Author's Note:

It's a longish chapter, and there's a bit of a time jump later on, but not too much.

Enjoy!

x


Chapter 76 – Hard Logic versus Romantic Whimsy

Movement in Sherlock's periphery brought him back to the surface of his mind.

"When did you get back?" John Watson asked.

Sherlock blinked and refocussed on his former flatmate who stood in the middle of the living room rug with his hands on his hips.

"I…" he slowly began, giving himself some thinking time while the rest of his surroundings came into view.

By the light filtering in through the window and the ambient temperature of the room, he'd say it was mid-afternoon. And the journey from Edinburgh via Newcastle was... Did he leave at night?

"This morning," Sherlock concluded.

From the vicinity of the kitchen, his landlady scoffed.

"What are you talking about? You got back Friday morning. You've been sitting in that chair for most of the weekend."

Sherlock suddenly became aware of the cool leather upon which his arm rested. In his other hand, he held his mobile phone. He found himself sitting in his armchair by the fire, dressed in a grey button-up, his suit trousers and his dark blue dressing gown. A cup of tea sat by his left side, along with a plate of ginger nuts. Only two. Mrs Hudson usually gave him three, which meant he'd already consumed one. And a quick swipe of his phone told him today was Monday.

John snorted out a laugh, then made his way to his customary place on the sofa where Sherlock knew the doctor would begin scanning the newspaper for traces of interesting cases.

"Lost in your Mind Palace again?" John idly asked, without looking up for an answer.

Mrs Hudson drifted toward the living area, asking John a question about whether or not everything was sorted. Sherlock let their conversation wash over him—something about explosions and clean up and "You should've seen the expressions on her face."

Sherlock conducted a quick status check. He wasn't starving nor dehydrated, which meant he'd been fed and watered. He raked a hand over his jaw—freshly shaven. So he'd gone through the motions of basic hygiene, sustenance intake and grooming, all without conscious effort while he'd been hiding in his Mind Palace. But why?

He knew it had something to do with Rose. That much was obvious. There was a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach and his heart-beat was dull and unenthusiastic.

She told him to go.

Rose.

He felt ill-equipped and inadequate somehow. She'd made it so. He'd required guidance and she had instructed him to leave. And so he had. She neither wanted nor needed him. His role was to go away. An honest goodbye was what he'd requested and therefore received.

Not wanted, not needed, and unqualified.

How could he, Sherlock Holmes, be unqualified for anything? Surely a cursory glance at the relevant skillset required would make him an expert within a couple of hours? Why didn't Rose have faith in him? And why had he so readily accepted her assessment? As if he knew and agreed?

A quick dip back into his Mind Palace showed Sherlock a blank screen with nothing but static on it. He'd been staring at this screen for hours, he remembered now. Nothing came into view. Too much interference. There was something he wasn't understanding, some concept that was beyond his level of comprehension.

Rose had rejected him, but this time not because she was afraid someone would be interested in her past occupation due to her association with the famous Sherlock Holmes. That no longer seemed relevant in Edinburgh. Being out in public with Scott Williams didn't bother Rose at all. And it wasn't as if she found Sherlock working on a specific case to be particularly troublesome. And no one had identified Rose as a prostitute. She still loved him, so what was the problem? Why had he been sent away? It came from within Rose, not from some external source that Sherlock could even assess or control.

Footsteps on the stairwell provoked some excitement from the occupants of the flat. Mrs Hudson turned to the landing and cooed a greeting.

"That must feel better now," she said, as Mary came into view. "Better out than in, I always say."

Mary was holding a familiar bundle, to whom Mrs Hudson had directed her remarks, but Sherlock's synapses suddenly made a combination of new connections.

Rosie.

Rosamund Mary.

Watson. Baby Watson.

Offspring.

And, uh, you too, Sherlock.

You, too, what?

Godfather. We'd like you to be Godfather.

It's you, Sherlock. You're the f—

Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test.

I'm pregnant.

Do you have a boyfriend?

I'm PREGNANT!

YOU'RE THE F—

How did he notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor.

I'm having a baby.

Stop panicking.

BABY

We had sex. It's you. You're the f—

I'm not panicking.

You looked… tired.

You looked…pregnant.

I am pregnant!

You're the f—

"Here," said Mary to John, as Sherlock stood bolt upright. "Go to daddy."

Daddy?

John chuckled as he received his daughter. Sherlock's eyes had widened, but he stood, frozen to the spot, not really seeing the scene unfolding before him. His skin prickled and his heart-rate became lively and interesting.

