A/N:

Extra long chapter!

Okay, I was going to skip Myc altogether, but I was feeling really bad about that. I have such a soft spot for him, even though I feel Moftiss wrote some of his actions so OOC in S4. But I'm just a little bit curious as to how he's taking the news. So the first scene in this chapter jumps back in time—during the period Sherlock and John are getting a lift back to London and after Mycroft's phone call to Sherlock, where Sherlock drops hints that big brother isn't as omniscient as he thinks he is.

It also means there's a bit of a delay before you get to read John's response, but don't worry... I get to that in this chapter, too! Two reactions for the price of one! And some of you wanted every single detail… so it's extra long because of it. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


Chapter 112 – You Were Always the Slow One

Moonlight played off the water, highlighting the peaks of the gentle rolling waves of dark ink. It still felt like a prison to him. He couldn't escape from where he currently stood. But he welcomed the refreshing sea air as the agents inside the governor's office finished scanning the room for explosives or non-standard surveillance equipment.

Mycroft Holmes would remember the governor, of that he was certain. But not now, not while he had work to do. Whenever he closed his eyes, though... now that was going to be a problem. Best keep them wide open, then!

Turning from the balcony, he re-entered the office via the glass sliding doors. The agents had moved to the surrounding rooms, so he sank into the office chair and ruminated.

Sherlock's words to him were definitely an invitation to pry. His little brother was practically begging him to. Let's play deductions!

He had deduced all he could from Sherlock's inferences, and there wasn't a lot to glean from in the first instance. Resting light fingers on the handle of his Earl Grey, he awaited further information from Anthea.

That Sulford woman who now resided in Edinburgh had garnered little interest from Mycroft Holmes once Sherlock had received a slap on the wrist for that... fiasco. Back to his usual cocky, arrogant self, chasing leads and his own tail alternately, Sherlock Holmes's movements north had been tracked, naturally. But now it was evident that the Scottish intelligence officers Mycroft had contracted thought little of working for a sassenach. Had they been easily fooled by Sherlock's decoy destination, or didn't they care enough to delve deeper?

Rosemarie Sulford lived in Edinburgh and had applied to study for a Masters in Applied Criminology and Forensic Psychology. That little snippet had raised a semi-interested eyebrow at the time it was acquired—shortly after his agents delivered a single red rose to her on New Year's Day. Little brother's last wishes. But that was the extent of Mycroft's intel. If Sherlock was carrying on his life in London, then why would Mycroft Holmes waste any more resources on monitoring… her?

That she was striving for some semblance of a respectable professional career barely registered. But her dalliances in that other industry featured rather prominently in Mycroft's mind. It was those services his younger brother had initially sought, after all.

And I drove him to it, Mycroft thought with a heavy sigh, by putting that Adler woman in his path. Had she given him the idea that these kinds of personalised services were easily purchased?

Mycroft leant forward and propped his head in his hand. The beginnings of a headache manifested itself. A very specific kind of headache. He gently kneaded his brow.

The chirrup of his mobile phone brought him out of his musings, but he didn't have the energy to straighten up when he reached for it with his free hand.

"Yes?" he said at once to Anthea.

"Um... Rosemarie Sulford," Anthea began without pre-amble. He'd trained her well. "She moved to London for a couple of months."

"Yes, and?"

"And... she... she gave birth to a..." Mycroft froze. "… a baby girl, on the 12th of September."

He squeezed his eyes shut and didn't release the breath he'd inhaled. His head remained bowed.

Oh, Sherlock, he thought. What have you done?

"And the birth certificate?" he asked resignedly, dragging a finger along his browline again. "Who is named as the father?"

"It's blank, sir. No name."

His eyes snapped open and he ceased rubbing. Sherlock wasn't named as the father? Most interesting. That told him a multitude of facts about this... this woman. Ms Sulford wasn't an opportunist.

Sherlock's voice on the phone over two years ago rang again in his ear: I trust you've received the message loud and clear by now that Rose is not accepting your generous offer.

The ten thousand pound cheque. The one he'd offered her—threatened her with—to stay away from his little brother. She never cashed it in either.

