Author Note:

Okay, this chapter got too long and I had to cut it and move the rest into a new chapter. Some of you wanted more Holmes parents' reactions, so instead of skipping over the rest of Rose and Grace's stay in London, I've written a bit more about it in the beginning. So that means after this chapter, there are still potentially three chapters to go. I say "potentially" because the characters keep doing their own thing. I'm terrible, I know. And I do want to get this monster of a story finished as well.

There are a couple of plot points in this and the next chapter that I probably would not have written if I intended to wait for S5. But I'm not going to hold my breath for that one. This story will veer off into my own head canon and will end with this season.


Chapter 118 – I Know What You Could Become

Rose gazed down at Sherlock stretched out on the bed next to her. He'd returned to his reclined position after removing his shoes upon her orders. He flexed his feet still clad in socks and rested his clasped hands on top of his stomach.

Rose reached across and carded her fingers through his hair.

"Mm, that's nice," he drawled. "Keep doing that."

His face slackened and his eyes remained closed. A perfect picture of contentment. Warmth drizzled through Rose. Her two favourite people in the world comforted by her.

But one was a breastfeeding infant, the other a grown man hiding from his mother. When he'd swept out of the room leaving a stunned silence in his wake, Mrs Hudson had eventually chuckled, saying, "I can imagine him dashing about all over London with a brood of children following behind."

Mrs Holmes's eyes had widened at the landlady's words, while Sherlock's dad positively beamed at Rose as if he was bursting with pride.

It took a moment for Rose to recollect the thoughts that had tumbled to the floor.

"I'll… I'll just see if Sherlock needs a hand," she said faintly, before making her own escape.

At least she had a good reason for staying away. Grace needed to be fed now that Sherlock had changed her nappy, and he insisted on staying in the nursery to keep Rose company.

we'll probably get married…

Now that… that was a surprise statement coming from Sherlock Holmes's lips. And so unlikely to happen in reality. Their relationship had to remain hidden and they still hadn't devised how they could continue doing so now they had a child. Official papers containing both their names just complicated matters. But what would happen as Grace grew older? What would they tell her?

probably get married…

But the thought kept echoing through Rose's mind, making her giddy with apprehension. It wasn't a surprise that Sherlock was committed to their relationship. That was a given, these days. But after helping him write his speech for the Watsons' wedding, Rose was quite sure she knew what Sherlock Holmes thought of marriage.

Rose had never imagined herself getting married, because she never thought she'd ever be worthy enough for someone to choose her as their wife.

Stop it, Rose! she admonished herself. He just gushed out a whole lot of nonsense. He probably doesn't even know he said it.

Rose let her gaze drop to her daughter. Grace's sleepy contentment loosened the tightness Rose hadn't noticed had stolen over her chest. But emotion bubbled through her—the good kind, the kind that filled her heart until it spilled over. Before she knew it, tears pressed against her eyes.

As Grace needed to be repositioned on the breast, she stole her hand back to adjust her daughter. Grace was at the stage Rose liked to call "sleep feeding", when the infant had obtained her fill from the breast and had fallen asleep, but would intermittently suckle a couple of times a minute for comfort.

As Rose smoothed a hand over Grace's soft hair, she sniffed back tears.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, having snapped out of his contented state, probably in the absence of Rose's soothing caresses. He propped himself up on one elbow, two lines appearing between his brows. "Have I upset you?"

"No," Rose said, the word riding on a wave of light laughter. "They're just happy tears.

Sherlock sat up and scoffed.

"Happy tears," he repeated derisively, dropping his legs to the ground. "All tears of emotion have the same make-up. Only tears produced by external factors, such as onions, and the basal tears that our eyes—"

"Oh, stop it!"

She couldn't help but smile as Sherlock rounded the bed. She never knew what would come out of his mouth from one minute to the next.

"Okay, hand her over," he said, stopping in front of her.

"Why?"

"Because she's finished feeding and she's now using you as a dummy, as you like to call it. And besides… she's the secret weapon I can wield whenever I'm in the company of my parents. My mother, specifically."

"Cut your mother some slack," Rose said, easing her nipple from Grace's mouth. "She's received some very distressing news today."