Fight or flight?

"I…" he began, struggling to draw breath.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Mary asked.

You're the f—

"I'm just…" He willed his legs to move in the direction of the kitchen. "Something I ate," he murmured, making a beeline towards his bedroom.

"Oh, dear," he heard Mrs Hudson say. "I hope it wasn't the chicken last night. You did leave it to go cold before you ate it."

He heard more clucking and cooing, and his God-daughter's hiccuping cry before all adults appeared to descend on her.

Sherlock shut the door on the outside world as tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

You're the…

I'm the… f—

Erratic thoughts flitted through his mind. Nausea joined the tumult of emotions and sensations that began to batter his body. I'm the f—

His legs felt weak and Sherlock stumbled toward his bed and sank down onto it. He cradled his head in his hands and attempted to drew in much needed oxygen.

This… this isn't happening. It doesn't make any sense.

Rose was… Rose is… pregnant. But it isn't… me.

Because

Because Sherlock Holmes doesn't get women pregnant. Other men do. This was an ordinary, everyday occurrence, the world over. Conception. Pregnancy. Birth. Parenthood. Explosions and cleanup and…

Go to daddy.

But..

Rose.

I'm pregnant!

He did see it! But he'd dismissed it at the time as something that made no sense.

Not his Rose. Didn't they…but they always… there was always… something.

We had sex!

No. No. No.

I mean. Yes. We did. But that doesn't result in…

Well, it does. Biologically, speaking. But not us. Because we… always… use…

It's my fault. I stopped using contraception and I didn't tell you.

Wait. When? Why? And how can…

I'm eight weeks, Sherlock. Eight. Count them…

Sherlock suddenly rose from the bed. Because eight weeks…

Count them…

He did. And eight weeks ago was not…

Christmas Eve. Were you that high?

Sherlock wasn't high at the moment, and Christmas Eve wasn't eight weeks ago. Eight weeks ago was early to mid-December. And, until Christmas Eve, he hadn't seen Rose in months, let alone have sex with her. Well, she'd given him an ultimatum: the Magnussen case or their relationship. He had decided he could have both. Solve the case then continue his relationship with Rose. Perhaps she hadn't been in on the plan at the time, hence her never contacting him during his alternating stints in rehab and planning Magnussen's downfall. He hadn't realised it would take him so long. But long enough for Rose to decide not to use contraception anymore, apparently.

Eight weeks.

Rose had had sex with someone else! But she wouldn't. That wasn't Rose at all. So…

Sherlock remembered John chuckling at him. They had worked out they could keep solving cases even though baby Watson's due date had come and gone.

Well, forty weeks is just a rough guide, John had said.

Wait, Sherlock queried. Forty weeks? But doesn't that mean…

And then John explained that the expected due date was calculated from the first date of the last period, not the actual conception date (which wasn't always known, he had added). The actual date of conception would be around two weeks later.

So, two weeks from early to mid-December is roughly…

Christmas Eve.

His heart hiccuped again, but his central nervous system was beginning to restore itself to its normal default settings. He could think logically and sensibly again.

Rose's pregnant. And I'm the f—

But she had sent him away. Why?

I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans…

What plans? Nothing to do with him. Because…

And there it was. That feeling of inadequacy again. He wasn't qualified to be a f—. Rose knew that. And she knew him better than anybody on the planet. Her plans for parenthood only found one suitable candidate, not two. He wasn't capable of the role. Of course! What would he know? Being Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective, didn't give him the necessary skills. He was just Sherlock, upon whom the title of Godfather had been bestowed, not because of any particular function he needed to fulfil, apart from parroting a few choice words during a ludicrous, archaic ritual. It was just a title, and he'd been bribed to do it with the offer of cake!

Granted, he had succeeded in a handful of tasks where John, as a fully-qualified f—, had felt duty-bound to undertake and had performed abysmally. In the hospital, Sherlock had simply demonstrated to John how the correct placement of all items necessary in the changing of a nappy ensured both the efficiency and success of said task. John had stood in awe of Sherlock as the detective-genius had nimbly and dextrously performed the manual task of nappy changing with the minimum of fuss. Not a drop was spilled.

And there was also the occasion when Sherlock's normally harmonious thinking space had been invaded by an anxious John and a protesting Rosie. She was overtired, and so was he, but John's inconsistent attempts at soothing his baby only agitated her further. It was obvious.

"Look, you need to calm down first," Sherlock had said to John, taking Rosie from him.