"And there's something else, sir," Anthea said, the confidence in her voice returning.

Twins? he thought, his insides churning.

"There's a married couple," Anthea went on, and Mycroft blinked rapidly at the unexpected change in topic. He lifted his head from his hand. "An older couple. They took the flat next to Ms Sulford's in London—St George's Fields is where they lived. Security footage around the estate and also the entrances to The Great Portland Hospital, where the child was born, place them in Ms Sulford's company. And we have information from a few months ago documenting their place of residence in Edinburgh. It's the same address as Ms Sulford's."

"Are they her parents?"

"No. Too young. And Liam and the late Sandra Sulford are Ms Sulford's parents." That's right. Mycroft had this information in his notebook. "This couple are Robert and Justine Wilson," Anthea continued.

"An aunt and uncle, then."

"No, sir. I… I don't know where they fit in yet. We haven't obtained bank records. Still working on that. They're originally from Blackpool. But Sherlock is also seen in Robert Wilson's company, entering and exiting St George's Fields.

"So what is your concern, exactly?"

"They look… familiar. And… not in a nice way."

"I'm… sorry?" This wasn't the usual terminology of an intelligence briefing.

"I can't explain it, sir. I've run their images through our official databases, but I haven't come up with a match. But I do recognise them."

Mycroft knew why Anthea had stressed 'official'. She was hinting that the unofficial databases may hold this couple's real identity—the ones only he, Lady Smallwood, and Sir Edwin had access to, and even then, none of the parties had access to each other's. But if Anthea, Mycroft Holmes's right hand, had seen their images at some stage, then that pointed to the secret files codenamed 'Antarctica'. But these days, underlings were no longer permitted to access special files, not since the codename Love affair.

"Send me everything you've acquired so far," Mycroft said wearily. With regard to his brother, why wasn't anything kept simple? "And are the Wilsons now residing with Ms Sulford in Edinburgh?"

"Yes. At a house in Morningside, initially purchased by a… Scott Williams, but now in Ms Sulford's name."

Mycroft let the beginnings of a smile escape him. Scott Williams. He didn't believe in coincidences and he knew those names only too well. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. At least Sherlock had given up on using that ridiculous Altamont alias.

"Would you like me to gather information on Mr Williams?" Anthea asked.

"No, thank you. Email everything else to my private account. I can access it from here. That will be all."

Mycroft would have to compare the images of the Wilsons with his own files himself to find out who they really were and why they were in Sherlock's life via Rosemarie Sulford. Thoughts of the presence of a female infant flitted through his mind, but he endeavoured to disregard them for now.

First item on the agenda… to ring his brother again.


Sherlock had held onto the door handle a moment longer, a tiny smile on his face as he looked back at John.

John had seen that smile before. Years ago, now. God! How long ago! Sherlock was just about to show him 221B, and his expression told John he was hoping the doctor would be impressed enough to want to share the flat with him. John could've sworn it was the same uncertain yet hopeful look he just shown him now! What did Sherlock need his approval for?

He followed his friend into the foyer of the house. Justine hovered behind him, holding the door for Bob, John guessed, who had dashed back to retrieve the forgotten baby seat from the car.

"Here we go, Rosie," Sherlock murmured to the baby girl he still held in his arms. "What do you think?"

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of a winding staircase. Bit fancy, John thought. As Rosie pointed to the chandelier and gurgled at it, John followed her gaze. Jeez, must've cost someone an arm and a leg, this place.

"Now then," Justine said, striding in with a confident air. "Would you like to wash up first, Doctor Watson?"

"Just John, please."

"There's a small bathroom down here." She gestured across the entrance to a closed door on the far side. "And you lot can wash your hands as well," she added, looking pointedly at her husband who was depositing the baby seat and John's suitcase by the front door.

"Uh, yeah, think I might, thanks," John said, making his way across the floor. As he did so, he spied a buggy folded up and leaning against the door of the cupboard underneath the staircase. "Ah, forgot to bring one of those," he said, gesturing.

