Happy Easter!

To celebrate Easter, I've added an Easter Egg for my other story The Mutual Suicide Pact for those who are reading, or have read, that one.

(Well, nothing at all to do with Easter, but it's an Easter Egg in the entertainment-world sense :D )

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Chapter 82 – Is There Anything You're Not Telling Me?

Sherlock twisted Harold Blessington's arm behind his back in such a way that the hapless murderer had to stoop forward before slowly sinking to his knees. The Consulting Detective whipped out his handcuffs from his coat pocket and secured his captive's hands behind his back. Blessington bowed his head and whimpered.

Sherlock looked toward John. The soldier hadn't moved from his place in front of the tattered sofa. He stood frozen to the spot, his eyes large, his jaw set squarely and a darkened patch prominent on his trousers from hip to hip, crossing his crotch. Sherlock tutted and shook his head lightly.

"What were you thinking?" he said to John, as he rose from his position on the floor by Blessington.

John's shoulders drooped in disappointment as Sherlock pulled out his phone and rapidly dialled Lestrade's number.


"So bloody tired all the time," John said, raking a weary hand down his face as they climbed the stairs to 221B.

"Clearly."

John continued up to his old room on the second floor while Sherlock crossed the landing. John had told him he may have a spare pair of jeans in a box of random belongings he'd left behind when he moved out after Sherlock's absence. He was going to wash his tea-stained jeans in Mrs Hudson's washing machine so he wouldn't have to explain to Mary why he'd accepted a cup of tea from a man they suspected to have poisoned his wife and her lover. But Sherlock explained that they may need them as evidence.

It was only thanks to the detective's skills in frisbeeing a cushion in his direction that John was spared ingesting the potentially deadly beverage. The tea cup was to his lips at the time.

Sherlock filled the kettle wondering if John would still want a cup of tea. Perhaps his former flatmate would prefer something stronger if he couldn't stay awake on the job?

He heard John's sigh before he saw him.

"Evidence's in the bag," John said, dropping a plastic bin bag onto the kitchen table.

Sherlock glanced behind him then dunked tea bags into the mugs. John had hitched up his replacement jeans a couple of times. Of course they'd be two sizes too big now. The newly-minted father had lost almost eight pounds since becoming a parent and having to conform to Mary's "post-baby diet." No wonder his friend was grumpy and tired all the time. It wasn't just a lack of sleep; it was a lack of carbohydrates. Sherlock heaped a teaspoon of sugar into John's cup out of sympathy.

John was standing by the living room window looking out onto the street when Sherlock brought their mugs of tea into the room. Now was the perfect opportunity. But how to begin? The expectant father had been brainstorming a dozen ways to bring up the topic of not only his relationship with Rose, but the news about her pregnancy. His own impending fatherhood.

Over the last twenty-four hours of being back in London, Sherlock hadn't found the right moment. The case had been a welcome distraction, but now they were alone. Just the two of them. And this was a conversation that was just begging to be had.

"Christ, I can't do this anymore," John said, bowing his head and shaking it a little.

"Do what?" Sherlock said, momentarily frozen to the spot holding the hot drinks.

John stood with his hands lightly placed on his hips, staring, unseeing, at the rug. He drew in a calming breath.

"Sorry, no. I don't mean this," he said, gesturing between the two of them.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and continued walking, perching John's tea on the living room table, then taking up his own seat in front of his computer. He decided to leave John in peace for a moment to sort out his own thoughts. The list of email cases cluttering the detective's inbox suddenly looked appealing and a little less confusing.

"I don't know what I was thinking, accepting that cup of tea," John said, grabbing his own cup and heading over to the sofa.

"Well, I've poisoned you several times now over the course of our acquaintance," Sherlock murmured, his focus still on the screen in front of him.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock's phone beeped from beside the computer. He cast his eyes over it and noted it was a message from their favourite D.I.

"Lestrade's on his way over."

John's phone sounded its own chirrup. He picked it up and sighed heavily.

"Mary and Rosie are on their way, too."