"No, but—"

"Just sit," Sherlock ordered him, pointing to the sofa.

Then Sherlock had proceeded to pace up and down the rug as he mused out loud over the rudiments of the case they had been working on. He held Rosie comfortably over one arm as he waited for signs that John Watson had relaxed enough to take his daughter back. But the consistent rocking as Sherlock paced, and the soothing tones of his postulations were enough to send young Watson to the depths of Sleepdom. And moments later, Watson Senior followed suit after stretching out along the sofa.

Sherlock placed Rosie on John's stomach and prodded his friend into placing protective arms around his daughter, before the detective swiftly left the flat, having solved the case during the time it took to put both Watsons to sleep.

But all that didn't give him the qualifications to be a f—. He obviously had shortcomings and failings he couldn't see. Rose knew this, which was why she had sent him away. Her baby was better off without a man like Sherlock Holmes as a parent. She had inferred as much. And who was he to argue with her?

But… Rose!

She was going to have a baby. She would be all alone with her pregnancy and then a small child…

I've made plans.

Plans that didn't involve Sherlock. Well, she had her family around her. And they provided accommodation, but not necessarily food. He'd been mistaken about the slight thickening around her waistline there. He supposed they'd provide the necessary support—both emotional and otherwise.

Such a huge upheaval in her life, once more, and she didn't find Sherlock an adequate partner to help her through it. She'd looked at Sherlock and found him lacking. Not suitable as a f— and not suitable as a partner.

Sherlock's chest grew tight and his breathing quite shallow.

"Sherlock?" came John's voice through the door.

"I'm fine," he replied. But he clearly wasn't.

"Uh… we'll be off if there's no…"

"Fine!"

There was a moment's silence, before John answered with a dubious, "Yeah, okay."

Sherlock kept his head bowed. It wasn't fine and he wasn't okay. The greatest thing and the worst thing had happened, and he couldn't tell anybody about it, nor could he make everything right again.


Rose heard the scrambling and looked up to check the door latch and found it hanging loose. Too slow to leave the dining table where her books were spread out before her, she watched helplessly as the door swung inwards, preceded by a barely audible courtesy knock.

"Hiya!" came her cousin Pippa's daughter's cheery voice. Mia loved to announce exciting news, and her current expression told Rose the eight-year-old was about to do just that. "Uncle Ade's got something for yeh."

"Eh, weesht, you!" Adrian said, appearing in the doorway just as Mia hopped, skipped and jumped the handful of steps to the basement floor.

Rose's stomach dropped. She'd quite successfully avoided all social engagements over the weekend, preferring to nurse her pained heart and delve into the investigations needed to conduct successful Risk Assessments. Her part-time work in her Uncle Denis's office filled in the gaps over the weekend and she was thankful the week began with a gruelling assessment task. But Ade was definitely the last person she wanted to see, and on today of all days.

"Out!" Ade ordered Mia, and he waited til the wee bairn disappeared back upstairs before closing the door again.

Adrian held one hand behind his back as he descended the steps. Rose wished he hadn't passed through the main house in order to visit her bearing gifts, but it was raining, and she remembered locking the side gate. She'd left him no choice, really.

"It's just a…" He produced a single-stemmed red rose from behind his back.

Rose's eyes widened and her pulse accelerated. No! Not from Ade! And on Valentine's Day? But as he grinned broadly at her, standing on the other side of the table, a faint glimmer of hope lit in Rose's mind. There was a chance Ade was just the messenger. Perhaps a dubious-looking government vehicle had pulled up outside the house just as Ade arrived, and they had asked him to deliver the rose on behalf of a recently heart-broken anonymous Consulting Detective from London.

"Well, it's a bribe, really," Ade added, thereby squashing any hope Rose had of Sherlock insisting he wanted to remain in her life, despite the bombshell she'd dropped on him. "From me… and the lads," Ade continued, placing the flower on the table when it became clear Rose wasn't going to reach for it.

"What?" she asked.

Ade took the seat across from her, a serious expression on his face. He linked his fingers together and leant forward.

"We want to ask you a favour, actually."

Rose could feel her muscles tensing. To be asked a favour from a group of lads... this didn't sound good at all.

"Y'know Eddie?"

"Barely."

She'd met Adrian's friend Eddie on a couple of occasions. Nobody to write home about.

"Well… his brother's turning twenty-one."

Rose could feel her cheeks beginning to flush. Twenty-one. The blood rushing to her ears caused a faint ringing there.

"And… well, we had someone booked…"

This wasn't happening. Not… here… in Edinburgh.

