that detail but the ones at Caedwalla's probably hadn't gotten the same warning.

"That was from Serbia?" asks John.

Sherlock doesn't answer, John isn't an idiot, he's more than capable of making that deduction if he gives him anything.

"Christ," whispers John as he leans back, pulling his hand away in the process and Sherlock immediately feels the loss. "You were flayed," he utters, he's starting to breath erratically, "they could have been several... days old at the most and I…" he looks positively sick now.

"I let you believe that I was dead for over two years," Sherlock interrupts him. "And unlike handling the reveal like any sensible human being would have done in my place I turned two years of your grief into a joke," he says heatedly.

"That's not an excuse," says John as he shakes his head. "Christ, Sherlock, you have to hold me accountable for this kind of shit."

"Why?" Sherlock counters.

"Because…" he starts and swallows visibly, "if they didn't pull me away," he pauses and swallows again, "I would keep going and you would have let me. You did let me," he swallows again. "You were dying and I nearly bloody killed you."

"You know that nearly is the operative word in this sentence, don't you," says Sherlock quietly.

"Jesus," whispers John and he hangs his head. "We can't keep going like this, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart drops to his stomach. This is it, the no that he was waiting for, the retraction of the earlier promise to be there for him, for them, the 'we should part our ways' that had been hanging over his head ever since John refused to see him after Mary's death. Granted, the circumstances had changed but…

I'm sorry. I love you; I love you so much. I would have given up anything for you. Not just my life. The Work. The drugs. Moriarty's puzzles. If I had the power to turn back time, I wouldn't engage in any case that led me closer to Moriarty. Because by engaging into that game I lost the only person that mattered the most.

He can feel the tears starting to slip away again and he lowers his head to hide his face in Josie's downy hair. It will break him; he knows that it will break him but he cannot let it break him because he's not alone anymore.

"Sherlock," says John softly. "We can't keep going like this," he repeats. "Not on our own," he adds.

That makes Sherlock look at him in shock because the last sentence implies… But he cannot bring himself to hope. No, hope is the cruellest of evils because it only prolongs the torment.

"Sherlock?" asks John quietly. "Are you…"

"Must be pollens," he sniffs and quickly wipes the tears away.

John opens his mouth but after a moment he closes it again only to open it again.

"That's what I'm talking about," says John. "And I know that you hate even the idea of it and everything it entails but for the sake of whatever good has been left of our friendship we have to do this. We have to get into therapy, as individuals as much as a unit. We both need it and they," he gestures at Rosie and Josie, "need us to be at our best. Because we aren't now and I don't think we had been for a very long time."

"You want to start therapy?" asks Sherlock slowly. "With me?"

"Yes," sighs John. "I know that our situation is peculiar but so is our relationship as much as our situation, especially if we're going to live together again."

"Yes," says Sherlock quickly.

"Just like that?" asks John cautiously. "With no arguments?"

"Do you want me to rectify it?" asks Sherlock. "Or put a bigger fight?"

"God, no," sighs John.

"Do you have any recommendations?" asks Sherlock.

"I would agree to your suggestions," answers John and he takes a deep breath.

But he has one of his own, Sherlock realises.

"But?" Sherlock prompts him.

"Elsa had been…" John starts and pauses, "scarily perceptive and brutally honest in so far," he adds. "It's exhausting but effective. I've been seeing her every day since…" he pauses, "since last Friday," he finishes.

"Is it helping?" asks Sherlock gently.

"No," sighs John. "Not at this stage of let's see what kind of shit you have up there John Watson," he grimaces. "On most of the days I just want to run out of the room and never come back. But I need it, I need to face myself. I don't want to become my father, I don't want to become my mother either," he pauses and tries to give Rosie another spoon of soup.

Rosie is not having it and fights with John's attempts to fed her until something falls on Sherlock's jeans and he looks down to find Josie trying to eat the soup by herself. Most of the soup is on her face and clothes but she's determined in her attempts.

"Fine," John sighs before he unfolds the serviette, tucks it under her chin and pulls the sleeves of her shirt a little higher. "Have at it, Miss Independence," he adds fondly.

"It's fascinating," admits Sherlock as he eyes how both girls eat.

"Her temperament?" asks John.

"No, the competitiveness," he clarifies. "At least we know that they will be stimulating each other's growth," he adds.

"We already learned that they both have a mischievous streak," says John with a soft snort. "Potty training will be hell."

"It can't be that bad," says Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you pure, innocent snowflake…" sighs John. "If you heard even the half of the stories about potty training, I heard…" he shakes his head.

"Can't be worse than a floater," shrugs Sherlock. "Or a meat puzzle."

John snorts, "We will shelve that discussion until after one of them will put a full potty on the top of her head."

"We will be there to ensure that it doesn't happen," he counters.

"You aren't going to put a serviette on her?" asks John.

