Elementary, My Dear Rosie

by amalspach

Most girls had ordinary relatives and only one father. Rosamund Watson was lucky enough to have one incredibly mixed up family and two fathers, all to herself. In other words, an AU taking off from the end of season four divided into three parts. Eventual Johnlock.

3. Part 3

Hi, I'm back!

And not after two months of procrastination, surprisingly. I caught a rather nasty cold - Isn't sickness great? - and was pretty much useless for the last several days. However, I'm still alive and capable of coherent thought, which meant I had to start working again and stop wasting time.

By the way, speaking of time wasting, has anybody else seen the Hillywood parody of Sherlock? It's amazing.

I binge watched all of their videos (especially Doctor Who - watching the time warp was mesmerizing for some reason) while I was ill. I think I'm in love with their productions.

Check it out!

Anyways, I'm going to stop talking and actually continue with the story now.

Hope you enjoy it!

---

"Thanks for coming, Molly," John says, smiling widely, and the woman slowly takes in the scene. The blonde man is wearing a fitted blue button up instead of a sweater - the one Mrs. Hudson purchased him last Christmas, she believes - and he smells odd. Not like tea leaves and 221B and London nights, but like . . . Well, she can't quite describe it, but Molly's sure she's experienced the scent before in a perfume catalog of sorts.

John Watson is wearing a nice shirt and cologne.

He was actually making an effort.

Her friend was seriously going through with this after all these years.

"I'm more than glad to come and spend the night with my favorite niece and the Doctor, John," she said, patting him on the shoulder and stepping inside. She thrust off her jacket and perched it on a coat rack, which had been Rosamund's present to her guardians on father's day. The fourteen year old had proclaimed that, in exact words, 'just because you two investigate crime scenes doesn't mean our landing has to look like one'. Lestrade had laughed about it for hours. "You make a telly marathon at your flat sound like some sort of favor." He scratches the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well, I know it's not exactly torture, but it's nice that you could come over on such short notice just for Rosamund."

"Like I'd let you miss your first date, John," she quips, rolling her eyes, but the doctor turns slightly pinker all the same.

"It's not so much a date as it is us eating outside the house. We're just getting some thai," he said, tugging at his sleeves. "I mean, we're not exactly made for romance. I just got off work, got cleaned up, and - "

"It's a date!" called Rosamund from upstairs. She emerged in the stairwell with a grin. "Stop trying to be all secretive and sneaky. The whole world knows it's a date." John Watson frowned, looking rather murderous, but Rosie bounded down to the landing, all fits and giggles and without a trace of unease. "What? It's true."

That, Molly could affirm.

You see, it wasn't exactly hard to notice the subtle shift in the dynamic of Watson and Holmes. There had always been lingering brushes, unwavering eye contact, and communication without speaking a word, and these notations only increased in their frequency and potency when the Watsons moved into 221B. However, since their clear foray past the lines of friendship and into the realm of an ominous, rather ill-defined 'something more', something had slipped. John had the rather embarrassing habit of flushing whenever anybody brought up the nature of their relationship, and Sherlock treated him with an air of closeness that wasn't there previously. It was an odd, if not tender change, the addition of warmth in the air. It's the way he carefully examines John after a particularly trying chase, making sure he is still alive and still there, an urge he has diligently made sure to suppress or ignore in years prior. It's the way he asks the man silly questions, almost unnoticeable boughts of irregularity, like 'how was you day' or 'are you tired' or 'you are okay, right'. It's the way he grips his hand tightly after the success of a case, squeezing it firmly and not pulling away for a second.

John never shoved him off or frowned or jerked abruptly in surprise at these strange notions. Instead, he reveled in them, savored them, the acts of acceptance and enjoyment written in everything he did.

It's clear, to those who knew where to look, that Sherlock Holmes was letting his guard down for once, allowing the world to know he was smitten as opposed to stashing away his feelings, and John Watson was just as pleased. Of course, it was easy to follow and observe this change in dynamic - many of them had guessed at its romantic inclination over the years, and the fact that it was just now coming to light did little to affect that fundamental. However, their efforts to 'take things slowly' or 'keep it under wraps' seemed to pale, due to this longstanding commitment, but this was their business. Let them handle romanticisms how they will.

Still, Rosie was right, and it was a little ridiculous, seeing John Watson, a mature, adult man, be nervous and antsy and flustered as a schoolboy for something as simple as going out to eat with a colleague. When it came to Sherlock Holmes, an air of dramatics and a healthy dose of unusual followed around anyhow, though - perhaps the element of ridiculousness was called for. In an event, the army doctor had made a concerted effort and actually cared about the outcome - this was what made it a date, so far.

Fat lot of good that would do, though, to get John to admit to anything. He really thought they could manage to cultivate something without the press or the investigative team or even Rosamund shoving their noses in. And she was Rosie Watson, a girl much akin to a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out her fathers' relationship status, or lack thereof in the years previous. Nevertheless, this was the world they lived in, and nothing Molly could say or do would change them. It's simply in their nature.

"I really wish I could ground you, somedays," John finally said, glaring at his daughter without much effort. He sounded exasperated. "Unfortunately, Sherlock's gotten to you, blast him. You're just as likely to unhinge your door or slip out the window or blow holes in the wall as retaliation. Grounding doesn't really work, does it?" As Rosie shrugged, actually taking that comment seriously.

"You could try, but it wouldn't do a lick of good," Rosamund eventually affirmed. "I've got an awful lot of Dad in me, huh?" The doctor considered this for a moment.

"You know, I think I need to send a card to your grandparents," the blonde man sighed, reacting much as if the revelation had hit him right between the eyes. "A thank you card. And a very long one, at that." The teenager cocked her head.

"Why a thank you card?"

"To thank them for raising Sherlock and Mycroft without going bloody wankers. God, they're both hard enough to handle on their own, but can you imagine what it must have been like to wrangle the both at age five? And then their teenage years . . ." John's face was the depiction of pure terror. "It's a miracle they're survived this long, actually. Or past the first ten years of parenthood, period."

Molly tried to stifle her encroaching laughter. As she's learned in her many years as companion to the residents of 221B Baker Street, you cannot allow yourself to treat everything its occupants say or do without some sort of levity - otherwise you will be weathered by severity and become depressed, or insensitive to horrors altogether, which might possibly be worse. It's an occupational hazard of disregarding the warnings and becoming friends to a high functioning sociopath and his familial entourage.

Still, Sherlock Holmes as a petulant five year old?

However had the world survived?

"How horrific," Molly commented, anyhow.

"Quite."

"I almost want to tell Dad you said that," Rosie interrupted, cutting into the conversation once more. "The thought of sending a card to Grandma and Grandpa Holmes, thanking them for anything, would probably drive him up a wall. You'd be sleeping on the couch for a month." Watson ran a hand over his face.

"Rosie, just go and set up the telly, won't you?" She pouted viciously but did as she was told, walking into the living area and slipping a Doctor Who disc inside of a player. John watched her leave, frowning in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

If nothing else, it could be said with conviction that John Watson adored his family, possibly more than life itself.

"Just to be on the safe side, though, you won't say anything, right?" he responded, and Molly almost found it funny that he was concerned.

"My lips are sealed, John," she assured anyhow.

"221B carries sound remarkably well, wouldn't you agree?" comes the cold, analytical, yet somehow amused rumbling of another voice, and she nearly falls backwards when she realizes he's right there.

"Sherlock! Oh my god, what was that for?" the woman says, trying to catch her breath after jumping back almost three feet. John looks just as startled, but the pale white of fright seems to have canceled out the rosy tones of before, and his skin appears nearly normal now.

"Fun," he replies simply, with no further explanation. A smile quirks at the edges of his lips. "Perhaps a minuscule observation or two." Molly slapped him on the chest, regardless.

"Well just don't do that, you're going to give me a heart attack some day!"

"Nonsense. We have a capable doctor on our hands - you would survive the shock," he intoned, dismissing the thought as though the very notion was preposterous. "And in the unlikely circumstance that you needed resuscitation, I have the necessary implements for the procedure on hand. You'd be absolutely fine." she glared fiercely, anyhow.

"You're horrid, sometimes."

"Possibly, but I'm sure you've all grown accustomed to it by now. If not, you ought to have walked away a long time ago." He's grinning, now, and so is John, and she is simply not made for anger. She cannot keep ahold of the feeling for more than a matter of minutes, so she sighs and smiles with them.

"A burden I'm forced to bear," the brunette states instead, hugging John and patting Sherlock on the arm, before moving into the living room after her niece. "Have fun on your date, by the way!" John blushes once more but doesn't correct her, sliding his wallet into his pocket.

"Ready to go, Sherlock?"

"Of course." As they leave through the door, Sherlock pauses, slipping on his coat and turning back towards Molly. "And, we will."