"Oh, good."

Sherlock hadn't seen Rosie since his return to London. He was quite looking forward to catching up. He had a lot to tell her.

"Look," John said, rising from the sofa. Sherlock immediately detected a note of awkwardness in the doctor's voice and he steeled himself for an unpleasant conversation. "Don't mention this to Mary."

"I thought it was understood," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly. "But she's bound to notice your change in attire."

"I'm not talking about the poisoned tea. I mean… what I just said."

Sherlock blinked a couple of times in confusion.

"But you hardly said anything."

"This… I mean… not being able to do this… juggling…"

"Juggling?"

"Cases and… nappies."

"Cases and nappies?"

"Look, Sherlock. Just don't ever… do something different, okay? Without this… I don't know. I think I'll just go mad."

Sherlock looked at his friend blankly. Do something different? Like what? Use his talents to cruise the nightclubs and pick up women by assuming a different identity?

"I need this," John said with conviction and pointing to the floor. "Just don't stop doing what you're doing. If I can escape here, even for a few minutes every other day, it'll be worth ingesting poison now and again. I need the cases. I need you here, in Baker Street. It's the one thing I can be sure of, because everything else is..." He shook his head again.

Sherlock's skin prickled. Just what was John saying here?

The front door slammed shut, and rapid footfalls sounded up the stairwell.

"Just don't…" John reiterated.

"I won't say a word," Sherlock hastily replied. Not that he even knew what words to say.

Mary and Rosie appeared on the landing and Sherlock found it easy to plant a smile on his face at the sight of his God-daughter, despite the confusing conversation he'd had with her father only moments before.


The end of the week was almost upon him and Sherlock had solved all cases rated above a five. It was definitely time to return to Edinburgh. Most of the cases, he realised in hindsight, could've been solved from the comfort of his new armchair by the fire in the home he shared with Rose in Morningside. But just yesterday, he and John spent a rainy afternoon and an unscheduled overnight stay trapped in the confines of Drearcliff House.

The house served as headquarters to the local chapter of a group called Comrades of the Zoo. The eleven members were gathering for an initiation ceremony which had apparently gone wrong. But as Sherlock and John had uncovered, Bruce Alistair had been murdered at the hands of not just one member of the group, but as the result of a conspiracy among all ten. And it involved an orangutan. A bit messy, and the RSPCA was called in. It was probably fortunate that the Consulting Detective had been in London at the time. He couldn't have solved that one via Skype.

"That was just like an Agatha Christie novel," John said, puffing out his chest as they strode out of the Baker Street Underground. "Or Inspector Dupin," he added, laughing lightly. Sherlock had no idea what John was talking about. "Mary would've loved that one. At least it wasn't poison this time. The roast pumpkin was amazing."

Sherlock wasn't really listening as John continued to gush about the case as they entered number 221. Now that yet another thrilling case was solved, Sherlock was left to think about ordinary things, like what John Watson had been begging him to do the other day. Just don't ever… do something different, okay?I need you here, in Baker Street. It had slowly dawned on Sherlock that John Watson wouldn't take the news of the Consulting Detective's relationship status and impending parenthood very well. Especially not when Sherlock could potentially be the kind of man who could juggle cases and nappies. Would that make John feel inferior? Surely he already did around Sherlock.

But this would be different, Sherlock concluded. John had become a parent first. He was supposed to master this stuff, being a doctor and a soldier, a good husband and a good friend. The bravest and wisest man Sherlock had ever known. Perhaps the detective-genius needed to give his friend time to adjust and overcome the struggles he had with juggling nappies and cases before Sherlock showed off his superiority.

The hiccuping cries of young Miss Rosie Watson told them who was waiting upstairs. Sherlock didn't fail to hear John mutter under his breath.

"An all nighter?" Mary asked, as the duo crossed the threshold.

"We were… a bit tied up," Sherlock began, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

"Literally," John quipped. "If it wasn't for…"

He trailed off. Clearly Mary's thinning lips and narrowing eyes were not an encouraging sign. Sherlock could tell by the twisting of Rosie's body toward the newcomers that the infant was desperate for someone to pay her some attention.