"The existence of our daughter isn't distressing."

"I'm talking about her daughter. Eurus."

"Oh."

"And she probably masks her feelings with statements of logic and practicality… hmm, much like someone else I know."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, his expression genuinely perplexed.

But Rose just chuckled in response.

As she lifted Grace up so Sherlock could gather his daughter in his arms, he mused, "Have you ever noticed that the word smother contains the word mother?"

"I'm a mother, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yes. Exactly."

Rose ignored Sherlock's quip and watched as he brought his daughter to his shoulder and gently rocked her.

"How did it go earlier," Rose asked. "With telling your parents the news about Eurus?"

"As well as expected."

Rose tried to imagine what it may have been like in the absence of any further explanations from Sherlock. She didn't want to prompt him right now.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to Grace's head. Was this an effort to soothe himself, Rose wondered. Her eyes welled with tears once more, for both the present and the past.

As Sherlock gently rocked Grace from side to side, he caught sight of Rose and tutted.

"Mummy's crying happy tears again," he said to his daughter. "She's practically bouncing with joy."

"Oh, be quiet," Rose said, wiping at her eyes before adjusting her maternity bra strap.

"Let's hear it, then," he said resignedly. "What's got you full of lachrymose ecstasy?"

Rose tried to prevent herself dissolving into tears again by forcing a smile to her face. She'd concentrate on the present, then. Not the past.

"Because I love this," she said. "Being… here."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Really? Mrs Hudson's guest room? Smells like camphor."

"No," she said with a light laugh. "Here, in London, with… with everyone who knows you, the real you, with them knowing the truth about us… I mean… the sort of truth. John and Mrs Hudson and your family. But only John and Mycroft really know about… me. And I'm fine with that now. But they've all met Grace. Everyone who matters in your life. It's just… it feels… so... comforting."

"You have a very broad definition of people who matter in my life."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock chuckled and gently rubbed his daughter's back.

"But you haven't met Molly Hooper," he said, looking away as he continued to sway with his daughter in his arms. "She knows. I had to tell her." Sherlock paused to clear his throat. "And then there's Greg Lestrade. Not sure how I'll go about telling him yet. He has an annoying habit of wanting to document my moments of ordinariness. Of course, all these people have to be sworn to secrecy. Nothing new there, where I'm concerned."

The revelation about Molly Hooper gave Rose pause. She kept hearing this name—a pathologist, wasn't she? But yes. She'd never met the woman. So Sherlock had told this Molly Hooper about them, too? In how much detail, exactly?

She dismissed her thoughts as quickly as they had arisen. She had to trust Sherlock's judgement.

"Back in Edinburgh," Rose went on, "I only had Bob and Justine who knew. But now…"

Her throat constricted, the words dying on emotion. Now, what? What waited for her back in Scotland?

Sherlock seemed to notice Rose trailing off and he gave a light cough.

"I told Mycroft about Bob and Justine this morning," he said. "Thought I should remind him to feel guilty about the daylight raid again. He said he knew they'd left, which confirmed for me my suspicions about the new residents at number 46."

"What new residents?"

"I noticed them before we left this morning. Mycroft's installed his people. Our premises will be monitored from now on, so we don't have to concern ourselves with security while we're away."

Rose frowned.

"He's got people watching us?"

"Watching the house. External surveillance only. But he thinks he might have a replacement for the Wilsons. For the short term."

Rose's chest tightened.

"No. I don't want anyone else."

"You'll need a nanny, at the very least."

"Will I?" Rose challenged. She didn't know why she suddenly felt defensive.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," he conceded. He folded his upper lip inwards, which indicated to Rose he was uncomfortable with what he had to say next. "I'll still be in London, from time to time," he said, his gaze unwavering, "and I'll come up to Edinburgh as often as I can. But it's up to you, of course, whether or not you need someone… to help out in my absence."

Rose's muscles tensed. She hated this feeling of inadequacy. Couldn't she raise Grace on her own… from time to time, as Sherlock had stated? Had she really demonstrated that she couldn't?