"Good, then," she affirms, shooing them away with a flick of her wrist. The entrance slams shut in a rather satisfying manner behind them.

Now it is just her and Rosie, alone with a stack of Doctor Who programs.

Paradise, almost.

"Sit down, it's starting," begs her niece, brandishing the remote much like a sword. "I've got snacks."

"Aren't you a little old to ask me to babysit?" Molly questions as she settles down next to her. "I mean, I thought you'd hate having someone watch you. You were always so independent, you know." Rosamund shrugged.

"I like asking you to come over when they leave. It's nice, spending time with my aunt." And damn it all if that wasn't such a good answer. Molly nearly cried for no reason.

She hadn't been part of a huge family, growing up. Her father had died in her teenage years and she didn't have any aunts or uncles. Her maternal grandmother and mother were her only relatives, and even then, her gran had been in a bad way for years. She passed off a little less than a decade ago, and now it was just Molly and her mum, alone together.

Except for her friends, of course. She had Mrs. Hudson, who was practically another mother, and John, who was quite a kind, strong man, and she fancied him as something of a brother, if she had ever had one. Sherlock was slightly harder to place, as she used to have a crush the size of the moon on him for ages, but eventually she learned to consider him as a close friend, if not an easily disgruntled one, or perhaps the person her 'brother' was dating. Their feelings were far from platonic, anyways, so that part didn't much matter. Mycroft, in the few times she had met him, came off as a well-meaning, slightly odd and severe, estranged cousin. He cared, but at a concealed distance - it's far less easy to get hurt that way, but she knew Mycroft did love them, in his own strange version. Their parents, Sherlock and Mycroft's, were delightful, almost like in laws, which she obviously didn't possess yet, as one needs to be married to have in laws.

This very likely wouldn't happen. She knows that she isn't the prettiest, or the smartest, or the strongest, and that hasn't ever bothered her. She wanted to get married and have children and start a family - preferably a big one, so that nobody would ever be alone, so it would never go back to her and her mother and nothing - but that was simply not how it panned out.

In a way, she did raise children, through Rosamund. Her niece, for all the empty title meant, was a big part of her entire world. She loved Rosie fiercely, and she was the closest to a daughter she would ever get to having. But there was no mistaking who her actual parents were, and Rosie adored them. Molly was there, too, as her aunt, as Rosamund had just stated, and that was enough. That was always enough.

Greg Lestrade, she never quite knew where to put on her family tree. Frankly, she was just honored to consider him as part of it, part of the family. He's been good to all of them, over the years, but he never quite fit the mold of 'brother' or 'close friend' or 'estranged cousin' like the other men in her life did. He's a bit of a wild card, and for now she's just contentedly shuffled him into the territory of 'best friend'. He's the closest she's got to one, she supposes. She doesn't have that many friends, and all of them are raving mad, anyways, but he jokes with her at every single one of Rosie's rugby games. He brings her coffee on the rare occasions he has to barge into the morgue for investigative duties, and he's always willing to listen to her or comment on her work or just thank her for putting up with all of this craziness.

He's her friend, and she gets the feeling he doesn't have much of anybody either.

But surely she can't keep him confined to such an oddly shaped role forever. She has to find a more permanent place for Lestrade, somewhere, and in the past few months it has messed with her mind, not being able to pinpoint a spot that someone so dear to her should be occupying.

"Aunt Molly, are you okay? You spaced out for a second," Rosie questions, nose scrunched up. Her smile loosens, though, when she realizes the pun. "Spaced out. Doctor Who. I'm a genius." The brunette shakes the confusion out of her skull and ruffles Rosamund's hair.

"Clever as always."

She was, wasn't she?

"Oh, here's the good part! I love this episode," the teenager sighed, burying her face into Molly's shoulder and the couch cushions. "Ten is great."

"I'm rather partial to Capaldi, myself," she hummed, immersing herself in the telly program. "He's my favorite version, I believe."

"Really? Why not Eleven or Nine or someone else? Those are the usual favorites."

"I don't know, actually. Twelve was just . . . well presented, I guess. You really get a feel for him as a character, and he portrays the Doctor beautifully."

"Ah. I still think Ten is great, though."

"Of course."

Their marathon stretched long into the night. After nearly six hours of Doctor Who, Sherlock and John reemerged. They were laughing as they headed into the stairwell, hanging up coats and removing shoes with a joviality rarely witnessed in the duo. Their hands, as she took care to notice, had been clasped together when they first opened the door, and even as they trudged up the stairs, their fingers instinctively angled towards eachother, as if trying to brush.

It's sweet, she thinks. It's nice to see them happy.

For a brief moment, she wonders if she could have had that, too. With some faceless man, in some indefinite time.

Perhaps she's been expending too much thought on this. There's no use pining after what you cannot have.

"It was great," is all John chooses to reveal on their night out, and frankly this is all that Molly expected he would share. He's found some sort of solace in whatever relationship he and Sherlock have cultivated, and giving out all the details might spoil the effect. It's all so new, an official romance, and he's reluctant to mess it up yet.

However, he's not blushing out of embarrassment or being caught off guard, and he's smiling widely. John Watson is more at ease, happier, and this is evident in every line of his face. That tells her everything she would have wanted to glean about their date - as long as they're alright, she's more than content to leave the rest alone.

Rosamund isn't so easily satisfied. She pokes and prods and analyzes her fathers with scrutiny, hoping to gain new information on the state of their romantic entanglement. It's slightly ironic, actually; most girls her age are obsessed with bands, boys, and beauty, while Rosie is far more interested in her parents' private life, advanced chemistry, and the art of deduction.

Even Rosamund's intense prying couldn't shake their matching grins, though, and as she fires questions at them, John and Sherlock exchange glances in an unspoken communication. Molly can't tell if they're bemused or annoyed or, just possibly, a healthy mix of both, but reading people has never been her strong suit. She will leave that to them.

In the next month, they go out another four times.

By the third, they have had a grand total of nine dates.

The fifth marks a solid fifteen forays, many of which Molly has 'babysat' for.

Sometimes Lestrade would accompany - Mrs. Hudson, too, once or twice, but mainly Lestrade. Molly still hasn't decided where to place him in the grand scheme of things. She adores him - he's a wonderful companion, kind, and genuine, and that's far more than what she could say for most of the other men she's encountered - but has no idea what to make of his presence. She loves being around him, and hanging out with him and Rosie while Watson and Holmes were away was great, but she can never quite decipher her feelings on the matter.

She's rubbish at feelings. Always has been. She has a nasty way of investing her heart into things and people that betray her, that are unreachable, that let her down - sometimes all three. The brunette, for all her kindness, has learned to lock up her emotions and tuck them in a drawer, right next to romantic notions. When Rosamund was born, she knew she wanted to be someone the girl could count on, and Molly didn't want a string of heartbreak to get in the way of that. She couldn't take care of people while crushed and in pieces again.

Sure, she had friends she loved dearly. They were not friends, they were family members. She had passions, likes and dislikes, affections. But indicators of crushes she shut down in record time, kept tidily away.

Maybe she was having so much trouble placing Lestrade, in the last few months, because he was a friend that wouldn't betray her, had an actual interest in her, laughed at her jokes, and spent times with her out of want and not obligation. Maybe she could never give him a more permanent role besides 'best friend', over the years in Rosie's life that they'd come to know eachother in, because she was afraid of falling for him, too. Sherlock Holmes, for god's sake, was bad enough. Greg Lestrade would be far worse. He could never hide behind stoic attitudes and severity - he would tell her outright that he thought she was lovely, but not in that way.

Being crushed is ever so hard. Picking up the pieces would be awful.

She couldn't subject herself to that again.

Rosie might suspect, though. She smiles at them, more of a smirk, really, when she thinks they can't see her. Greg finds it amusing.

Molly finds it terrifying. She has witnessed the matchmaking frenzies her niece can create - she doesn't wish to be the subject of one.

Still, when they went to the theater, an old woman in the box cooed over the three of them.

"You've got such a nice family, sir," she mentioned, beaming softly. Lestrade lifted an eyebrow but didn't correct her, turning around with the tickets (he had insisted on buying for all of them, which was typical, actually - damn him and his consideracy).

"Thank you," he replied instead, lips quirking up.

And then, at the parlor:

"Here's your tea, Molly," he said, dropping off a tall cup. It seemed odd, being out of the morgue and the labs and not being the one to get other people's beverages.

"Peppermint," she had noted, sipping carefully so as to not spill everything down her blouse. He had shrugged.

"It's your favorite, if memory serves."

"That it does. It's very nice of you - you didn't have to do that, you know."

"I wanted to." And that was that.

She could scarcely forget about a week ago either, when Greg made dinner for the three of them.

Actual food.

Not takeout.