"Here," Mary said. "Go to Daddy."

"I need the bathroom first," John said, brushing past.

Sherlock saw Mary tense, but Rosie was already looking in her Godfather's direction. He gladly reached for her.

"Here," he said, taking Miss Watson from her mother. Mary gave up her daughter without a word to Sherlock and took off through the kitchen after her husband.

"You're really going to follow me?" Sherlock heard John say.

"One phone call," Mary said in admonishment. "That's all I needed."

As the quarrelling parents sought privacy in Sherlock's bathroom, Sherlock turned to Rosie and asked, "And what have you been up to? I hope you haven't found my stash of nicotine." He carried her to the living room window. He knew what she wanted—fresh air. "You're much too young for cigarettes. Pipe smoking perhaps…"

He drew open the curtain, allowing Rosie to see the brightly lit view outside.

"Yes, that's where you want to be," he said sympathetically. "It's the type of weather for it, isn't it?"

The unusually warm weather made the flat a tad stuffy inside, reminding Sherlock that he was still wearing his Belstaff.

"Excuse me for one moment while I rid myself of this coat," he said to Rosie, carrying her back across the living room.

He propped her up in John's armchair, with the Union Jack cushion beside her for security. He shed his coat, keeping a watchful eye on the infant, before swiftly crossing to hang it on the hook behind the door. At the same time, John and Mary had come striding from the bathroom.

"Where's…" John began. "Jesus, Sherlock! You can't put a baby in an armchair!"

John scooped up his daughter, who immediately protested.

"I had my eye on her the entire time."

"It only takes a second."

"I need to put my feet up," Mary said, with a sigh, ignoring the exchange and making a beeline for the sofa."

"A second for what?" Sherlock asked.

"For her to tumble out," John replied, with a disapproving shake of his head.

"I was just here. And I have the reflexes of a—"

"One second. That's all it takes."

"Says the man with the lightning reflexes," Sherlock added with a half-smile. It was a subtle yet sarcastic dig at John's immobility during the poisoned tea incident.

John narrowed his eyes at his daughter's Godfather.

"Here," John said, drawing out a round-shaped object from underneath the coffee table. He placed it in the middle of the living room rug, and put Rosie into it. It was sort of a moulded plastic seat. Clearly Mary had brought it with her. Sherlock hadn't seen it before. "Now this is more appropriate," John added with a satisfied air.

Sherlock looked down at his God-daughter and tutted.

"Well, that can't be much fun," he said, eyeing Rosie and the contraption critically. She didn't seem to find it at all fun either and she immediately began to flail her arms about.

John held out a rattle, which she grabbed and shook. She looked up at Sherlock, who immediately read something like alarm in her expression.

John joined his wife on the sofa, while Sherlock sat down crossed-legged on the rug, in front of Rosie.

"It's not fair, is it? Viewing the world all the way from down here."

"Are you 'right?" John said, a note of derision in his tone.

"This isn't a good way to view the world, John. All she can see is everybody's feet."

"Speaking of feet," Mary said, stretching out a leg on John's lap. "John," she prompted.

"How would you like it if you—" Sherlock said to John, them quickly cut himself off, but not without a tiny smile stealing onto his lips first.

John looked unimpressed, while Mary chuckled lightly.

"How would I like it if I had to view the world a few inches shorter than you do?" the doctor asked Sherlock. "Yes, very funny."

Sherlock was jolted by Rosie's rattle ending up in his lap.

"Ah, good throw," he remarked to the infant.

"Don't fall for it," John said. "She likes this game."

"Well, I like games," Sherlock said to Rosie, handing back her rattle and smiling. "Mind games in particular. Did I ever tell you the one about James Moriarty and a pair of trainers owned by Carl Powers?"

"I was there, remember," John said, leaning his head back on the sofa and closing his eyes. "I lived it."

"I'm talking to your daughter."