Rose slid from the bed, feeling Sherlock's gaze upon her. Busying herself with straightening the sheets and fluffing out the pillows, she said, "I'm sure I'll be fine. I've got plenty of…"

She exhaled a tiny sigh as she held onto one pillow.

Friends and family.

That's what she'd like to say. Friends and family in Scotland.

What family?

And which of her 'friends' would help out? They were young people busy with their university studies and part-time work. And she didn't know the women well enough from her pregnancy group to ask them to help out so soon. They would've all had their own babies by now. The only friend who could possibly have helped her was Lisa, but she'd moved to Liverp—

Oh.

For God's sake.

Rose's insides twisted.

"Rose," Sherlock said softly.

Rose shook her morose thoughts loose and dropped the second pillow on top of the first. She made to round the bed to straighten the sheets on the other side, but Sherlock gently reached for her arm.

"You may not need help," he said, "but you did once say the house was too big and empty for you. The presence of another person, even a temporary one, may fill that void."

"But Bob and Justine were the perfect fit," Rose said. "How is Mycroft going to find the right couple who know you well enough to be protective of us? They'll need to respect your secret identity and have skills in combat and surveillance and... and nappy changing."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said with a half smile. "There are a lot of agents who infiltrate households that are of interest to the intelligence community by posing as au pairs. Well… Mycroft thinks he has such a person."

Rose's expression remained unchanged. How could anyone replace the Wilsons in her heart?

"Someone from Australia," Sherlock went on.

"An Australian au pair?"

"There, you see? It sounds so cliché nobody would question it."

Rose shrugged lightly.

"I'll think about it," she said, stepping away from Sherlock to finish making the bed.

"Mycroft will do a thorough background check," Sherlock continued. "I'll vet them myself, and of course you can interview them."

Straightening up from fluffing out the pillows on Sherlock's side of the bed, Rose said, "You want me to interview someone who has the skills to trick others into believing they're a completely different person?"

"You'll be able to tell whether you like them or not, in a general sense, surely? It's all that intuition nonsense you were spouting earlier in the year. But it will be an assignment within the intelligence community, so they won't have to fake their personality to you. Well, not really, only to outsiders. Like Bob and Justine did. They'd probably keep cover just for the sake of consistency."

Rose smoothed a hand over the bedcovers, attempting to remove every last wrinkle.

"I said I'll think about it. Now, do you want to take her out there? I'm pretty sure your dad's dying for a cuddle. And don't forget to put your shoes back on.


In the sitting room, Mrs Holmes—Louisa—quizzed Rose about her studies. Rose didn't mind at all; she had always been enthusiastic about the subject matter of her courses. Louisa was particularly interested in the course module relating to quantitative research, a module Rose was yet to take and knew only at an introductory level. But Louisa spoke quite eloquently about the application of multivariate statistical analysis techniques and she offered to assist Rose should she return to her studies in the future.

Shooting glances at Sherlock now and again, Rose would find him kneading his brow with a pained look on his face, or stretching out his legs, slumping back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.

Mr Holmes—Arthur—had a long cuddle with his granddaughter, until she decided to protest very loudly, after which Sherlock made his excuses about needing to rock her to sleep (receiving a tiny tut by his mother as he left). Arthur regaled Rose with anecdotes from the small amount of time he'd spent in Edinburgh in his late teens, while Mrs Hudson and Louisa nattered between themselves about line dancing in Oklahoma and exotic dancing in Florida.

When it was time for them to leave, Rose tried to signal to Sherlock in the nursery. The annoying lump had stretched out on the bed, half-sleeping while he patted Grace on his chest. He nodded to Rose in acknowledgement, but didn't emerge from the room to farewell his parents.

Rose joined Mrs Hudson in the entranceway to see their guests off.

"Now make sure you visit us in the Home Counties," Louisa said. By now, Rose was used to the way Sherlock's mother spoke and took her suggestion as an invitation, rather than a command. "There's no point coming all the way from Edinburgh for the chaos of London," Mrs Holmes went on. "It's much more civilised where we are, and we have a garden."

"We'd love to come. Thank you," Rose said, receiving a kiss on the cheek as well.

