Aaaand here are the news: this is the last chapter. Yes, the last. I'm sorry. But I feel I need to stop here. I will be writing a continuation fanfic titled "Just Rosie", to those of you who're interested in more. Once again, thank you for all the lovely reviews and see you in the next fanfic!
As Rosie stood, rooted to the spot, head spinning, only one thought passed through her head: That isn't Sherlock's full name.
Then she was walking. Robotically, mechanically, unthinkingly. Her brain buzzed, but not in an energetic way. In a broken way. In a way that signified an information overdose. If her mind was her hard drive, she'd just suffered a slight breakdown.
But no matter the shock in her head, Rosie's legs carried her, faithfully and steadily, back to 221B. Her hand rose to the door, grasped the doorknob, opened it. She stepped inside as if controlled by a remote.
"Rosie, dear!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, seeing the ten-year-old's haunted expression. "Sherlock and John have been dead worried about you! Where did you go? What the heavens happened?"
Rosie shook her head. A lump was building up in her throat, confusing and painful. She didn't have the spirit to answer her godmother's question, so she just made her way up the stairs slowly and steadily.
The flat door was open. Rosie faltered by the door, hesitating. But only for a moment, because then she was stepping inside and John was crying out in relief and crushing her in a hug and grabbing his phone and simultaneously embracing her and thanking god and calling Sherlock to tell him it was okay, Rosie was home, Rosie was safe.
"Jesus Christ, Rosie." John hung up and finally released her. "What the hell did you think you were doing?!"
Rosie opened her mouth to apologize, but no sound came out. The lump in her throat felt larger than her stomach, pounding and hurting. She shook her head again.
John frowned. "What is it? Are you okay? Rosie, did something happen to you? Where were you?"
Rosie, bombarded by questions, shook her head again. Hot tears of confusion welled up in her eyes again. Her father, seeming a bit scared, pressing her to him again.
Then Sherlock burst in, panting. He'd run all the way from the nearby park, where he'd been searching for Rosie, and he too attacked her with a strong hug.
"Sherlock." John said. "I think something happened."
"What?"
"Rosie won't talk. But look at her."
Sherlock turned to his goddaughter, gazing at her face. Rosie swallowed, the lump in her throat dying a little.
"Graveyard." She croaked.
John and Sherlock, surprised by her sudden agreement to speak, didn't catch on. "Sorry, what?"
Rosie swallowed again. "I was at the graveyard. And I saw-"
She halted, unable to go on. John's eyes widened. He put his head in his hands. "Oh, Christ."
Sherlock looked stunned. "You saw-"
"Yes." Rosie answered.
For a few minutes there was nothing in the flat but horrified silence, the kind of silence that Rosie would usually fill with loud footsteps or giggly comments. She hated silences. This one was, perhaps, the worst she'd ever experienced.
"Tell me everything." Rosie finally said. "Everything."
Sherlock sighed miserably, a sigh that slightly broke Rosie's heart. He sat down heavily in his armchair, motioning at Rosie to sit in her own seat. She did, John lowering himself into his own chair with a breath of complete loss for words.
And then Sherlock told Rosie everything. Not every detail, not every case. But he told her about The Study in Pink: how he and John first met; how they solved the case together; how John killed for Sherlock. He told her about little side cases like the Blind Banker: how they cared about eachother; how John dated Sarah. He told her about their first meeting with Moriarty: how they were both willing to die for the other; how Moriarty threatened them; how he suddenly decided to let them go. He told her about Aunt Irene (not the full thing, of course, that was a bit inappropriate): how she'd tricked him; how the Flight of the Dead had been ruined; how he'd cracked the phone code; how he'd saved Irene. He told her about H.O.U.N.D: how he and John had traveled to the village; how he'd attempted drugging John. He told her, voice shaking and eyes sad, about the Fall: how Moriarty had got him up to Bart's rooftop; how the criminal had threatened John; how he'd shot himself, making Sherlock jump; and, worst of all, how Sherlock had faked his death and disappeared for two years, leaving John heartbroken. He told her, upset, about his return. About Mary. About the wedding (he cried). About Magnussen (John flinched). About Rosie's birth. About the six Thatchers, AGRA, Mary's death (both men cried). About Culverton Smith. And then, about Eurus. His sister. About how she'd played with them in a blood-curdling game, but he didn't explain in detail what had happened.
Finally, maybe an hour later, he stopped talking.
All of a sudden, Rosie was calm. It was as though now, when she knew it all, there was no reason to be upset. And even if there was, the men sitting before her had suffered much worse.
And then there was silence. Not a dreadful silence like before. A thoughtful silence, the kind that gives you time to ruminate about your life. About you.
Rosie stood up, heading for the mantelpiece. She let her hands roam over the objects cluttering its surface: skull, papers, odd pennies. Sherlock tensed when she touched the knife, as though he thought she was planning to bring it to her wrists and cut, but he didn't reach for her. Rosie felt the blade's cold surface and shuddered, picturing a masked figure driving it into her father's stomach.
Her hands stroked the skull again, feeling the smoothness of bone. Then her fingers were brushing against the framed photograph of Mary; touching her flat, glass encased face; gazing at her wide smile. A woman frozen in time, a mother lost in it.
"Rosie." John said.
She spun around. He hadn't spoken since she'd returned, but now he had words to say. Things to tell her. Rosie nodded, to show she was listening.
"We should have told you." John said, his voice slightly choked up. "I'm so sorry. We should have told you."
"Dad-"
"No, Rosie, this time you're right. This is the sort of thing you can't just keep from your only child. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
She was afraid he'd start crying again, so she walked over and cuddled up beside him in his armchair.
"Oh, Rosie-Posie." John murmured. "Your mum would be so proud of you if she were here."
"She would?"
"Of course. She was mad about you when you were a baby, imagine how thrilled she'd be now that you're such a big, brilliant kid. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded, the rest of his body still as a statue.
Rosie groaned. "I can't cuddle both of you at once like this. Let's sit on the sofa."
So they did, Rosie between them, Sherlock leaning on her to her right and John's arm around her to her left. The three sat like that for a while, not talking, just breathing and feeling eachother's comforting warmth.
Eventually Rosie's limbs started going numb from pressure, tingles spreading up her skin. She squirmed off the couch. John straightened, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder.
"Thank you." Rosie told them.
"Thank you? Why?"
"Because you're amazing parents." She said. "You're the best Dad ever. Sherlock's the best godfather ever. I love you two to bits, you know, right?"
John grinned. "Of course. And you know that you're probably the most brilliant kid in the world, yeah?"
"No."
"Christ, Rosie." John rolled his eyes. "Your mum is Mary Watson and you live in a flat with Sherlock bloody Holmes. You're brighter than most adults I know. And that means you can do anything once you're grown-up. Because you have brains and heart to go around, and that's all you need."
"Yes, that's right." Sherlock added. "Which means the world better watch out."
The sun glowed through the window; Rosie heard Mrs. Hudson humming to herself downstairs; it seemed as though Mary was smiled directly at them through her photograph.
"Why?" she asked, grinning, waiting to hear Sherlock's reply.
"Because," he winked, "ROSIE IS HERE!"