"Oh, feel free to use anything, love," Justine said. "We thought we'd put you in the nursery. There's a spare bed in there, along with the cot. We'll just move madam—"

When Justine abruptly stopped speaking as she gazed past John towards Sherlock, John tilted his head quizzically.

"Do… do you have…" he began, then racked his brain for an appropriate word. Should he say 'baby'? Grandchild? Bit hard to gauge, although Justine didn't look too much older than Mary. "Uh… a… little one?"

"Don't worry, Justine," Sherlock said casually, repositioning Rosie onto his other hip. "I was hoping John would make his own deductions."

Justine threw her hands in the air and shook her head.

"Well, don't look at me! I'm just going to heat up the soup again." With one parting shot to Bob about not leaving the luggage in the entranceway, Justine disappeared through a door to what John presumed was the kitchen.

"What's going on?" a female voice from the top of the staircase called out.

John glanced upwards. A figure came into view—bare feet and pyjama bottoms were visible first, hips that swayed just so, followed by a very tidy midriff underneath a thin, light pink tank top, John shamelessly observed.

Recognition flashed in confusion across John's face where the stairs curved and her identity became all too clear to him. Rose? Her gaze was drawn to the bottom of the staircase, her eyes lighting up when she saw Sherlock standing there.

"Sherlock!" Her brow furrowed as she continued descending. "And who have you got…?"

Sherlock the idiot was grinning broadly as he held John's daughter in his arms. John cleared his throat. Rose slowed in her descent, her attention drawn to John standing in the middle of the entranceway.

"John!"

"Hello, Rose!" he said, forcing a smile to his face. "So this is where you've been hiding?" God! He could have kicked himself! What an idiotic thing to say!

But her grin only broadened and she chuckled.

"Sherlock keeps me locked up in a tower," she replied as she continued descending.

"Hardly," Sherlock muttered.

John looked on, his mind adrift. So… this is what Sherlock wanted to tell me?

"Oh, Rosie, you've grown so much!" Rose exclaimed, reaching the last step and bending toward the baby girl. "Do you even remember me? Hello!"

Rose's expression was so full of affection, that John felt a twinge in his heart for Mary. But hang on… when had Rose met his daughter?

"And you," Rose said, her expression changing to one of mock-scolding directed at Sherlock as she lightly placed her hand on his arm.

John turned away, suddenly finding whatever Bob was stowing in the cupboard underneath the stairs far more interesting. He'd already found it difficult to witness Janine Hawkins kissing Sherlock. It had been extremely awkward and uncomfortable.

Thankfully, there were no sounds of lips smacking. Perhaps Rose didn't kiss Sherlock after all? Or maybe her kisses were a bit more tasteful than Janine's neverending pecks. John watched as Bob shoved the cupboard shut and dusted off his hands.

"John," Rose said behind him, "it's been a while."

He twisted around. Rose approached him and held out her arms. He reacted immediately, responding to her hug with his own embrace.

"Yeah, a very long while," John replied, awkwardly patting Rose's back.

When they pulled apart, Rose still lightly grasped his arms.

"I'm so sorry about Mary," she said, her eyes warm and glistening.

"Oh, yeah," John said, his voice hitching a little. He hadn't expected that.

"She was a remarkable woman," Rose went on, "and a wonderful mother."

John tilted his head.

"Mary bumped into Rose at the flat," Sherlock interjected, stepping closer to the pair. "They had coffee one day, apparently. And on another occasion, Mary pulled a gun on her."

"Sherlock!" Rose shot the detective a look while John looked on in mild shock.

"Okay, you lot!" Justine called from the kitchen. "Grub's up!"

"I'd better get dressed," Rose said, turning for the stairs again. "We'll chat soon. I had a bit of a lie in. Didn't get much sleep." She accompanied her last statement with a meaningful look in Sherlock's direction, John couldn't help notice, but his friend's expression remained neutral. Rose mounted the stairs, saying, "Sherlock," without turning around this time.

Sherlock coughed lightly.

"Oh, here. Let me take Rosie," John said. He knew the signals only too well. "I'll get her cleaned up."

With his daughter tucked into one arm, John hastened over to grab the nappy bag Bob had placed near the cupboard under the stairs. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock rounding the curve on the staircase.