Arthur discreetly drew Rose aside as the two older women found another topic to discuss by the front door.

"You both said you were his girlfriend," he told Rose in a low voice, "but that sounds far too casual. You're so much more than that. Welcome to our family." He, too, gave Rose a kiss on the cheek while she murmured her thanks. What she really felt like doing was bursting into tears at the sentiment his words conveyed. "And she's every bit like Sherlock was," Arthur continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "Except for the… you know… gender." He gave Rose a wink and followed his wife outside.

Rose helped the landlady clear away and wash up the tea things, her heart light and buoyant. When she joined Sherlock in the guest room, she found him still wakeful. Curling up into his side, with his arm wrapped around her, Rose smoothed a hand over Grace's back.

When Rose discreetly sniffed, Sherlock murmured, "Happy tears?" Rose nodded and snuggled into the crook of his neck. He emitted a deep throated chuckle and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

That evening, John and Rosie visited, to Mrs Hudson's delight, and they all had fish and chips ordered from Sherlock's favourite place on the Marylebone Road.

Rose felt a little disappointed Mycroft was apparently too busy to pop in after work. Did he work late on a Friday night? Sherlock muttered something about Lady Smallwood that Rose didn't quite catch.

Afterwards, they discussed Rose returning to Edinburgh on Sunday morning, with Sherlock staying in London an extra few days to organise the cleaning up of his flat. John volunteered to help, and Mrs Hudson cooed in delight at the prospect of having Rosie all to herself during that time.

Rose knew she'd be perfectly fine all by herself in Scotland, comforted by the fact that Mycroft's security detail would be present a discreet distance away.

That night, in Sherlock's bedroom upstairs, they took their time exploring and pleasuring one another, building up a powerful arousal and luxuriously bringing each other to their final peak. Afterwards, they lay sated, limbs entwined, twin breaths cooling the air. Practicalities had them dress in pyjamas after a short period. They were still parents with a baby to monitor in someone else's house, after all.

On Saturday, Rose and Mrs Hudson went for a walk to the shops, with the landlady finding pairs of everything for both baby girls—with Rosie's outfits a few sizes larger than Grace's. Rose detoured to the bank on the Strand where Mary's safety deposit box was located, thankful it was open on a Saturday. She withdrew the package for John, discreetly addressed it to him, and popped it into the postbox across the street from 221 on their way home. She told Mrs Hudson the package was for a friend in Blackpool.

Rose and Sherlock had discussed John's parcel prior to leaving Edinburgh. Mary had said Rose would know when was an appropriate time to send it to John, and Sherlock agreed that the present moment appeared to be the right time.

When Rose returned to Edinburgh, her plan was to clean the house from top to bottom, but she found there was hardly anything to be done since Justine had kept the place pretty spic and span.

Rose reflected on Mycroft's impending favour to her. Was the cloak and dagger still necessary now that the Wilsons had left and Sherlock would be absent some of the time? She thought she ought to check with Mycroft first, so she decided to send him an email via his encrypted network.

His prompt reply told her that their original plan may not be necessary if Rose took up the offer of the Australian au pair, and the service could be provided in the privacy of her own home.

Rose thought about her options. Gaining the same skills from within her own walls sounded very attractive. The necessity for external premises only came about because of her need to keep this hidden from Bob and Justine, but now that wasn't necessary. And should she still keep this a secret from Sherlock? Rose was leaning towards informing him about it.

Rose replied to Mycroft, "I'll take the option of the au pair, but only if Sherlock approves of her first."

For the start of the week, Rose contacted her old uni friends for a catch up. After much to-ing and fro-ing, they finally decided on visiting Rose for lunch on Tuesday, in between classes—with Rose providing the lunch, of course.

Alice and Indira paid little attention to Grace. They eagerly imparted gossip about their course, people they knew, and assignments they'd worked on. Rose was only interested in the details of their assessments, rather than any people gossip and she was glad when they finally left. The triviality of their lives irked her somewhat compared to the drama her own life had accumulated since she'd left Edinburgh for London.

Sherlock had phoned her twice while he was away. He and John had started piecing together the flat, item by item, when Mrs Hudson told them off.