"And one of the lads, well, he's a regular punter at… y'know…."

No. Fucking hell.

"Ade," she said.

"And he said whatever you see on their profile, isn't what you—"

"Ade."

"—get. And there's a deposit y'have tae pay. So, we've pooled together…"

Rose stood up, her heart thumping.

"Fucking hell, Ade. Stop."

"What?" he said, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and amusement.

"Just… don't."

"It's a hundred pounds, Rosemarie."

"I said don't."

Adrian's brows knitted together. Was he genuinely confused, or just an arsehole?

"I thought you might need the cash, because—"

"Get out!"

White hot fury surged through her. It was quite obvious what he was asking of her. Ade blinked, but remained where he sat.

"Rose—"

"I said, get out!" She grabbed at the rose and threw it in his face. "And take your fucking—"

Ade slowly rose out of his seat.

"Hey—"

"—stupid flower…"

"I thought you'd appreciate the…"

"Out!"

Rose stormed over to the internal access door. She climbed the stairs and wrenched the door open. Tears pooled in her eyes. She couldn't believe she was being casually asked to strip for a mate's twenty-first birthday, from someone she thought was her friend.

Adrian turned to her. His look of innocence made Rose even more furious with him.

"Just look at y'self," he said, gesturing. "Your ten times more… well, y'wouldn't have tae take everything off. It's a hundred pounds! I'd do it if I had yer chebs! And it's not as if you have tae do a rub 'n tug! Well, that could be extra."

In a second, Rose was on the ground. She slapped Ade hard across the face. There was a gasp behind her.

"Rosemarie!" exclaimed Pippa from the top of the stairs.

"Are y'too good fer us, is that it?" Ade said, rubbing his cheek.

Rose clenched her fists by her side, her jaw tightening. Adrian turned from her and thankfully ascended the steps. Pippa had her hands on her hips and she looked from Ade to Rose with a disapproving frown on her face.

Rose quickly took to the steps behind Adrian, then slammed the door just as Pippa began forming words probably to scold her with. Her heart thudded out of control and Rose sank down on the top of the stairs, unable to take another step. Fury and disgust rippled through her. Is this what she was to everybody here? Adrian spoke to her as if she had just left the adult entertainment industry yesterday.

Rose's tears began to flow freely now. And she hadn't even cried when Sherlock left. She had forced herself to shut off her emotions. This wasn't a part of her plans. Was she just a working girl who hadn't had the opportunity to make some money on the side yet? Was she kidding herself with her efforts to enter into a respectable career? The heavy burden of the life she had made here descended on her. She could never escape from her past, and the future path she had chosen for herself had become lost due to her continual fuck ups.

Would she ever make the right decision for herself? And how would she ever know which decisions were the right ones since she had ruined every chance of a good life so far?

For the first time since Rose had left London, she suddenly felt lost and truly alone.


Thinking out loud was one of the best ways to brainstorm the rudiments of a case or the solutions to a problem. The first time Mrs Hudson had removed his skull from the mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes had discovered one benefit to having John Watson as a potential flatmate. A mobile skull! But these days, unless John was physically moving, Sherlock found his colleague would succumb to the comfort of the sofa and promptly fall asleep. It was all those restless nights tending to his daughter's needs, apparently. Why couldn't the man work out how to function in the world on less sleep? And Mary was no better.

Luckily Sherlock had discovered another skull. Another Watson. And this Watson didn't distract Sherlock with trivial matters.

Several weeks after Sherlock had left Edinburgh, he discovered the necessity to remove Rosie Watson from her parents' grasp whenever he had an important detail to impart to them. This occurred both in 221B and in their house, whenever Sherlock invited himself over for tea. They would fuss and speculate and argue over whatever Rosie's needs were, taking their attention away from Sherlock. Why couldn't they do multiple things at once?

So Sherlock would relieve them of their baby, immediately deducing her needs—well, it was child's play really: a cry for the bottle was vastly different to a protest at the discomfort a dirty nappy brought her. A whimper to turn her around, because staring at the wallpaper was boring, was nothing like her protests that she wanted to go to sleep. Immediately! How could they not differentiate?

He changed her nappy while speculating about the severed arm found washed ashore near Vauxhall Bridge. He rocked her to sleep while texting Lestrade one-handed the solution to the Shoreditch Strangler, and he discussed with John his most recent email cases while holding Rosie on his lap with her contentedly sucking on the set of keys he held.

"You know that's unhygienic," John remarked.