"What for?" he shrugs. "She's already dirty. So am I."

"And you just don't care?" asks John curiously.

"Why do you think I'm wearing something that looks like it came out of your closet rather than mine?" he replies dryly.

John doesn't answer immediately and they both know what went through his mind. If John had seen him in the same attire without Josie, he would turn the entire flat upside down looking for drugs, the search would have been followed by a drug-test and that would be it.

"You look like a train wreck," says John finally. "Clothes practical but still weird but the beard…"

"Josie likes it," quips Sherlock.

"Josie is wearing split pea soup on herself, her fashion sense shouldn't be trusted," replies John.

Sherlock looks at Rosie, who's trying to share the spoon with her father and says dryly, "Using that logic in a moment your sense of fashion shouldn't be trusted either."

John looks down at Rosie and straightens the spoon before Rosie pours the soup on both of them. Then he leans over and eats what's on it.

"Should have brought the bib," sighs John.

The waitress arrives and they change their bowls for plates. Once the waitress leaves John shifts the contents of the plates until on both plates there are some mashed potatoes as well as chips and baby carrots as well as spinach.

For few minutes they eat in silence, mostly busing themselves with ensuring that spinach and mashed potatoes don't end on the floor. Carrots, fries and chicken goes down easily with both girls and they're mostly successful in putting them in their mouths. But because they're smaller and their tummies fill up faster than theirs soon enough both Rosie and Josie flop back against John's and Sherlock's stomachs with a sigh.

"That competitive streak might be good," says John as he looks down at Rosie. "That's the most I saw her eat during a single meal in a week. Though I hope that it won't be too good."

"Count your blessings," says Sherlock, feeling suddenly grim when he remembers that Josie in fact is a Holmes and that it means that she has a Holmesian appetite.

"Remembered that, didn't you?" asks John dryly. "Here is to Josie not having your appetite," he adds before he toasts her with his tea.

"Better mine than Mycroft's," mutters Sherlock. "Although as long as she has my energy levels, she should be fine even with Mycroft's appetite," he shrugs. "You on the other hand should watch out for Rosie."

"Not Rosie," sighs John.

Is he denying or… Oh, murderous, criminal wife that named their daughter after herself. It's just a name but neither he nor John were fans of it, him more than John.

"If not Rosie then what?" he asks curiously. "Katherine?" he asks, remembering John's suggestion

"Not sure," admits John. "Better Katherine than Rosamund, that's certain, but I'm not sure if it suits her."

"You know what I think about it," says Sherlock simply before he takes a bite of his chicken.

The comment catches John while he's rising his fork to his mouth and he sighs, "It's not exactly…" he pauses and shakes his head. "Alright, I'll bite," he adds after a moment. "Why?" he asks.

"Why not?" Sherlock answers the question with one of his own.

"Because I know you," says John. "You can be an arrogant git at times but there's arrogance and there's…" he pauses. "It's not arrogance, so what it is?"

The only chance for any living Sherlock to be a Sherlock Watson. It was the very first thing that came to his mind after he realised that he couldn't leave John with a love confession that would be soon followed with the news of his demise. He could die and leave handling passing the news of it to Mycroft and however Mycroft would have handled that he might lessen the blow of it, for John's sake. Saying 'I love you' prior to that? That was cruelty he wasn't capable of, at least to John.

He had a chance to think of it, the name as much as the aborted confession later on and he realised that he still wanted John's daughter to be named Sherlock for another reason.

He pokes one of the baby carrots and finally stabs it with a fork, puts it in his mouth and chews it thoroughly. Then he takes a sip of his tea and leans back against his chair.

"She's your daughter," he says finally. "That alone makes her remarkable," he adds. "But is a bad thing to want her to be even more special?" he asks.

John doesn't say a thing but his mouth twitches slightly. He's thinking it, the git. Sherlock smirks in return.

"You're right, Sherlock isn't a girls name," he admits. "But," he adds before John has a chance to say anything, "the only other Sherlock I ever knew was the most formidable woman I ever met. No other woman could even come close to match her. Her full name was Sherlock Victoria Watson, she survived two world wars, married and buried seven husbands. Always remained a Watson though," he smiles, more to himself than to John, "always claimed that as a Watson she was born and as a Watson she would die. Which she did," he smirks, "day after her ninetieth birthday during which she claimed that living this long was simply indecent. So, after the party ended, she drank her glass of sherry, headed to bed and never woke up," he pauses and he smiles. "Curious thing about the husbands, four of them were buried as Watsons although only the first one was born as one, the other three just kept their own names."

"How did you meet her?" asks John curiously.