"It has to be cleared out completely and re-wall papered! You can't just hang up your silly cow head over that mess. The carpet and curtains need replacing, and look at my bloody windows!"

"Bison skull, Mrs Hudson."

So Sherlock planned to return to Edinburgh mid-week after removing personal and important items from his living area. Mycroft's minions started clearing out the rest of the rubble, before they would remove and replace the furnishings, and re-paper and re-paint the walls and ceiling. Sherlock had tried to continue working when they commenced—fending off queries from the various DI's in Scotland Yard, but he found he couldn't concentrate with all that movement about. They knew where to find him, anyway, even though he'd be absent for a few days.

"If I'm not accepting walk-in clients, I may as well solve the email ones from Edinburgh," Sherlock told Rose.


When Sherlock arrived after lunch, Grace's hiccupping protests interrupted their hello kiss.

"I knew you'd be like that," Sherlock said, releasing Rose from his embrace and crossing the kitchen to where his daughter sat in her rocker perched on top of the dining table. "The centre of attention, that's where you like to be."

"She loves watching the rain," Rose said. "And probably likes listening to the sound of it as well. And here's some news for you: she's dropped one of her night-time feeds."

"That's because Daddy wasn't here," Sherlock said, scooping up his daughter from the rocker. "What's the point in waking up if there's no Daddy to chat to, hmm?"

"I think it may have been the noise of the fan I put in the nursery," Rose told him. "It's keeping her asleep."

What is this nonsense? Sherlock thought.

They took tea in the living room, Sherlock sitting bent kneed, with legs propped up on the coffee table, and Grace lying in his lap, facing him.

"We can have a proper conversation this way," he said to his daughter. "So what have you been doing while I've been away? Helping Mummy load the dishwasher? Painting the fence? I hope you haven't been idle."

"She's been staring up at my phone whenever I take photos to send to her uncle and grandparents."

Sherlock slowly turned his attention to Rose. Now grandparents he could understand. If Rose could tolerate being in constant communication with his parents, then good on her. But…

"Uncle?" he repeated.

"Yes," Rose replied, her mouth quirking into a smile.

"You've been sending baby photos to my brother."

"Yes."

"And he's been... replying?

"Yes."

Sherlock ruminated on this fact for a few seconds.

"The fate of civil servants and diplomats, in fact, whole governments and intelligence agents abroad rely on the quick-witted decisions of one man who also props up the British Government and the British Security services… and you're sending him… baby photos?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock dragged his eyes back to his daughter. Wonders would never cease.

"Speaking of Mycroft," Rose said. "I asked him for a favour the other day, when he was visiting."

Interesting, Rose's use of the word visiting. The man had authorised a home invasion that day. But favour? One didn't just casually ask Mycroft Holmes for a favour, but that may explain why Rose had readily agreed to meet their parents and study Eurus's files for him.

"I wasn't going to tell you…." she continued.

Sherlock sighed.

"And I wasn't go to tell Bob and Justine either. They might've assumed I was doing it because I thought they'd failed us in some way… but now…" she trailed off.

"What?" Sherlock asked. This suddenly sounded very serious.

"It was because of Mycroft's… thing… you know, with the soldiers."

Sherlock hummed in impatient agreement, his brow furrowing.

"I was really upset I fell to pieces like that."

"That was a very human reaction," Sherlock interjected.

"But you and John didn't seem phased by it and neither did Justine. Bob was injured… so…"

"Rose, what are you trying to say?"

Rose exhaled deeply.

"I don't want that to ever happen again."

"I'm sure my brother—"

"I'm not talking about the… the raid. I mean, me. Falling to pieces… fainting… and…" Vomiting, Sherlock thought. "If something like that happens again," Rose continued, "or even just... just one person pointing a gun at me… like Mary did that time… then I don't want to freeze. I want to keep my wits about me. So I asked Mycroft if he could provide someone to… to t-train me."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"Train you?"