Definitely in a relationship, John mused. You only obey that kind of one word command if you're in the army or in a relationship. And Sherlock's definitely in Rose's bad books right now.

"Daddy's clever," he murmured to Rosie. "Your Godfather's not the only one who can make deductions."

He strode towards the bathroom Justine had pointed out earlier. Just as he tentatively opened the door, Justine herself poked her head out from the kitchen.

"Oh, don't change her in there. The loungeroom's much more comfy. And there's a change mat leaning up against the side of the couch." Looking up at the stairwell, she raised her voice and said, "Don't wake Rose! She's having a lie in." Turning back to the kitchen once more, she muttered, "Talkin' to meself. Don't know why I bother."

Making for the living room with his daughter and her gear, John thought, Lovely family-oriented place. Why the hell is Sherlock Holmes here?


Sherlock crossed the landing and entered the bedroom to find Rose waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest. But her face lit up once more at the sight of him and she met him halfway across the floor. He gathered her up in his arms and held her fast.

Apple and pear caressed his senses. She kept using it for him. The shampoo. And if he dropped his head a fraction? There it was. Coconut. Her scent drizzled through him, settling over him like a sedative.

"Tell me when you're ready," she said softly as her fingers played soothingly over his nape. "I'll be ready to listen anytime."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?" he asked, easing back.

She studied his expression for a moment, an affectionate smile gracing her lips.

"I know something's worrying you."

"How do you know that?"

"Because your smile hasn't met your eyes the two times you've looked at me." She reached up and lightly brushed the corner of one eye with her thumb. "The little creases you get there are missing." Locking eyes with his once more, Rose added, "You're upset about something and you don't want to tell me just yet. And I know it's not that you're worried about turning up here with John without telling me beforehand. I'm perfectly fine with that, by the way. Whatever's happened, I'll be ready to listen any time you want to talk. Okay?"

Sherlock responded with an almost imperceptible nod. He drew Rose in once more. Didn't want her to see his face. His eyes stung, but his heart swelled with pride. She knew him so well. Of course she did. Why wouldn't she?

Sherlock didn't want to delve into it right now, not with people downstairs. He would unravel, as he had done earlier in the week. He hadn't wanted Rose to see him like that, but afterwards, it had felt oddly cathartic. But the information he had hastily shoved into a room of his Mind Palace was far too disturbing and it had to be contained for now. The memories weren't buried quite as deep as they had been before, but there would be a time and a place for coming undone.

And then there was that other thing… His heart sank even further at the thought of it. He had to let Rose know about her friend Lisa.

Sherlock gently pulled away, turning from her. Easing out of his jacket, he said, "I'm getting changed as well."

Sherlock went about his usual routine of hanging up his garments, swapping Sherlock Holmes's attire for Scott Williams's. He exchanged a half-smile with Rose as she also dressed. Now he felt quite self-conscious of the fact that his smiles weren't meeting his eyes. It was his heart's fault. Heavy and lethargic, it failed to lift the other muscles in his body.

"What did John say about Grace?" Rose asked, now fully dressed in a t-shirt, light jumper and jeans.

"Er… nothing."

"You haven't told him yet."

A sheepish smile was all Sherlock could offer by way of a reply.

"Well," Rose added, approaching him, "He'll probably figure it out when he sees the baby monitor in the kitchen."

"That's what I'm hoping," Sherlock replied. "Although I'm sure he thinks Bob and Justine have a baby. Good old John. Always drawing the wrong conclusions."

"He doesn't have much to go on."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, a light sparkle in his eye. "Yes, we have a nursery that already has an occupant—Justine let that one slip, admittedly. There's a pram in the entranceway. Clearly there's an infant in the house. Then there's you coming downstairs dressed in your pyjamas at lunchtime, claiming lack of sleep and looking at me in an accusing manner."

"I didn't—"

"I wasn't here to be the direct cause of your lack of sleep—a fact John already knows since he just travelled with me from London. But somehow it's my fault. Baby, overtired parent, absent second parent. Rose and Sherlock have had a baby together. Not a difficult deduction to make."