This couldn't be reality, for she wasn't even certain the men in her life knew how to cook at all, let alone prepare entire meals without supervision. There was a reason Rosamund struck out on her own when it came to food. Anything Sherlock even attempted to produce could hardly be deemed edible, anyhow.

"I'm here," Molly had declared from the entrance, hastily removing her things. "Sorry I didn't get to see off your fathers, but traffic was hellacious, and - "

"Food's ready!" Lestrade called instead, and as she walked up to the kitchen she saw that he had a pot on the stove. It was filled with spaghetti, not entrails, for once, and it smelled like it was made for human consumption.

"Did you actually make something? For us?"

"It's boiled noodles and canned sauce, but if that makes it sound more impressive, yes," he remarked, smiling. "I heard Rosie chatting up the movie marathon tonight while Sherlock and John were away and she invited me to join. I figured you wouldn't want to fuss over cooking yourself, after your shift, so . . . "

"Thanks, really," she responded. And she meant it.

"Nothing special, but I have survived this long. It's no trouble, actually."

Still, he did things such as this for no reason other than he liked it. Greg Lestrade enjoyed looking out for the common man - this was what his entire life was devoted to, to making the world a better place in whatever ways he could, and his job and habits reflected those principals.

Rosie, no doubt, finds all of this adorable.

Molly tries to focus on the way John's smiles have gotten wider, the way Sherlock's scathing commentaries on the stupidity of mankind have become rarer. She tries to ignore the examining of Greg Lestrade.

They are happier, her friends, in the moments where people cannot see them. Blonde and black locks, far more effortlessly intertwined. It's precious, what they have, and though it is tentative it seems unbreakable. She's never been prouder to call them her family than when they reappear at 221B Baker Street, the best versions of themselves. An incredible uplift is present.

"You know how Dad and Daddy were acting like idiots for years and years?" Rosamund tells her at the return of her fathers from date fifteen, the most recent one. Molly nodded her affirmations. "I love you, Aunt Molly, but don't be like them. You're way too clever for that."

"Not nearly as clever as your parents, I'm sure," she said wryly. The blonde shook her head.

"It's a different kind of clever. Girls, I've found, are better at it," Rosie stated bluntly before departing, hugging her detectives fiercely. Molly was still ruminating on those words when Lestrade slipped over, grabbing his coat and slipping it on with reluctance. His eyebrows were scrunched, as if he, too, was thinking hard about things and trying to reach a revelation.

She sincerely hoped Rosamund hadn't consulted him, too.

"Molly?" Well then. He looked focused enough - clearly he had stopped thinking and had reached a decision.

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to go get coffee, sometime?" he asked, zipping up his jacket firmly and staring at her, waiting for a decision.

He wasn't flushed, was he?

"Not to be presumptuous, but . . . like a date?" The words came out more awkward, and far, far more hopeful than she intended.

"I mean . . ." He trailed off, not knowing what to say. "I mean, it doesn't have to be. Not if you don't want it to be."

"But, to be clear, you'd be alright with it? A date," the brunette added, slightly too quickly, and she silently cursed herself for doing this. Years without romance had obviously robbed her of proper social graces.

"I think I'd like that, yes," Greg states back, and now, for sure, she could make out streaks of red on his face. She wondered what it was about courting that made men so fidgety. Mind you, she probably wasn't much better, but still. "I'm asking you out on a date. This seemed like a much better idea in my head, I'll admit. I haven't done this in a while."

"You're not doing all that bad so far. You haven't fallen into a coma of fear yet, so fingers crossed."

"Yes, well, small blessings," he laughed, and it was at that point that Molly remembered the good officer needed an answer.

"I'd love to," she found herself saying, in a rush of unplanned thought.

"Great. Friday, then, after work?"

"Sounds good."

They parted, with Greg walking out the door to his own residence and Molly greeting the consulting detectives of 221B again. Sherlock makes a haughty remark about the cabbie and John chides him, and Rosamund and the brunette laugh at their childish ways. All the while, she thinks of friday.

She supposes she knows where she can put Lestrade on her family tree after all.

---

Sherlock Holmes is convinced that this is a dream, or a bizarre, lengthy acid trip. He is not accustomed to things running smoothly, to relationships panning out. And that is what he finds himself in, to the surprise of most. An actual, functioning, healthy, adult relationship with a normal, loyal, handsome, intelligent man.

The detective is entirely certain that this cannot be. It contradicts everything he's known to be true about himself in relation to others; he recognizes that he is careless with word choice and very good at offending people, makes great messes all around his flat and would be swimming in filth had it not been for his roommate and Mrs. Hudson, is prone to the insatiable and the dramatic when it comes to annoyance, and has a very nasty habit of driving everyone in a thousand foot radius far, far away with his general disposition. Sherlock is not compatible with the world, nor its inhabitants, and this has simply been a fact of life before John and those who followed.

As time went along, he allowed for exceptions to be made, attachments to be had. Still, the romantic variety eluded him, mostly out of self inflicted choice, because love did not end well. As Mycroft was so fond of reminding him, caring was not an advantage. Sherlock had taken this to mean it was a luxury, and one he could ill afford.

John, as in all things, strained at the confines of these new rules. He invaded house and meals and work and even, eventually, the detective's bed, bringing a child along with him. It was Watson's fault, though, in the end. The doctor was just loveable, as juvenile as it sounded, with his silly and rather shapeless woolen jumpers and his oversized stuffy chair and his endless patience and understanding and selflessness. There was no way to describe him other than good, other than decent or honorable, no matter what. The simple act of texting a woman besides his wife had filled him with guilt, and even at his maddest, he never abandoned Sherlock or their cases.

John Watson, somehow, had evolved beyond being just John Watson. He was his partner, and more than that, his home, as stupid and unresolved as that notion seemed. And Rosamund, of course, was lumped right alongside her father, reserved a seat of honor.

Still, Sherlock has no idea why their little thing, their relationship made more than platonic, is going so bloody well. It's improbable to the highest degree, and likely to be a hallucination, no matter how much he hopes it is true.

"I have no clue what I'm supposed to be doing," John said the instant they arrived at the thai place on their first date (yes, an actual date, Sherlock really wishes everyone would just get over it already). "I haven't been out for so long, and I know you better than I've ever known anyone. I haven't the foggiest how to . . . I don't know, proceed? Going forward?"

"Are you implying that I understand how this is going to work, John?" he had replied, almost smirking, though with nervousness filtering through. It was maddening, not being able to predict the outcomes of conversations; he usually never had these problems with John. "Please. I'm not that good."

"Let's pretend, for a split second, you aren't. Fine by me; we both get that you're bloody brilliant, though," the doctor responded, taking a swig of water. Sherlock, as always, straightened under the praise as though preening. "You said you wanted whatever I did, more or less. I guess I've just got to lay it out now, then?"

"That would be best," he drawled, for once out of his element. Dating - such strange, treacherous waters. Why did he have to fall for anybody at all, let alone Watson?

"I don't know what you were thinking, but I am not the type to take things lightly in a relationship. I'm rather all or nothing, I'm afraid. A bit of a turn off for all the girls I used to go with," he said, pausing as if sorting through memories. "It rarely lasted wrong. I'm not going to lie, I'm rather new to this. Never really considered blokes. But I'm here, until the finish line, if you are." There was an unspoken question lying in the air, and 'are you?', the source of unease in their dynamic. Uncertainty on John's part that the genius had never even considered possible.

"Of course I am, idiot, what would make you think otherwise?" The relief across Watson's face was palpable.

"Alright, then. I guess I can stop being an awkward sod."

"Never. I've come to appreciate that quality."

"Is this seriously how it's going to be all the time, now?" Sherlock took a single sip of his beverage.

"I should hope so, John. For a very, very long while." This was how it started, he thinks. John's descent into a committed relationship once more was a startling, very ordinary conversation, and yet a lever had been pulled.

They left the restaurant, went on a walk for no reason at all, fed the ducks, and did several other activities of little to no great significance. It was a foreign concept, doing things because you felt the urge to and for no alternative reason, and yet it was invigorating, going metaphorically 'off book'.

Sherlock nearly brained a duck with a particularly stale cracker, though. John tried not to die of laughter. The animal in question appeared haughty, its beady eyes fixed on the consulting detectives in a manner resembling a glare of disdain.

When they finally arrived back at 221B, their hands were swinging together in an amiable, rather pleasant, fashion. He couldn't quite recall how they became intertwined, but it didn't much matter - John was happy, he was happy, for once, and that was the underlying takeaway.

Their future experiences didn't deviate much, and all of his extensive couple knowledge came from common media. They were not the worst of cliches or an overly affectionate grouping; Sherlock was still Sherlock, though more possessive and less disparaging over proximity, and John was still accustomed to professionalism on the job and had a fondness of keeping private life private, as per his military background. Still, there was the usual - winding embraces, knitted fingers, and yes, kisses, which were a very enjoyable regular occurrence after their third date.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Watson had declared suddenly, and Holmes had lifted an eyebrow but hadn't protested.