"According to Mummy, three days after I was born, I was handed over to her by Daddy for inspection," he answers simply. "She asked for my name, got told that it was Sherlock and then she huffed that Sherlock is a girls name and slapped William and Scott on both ends of it," he adds dryly. "Mummy and Daddy didn't dare to oppose her so I was eventually baptised William Sherlock Scott. William after her first husband and Scott after the last one, from what I've been told he was still breathing for another year or two after my birth."

"Relative?" asks John.

"The great-grandmother I mentioned earlier today," explains Sherlock. "Truly formidable woman," he sighs. "Adored as much as feared. The final judge before whom the whole family went for advice, surprisingly considering her age it remained sound until her death, not even a hint of dementia. And if you played cards against her, she could whip you like a cream to a Sunday pie," he smirks.

"From your mum's or dad's side?" asks John curiously.

"Daddy's," answers Sherlock briskly. "The Holmeses always relayed on their fortune even though some, older generations supposedly managed to produce some highly intelligent individuals. Mycroft is named after one of them. Beats me which one though. Some sort of grand or great-granduncle, I'm not sure and I don't exactly care," he shrugs.

"Neither do I," agrees John. "What about Sherlock though?"

"She was born 13th January 1892," he says and he smirks to himself for a moment but then he sobers slightly as he adds, "to a retired army surgeon, kill me I have no idea in which regiment he served and where. I only know that he was an army surgeon and what his name was and what his wife's name was as well," he pauses. "Seemed fitting at the time I suggested her name," he grimaces. "Anyway, her parents were a Doctor John Watson and Mary Watson, no idea what her maiden name was…"

John snorts at that.

"… and supposedly she was named after a dear friend of her father and Queen Victoria obviously," he finishes. "No idea what happened to him other than that he died in some tragic circumstances a year prior to her birth and that his death left the doctor bereft with grief badly enough to foist his name upon his baby daughter," he adds swiftly. "The rest of it isn't exactly pretty," he grimaces, "his wife died in confinement shortly after. He tried his best but we're talking about grieving Victorian men with almost non-existent emotional support and an infant to care for. In the summer one of colleagues from university took pity on him and invited both of them to their house in the country. Hopkins, I think was his name," he pauses, "doesn't matter really. What matters is that Doctor Hopkins and his wife were a barren couple that quickly got charmed by Sherlock's everything. So, after a lot of internal debates and some agonising he decided that his daughter deserved better…"

John is frowning, the story is too close to home for him so Sherlock needs to finish it fast before John starts to get any ideas from it.

"I'm not sure how it looked from legal angle but the Hopkins took in little Sherlock and raised her as their own daughter, with her own father serving the role of a godfather," he says quickly. "Then in 1902 or 1903, it's unclear in which, Doctor Hopkins died in an automobile accident and Doctor Watson, the good family friend that he was, came to help the bereft widow handle the legal matters. He was so helpful that as soon as it was socially appropriate, he turned Mrs Doctor Hopkins into a Mrs Doctor Watson," he finishes.

"And that's why Sherlock remained a Watson," says John.

"Probably," agrees Sherlock. "Either way they both lived to 1919 and died during flu pandemic but not before watching their daughter marry, twice on that. Husband number one was some supposedly devilishly handsome medical student, William Watson. Unfortunately, they married at the end of the summer of 1914 and he was dead before year was out. Husband number two was a returning army surgeon, Samuel I think, she married him in January 1919 and buried him by December of the same year…"

"Sounds like a black widow," says John dryly.

"Slightly unlucky, don't forget the war and the pandemic," quips Sherlock. "Number three married her because he was looking for a nursemaid under the guise of a wife. She gave him three years of her care and that was all that she gave him. She didn't give him a child or taken his name. Number four she met when number three's health took turn to worse. He was so besotted with her and she with him that they married as soon as it was appropriate and he agreed without much protest to not only allow her to remain a Watson but he also decided to take her name. Because Doctor Sieger Watson had a better ring to it than Doctor Sieger Black-Turnip."

John snorts.

"Unlike with the other two they stayed married for twenty years and would have probably stayed together longer if he didn't volunteer to re-join the army during second world war. A stray bullet got him in November 1944 but on the plus side he managed to weasel out of the command a two day leave to see their only daughter, Josephine marry an aspiring painter Francis Vernet," he continues. "My father who was born after five months of pregnancy…."

"Has to be a lie…." John interjects.

"Of course, it is," smirks Sherlock. "Grandma Josephine was four months pregnant at the time she got married," he adds. "Francis believed himself to be a very talented painter but the only thing he was good at was painting rooms which was how he made a living and knocking his wife up," he grimaces. "In nearly sixteen years of marriage they had fifteen children, twelve of which lived until adulthood. She eventually succumbed to puerperal fever after the last one and died. As a wife she was very fond and very merciful towards her bum of a husband and she allowed him to work on his paintings rather than help her with children. So, it wasn't a wonder that Francis lost his marbles when she died. Left up to him they would have ended at an orphanage but Grandma Sherlock stepped in and put a fear of God in him with the little help of husband number five who was a retired army psychiatrist and together they promised him what would happen to him if he as much as thought about it. He kept fumbling for few years but by 1965 he drank himself to death."