"For a Consulting Detective."

Rose left Sherlock to grab a hair tie from her dressing table.

"I'll join you downstairs in a minute," Sherlock said, making for the door as Rose gathered her hair up into a pony-tail. "Just need the bathroom."

Although slightly invigorated by his mini-deduction, Sherlock needed just a few minutes not in Rose's presence so he could make sure his emotions were kept well and truly at bay for now.


John kept the spoon out of Rosie's reach, deftly manoeuvring around her pudgy little outstretched fingers to insert another half teaspoon into her mouth. He glanced up and exchanged a polite smile with Rose as she entered the kitchen.

"Is that yummy, Rosie?" she said to John's daughter. "Oh, Justine, it smells amazing. Did you add the coriander after all?"

As Justine explained to Rose that she'd left out a separate bowl, minus the coriander, for Bob—an argument John had already witnessed between Bob and Justine a few moments ago—John ruminated on the fact that the Rose he knew these days wasn't that different a person to the girl they had met in the flat all those years ago. She was warm and friendly and chatty then, too—the psychology student.

"Sit down, love," Justine bid Rose.

When Rose sat across from John, she said, "Here, let me feed her. You keep eating. Mine will be too hot to start with anyway."

"Uh, yeah, thanks."

He had instantly warmed to her when discussing Sherlock's cases with her for the paper she was writing back then. This was the Rose that sat across from him now, feeding his daughter with light banter and an expert hand. But then there was that period he knew her true occupation. And, shamefully, this had clouded his judgement for a long while. He was thankful they had cleared the air between them when Sherlock was in hospital. John may have been a little drunk, but he remembered the conversation with a mild fondness, particularly the fact that Rose's wise words were the trigger that prompted him to reconsider his feelings towards his wife. Rose had confessed to him a lot about her background and John felt especially privileged she had revealed so much to him.

When Rose laughed lightly at Rosie, John felt a tiny tug on his heart for his wife again.

"I've got your number now, Miss Watson," Rose said, holding one hand in front of the highchair so Rosie could clamp her fingers around Rose's, thus keeping the little mitts occupied so they wouldn't swipe at the spoon that was feeding her mashed pumpkin.

Mary was missing out on so much, he thought. She should've been sharing this moment with him.

"Why didn't I think of that?" he said, forcing his morose thoughts from his mind.

"There's a trick to it," Rose said.

"Careful she doesn't fling it across the other side of the room," Bob piped up from the opposite end of the table. "Nearly took me eye out."

Justine bustled over and placed a bowl of steaming pumpkin soup in front of Rose.

"Here, love, it's hot," she said.

Rose thanked Justine and put down Rosie's spoon just out of reach of the infant while she moved the bowl in front of her.

"So… how long have you lived here?" John asked, trying to keep his tone light and innocent, even though he had a hundred questions to ask.

"Oh… um…" Rose furrowed her brow. She looked across to Bob. "How long Bob?"

"We moved here… April I think it were," he replied. "Yeah, just after Ned's birthday." Addressing John, he added, "Ned's our grandson."

"That's right," said Rose. "And I'd already been here a few weeks, so I guess it was mid-March that Sherlock bought the house."

John couldn't help it but his eyebrows shot up. Thankfully, his daughter had drawn Rose's attention at that moment. He gave a dry cough.

"So… Sherlock's been coming here since… since… when?"

He couldn't help but pry. The annoying git had given him nothing.

"Since March," Rose said with a shy, almost apologetic, smile. "Well, February and March. We had broken up well before then and we didn't quite get back together when Sherlock first came here."

"Oh… yeah. He said you'd broken up."

"That case he was working on last year," Rose said, before looking away. "Charles Magnussen." She busied herself feeding Rosie another mouthful of pumpkin, not meeting John's gaze as she spoke. "I left London just before Christmas because of… the case."

Charles Augustus Magnussen. John's insides churned. It was indeed a tough time for them all. He wondered how the case had come between Sherlock and Rose. Not because of… John internally shuddered. …the shooting.