"Now?"

"Now."

"You know, you don't have to if you don't want - "

"What part of 'now' was so hard to understand?" And just like that, there had been lips on lips and a low, out of nowhere moan, accompanied by the fumbling of palms trying to find purchase. A most satisfying turn of events.

However, all in all, they were still just as close as ever, just in a different context than before. Its origins were tangled and its emergence was rudimentary at best, but they were growing something. Something strong, something solid, something utterly fantastic and never before seen.

Sherlock is almost entirely certain he is in love with his partner, which makes this whole thing so strange. He's been steadily falling for quite a long time, he believes. This is why, after a year of midnight violin practices, silly outings, exchanged snogs, cups of tea, and simply being together, he rolls over in their bed and pokes his significant other awake. He has something he's wanted to say for an achingly great period and it's been keeping him up.

"John?"

"Yes?" he says, combating a yawn fiercely. His limbs still droop, the sleep clinging to them, and his eyelids are struggling to remain peeled back.

"Do you remember Reichenbach?" Suddenly, the doctor is far more awake. His arms, despite their apparent heaviness, wind around the genius' back in a comforting way, drawing him nearer.

"How could I forget? I thought I'd lost you." The break in his voice had dulled over the years, reduced only to a clip hovering over the word 'lost', but it is still audible to those who knew where to look.

"As I was looking down at the street, knowing I might never see you again, even as you were talking to me, I wanted . . . " He fumbled, briefly, for the right phrases, a way to make John understand. "I realized I dreaded leaving. Not London, but you and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else. That you would kill me more than the fall." The blonde paused, taking that in, running his hand in little circles over Sherlock's side as he mulled things over.

"I think I died, slightly. I was never the same afterwards," John said finally, looking his partner dead in the eyes. "You're not the only one who fell apart, but at least you came back."

"You hated me when I did."

"I never hated you. I hated that you never let me know that you were alive, that you were alright. I had ripped myself to pieces over you and it was like you didn't care enough to . . ." He couldn't finish it. There was nothing else to say that Sherlock didn't already puzzle out for himself.

"You're wrong." John's frown spelled out his confusion. "I cared too much to go back. We'd both be complete messes if I had reappeared, out of nowhere, only to leave again. And trust me, John, I wouldn't have been able to leave again." He crinkled his nose, though the consulting detective could perceive the way his companion took every word to heart.

"You didn't realize it then, did you? At the fall. It was later." Sherlock smiles wryly.

"Your wedding, actually." John's eyelids are no longer drooping.

"What the bloody hell, Holmes? Why didn't you say something?!"

"You were happy, John," he said softly, shifting closer still. "I was not going to be the one to take that from you. It was the least I could do, after all we'd been through. You deserved happiness."

"That doesn't mean you have to be excluded from it, you know. You could have bullied your way back in."

"And wouldn't that have been just typical, you know. Sherlock Holmes, always in the middle of things." The sentences were laced in unintentional bitterness. John sighed and pulled his partner's head onto his shoulder.

"When, exactly?"

"I think I always said it, throughout everything," he continued, everything muffled through John's shift sleeve. "The toast, especially. Even in all the planning. But seeing you and Mary, after your vows, with Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, all smiling and occupied . . . I had just signed you away forever. You were Mary's, not mine. And that was when I knew that whatever I was feeling was never going to go away." He laughed without humor. "Emotions are so bloody inconvenient, aren't they?"

"Sherlock . . . " John pulled back to look at him, searching his face for something unreadable. Sherlock, for once, was incapable of thinking anything. John had never subjected him to such scrutiny before, and certainly not this late - even full nights of sleep, something he had come to see the usefulness if not the enjoyment in, were rare, and he would often climb in and out of bed at three hour intervals. Actually staying in bed, being wrapped around his partner and slipping into unconsciousness long enough to become drowsy before reawakening, was new. The detective was not accustomed to so many irregularities at once. "You never said it out loud, you know."

Whatever he was expecting the doctor to eventually say, that certainly wasn't it.

The dark haired man blinked in response.

"Excuse me?"

"You never actually told me you loved me. It would have saved an awful lot of time."

"I wasn't a potential match, John. I was your flatmate, and somehow your friend, not some doxy you could hold hands with by the fireplace. It would have made everything go sour." John let out a puff of air softly, as if, for once, Sherlock was the idiot and him the overtly superior genius, surprised that the answer wasn't obvious.

"Sherlock, what you fail to grasp is that you were not a doxy that I went out with for a few weeks at a time. You were far, far more permanent. That would have kept everything from going sour or you from bottling yourself up, not silence." It was as if a lightbulb had gone off.

"So you're saying . . . "

"I don't know what I'm saying, actually. But I would have given it my best shot, if you were going to be with me through it," he admitted, gazing down at their intertwined hands beneath the sheets. "We're a good fit." Sherlock opened his mouth, preparing to speak or to possibly elaborate, but he paused, gathering that John might have more to voice. "I daresay I might have adored you from the start." Sherlock balks again, for it really is too early, for once, to be dealing with such heavy, if not welcome, revelations.

He's not accustomed to repeated boughts of shock. He imagines it's most unbecoming.

"You can say something, Sherlock. I think I've made my position in all this quite clear." Watson almost appears nervous again, in a way he hasn't been since the very start of their reconfiguration. The words, after that, roll out effortlessly.

"I love you, John." A simple, fleeting statement, but it makes a world of difference, and his partner looks at him as though he just offered up the moon.

"I love you too, you absolute nuisance. Now sleep, please, because we have work in the morning."

"How droll." John snorted, re-situating himself into something more comfortable, an arm lazily thrown across his companion's shoulders.

"You act like you don't enjoy your livelihood. You live for it, you know."

"So do you. At least I don't relive it surreptitiously through blog posts, John." There was a moan muffled by the covers.

"The blog? Really?"

"Oh come on, you were asking for it. Rosamund could have avoided that pothole better."

"Good night, Sherlock." In a genuine, brilliant smile, the detective responded.

"Night, John."

And, strangely enough, both men slept through the entire night.

---

Rosamund Watson is, really, the best of both worlds when it comes to her school life.

She's popular, which is to be expected. She's fair skinned, blonde, and very fit from her rugby years. She isn't the perfect specimen, no, but she's always acknowledged her good looks (or, to be more accurate, other people have always acknowledged them - 'you're so beautiful, didn't you know?') and though there are better looking individuals at her academy, Rosie oozed the self assurance that comes from being the adopted child of Sherlock Holmes. She's taken great lengths to carefully sidestep vanity or entitlement, of course, but a confidence and a hardy faith in her abilities have been thoughtfully nurtured.

Also, she seemed to have inherited the natural Watson down-to-earth attitude, as well as an air of amiability, in addition to her pretty features and sports talent. Rosie has always been excellent at reading people, at putting them at ease, and she's good at making friends. Though none were quite so close to her as Reyna, who was practically the other half of her brain at this point, Rosamund held a space in her heart for all of her many relations at school, and she was generally known as 'the popular girl' or 'the golden child' because of it. This was just in her nature. This was just who she was.

The second, slightly more surprising component of Rosamund's identity to any outsider, was her mental capacities. Rosamund was clever to a fault, and her deductions, when she did make them, were almost always spot on. She'd displayed a wonderful eye for details at a young age and, under the care of her guardians, had only expanded upon her capabilities. She was a whiz at chemistry, repeatedly producing perfect grades on all of her exams, and all of her teachers were blown away by her knowledge. Her projects were impeccable, her independent study undertakings even more so. Rosamund was simply brilliant, an absolute genius, with an IQ and a series of breathtaking scores to prove it.

These qualities served her well, making her the beloved of her school without much effort. Rosie couldn't give a flying fig about popularity, honestly - her loyalties lied with her friends and family, her interests in academics, and her heart in the detective work her parents performed. And, at age seventeen, she was eager to start taking up the Holmes-Watson mantle.

"Dad, can I join you on the next case?" she had asked, cornering her dark haired father on a rare occasion when he was alone. She chose a moment when John was out getting groceries, his phone nicked from his pocket by Rosie herself and laid in her room. Mrs. Hudson was wearing headphones and vacuuming a floor away. Lestrade and Molly were out, and the windows were securely fastened.

In other words, Rosamund had taken every possible precaution to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't have a distraction, and therefore an excuse to dodge the question.

Instead of attempting to dodge, though, he blinked.

"What did you ask? For clarification, of course."

"Dad, I want to help out on your next job. Like a real field agent. I know I can help. I know I could be useful." He stared at her, most likely scouring his mind palace and contemplating all possible outcomes of that proposal, before puckering his lips.

"Your father would have mixed feelings about this, you know. Rosamund, our work can get dangerous - John Watson hates when you get paper cuts or when I stub a toe. He wouldn't want you to get yourself into anything that could potentially get violent while you're still in school."