"So, she had to raise them anyway," says John.

"Without a blink and on her own because her husband decided to die too. Daddy and my uncles did their best to help her though. But she was an enterprising woman and at the age of seventy-five she married a fifty years old widowed doctor that always wanted children of his own but because his beloved wife was barren, he couldn't have them," he adds. "She outlived him and buried him after six years of marriage, last two of which she spent nursing him after a stroke."

"And then she married his physician?" John suggests.

"Not his physician," says Sherlock dryly. "He was a young thirty-something with a wife and two children of his own but his father got widowed recently so she picked him up, pretty easily on that. He was only seventy at the time."

"Sounds truly formidable," agrees John, "if a bit depressing on the marriage front."

"Oh, she loved them all," Sherlock counters, "maybe with an exception of number three. According to Daddy some of my uncles and cousins managed to get named after each of them. Even I was named after two of them. Weirdly, aside of Uncle Frank, there are no variations of Francis in the family and even Uncle Frank started going by his middle name as soon as his daddy dearest kicked proverbial bucket," he adds.

"But there was only one Sherlock," points out John.

"Well, I was born during a blizzard and Grandma was in Scotland, visiting one of my aunts who also gave birth and…" he pauses and smirks. "Apparently during every attempt at a sonogram to assess my condition as well as to ascertain what I was going to be, I was one lazy bugger who kept folding and turning himself in such a way that it was impossible to say with a hundred percent certainty what I was. So, Mummy got told that I was a girl. Imagine her and Daddy's surprise however when the day of my birth arrived and rather than with a girl, they were told to expect they ended up with this," he adds and motions at himself. "Everything was prepared for a girl, even the name and there I was, definitely not a girl."

John smiles, with a small, fond smile before he asks, "No female cousin with that name though?"

"Not the first one though. As formidable as she was the spouses of my aunts and uncles believed that Sherlock wasn't a girl's name. But few of them were gullible enough to agree to that middle name. Mummy was the only one who wanted her daughter to be called Sherlock," he answers. "As you can see, she didn't exactly succeed."

"I'm sure she tried her best," says John dryly.

Sherlock shrugs and watches as John resumes eating. Part of him wants to hear John's decision immediately but contemplative silence is better than a straightforward no. So, he accepts it.

Then a thought hits him.

If I knew about Daisy right away what name for her, I would have chosen?

Not Daisy, that much he was certain. No, he would have gone with something more ambitious than a flower if just as much plain on the surface unless someone asked him for a clarification. Except knowing what he knows now…

"Sherlock?" John's voice tears him from his thoughts.

"Yeah?" he mumbles.

"I asked what you were thinking," says John.

"About?" he asks.

"Just now," replies John.

"Sorry," he sighs. "I was thinking about which name I would have given Daisy if I knew about her from the beginning," he clarifies.

"If I had to take a stab in the dark, I would say some variation of Marie," says John pensively. "After Marie Currie," he adds with a small smile.

"That obvious?" he sighs.

"Please, you're a chemist and what better name your daughter would have deserved if not the name of the first woman to win the Nobel price and the only one that won two of them," answers John. "Also, the books on the Currie family legacy are the only leisure books I ever caught you reading when we lived together. If you weren't purposely ruining the endings of my crime novels for me, that's it," he adds dryly.

Sherlock smiles softly, John knows him well even if the conclusion was an obvious one.

"I could always go with Salome," he counters with a small.

"Which would be shortened to Sally and I know how fond you're of Donovan," replies John. "Also, unless the circumstances changed since we last talked about it, Donovan is the only DI who has yet to ask for your assistance."

"Won't happen," he shakes his head. "Matter of personal pride. Woman of colour in her position…" he grimaces. "Hopkins doesn't care much about it but she's younger than Donovan and hadn't been passed over for promotion as many times as Donovan had. But then again Hopkins is much more willing to think outside the box so there's that. So, what was the question?"

"There was no question, just a statement," replies John. "I'll take it."

"Really?" asks Sherlock, trying his best to keep the shock from his voice.

"Not as a first name though," he clarifies. "It would be confusing and I want to avoid that. So, I'll go with Katherine Sherlock and once she grows up a bit, she can decide for herself which one suits her better," he adds and looks at his daughter with a fond smile.

"I can sense a winner," says Sherlock with a small smile.

"I wouldn't be that sure," quips John. "There's Princess Kate and Aunt Kathy wasn't a slouch either."

"Popularity versus uniqueness," shrugs Sherlock. "Odds are that when she will go to school, she might be one of the few Katherine Watsons but if she goes by Sherlock, she would be the only one Sherlock Watson."