John emitted a sleepy chuckle. "If you tell her a sanitised version," he began, "one appropriate for children—there won't be anything left to tell."

"She likes hearing my methods of deduction. There's no need to sanitise them. They don't contain the more sensational aspects you always highlight in your blog."

There was no further response from John, and curiously, nothing at all from Mary. Sherlock scanned both parents. Asleep, naturally. And judging by their positioning on the sofa—comforting hands resting on each other's legs—they had come to some kind of amicable agreement in the bathroom. Sherlock was relieved. Perhaps John was starting to find a way to cope. Or Mary was finding one for him.

Rosie demanded Sherlock's attention once more by throwing her rattle towards him. It hit his knee and bounced to the rug.

"It's a rattle," he explained, holding it up at Rosie's eye level. "The purpose of which is to aid in your cognitive development. You shake the rattle…" He demonstrated for Rosie's benefit. "…and you hear a sound. Cause and effect. Now hold on to it while I explain the rudiments of the case."

This he did, while Rosie intermittently cheered along his explanations with the shake of her rattle.

"So, Moriarty," Sherlock said in conclusion. "What do you think his posthumous plans are?" His own mind drifted to the last meeting he had with the Consulting Criminal on the rooftop of Bart's.

Your only three friends in the world will die…

Is it possible Moriarty left instructions to somehow torment Sherlock and those he cared about at some predetermined point in the future? And would that now include Rose and his… unborn child? And they were over four hundred miles away from his protection.

"How can I keep them safe," he said to Rosie in a low voice, "yet maintain enough distance on a regular basis as to not draw too much attention to me travelling North every so often?"

Rosie gurgled a happy response.

"No," Sherlock said, waving a flippant hand. "The private rehabilitation centre cover may not hold up under close scrutiny, although…"

He lapsed into silence once more. Why would Moriarty repeat the same threat as he had over three years ago? How utterly dull and not very clever of the psychopathic genius.

That's your weakness, came Moriarty's voice from the grave once more. You always want everything to be clever.

Rosie flapped her arms at Sherlock, rousing him from his thoughts.

"My apologies," he said, fixing his God-daughter with a quick smile. "It's not fun watching me think in silence, is it?" He drew in a calming breath. "Much better when I'm on my feet. Come on."

He stood, then eased out of his suit jacket, dropping it onto the back of his armchair.

"I need to get comfortable."

Sherlock was about to head to his bedroom to retrieve a dressing gown when he decided he'd better take Rosie with him. He stooped and gently lifted her from the confines of her low chair. They returned not a moment later with Sherlock noticing that Rosie was predictably happier at being off the ground and hanging out with her Godfather.

He grabbed her baby seat and looked around for a suitable spot to place it that would give her a better view of the detective-genius at work.

"Ah," he said, finally deciding on the armchair that best suited an attentive Watson. He placed the baby seat onto John's chair, and then put Rosie into her seat. Sherlock drew on his dressing gown then grabbed Rosie's rattle from the rug. "You'll be needing this," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes…"

Rosie's happy demeanour prompted him to think they could all be one big happy family here, in London. He and Rose and their… baby, being visited rather frequently by the Watson family.

"No, no, no," he said to Rosie. "You're not considering Rose's request to remain out of prying eyes. Remember, that's important to her. Think logically. I know it would be nice if we were together, like one big…"

Rosie was flailing her arms impatiently again. Sherlock stooped to pick up the rattle she'd once more flung away.

"Do you see how you're getting upset once the rattle is out of your hand? Now, don't let go. Maintain a firm grip."

Rosie grasped the handle of the rattle once more and brought the edge to her mouth.

"As I was saying," Sherlock said, beginning to pace in front of the fireplace. "It's not immediately possible to bring Rose into the spotlight here in London. Her recent fallout with her family means her feelings are too raw. She's dwelling on her past occupation again. And yes, the comfort and sympathy of many who know her—" Sherlock gestured toward Rosie's sleeping parents, "may be one benefit, but…"

Once more, Rosie coughed in protest at having lost her rattle, causing Sherlock to momentarily lose his train of thought. He bowed his head and sighed.