"Of course he doesn't. He's dad," she says coolly, crossing her arms. "And that's why I'm asking you. You won't coddle me - you'll give me a direct answer. Could I? Do you think I'd be ready?" Sherlock directs his gaze back across her form a second time, as if he is seeing her and yet not seeing her at all, or perhaps just looking through her entirely.

"Well, we shouldn't let you get bored at 221B by yourself. I can hardly blame you for wanting to see your parents at work," he responds, the false innocence dripping off of his sentences like honey, and she passes him a devious, lopsided smirk. He exchanges it with fervor.

So. Rosamund is finally following in her fathers' footsteps.

A bit of a nasty shock for one doctor when Sherlock and his daughter, who had just gotten off of rugby practice, had showed up together at a crime scene.

"Why is Rosie here and not at the flat?" he had asked, turning pale as a sheet.

"Because she wants to observe us in our natural element, so to speak. Don't most people do research on their future careers before applying?"

"She's not most people, she's a seventeen year old who's still in her sports uniform, Sherlock. When I said I was heading over to the scene and told you to hurry up, I didn't mean for you to bring Rosamund along."

"Honestly, John, she's not an invalid. She's ours, after all. And I gave her permission to come, actually."

"Without consulting me?"

"I knew you'd say no."

"Well, maybe bringing Ro to the place where a family was just brutally murdered several hours ago didn't have much appeal." Sherlock snorted loudly.

"Maybe me kissing you for the next week doesn't have much appeal." The blonde narrowed his eyes.

"You wouldn't."

"Why are you so sure, John?"

"It would be a punishment for you, too."

"True, but then again, you'd still have to deal with my sour attitude for the duration of the week. A vicious cycle, I'm afraid, but an annoyance doled out in two doses. Surprisingly effective." Predictably, her father caved. However, after a few minutes of adjustment to the sudden presence of his child in a crime scene, it was easy to see that John had already accepted this.

More than accepted this, he expected it to happen again. He was resigned to the antics of Sherlock, naturally, after being in constant contact with the difficult man for over twenty years. So, when Rosamund was pulled along to the next case, and the next one, he simply stopped casting inquisitive glances in his partner's direction. Instead, he merely made comments on school and rugby and dinner while investigating the scene and the astounding number of bodies. Seriously, with the amount of murders her parents got called in to solve, it was amazing that the morgues weren't overrun with dead people.

And, of course, now there was this case, her very own pet project.

Rosamund had never been more excited.

"Figure this out," Sherlock had voiced in his usual deadpan, dropping a thin file over her lap and picking up his violin. "Think of it as a test run, or a practice for the real world." Then he began fingering his instrument, weaving over the strings with his bow and drowning in the music, and she realized he was beyond her reach.

" . . . Alright then, I guess I'll just . . . " Rosamund had opened the slim parchment to find notes on a mystery.

A mystery she would get to solve, all on her own, without any assistance from her fathers.

To say she was ecstatic was an understatement.

Quickly, she skimmed over the details enclosed inside. The short of it was that a new play, a recently recovered Shakespeare script (more accurately, its foul papers, or the very first draft) that had never seen the light of day, was to be released in the fall by one historian Nathan Henderson. The play, performed by a hand selected cast of Henderson, was going to be viewed for the first time in a theater in a month or two, and the ticket sales were sure to be enormous. The majority of Shakespeare enthusiasts and researchers were raving about the find, and the original document was going to be printed in mass and then later sold itself. However, it seemed that some individuals had doubts to whether or not the manuscript was authentic or not.

This was where her fathers had apparently come in.

Thinking that this would be a good starter for her, Sherlock had asked the publisher Nathan was working with for a copy of the work in circulation before its release. Rosie assumed that he threatened the poor man by bringing up some old affair or a regrettable drug habit, but she certainly wasn't complaining about this line of methodology. A case was afoot.

Rosie frowned. She hadn't found the iconic plays of Shakespeare that interesting in school - many people liked them, and she was fine with that, but they had always seemed slightly stupid to her. People behaved in idiotic, unrealistic ways in many of his most famous works, such as Romeo & Juliet. No romance at all - just lust addled teenagers making horrible life choices on a whim. How facinating.

However, there was one person she knew who was enamored with writing, clever, and would be more than happy to partner up with Rosamund on this endeavor.

Yes, she was talking about Reyna.

Though she wasn't an amazing scientist, her dark haired best friend was great at math and the arts, and she could certainly keep up in a chase - she had been on the track team for the last three years. Reyna, who had taken advanced english and conducted many in-depth studies on Shakespeare as a part of her curriculum, would be perfect for this task.

So Rosamund texted her instantly.

Heyyyyyyy

Hey, Rosie! What's up?

How would you like to join me on a case?

You mean the detective work your dads do?

Yup, that stuff.

Ooooooooh, sounds cool

Yeah, well, this part won't be so exciting, but I probably won't be much use on it.

That's hard to believe . . .

It's Shakespeare, Reyna. SHAKESPEARE. Does that mean our school was right and analyzing those plays was supposed to have a real life application or something?

Mwahahaha

Reyna

No

You're supposed to be on my side!

And you said they were stupid

How's that working out for you now?

Poorly. But I don't need to care about the writing style of Shakespeare because I have my amazing best friend to help me look over the document.

Ah, I'm the sidekick.

Partner in crime, actually. Unless you WANT to be my sidekick . . .

Um, pass

We'll stick with 'partner in crime', Ro

You sure?

You could be the Robin to my Batman.

You'd look great in tights.

In your dreams, Rosamund. Like I'd be caught dead in tights.

Let's not forget the rest of the ensemble.

Hard no.

I'm starting to regret becoming friends with you.

Awwwwww . . .

You know you love me, though.

. . .

Reyna?

. . .

Reyna

Come back

I need you

I needs you

Reynaaaaaaaaaaa

I'm sorrrryyyyyyy

. . .

Please come back

I'll buy you coffee and everything!

. . . It better be a large

With extra creamer

Like, slathered in creamer

Drowning in it

Yes!

I knew I'd win you over eventually!

Geez, Rosie

You act like there was even half a chance I'd say no.

Real life detective work?

Please

We were born for this, Ro.

Well then, are you free?

When?

Right now and for the rest of the night. Possibly overnight. And then overnight for the next night. It's a friday, so . . .

Oh my god, Rosie

I'm not overkill, okay?

Yes you are, you're ridiculous

Why am I laughing instead of being creeped out?

Because you're awesome

Duh

I'll see you in thirty minutes, just let me pack up a bag.

Love you, Rey

Same, Ro

In thirty five minutes - yes, Rosamund counted, it's not that weird - Reyna appeared out of the back of a cab, holding her laptop, a coat, and a bulky black duffel bag. Rosie bypassed the bag entirely, giving her friend a lopsided hug from the side and practically dragging her upstairs in a fit excitement.

"Bloody hell, Ro, slow down a bit," the brunette grumbled halfheartedly, shrugging her away with little force. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are, and frankly I'm so ready for this I'm about to die. Don't worry, you can bunk on the other side of my bed. My dads don't mind that I'm stealing you away for the duration of the weekend, as you'll probably make sure I eat proper meals and look away from the documents periodically." She took a deep breath, blue eyes flashing with something that could only be described as pure joy. "Oh, and thanks for dropping everything to help me with this. In case I forget to say it later." Reyna, with a dramatic sigh, smiled.

"Honestly, Rosamund, what are best friends for if not to aid in questionable legal affairs?" The look the blonde passed her was nothing short of blinding.

"I'll put on a new kettle. Drop off your bags and we'll get started, then." Reyna shot her a sarcastic salute.

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Consulting detective, actually," she corrected without turning around. She could hear her best friend's laughter the entire way up the stairs.

Now, at first one might think that the groundbreaking investigative work required in a case is a riveting, edge-of-your-seat endeavor. This was Rosamund's impression of her parent's daily work, and on the whole, she wasn't wrong. This line of inquiry she was so desperate to fall into was dangerous, imploring, and very, very complex. However, every occupation has its lags, and the initial scouring of documents was far from the intense chase scenes and murders she had witnessed so far.

Especially when it was written entirely in Shakespearean.

Perhaps because it was written entirely in Shakespearean.

"Reyna, I'm bored," she bemoaned, getting up off her bed. Currently lying next to her was the girl in question, who shoved her friend in response.

"I thought this was your first assignment, Rosie. I know for a fact you enjoy reading."

"It's Shakespeare. You can actually tolerate the language."

"You know, I never got your hatred towards it," she remarked, rolling over to face the blonde at her left. "What was it about the stories that you disliked so much? Was it the cliche part, or . . . Well, you're not one to blindly develop a grudge based on cliche, but still."