"Why would that matter?" Sherlock replied, frowning at the email. "So he may have been stabbed with his partner's steak knife, but a bacterial infection is the least of his worries."

"No. I'm talking about Rosie. And the keys."

"Oh." Sherlock removed the keys from his God-daughter's mouth, prompting her immediate protests. "Well, she's almost at the hand to mouth phase. You need to buy her something suitable for her to grasp and taste."

John had sighed.

Sherlock found something cathartic in conferring with Rosamund Mary Watson the many things that puzzled and troubled him. When neither her parents nor Mrs Hudson were within earshot, Sherlock would sometimes tell Rosie all about Rose and his difficulties there. He'd told no one else. The situation wasn't resolved, and in his own mind, it was baffling, and there were too many feelings involved. And so he preferred musing out loud to Rosie Watson and nobody else.

"She obviously still loves me," he said one evening, when the Watsons were out on a "date night" and Mrs Hudson was downstairs cooking them a couple of meals they could freeze and have later in the week. Sherlock cradled Rosie in one arm, giving her an evening bottle feed, as he sat in his armchair by the fire. "But she thinks I'm an unsuitable candidate."

He frowned, at a loss as to how he could prove to Rose otherwise. Just how did someone decide that another person wasn't going to be a good parent? Obviously Sherlock had his moments. "If only there was a test," he said, gazing down at Rosie as she continued sucking from her bottle. She held tightly onto Sherlock's pinkie as her darkened pupils locked on his. "I s'pose there are family court cases going on all the time. But I don't want to go to court." Rosie's stare was unwavering and she sometimes unclenched her tiny fingers and batted Sherlock's finger. "Yes, I know. You think I should talk to her. Even now. But it's been over a month."

How did he let it get so far along? Rose would think he didn't care, but he'd been considering every option. It always came back to the same thing: Rose didn't want him in their lives; she didn't think he'd make a good father.

"Yes, I can say 'father' now," he told Rosie. "I know, I'm your Godfather, but that was more of an emphasis on me being God-like than being a father-figure. Okay, don't look at me like that. You know I'm of a superior mind. But that's just it. How come ordinary people are fine being parents? Just look at your own, for example. Yes, I know, there's parental love and support, the feeling of security and all that rubbish. But that's the sort of romantic tosh that's going to get you into trouble some day."

There were hurried footsteps on the staircase, signalling Mrs Hudson's arrival. She appeared in the doorway holding a couple of Tupperware containers.

"Oh," she said with great affection. "Look at you both."

"Look at us both what?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs Hudson continued on into the kitchen.

"Now don't let John and Mary forget these," she said, heading towards the fridge.

"Why? Where are you going?"

Sherlock rearranged Rosie into an upright position since she'd drained the last of the contents of her bottle as Mrs Hudson put the food into the fridge.

"Just going to… ooh!" The landlady turned around, momentarily distracted by Rosie's guttural burp. "That's a good girl."

"It's the release of air from her gastrointestinal tract," Sherlock said, with a semi-eyeroll. "I don't know why you get excited each time."

"Because it might cause problems later if she doesn't get rid of it," Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock rose from his seat, bringing both Rosie and the empty bottle into the kitchen.

"That must feel better now," Mrs Hudson said to Rosie, her voice at a higher pitch, prompting Sherlock to tut.

"For Christ's sake," he muttered under his breath. Why must people speak to babies in a voice that wasn't their own? "Here," he said, handing Rosie over to her Godmother.

Mrs Hudson cooed and clucked and made annoying noises as Sherlock took the bottle over to the sink and began to rinse it out. In response, Rosie hiccupped the beginnings of a protest.

"Oh," the landlady said. "She never likes me holding her straight after you."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he continued cleaning the bottle. He shook it upside-down a couple of times, then set it on the drainer as Mrs Hudson attempted to soothe her God-daughter.

"Here, love," she said finally, bringing Rosie back to Sherlock while he was drying his hands on a tea towel. "I was going to have a bath. John and Mary are later than I thought they'd be. Probably enjoying having a quiet conversation without interruptions."

"I know how they feel," Sherlock murmured. He didn't mind having his God-daughter back. He hadn't quite finished his postulations about Rose.

"Oh, you're such a natural," Mrs Hudson cooed, as Rosie succumbed to Sherlock's soothing back rubs. The baby nestled her head into the crook of his neck.

"A natural what?"

"A natural dad!" Mrs Hudson announced, with a tiny chuckle.

Sherlock's skin prickled. Now that he wasn't expecting. Usually his landlady rabbited on about nonsense things. Perhaps this was a topic worth listening to.