"As ever, Watson," he said, before turning to her. "You see but do not observe. " He looked sternly down at Rosie. "To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time…" Sherlock plucked Rosie's rattle from the edge of the armchair where it had fallen and held it out to her. "If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle. Hm?"

Sherlock was made acutely aware of Rosie's displeasure when the full force of her toy smacked him in the face. He blinked and rethought his argument.

Straightening up, he said, "Why don't I show you what I mean."

He turned from Rosie, slipped out of his dressing gown, and once more donned his jacket.

"Get your things together," he told her, before striding to the door and retrieving his Belstaff. "You're coming with me to Edinburgh." A smile grew from the edges of his mouth as the full extent of his idea formed in his mind. His stomach fluttered. Rose was waiting for him in her home. Their home. She finally admitted to loving him. His heart felt full and his eyes glistened in anticipation of their next reunion.

Sherlock slipped on his coat and bent down to Rosie. "You can meet Rose," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, lifting Rosie from her seat. "She'll be only too happy to meet you." Casting his mind back to Rose holding baby Jack outside the house in Niddrie and longing to take him with her, he added, "She likes people of your… stature." Sherlock looked about for Rosie's baby bag. "Don't you have a suitcase of some description, with all your little knick-knacky things in it?"

Sherlock couldn't immediately see it within the confines of the living room.

"Where is it?" he muttered, looking this way and that. "What have you done with it?"

Perhaps Mary had left it downstairs in Mrs Hudson's spare bedroom, where Rosie's travel cot was often set up.

"Sherlock… what are you doing?" John asked, wiping an eye with the heel of his hand. "Mary." John tapped his wife's leg. "Sherlock's trying to steal our baby."

"Well, you two are completely useless to me," Sherlock said, deflating a little at having been discovered before he could flee the scene of the crime with his confederate.

"You know, you can't take Rosie out on a case," Mary said, her voice groggy from sleep.

"What case?" Sherlock replied, smiling sheepishly. "I actually have a secret, pregnant girlfriend up North. I thought Rosie might like to meet her before the baby arrives."

"Huh," said John humourlessly. He reached for his daughter and gave her a beaming smile. "Is Uncle Sherlock being funny?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was worth a half-hearted try, even though it was his every intention to mislead his friends with an outlandish-sounding statement. There was no way at this point in time he would let John know he was actually telling the truth. As Rosie gurgled happily at her smiling, doting parents, Sherlock was reminded that this would be his life some day. But he could have it all. With one last smile to himself, he took that moment to leave the Watson family alone in peace. He had somewhere else he'd rather be.

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Authors's Note:

The cases "Blessington the Poisoner" and "Drearcliff House" were mentioned by Sherlock in the hospital scene when he was telling the children about his cases and methods of deduction in TLD. While the name 'Blessington' appears in ACD canon (not a poisoner, though!), 'Drearcliff House' does not. I found out it comes from a Sherlock Holmes movie called, The House of Fear, starring Basil Rathbone. I watched it the other night—you can find it on YouTube. Quite funny! Although, there are no zoos or orangutans in it. I suspect Moftiss put that into the episode as a nod to an Edgar Ellan Poe Inspector Dupin case that involves an orangutan.

The Adventure at Drearcliff House may be a genfic I write out in full one day when I have nothing else to do (!)

We're slowly moving through the episode because of all the time jumps the writers include that I'm attempting to fill in (eg. Rosie's birth to Christening to sitting up and throwing rattles would realistically occur over a few months, but it takes up less than 2 minutes of screen time!). I hope to move through the case a bit quicker though, because those scenes don't involve Rose.

I know many of you would love Sherlock to tell John about Rose and her pregnancy as soon as possible, but I'm still trying to stick to canon. If John knew at this point in time, their interactions you see on screen would be a bit different, wouldn't you think?

MSP readers: did you spot the Easter Egg?

Thanks for bearing with me. I hope you're still enjoying the story!