"Too . . . ornamental, I guess. It's all flowery and meaningless and I loathe stupid characters in books. Give me a clever girl who doesn't go into the ominous back room in a horror movie, or a disgruntled teenager that actually listens to their parents when they say 'don't do drugs' or 'don't have sex' or 'don't hang out with them'. When people make idiotic decisions for no reason it's annoying." Reyna shrugged.

"I guess that's true. But you can't argue that the structuring, the development, and the commentary on the political aspects of the time aren't fascinating. That's something that persevered in his works that few other playwrights in that era managed to capture."

"It can still be dull and petty."

"Very, but can't anything be dull and petty in the right circumstance?" Rosamund scowled, though it didn't reach her eyes.

"I hate you. Feel free to leave."

"You're far too much like your dad, hasn't anybody told you?" Rosamund allowed a smug expression to flit over her features momentarily.

"Constantly, at the police force. Uncle Greg smirks every time and Daddy gets this look."

"A look that says what?"

"God help us all, of course." Reyna smacked her with a pillow, though she was smiling, too.

"And they're absolutely right. I'd be terrified, too." She returned to the document with a yawn. "Although we have been here for nearly five hours. I'm missing so many good programs on the telly for you."

"How dismal."

"Your vocabulary is worse than Shakespeare's in terms of ornamental, Rosamund." She snorted back, reluctantly laying back onto the bed and continuing with her reading.

"God, how dare you." Another ten minutes slipped by, and just as Rosie was about to suggest that they take a break for dinner, Reyna shot up, pumping her fists violently in the air. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Look, just look," she squealed, shoving the computer at Rosamund's lap with ferocity. Confused, the young Watson surveyed the page, coming to the bottom for a second time. Her eyes widened.

"Oh wow," she breathed, gazing at her laptop's document reverently. Reyna nodded quickly. "You bloody proved it, Rey."

"You're seeing it too, right?"

"The words 'red herring'? Why yes, I believe I am." But, just to be sure, she reread the exert:

Betrayed! Knocked asunder! O woe of woes!

I hath not known the feeling but by love's hand,

Our bridled passions melt to those of hated foes,

As he hath lead me astray into this merry band.

Deceit, a red herring, a fierce absence of mind,

O how have I remained so blind?

"And since you know, Rose, that the term red herring wasn't conceived until 1805 - "

" - when a news story conveyed the tale of a boy who lead dogs away from a trail using salted herrings as bait, yeah - "

" - and Shakespeare died in 1616 - "

" - this couldn't have been an original manuscript," Rosamund completed, face brightening. "Do you know what this means?"

"That we've unveiled the lucrative schemes of a faulty historian hoping to make money off of a supposedly lost Shakespearean play?"

"That too, but more to the point - " Rosamund paused, taking a moment to jump off the bed once more and grab a suitably dramatic coat with several pockets. " - it means we have a faulty historian to apprehend, as the case may be."

In less than five minutes, both girls had gathered their essentials - phones, wallets, credentials, a set of lock picks, a revolver and a pocket knife, so yes, the run-of-the-mill necessities - and were trampling downstairs.

"Daddy, Dad, we're going out. Don't shag on the kitchen counter while I'm gone," Rosamund yelled, already halfway down the stairs. John made an imploring noise of confusion from the depths of the kitchen, though it was impossible to tell if this was the response to her absence or to the miraculous discovery of another one of Sherlock's mad experiments. They piled into the back of a cab and headed off towards Nathan Henderson's lodgings.

"How did you know where he lived? He didn't say where in London he resided," Reyna commented halfway through the trip, giving her best mate an inquisitive look.

"Before you arrived I took the liberty of searching the internet for information on Henderson. Well, on social media he has a picture of his dog in his house, lying on a pristine wooden floor with light streaming in." She pulled up the photo once more for reference. "Since he has a dog in the first place, that eliminates everywhere in London that doesn't allow pets. He's a bachelor, with little family from what I could find, and so a flat for one was the logical option. As already noted, the dog is on a wooden floor, but the breed - a malamute in a city, of all places - is notorious for shedding, as are most big dogs. However, the wood around the animal is absolutely spotless. More than spotless, it still has the varnish on, so it's brand new. Not many new flats come standard with such expensive wooden flooring, especially not those that also allow pets, and since Henderson was already an established historian with a hefty income, he lives in a posh development. Now we must consider the proximity to his work and only one area is available. That still leaves about twenty units on the same strip. However, the light streaming into the room was tinted, reflecting shades of blue and purple onto the floor, meaning he had a stained glass window. And, according to the street view available on my cell, only one flat matched that description." She relaxed once more, dropping her voice of authority and replacing it with an easy smile. "It's simple, once you think about things objectively."

"You're incredible. Absolutely incredible," Reyna said with uttermost sincerity in her voice. "I mean it, Rosamund. You're the most brilliant person I've ever met." The blonde scoffed.

"Oh, now you're being ridiculous. You've met my father, and he's Sherlock Holmes." Reyna nodded in agreement.

"I have. And one day, you're going to be far better than even him." And really, if Rosie blushed in the back of the darkened cab while they rounded the corner, that was nobody's business.

They arrive at the stranger's flat after another fifteen minutes and thirty one seconds on the dot. Reyna wraps her knuckles on the door swiftly, and yet there was no response but the pitter patter of an approaching dog's lumbering footsteps, the pads clattering on the hardwood in succession.

Nobody else came to the front.

"I mean, we can wait until tomorrow, Ro," her comrade said, glaring at the entrance. "We have time. It's almost midnight, anyways. We should just . . . what are you doing?" Rosamund had leaned down, resting her weight on her knees, and inspecting the doorknob with scrutiny. She produced her beloved lock pick set - a Christmas gift from Sherlock and John last year - and began inserting the thin strips into the keyhole, twisting them around in her hands.

"I'm picking the lock, obviously."

"Again, we can wait until daylight hours, Rosie. There's no need."

"We don't have time for that. His giant malamute just got up off his bed and came to the door - you'd have to be the heaviest sleeper in the world not to realize the absence of a giant furry weight like that. Henderson knows someone is here, if he's lucid enough to think coherently. His manuscript releases soon, coupled by a strange occurrence in the middle of the night? He's going to be suspicious of two teenage girls coming to his house to accuse him of fraud in the morning. He'd never let us in." The blonde recited all of this without so much as a twist of her head, not bothering to turn around. Even as she talked, she continued fiddling with the metal. "It really is now or never, actually, unless we had attempted to wait until tomorrow afternoon in the first place. I guess the bright side is that we caught him severely off guard, but hindsight really is 20/20, isn't it?"

"Of course," Reyna intoned, shaking her head. "You enjoy these opportunities to show off, don't you?" Rosie snorted.

"Duh. Wasn't it obvious?" Reyna shoved her.

"Sod off, Ro." The lock clicked in a rather satisfying fashion and Rosie stood up, grinning triumphantly.

"Well, I suppose we're in." She swung open the door. "After you, good sir." Reyna batted her eyelashes and held a hand to her chest.

"Why thank you, madame." The dark haired teen managed a clumsy curtsy before walking unceremoniously inside. Rosie followed closely, shutting the door quietly behind them. "So, we should probably scope out the office first, right?" Rosie nodded.

"His work space would be the best place to start looking, yes," she said, glancing at the dog as if assessing a threat. The malamute, proving itself to be an absolutely useless guard, merely quirked its ears and sniffed Rosamund's hand with interest. Its tail wagged at the prospect of a new human in the house. "A bit of a pushover for a creature so big, I think." It flicked out its tongue against her outstretched fingers and extended its neck, having also come to the conclusion of a benign companion, and she caught a flash of its tag. "Bailey. Nice to meet you." Bailey panted in agreement.

"God, Ro, it's just like you to get distracted over a dog of all things after breaking into someone's house," Reyna deadpanned, crossing her arms. "Aren't we supposed to be looking for something before a certain man stirs and comes out to investigate?" Rosamund frowned slightly.

"Yes, but technically this is working. I'm investigating the dangers this dog would pose to our research. I've come to the conclusion that Bailey is friendly."

"Bailey? You've already gotten attached," she sighed, shaking her head. "Ro, let's go. We didn't come here for the dog."

"I know, I know, I just haven't really been around another one since Gladstone . . . " the blonde trailed off, and Reyna grimaced. For a short while, on her twelfth birthday, Rosamund had received a rescue named Gladstone. He was a pudgy bulldog, around one or two, but he was a sweet and rather lovable pet.