No, it couldn't have been that if Rose left before Christmas. Magnussen was shot on—

"Absolute bastard, that man," Justine said from across the kitchen.

"Who's a bastard?" Sherlock asked, strolling in.

"Holy Mary," John murmured, seeing Sherlock Holmes in civilian attire. With wide eyes he scanned the detective from head to toe.

Sherlock wore a light blue chambray shirt over a grey t-shirt, with straight-legged black jeans and brown boots. He looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes. What the hell was happening here?

Rose quickly glanced around then momentarily leant forward as if to take John into her confidence.

"You haven't met Scott Williams before, have you?" she said, her eyes bright with mirth. "He bought this house, actually."

"I won't have any, thanks Justine," Sherlock was saying to Justine as she held out a bowl.

"I'll have none of that, sonny Jim," Justine replied.

"Scott Williams?" John asked Rose.

"Sit down now or I'll force feed you. Look at you! You've lost weight again!"

Rose's face split into a broad grin. She looked pointedly up at Sherlock as the sullen detective took a seat next to her.

Sherlock's living undercover in Edinburgh as Scott Williams? John pondered.

Turning to Bob, Sherlock said, "I see you're suffering in silence."

"I know which side my bread's buttered, lad," Bob replied. "Speaking of..."

John smiled inwardly. It seemed Sherlock needed someone like Mrs Hudson to fuss about him—a much younger, slightly more menacing version of the landlady—wherever he lived.

"Hey, love," Bob bid Justine. "How about them baps?"

"Just one," Justine said, plonking a bread roll in front of Bob. She then placed one in front of Sherlock, then added another for good measure.

"Why does he get two?"

"Because he's not the one huffing and puffing when he walks around the block!"

Justine offered John and Rose bread rolls as well, to which John nervously accepted and Rose declined.

"It's lovely out," Rose said. "We should all go for a walk after lunch." Turning to Sherlock, she added, "You should see what they're doing in the playground near the school."

"Looks like some sorta new swing set," Bob volunteered.

Sherlock gave a hum in response. He slowly stirred his soup, gave a tiny sigh, then put his spoon down. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Rose reach across for him. Sherlock met her gaze and gave her a tiny smile in return.

Just then, a baby's stirring cough sounded from across the kitchen. John's stomach reflexively knotted until he realised his infant was sitting next to him, happily gnawing on her stolen spoon.

He saw Rose and Sherlock exchange glances before Sherlock rose from his seat.

"Coming John?" he asked.

Surely he misheard.

"Sorry… ?"

As another cry came from the vicinity of the kitchen counter, John spied the baby monitor sitting on it.

"I said, are you coming?" Sherlock bid him as he stepped away from the table.

"Er…" John responded, slowly rising from his seat. It was a reflex, surely—responding to Sherlock's orders to follow him towards whatever adventure awaited them.

John glanced at Justine and Bob. The couple appeared oblivious and continued sipping their soup in silence. Rose, on the other hand, was gazing up at John, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

As Sherlock strode through the kitchen, flicking off the monitor on the way, John sidestepped Rosie's highchair.

"Er… could you… er…" he said, indicating his daughter to Rose.

"Yes, of course. Oh, Rosie!" As John crossed the kitchen, he heard Rose add, "How did you get that, you clever girl!"

"Come on, John!" Sherlock called from halfway up the stairs. "We mustn't keep her waiting!"

Her?

As he took the stairs two at a time as ever in pursuit of his ex-flatmate, John thought, I knew there was another baby here! I just knew it!

But… hang on…

Whose baby?

John reached the landing, his leg muscles burning in protest and his chest heaving. Not just Bob who was out of shape. Sherlock was standing with his hand resting on the doorknob of the second room to the right.

"Please don't tell me," John began, pausing to catch his breath.

"All I ask, John," Sherlock said, "is that you refrain from swearing in front of my daughter."

Those words had no business coming from Sherlock Holmes's mouth. My daughter. John gave a shake of his head. This wasn't right, even though the unmistakeable sounds of a baby working herself up into a tizz emanated through the door to the… the… nursery.

