Wow. So this chapter made me realize how much time has passed since Sherlock and John met: 14 years in this fanfiction! Along with that, it tackles Mary's death and stuff. I almost cried from thinking about her. Good luck.
John Watson was back from Ireland with leprechaun souvenirs and a body that needed serious rest.
He'd returned to his flat just twenty minutes ago; twenty loud, noisy, excited minutes. During that time he managed to distribute little gifts to his three closest friends (one of whom was his daughter), drink a cup of tea, hug everyone twice, and promptly fall asleep in his armchair.
"I'm rather surprised," Sherlock said, sipping a cup of tea and not sounding surprised at all. "John's used to much longer periods of time without sleeping. One time we spent the entire night flipping through two dead men's books, and he went straight to work the next morning."
Rosie sat up. "Really? When did that happen, again?"
"Well, it was the time with the Chinese smugglers-"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head from the sink. "Oh, Sherlock, don't tell Rosie about all those murders!"
"No, Mrs. Hudson, it's interesting." Rosie blew on her mug to cool it down and added another spoonful of sugar, ignoring the landlady's disapproving look. "Wait, Uncle Sherlock, was that the one with weird old Sarah and the German tourist book?"
Sherlock nodded. "Weird old Sarah almost got impaled with an arrow because a Chinese mafia leader called Shang thought your father was me. Give her some respect."
Rosie choked on her tea.
"He thought DAD was YOU?!" she spluttered, wiping her mouth.
"She. Shang was a woman. And yes, she did. Perhaps your father should discourage the habit of carrying my own cheques around in his wallet."
Rosie snorted. "Yep, not the wisest choice."
Sherlock shrugged with a small smile and stood up. "Indeed. Mrs. Hudson, if you don't mind, I'll have some biscuits as well."
"I DO mind, Sherlock, we're almost out. I was saving them for Rosie-"
"-Some biscuits."
Mrs. Hudson sighed as he walked out of the room, cup and saucer in hand.
"I'll buy you some more, Rosie dear." She promised. "I don't know what goes on in Sherlock's mind, fourteen years and he still thinks I'm his housekeeper…"
Rosie snickered. "I'll move Dad to his room, Uncle Sherlock might drop a hammer on him as an experiment."
"That he might, Rosie, that he might."
Had anyone else attempted to rouse John Watson, he may have accidentally taken their head off. Luckily for Rosie, she was his daughter, causing him to be gentle with her even in cases of disgruntled half-sleep.
"Thanks, love." John murmured as Rosie helped him up. "Sorry I'm so tired, I didn't sleep the whole flight."
Rosie giggled. "You're funny when you're half asleep, Dad."
John groaned and raised his eyebrow. "That reminds me a bit too much of your Uncle Sherlock's 'enemies'."
"Like?" Rosie inquired. John didn't often talk about his adventures before Rosie was born. They were usually traumatizing, but Rosie longed to hear more about them. Maybe if John was sleepy…
But no; he raised an eyebrow and smirked tiredly. "Oh, you're a clever one, Rosie. But I'm not telling you anything now. Maybe when you're older."
Rosie was disappointed, but didn't press on her father. He was exhausted, and she feared she'd arouse an old fear inside him. Something about her mother, perhaps. So she hugged him goodnight and padded back to the living room, where Sherlock was tapping away on his laptop. He didn't notice Rosie come in.
She picked John's laptop off the table, right before Sherlock's face (still didn't realize she was there) and settled on the couch, feet tucked beneath her. The device was password protected, of course, but Rosie knew the code: her mother's name. Mary.
The computer was very useful to Rosie. She didn't often use it for research (apart from that fateful Solar System report); usually whatever Sherlock didn't know, John did, and vice versa. No, Rosie used it to discover, bit by bit, what her father and uncle's adventures were.
And that was by looking in on their websites.
Sherlock's, The Science of Deduction, wasn't very useful. Unless all the stories were a load of codswallop and the pair had spent their years together studying tobacco ash, Rosie assumed Sherlock's website was not the place to look.
But there was John's blog. It was no longer what it once was; nowadays, John occasionally posted about Sherlock's more unique cases but for often blogged about Rosie. The habit had died in the past few years, however. When Rosie opened the website, the newer stories featured her around the third grade.
Rosie clicked past all of those, hunting for the old ones. The REALLY old ones, those written back when Sherlock and John had just met. She loved to read them. It made her feel like she knew her father better.
"What are you doing?"
Rosie panicked and slammed the laptop shut to see John standing before her, arms crossed.
"I thought you were asleep!" She exclaimed.
"I WAS asleep. Sherlock unfeelingly woke me up to inform me we were out of milk- Rosie, what were you doing on my laptop?"
She stayed silent, so John plucked the computer from her lap and checked its history.
"Oh, Rosie." He sighed, sitting down next to her. "Why didn't you tell me you were this curious to know?"
Rosie shrugged, fiddling with her fingers. "I dunno. Uncle Sherlock sometimes tells me about the funny cases, but I want to know about the scary ones. Moriarty. Sherlock's pretend death. Magnussen. Actual adventures. And… well…"
John turned to her. "What is it, sweetheart?"
Rosie bit her thumb. "I guess… Mum. Sorry. But… I never knew her. And I don't know what's her story and… well… anything."
John sighed again, deeply. He put his forehead in his hands, looking so sad Rosie regretted ever speaking.
"Rosamund Mary Watson." He finally said. Nothing past that. Just her name. It seemed to make him happy to say it, to feel it on his tongue.
"Rosamund. Mary. Watson." John repeated his words, then looked up at Rosie. "That was your Mum's real name. Rosamund Mary. But she preferred her life as Mary Watson. She would be so happy to see you-"
His voice broke, and Rosie leaned over and hugged him.
"Rosie. Always remember. You are the light of my life. Your mother would be-IS-so proud of you. Uncle Sherlock would do anything for you. It doesn't matter what the two of us, or anybody concerning us, did before. Someday, I promise you will know it all. But just know this: all of that was for you. All of it, even if we didn't know it, was leading up to you. Rosamund Mary Watson."
He hesitated.
"You can throw in a 'Holmes' at the end if you want, you practically are one. I'm sure Mycroft won't mind."
Rosie smiled and cuddled closer to her dad: the two Watson, remembering together.