He settled into his armchair again, and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You. And Rosie. She doesn't go to just anybody, you know."

"Clearly."

"And you have such a way with her. Look at her."

Sherlock didn't need to look at his God-daughter. The tiny bundle was growing heavy on his chest. She was almost asleep. He could feel the faint tickle of her breath on his neck. And she smelt like baby lotion and shampoo, which Sherlock found comforting somehow.

Mrs Hudson was looking down at them both, tears almost glistening in her eyes. Sherlock frowned at her.

"It's such a shame," she lamented.

"What is?"

"Well, you're not going to have any of your own, so it seems like such a waste."

"I'm not...?"

"You're not the sort," Mrs Hudson declared. She turned from them and made her way to the living room door.

"What do you mean?"

The landlady stopped in the doorway.

"Well, I mean, you're always dashing about. When you're not meditating in your armchair, that is, all closed off from the world. There's always the next case to solve. You can't be running here and there when you've got a baby."

Wait… Sherlock thought. There was something in that.

"I've always thought," Mrs Hudson continued, "Poor Mr and Mrs Holmes. It's the end of the line for them. No grandchildren. Oh! But you know the married boys who live at Mrs Turner's—"

"Aren't you supposed to be having a bath?" Sherlock said.

With a light chuckle, his landlady disappeared downstairs. Sherlock brooded for a moment. But there was a faint glimmer of hope in her words. All along, he'd been thinking he wasn't qualified to be a father, and that Rose thought so, too. Perhaps that wasn't the case at all. Maybe Rose was thinking along the same lines as Mrs Hudson—that he was far too busy running around solving cases. Or that he wouldn't want to give up being a Consulting Detective for fatherhood. But why should one exclude the other? Just this evening he'd solved three email cases while juggling Rosie and her needs. Sherlock Holmes wasn't just anybody. He was a genius-detective and a natural father. Mrs Hudson had said so! He could be both!

Sherlock's heart lifted at the thought. Hold on. What was he thinking? Was he going to convince Rose of this fact? Was he going to...

But she'd made her own plans that didn't involve Sherlock. Maybe all he had to do was—

Rose's words echoed through Sherlock's mind once more. Suddenly, he saw them in a whole new light.

I'm taking full responsibility and I've already made my decision. One that has nothing to do with you. I've made plans…

He suddenly leapt out of his chair, startling Rosie in the process. He ignored her broken cries for the moment as he strode toward the landing.

"Mrs Hudson!" he yelled. "Oh, God, sorry," he added to Rosie, quickly patting her back when she continued fussing. Then he held a hand over her head, covering the ear that wasn't pressed against his chest and called for his landlady again.

But there was no way she'd hear him over the shower. Rosie's protests grew louder, so he shifted her onto his shoulder and gently rubbed her back.

"I'm sorry," he said soothingly.

Just what did he think he was going to do? If Rose had made the decision he suspected she may have, then he was too late. It had been over a month since he'd left Edinburgh, and surely it was past the time now that she could've…

But she wouldn't.

Sherlock's heart beat furiously and he was finding it hard to think over Rosie's cries.

Would she?

He paced this way and that, but he knew his agitated state would only further Rosie's discomfort.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, stopping to hold the infant firmly against his chest. Sherlock drew in a calming breath and released it slowly, closing his eyes as he did so. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. He began pacing once more, establishing a regular rhythm and trying to take his mind off Rose and her decision.

I'm too late.

"Shhh," he said soothingly to Rosie as her cries died down to a whimper.

I'm sorry.

Rosie drew her knees up, and Sherlock nestled her head into his neck.

"I'm sorry, Rose," he said, as felt an enormous pressure against his tear ducts. What had she done? If only he'd turned around and headed straight back to Edinburgh the moment he recalled what she had told him. Why hadn't he?

Sherlock ducked his head and felt Rosie's soft downy hair against his cheek. "We might be too late, Rosie," he said softly. Sherlock stood stock still. Rosie was silent but not quite asleep yet.

He moved toward his armchair and sank down into it, thinking he was often wrong in regard to reading Rose these days. There was a possibility he was wrong this time. He certainly hoped so. She's going to have my... baby, he thought, his heart sinking deep into his chest. Our... baby. Or is she?

"Tomorrow," he whispered to Rosie, gently rubbing her back once more. "I'm going back tomorrow."

.


A/N: Thanks wynnleaf, for picking up my date error in this chapter, and magenta for the snow error in the previous one :)