Then, Gladstone had to leave 221B when he displayed a habit for getting himself in trouble. After breaking a leg because of a nasty fall down the stairs (he kept struggling to get his tiny legs up over the edge), accidentally consuming a vat of diluted rat poison ("It was just an experiment, I didn't think that the stupid creature would eat it, John!"), and vomiting up a can of expired dog food (they hadn't been able to go shopping for a while, alright?), it was evident that life at their flat was too dangerous for such a small, bumbling creature, and Grandma and Grandpa Holmes had ended up taking in the portly hound. Sure, Gladstone was still alive, healthy, and very, very fat, as her grandmother took great pleasure in stuffing him with biscuits, but when Rosamund got attached to something, she simply couldn't give it up. She was absolutely devastated by their separation, and Reyna and John and Molly had been by her side almost constantly after his absence.

Sherlock tried to help as well, of course, but comforting was never his strong suit. He had no idea what to do with a crying person.

"Sorry," Reyna supplied awkwardly to this. "I mean . . ."

"No, no, it's fine. I'm being ridiculous," she sighed in agreement, giving the pooch one last pat on the head before getting up. The reluctance was evident on her face, however, and the runner reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Let's find this man's files and leave." Ignoring the fact that this was highly questionable and they were probably going to get busted any second now, Reyna walked quietly across the floorboards, trying not to leave a sound. Rosamund wasn't nearly so careful, as she continued strutting around the house like she had been there a million times before.

Well. Rosamund Watson did have a flair towards the dramatic, even when there was nobody around to notice.

In seconds they had located the office, and inside that office laid a desk. Reyna opened several drawers before producing a stack of papers.

"I think this is it, Ro." Rosamund ignored her. "Ro? You can stop looking now. I've found it - very shoddily hidden, actually." She snorted.

"It's supposedly - though we know the contrary - an original Shakespeare. Somebody went through the trouble of introducing iambic pentameter in between prose, forging the writing style, and attempting to copy what little the modern day has recovered of his calligraphy in order to sell a 'lost, unpublished set of foul papers'. They had to keep the original frauds somewhere more secure, though the quill and ink Henderson used may still be in this room. We might need them for further proof later." Reyna frowned, stuffing the papers down her jacket anyhow.

"Decoys. Got it." Rosie froze. "What, what's wrong?"

"Right. Here's my pocket knife. I hope you don't have to use it."

"Rosie, what the heck are you - "

"What's going on here?" came a voice, and in doorway was Henderson, in the flesh. He was taller than Rosamund had imagined, and thicker around the middle, with glasses and thinning hair. In his arms was a gun, held sturdily by an experienced hand, though it looked odd coupled next to the man's bedhead and pajamas.

Rosie didn't panic. She had seen many a gun in her life, and though this threat was clearly valid, it had ceased to scare her past the age of ten. Besides, they had the advantages of numbers, nimbleness, if his middle was anything to go by, and her hidden revolver.

"What's going on with your research is the more pressing question, actually. Your false forgeries were good, really, but photocopies shoved lazily into a desk don't make for a very good red herring." Rosamund took a half step further and tried not to look like she was enjoying her first confrontation on the job. "But then again, I'm sure you know all about red herrings."

"You shouldn't be here," he said simply, though his pupils were widened and his grip on his weapon tightened. Clearly, he was shocked that anybody had figured out his secret, let alone tried to confirm the theory. "I could have you arrested for breaking and entering."

"I have the ability to deny that claim. I mean, as I recall it, me and my friend went for a taxi ride and we got a little lost. We knocked on your door and found it unlocked, so the worst we'd receive is a small fine for snooping. However, on the off chance they'd care to punish us fully, I've got connections in the police department and the British government. We could escape retribution altogether and come back later, repeating the process, or we can settle this now."

"You don't know anything. You're bluffing."

"Am I? Because you're certainly not sweating or anything. And the documents my friend procured are definitely up to snuff with your so-called originals. Tell me, you do keep them in your house, right? Along with the forging materials, too. It's alright, you can be honest, you still have quill and ink used to create the totally authentic foul papers that would be worth a fortune, given nobody actually has a surviving copy of real ones until you claimed to. They're with the papers, I presume?"

"Shut up. Stop talking, little girl, or I'm going to fire." Rosamund's eyebrows arched.

"And risk getting caught in the headlines for the murder of a teenage girl? You'd be making a lot of enemies, my friend. And if I were you, I certainly wouldn't want a further investigation of your house. And especially not your bedroom, I take it." The girls watched as the historian began to sputter. "Ah, so I was right. I thought you would keep them in your office, but they are in your house, huh? Not so smart. Why didn't you arrange a separate location?"

"I can . . . I'll . . ."

"Do what, exactly?" Reyna interrupted, speaking up for the first time. She took great care to appear completely calm, though Rosie knew the sight of a loaded gun aimed in her direction was probably throwing her off guard. "Hold us hostage until the release? You have nowhere to hold us in this flat, and it's not as if the police can't track our phones. Kidnapping doesn't look too good on a permanent record." Henderson, with a sly smile, drew up to his full height.

"I can always say that two girls arrived in my house in the middle of the night. It was dark, and they attacked me when I was in bed, hoping to steal my manuscript for themselves. Luckily, I disposed of them during the attack and was able to escape. Self defense, extraordinary circumstances." Rosie's eyes narrowed as he lunged, a bullet flying loose. Reyna narrowly dove behind the desk before throwing the closest object within reach, which was a bulky lamp, in his direction. He yelped at the offending light fixture hit him squarely on the jaw.

If they had been in any other circumstance, Rosie would have laughed.

She certainly wasn't laughing now, though.

Unfortunately, Henderson kept his fingers securely around his weapon, and while behind the desk, Reyna was hardly in a position to defend herself. She threw a heavy book sitting on the oaken surface at him, and he groaned yet again, but still jumped on the top and cornered her between his wall and a swivel chair. She lifted Rosie's pocket knife towards her aggressor, hoping to get in a lucky stab, but in seconds he was grabbing her wrist, hoping to secure the sharp blade.

Reyna, though fit for her age, could hardly compete against a fully grown and far heavier adult. She was clearly loosing her once ironclad grip on the tiny pocketknife, but she squirmed and struggled and kicked to the best of her ability, blindly reaching for anything of use on the floor.

Rosamund honestly had no idea what to do. She was a great aim, but Henderson still had a gun without the safety on. A surprise bullet to the the leg might prompt an itchy trigger finger of his own, and that would almost certainly hit Reyna. And that was assuming he wouldn't move last minute - the way he and her best friend were struggling on the floor was chaotic, unpredictable, and if Reyna rolled over she could easily get caught in the crossfire.

No, in such close quarters her trusty revolver would do her little good, after all. She had to resort to something else.

Just then, remembering her house keys in her pocket, the blonde pulled out the jagged strips of metal and jabbed them harshly into the historian's side. He groaned, quickly whipping his head around. This gave the runner the distraction she needed to close her hands around something on the floor - a stapler, as the case was. She unhooked the top from the bottom and fired the office supply directly into his forehead. As he howled, she fiercely kicked his kneecap and rolled out from underneath him. Rosamund snatched away the gun - finally - and brought her revolver down onto the back of their attacker's head with vigor.

Nathan Henderson, the mountain of a man that he was, crumpled like a rag doll under the sudden blow. Rosamund wiped her hands on the side of her shirt and took a silent inventory of Reyna's condition. She considered her friend's new ring of bruises around one wrist, the disheveled state of her hair, the skewed collar and the rip on her jumper.

"Are you alright?" she asked, genuinely concerned. It looked for all the world like Reyna had just been mauled by a bear.

"Oh, I'm completely freaking out," the dark haired teenager said, eyes wide. Rosie winced.

"Yes, right, I shouldn't have - "

"But I've got to say, this was just about the best night of my life, Rosamund." Reyna broke out into a smile, and then a fit of giggles soon after. Her sudden humor was contagious, and in seconds the blonde was laughing as well.

"Bloody hell, did you seriously shove a staple into his face?" Rosie sputtered, pulling a hand to her mouth.

"Well, did you seriously just knock him out cold? That was pretty damn brilliant, Rosie. Like, the most badass thing I've ever seen anybody do."

"Oh, that's nothing. My Daddy once flipped off Uncle Mycroft in full view of his staff and Dad. Without being assassinated later." The thought of John Watson, or anyone, really, doing something remotely vulgar towards Mycroft Holmes of all people (Reyna had only encountered him a handful of times while knowing Rosie but those brief occasions were enough to inform her that nobody messed with Mycroft unless they aspired to be dead in an hour) was hysterical and frankly unreal, and Reyna erupted into another peel of lunacy.

"Okay, that's pretty amazing."

"Elementary, even," Rosie said, trying to calm herself down. The victorious smile still remained. "Hey, you call Uncle Lestrade, I'm going to tie him up." With a nod and a brief hug, they split.