"No," John said, "No, no, no, no, no, you're not…" His throat began to seize up. "This is another one of your…"

But Sherlock's mouth stretched wide. He pushed the door inwards. The cries escaped and battered John about the head.

"Oh, dear! Have you been neglected?" Sherlock asked an unseen infant. Her cries lessened a little, but John stood rooted to the landing. In the dark of the nursery, he saw Sherlock stoop and lift something from a cot. "We've got visitors," Sherlock said in a kind of gleeful whisper.

John's heart continued hammering in his chest as the light from the doorway spilled onto Sherlock as he turned around. The bundle in his arms resembled a baby. A tiny tiny baby. Did they even make them that small? Rosie had grown considerably. John was just forgetting.

"Look! It's Uncle John!" Sherlock said, coming out onto the landing and turning sideways so that the baby's face was visible. She emitted two tiny coughs. "Don't worry. He doesn't always look like a stunned mullet."

John knew he was gaping and he clamped his mouth shut before Sherlock said anything more about it. Two slate grey pools were staring back at him. Probably not really seeing him, he knew that. Those familiar-shaped eyes were surely not deducing him?

A little fist had made its way into her mouth. She was self-soothing.

"Er," John said, a thousand thoughts spilling out into that one useless sound.

"This is Grace," Sherlock said, his voice more subdued than a few seconds ago. "She was born on the 12th of September in London. I can't give you her exact weight and measurements, sorry. I know some people like that sort of thing and I'm sure Rose told me, but I've forgotten. No complications as far as I know. I wasn't there, unfortunately."

John nodded, then cleared the lump in his throat with one dry cough.

"You've got a baby," he croaked.

Sherlock emitted a rumble of a laugh.

"Nice deduction there, Doctor Watson. I thought you'd make it a lot earlier, though."

"You've… got a baby," John said again, still trying to convince himself of the fact.

Sherlock gently rubbed his daughter's back when she started her hiccuping cries again.

"I'll just change her," he said. "And then you can have a hold, if you like."

The image in front of John was still all wrong. This jeans-clad, baby-holding, Edinburgh-living stranger called Scott Williams, who just disappeared back into the nursery, may have a baby daughter. But Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective from London—his best friend—did not. Could not.

John looked on as Sherlock murmured soothing words to the baby girl as she protested on the change table. He turned away. This was too much! The sight of Sherlock doting over a baby wasn't unfamiliar—he'd looked after Rosie countless times. It was Sherlock including words like "daddy" to refer to himself and "my daughter" uttered earlier that were at war in John's mind.

Sherlock had been sneaking up to Edinburgh all year, fooling his big brother into thinking he'd been attending… where? Castle Something. Hallyne, wasn't it? When all this time he'd been secretly visiting Rose, who had been expecting his baby.

Hang on… that sounded a little bit familiar. John wracked his brain.

I actually have a secret, pregnant girlfriend up North. I thought Rosie might like to meet her before the baby arrives.

John's eyes widened in realisation. Sherlock had said those words one afternoon when the Watsons had caught him trying to sneak out of the flat with their daughter!

Is Uncle Sherlock being funny? John had said to Rosie in response.

He'd admitted it to them! The stupid git!

A bubble of laughter rose up inside John. He'd told them. Sherlock had said where he was going in all honesty and they were supposed to think he was joking. The laughter escaped John in the form of a chuckle. It tightened in his chest, constricting into a giggle. Before he knew it, his whole body was quaking in laughter. John bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut as—what was it? Seven?—seven months' worth of Sherlock's deception was laid out before him.

A secret, pregnant girlfriend up North!

John snorted in between his giggles, turning away from the nursery where Sherlock's baby daughter's cries continued intermittently. He couldn't stop the mirthful shakes. All this time and no one knowing!

I knew, said Mary, bringing John's giggling to an abrupt halt. All that time Sherlock and I spent together. How could I not know? I could always tell when he was fibbing.

Mary knew and she'd met Rose, too. Mary would've been happy for Sherlock.

I was, came her soft voice.