"Not in armed combat or even self-defence… although that could come later, I suppose… basic self-defence, not armed combat. I just want someone to teach me about firearms. I want to recognise if a situation is dangerous… if someone's pretending to be my friend… if a woman on a bus is really reading a magazine, or if she's actually monitoring me. I want to be the one to spot that the new residents at number 48 are actually agents…"

"46."

"What?"

"Number 46. Never mind."

Sherlock's head was buzzing with all sorts of scenarios, none of them good.

"…for Grace's sake," Rose was saying. "If you want me to tell you exactly what the woman who threatened me looked like, or the name and colour of the courier van who dropped off a suspicious package, then I need to remain calm enough to observe these things, don't you think?"

Sherlock's chest tightened and he dragged his gaze from Rose back to Grace. Fear was drip fed into his system. What kind of danger did Rose expect to face on a regular basis that necessitated her to ask Mycroft for basic training?

It made him ill to think that this was the world he brought to Rose and now his baby daughter. But he'd already anticipated this, hadn't he? After Mary had died, he'd realised this wasn't the life for Rose and their then unborn child. He'd decided to let her go. Let them go. And the idea and its execution had nearly torn him apart, from the inside out.

But he couldn't let Rose willingly step into his world. Not like this.

"No," he said quietly.

"What do you mean, 'no'? I'm not asking your permission, Sherlock. I wasn't even going to tell you. I'm doing this for Grace. She needs a mother who won't fall to pieces. I'm her primary carer. She'll be with me more often than anyone else."

Grace's brows knitted together before the infant let out a squawk. She didn't appreciate Rose's tone of voice any more than Sherlock did.

He brought his daughter to his chest and rose from the sofa, furiously attempting to crush his anxiety about Rose and Mycroft's little agreement.

"So how's he going to do it then," he asked Rose, "your… introduction to espionage training?"

"He was going to set up something like a Pilates studio," Rose said, rising from her seat also. A tiny smile graced her lips. "… Morningside Road… somewhere along there… and I'd attend twice weekly, perhaps. I wanted to hide this from Bob and Justine, so this seemed the perfect way to get out of the house without them. Justine would've loved me going to something like Pilates while she looked after Grace. And Bob would've dropped me off with no desire to enter the premises himself. But all that's not necessary now. Mycroft said his Australian nanny's perfectly qualified to train me herself. From home. So that'll be good if she works out."

Of course Mycroft would suggest that, Sherlock thought, gently patting Grace's back when he felt her squirming. This au pair conveniently possessed all the skills they needed. It was quite obvious why Mycroft was pushing the Wilson's replacement now. Her other role would be to report back to him. Sherlock would be scrutinising her very carefully.

"Let me think about it," he said. He wasn't going to offer to teach her himself; he hoped that much was obvious. How anxious would that make him feel, imagining all the scenarios he would have to teach her to look out for? And what if she wasn't any good? What would he do then?

Worry! That's what!

"I'm doing it regardless," Rose said.

"Then let me talk to Mycroft about it."

"You're not to dissuade him from helping me."

Sherlock murmured something about Grace needing to be patted to sleep in the nursery and he quietly took his leave.

There was nothing for it, he concluded after two hours and forty minutes of holding Grace to him as he patted her while lying on the spare bed in the nursery. He'd come to a decision and now he had to convince Rose that it was the best way to move forward.


Rose's skin prickled. The expression on Sherlock's face as he sat on the coffee table in front of her clearly demonstrated his emotional state. He wasn't even attempting to mask what he was feeling.

Rose removed Grace from her breast. Her infant had been at it for long enough anyway, and she needed some awake time.

"There are too many people in this relationship," Sherlock said gravely. "It's time to get rid of one of them."

Rose's heart sank as she held Grace over her shoulder, feeling her daughter's tiny breath on her neck. She scanned Sherlock's current appearance—the dark jeans, fitted shirt with rolled up sleeves, and if he stayed in Edinburgh for more than a few days, the dark stubble of an unshaven face. This was his alter-ego.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know how this will help at all. Killing Scott Williams is only going to make me a single mum who's financially well-off. How will that explain you being here in Edinburgh?"

"No," Sherlock said, his expression unchanging. "Not Scott Williams. I'm talking about killing Sherlock Holmes."