The next thirty minutes until the police actually showed up were a blur. They both pretended that tying a man up in his own bedsheets and locating and cracking a private safe ("It's super easy if you set your mind to it, Rey." "No it's not, how did you do that?") filled with fake Shakespeare manuscripts was totally normal. When the authorities arrived with Greg Lestrade at the helm and two consulting detectives in tow, they saw two teenage girls sitting on Nathan Henderson's sofa. Rosamund was absentmindedly stroking Bailey, who was surprisingly unalarmed by the odd series of events, and together they were engaging in a game of chess, Henderson's body curled up in bondage in the middle of the room.

"Checkmate, Rey."

"I told you I'm bloody awful at this. It took you less than fifteen minutes."

"No, you're fine, I've just been playing since age six."

"Why would a six year old want to learn chess? I mean, other than the fact that you're you."

"One of a kind, no?"

"More like three, if your family is to be believed. Tell me, did they - "

"You're both okay, right girls?" Greg asked, worry leaking into his tone. "You said you undermined a vicious plot to produce forgeries of plays?"

"Oh, hi Mr. Lestrade," Reyna said, looking up from the board. "Yes, we're alright. I've got a few bruises that we've taken pictures of - "

" - evidence of the attack so we can add assault on the list of crimes," Rosie interjected helpfully.

" - yes, that, and you'll find the fingerprints match his. Here are the documents, complete with phrases invented long after Shakespeare's death, and the tools used to make them for posterity. As you can see, clearly his attempt to discover 'lost foul papers' went a little foul itself." Rosie shot her a tired grin.

"You'd think that after all that trouble he'd ditch the quill and ink he utilized. Perhaps he wanted the option to 'discover' more iconic drafts later down the road. A lucrative scheme, if the first selling went well." With that, Rosamund got up, extending a hand to her best friend. "Come up, Rey, we've got to go talk to my parents now." As Lestrade knew he wouldn't get any more out of either girl tonight - God knew Rosie never did anything she didn't want to - he and his team took over, securing the unconscious body of the historian and carting him into the back of a cruiser. Surely there was more than enough evidence to mark him down as guilty, anyhow.

John, on the other hand, was rather furious.

"Rosamund, what the bloody hell were you thinking?" he fumed, cheeks pinched in anger and worry. As usual, he was exceptionally easy to read, and his distress was alarmingly apparent. "We got a call at around midnight, after you leave the flat at night in a hurry for no reason without saying when you'll be back, telling us that our daughter had apprehended a criminal. You took your revolver, Rosie. You expected you'd need a revolver." She grimaced, preparing to defend herself, when Sherlock snorted. John turned his anger onto his partner instead. "Well? Is there something you would like to add?"

"You're overreacting, Watson."

"Overreacting? Your child - "

"Oh, Rosamund's my child now. How odd," he muttered dryly.

" - took on a fully grown man with an enormous gun by herself without informing us where she was going. She could have died. How does that not bother you, Sherlock?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"She wasn't alone, John. She had a partner with her." Reyna coughed and awkwardly waved, reminding the men that she was still there.

"Please, I love Reyna, but she's a teenager. Just like our teenage daughter who should at least tell us when she is going to jump a criminal."

"Henderson was hardly a criminal mastermind, John, and Rosamund sees us do this every single day. Have a little faith; she's more capable than we'd like to admit. What do you think she'll be doing for a living when she's a fully functioning adult?"

"I do have faith in Rosie, and this isn't some sort of separation anxiety or anything. I'm not a child, but surely you've got to understand that - " The great Sherlock Holmes groaned loudly.

"For the love of - " He grabbed the neck of John Watson's sweater and kissed him.

Avidly.

In the view of absolutely everyone.

Rosamund didn't know whether to feel embarrassed, slightly disgusted, or deliriously happy for them.

John remained silent for a good thirty seconds after they pulled apart, blinking rapidly. Holmes, as always, appeared unphased by this or by anything.

"So, as we were about to say, good job. We're very proud of the efforts of you and Reyna." He raised an eyebrow and let a rare, impossibly small smile slip out. "Well done, Rosie." She beamed like the sun. Legitimate praise from any Holmes was hard to come by, and Sherlock especially didn't give compliments lightly. "Let's leave Lestrade's men to patch things up here. Hopefully they won't bungle this too badly come morning." Greg, a mere ten feet away, rolled his eyes yet didn't comment.

"I'm sorry, but did you just kiss me?" the doctor asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Of course. Rather effective in keeping you quiet, I must admit."

"You just kissed me. In front of everyone."

"Yes, John, we happen to be in a committed relationship that is in no way under wraps. Is there a reason this is so boggling to you right now?" he responded, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

"No, but in front of Lestrade and Sally and Anderson. You hate Anderson with every fiber of your being."

"For heaven's sake, John, you can be so incredibly dense at times." He kissed him again - just for good measure - and the doctor once again lost his train of thought. With a nod towards her uncle, Sherlock Holmes ushered the two girls and his partner out of the flat. Confused, Bailey began padding after them.

"You know, after we arrest this guy, the dog won't have a place to go. No relatives and such," Lestrade called out as they left. "It seems rather attached to you, if you get my drift." Rosamund positively lit up, and as she turned to open her mouth, her father cut her off.

"We'll see, in the morning, long after John has recovered from his perpetual stupor and Reyna has something on her rather horrific bruises." They all piled into the back of a cab together, and Rosie reached out and squeezed Reyna's hand. The runner squeezed back tightly, and they held hands in the dimly lit vehicle while looking out the window. London at night, lit up like lanterns, was stunning; it glittered like gemstones, and you could see bridges and buildings and sidewalks and streetlamps and everything for miles, glowing and wreathed in magic. Frankly, the view was one of the best parts of this gig, other than the satisfaction and empowerment that came from sending the guilty to jail and unraveling crimes. This was an addictive lifestyle, and one that she had dragged her friend into thoughtlessly.

Reyna adored it just as much as she did, though. A perplexing notion, having friends like that, but Rosamund couldn't really be anything but on top of the world at the moment. Analyzation of her incredibly dangerous, weird lifestyle would just have to wait.

Her fathers kept bickering in the cab over "no, we're not getting a dog" and "why are we not talking about that kiss" and "how are you acting so calm right now" until Sherlock effectively ended the conversation.

"We'll collect the stupid dog in the morning, since Rosamund is obviously infatuated, I'm reasonable because somebody has to be and for once it isn't you, and damn it all, John, you better get used to kissing in public because when we get married what do you think is going to happen?" The blonde blinked.

"Married?"

"Obviously, one day. It's the inevitable conclusion to a long term, serious relationship." For once, though she couldn't quite tell, Rosie swore her Dad was blushing, or at the very least flustered.

"Was that a proposal, Sherlock? In the back of a dark cab, while I'm absolutely livid and worried out of my mind, sans ring?" The detective looked as though he had no idea what to say.

"Not very glamorous, or intended, but I suppose so."

"Good, then," the man stated eventually, briefly brushing a thumb over his partner's knuckles. "Only took you seventeen years to get around to it, I guess." Sherlock sputtered, practically choking on air in a way Rosie had never witnessed before - he was Sherlock Holmes, and therefore above such trifles - but here he was, rendered speechless.

It was fascinating, actually.

At this point, as they approached Baker Street once again, Reyna leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"Partners, Ro?"

The teenager couldn't possibly know what she was offering to do. Reyna hadn't lived in a household that studied dead organ tissue for fun or chased down muggers as a hobby. She hadn't experienced a murder scene or uncovered ancient chinese dialects or decoded a thousand number cipher. She had normal parents, universities lined up, a healthy career ahead of her without all of this. Reyna had a shot at regularity, minus staples in the forehead and revolvers to the skull.

And yet, Rosamund could tell, Reyna understood her. Better than anybody else she'd ever find. And Rosie wanted her by her side, ever so badly.

She needed her best friend.

"Partners, of course," she whispered back, and Reyna smiled, slowly and languidly, as they drove onwards.

"Elementary," she told the blonde, not letting her grip on the young detective's hand waver for even a second.

"Quite."

They really were elementary, weren't they?

---

So thus marks the end of the third chapter.

. . . So who's excited for the epilogue?

I guess I should have called this a four part story - I always intended to add an epilogue to tie everything up nicely and give you all a glimpse of the future, and it's going to be the length of another installment. So, there's that. I hope what I've gotten through so far was satisfactory, though.

Anyways, as always, leave comments to tell me how I did and what you liked about it. I know that this took a while to send out, but I hope the hold up was worth it. This has been fun to write so far.

Also, on that note, I'm very sorry about the wait on everything. For this document, I have the excuse that 2k or writing was deleted in a random WiFi surge, because the service at my place is a brat and enjoys inconveniencing me. It was incredibly frustrating and all I did was glare at my computer for hours afterwards.

I mean, it was either that or throwing it at the wall - repeatedly - in a fit of petty annoyance. So, yeah, I'd like to imagine that was a show of restraint.

I'm so mature, can't you tell?

In conclusion, have a great day and stick around for the last part: the illusive concluding epilogue. Until next time!