John's tears of laughter had turned potent. Salty tears stung his eyes and he shuddered out a single sob as a huge blanket of despair draped over him. He hunched over with the weight of it. It wasn't just the difficult times Mary wasn't here for, it was the joyous moments. The times to celebrate. And this was one of them.

But what about you? she had said to Sherlock on the dance floor at their wedding reception. It was a question that had a broader meaning, not just a lack of dance partner, John knew that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stifle his emotions, he became quite conscious of the fact that the cries from the nursery had also stopped. But his heart ached for everything he had lost.

He turned around to the nursery and found Sherlock standing in the doorway holding a contented baby over his shoulder and watching John, his eyes rounded.

"Didn't mean to break it to you like this," Sherlock said, his voice slightly ragged. "I mean, not initially. Spur of the moment decision, really, after months and months of not really knowing how to tell you."

John gave Sherlock a resigned smile. He sniffed valiantly, thus dismissing any remaining tears, and dragged a hand down his face. To his right, footsteps resounded on the staircase and Rose came into view almost immediately.

"Everything okay up here?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," John said, forcing a smile to his face.

When Rose reached the landing, John moved to envelope her in a hug.

"Congratulations," he said warmly. "You've done an amazing job. An utterly, utterly brilliant job." Whether he meant with the baby or on tenderising Sherlock, he wasn't quite sure.

"John's use of the English language is rather limited," Sherlock volunteered.

"Thank you, John," Rose replied.

He eased back, but before releasing her, he added, "They're very lucky to have you."

Rose returned his smile and patted his arm.

"I hope he wasn't too brutal with the way he told you."

John made a point of looking at Sherlock and raising his eyebrows.

"I'll take her now," Rose said, making her way over to her family, "and give her a quick feed."

"Oh, John was going to have a cuddle," Sherlock said.

"No, no, it's fine," John replied. "Once she's fed, that'll be better."

He looked on as Sherlock handed Grace over to Rose with a whispered, "Here's Mummy!" It stunned John that the image of the three of the them looked so natural and normal. The pang of loss within him remained.

"We won't be long," Rose said, as she disappeared inside the nursery, gently closing the door behind her.

Sherlock and John exchanged weary smiles. At the end of Sherlock's long arms, that seemed to hang uselessly by his side now that he was no longer holding his baby, his fingers waggled a little.

John thought he should put the great git out of his misery.

"Come here, then," he said, crossing the floor to his friend.

Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly in alarm as John approached him.

"What?"

John pulled Sherlock in for a hug. The detective-genius stiffened, his arms pinned to his side, as John patted his back.

"Congratulations," John said. "Nobody deserves this more than you."

John just as quickly released Sherlock from his embrace.

"Thank you, John, that's… nice of you to say."

John shook his head at Sherlock and said, "So, that's it then? No other surprises?" He held up his hand and counted off, "Secret home in Edinburgh, secret girlfriend, surprise baby daughter… no… pet… dog or anything?"

Sherlock suddenly looked elsewhere, then fiddled with his watch band.

"No," he said, his voice oddly tight. "No pet dog, as it turns out."

John bowed his head, his shoulders drooping. Idiot! What a thing to say!

"No," he repeated. "S-sorry." He scratched the back of his head and braved a glance at Sherlock.

The new father appeared to shrug away his thoughts, his expression brightening.

"We'd better get back downstairs and finish our lunch," Sherlock said, "before Justine drags us there by our ears."

John feigned a slight shudder.

"Yeah," he said, "I can see that happening."

As Sherlock took off downstairs, John turned back to the closed door of the nursery. A smile grew on his face and he shook his head in disbelief once more, before making for the stairs himself.


A/N:

I hope you enjoyed this extra long chapter! There's a bit more of a Mycroft reaction to come, because he hasn't actually met Grace yet :D

I know Anthea's name is probably not supposed to be Anthea (or perhaps it is? Maybe she was bluffing?). For the sake of simplicity, and so we all know to whom I'm referring, I've kept her name as Anthea.

I personally don't like using the word "girl" for woman, but it's what John says in the show, so I've used it in his POV when observing Rose.

JOHN KNOWS! Please tell me your thoughts about John's reaction – I'm dying to know!