For once, it was late evening and John was out. That almost never happened. Further to the surprise of everyone involved, Astrid or Sherlock ( no one would ever be able to remember who) had insinuated themselves with the other on the sofa, sprawled out together in a way that only a father and his child can seem to configure themselves. They were, even more surprisingly, watching telly. Granted, it was a documentary on historical murders (they both loved that sort of thing), but it was telly. As the show rolled to commercial, a thought occurred to Astrid.
Actually, that's not quite true. The thought in and of itself had occurred many times; however, this was the first time it had occurred to ask.
"Daddy?"
"Mm?"
"If…if you and Mum had…had been together, if you had known…about me, whatwouldyouhavenamedme?" In her nervousness, the last part of her question sort of all ran together.
It bears some explaining, this question. Astrid had always felt names were very important. She was of the opinion that your name influences your development from the time it's given. After all, it's almost instinctive that we answer to our names, isn't it? It's too deep-seated an urge to be trained, in her opinion. So when she had been old enough to realize that her father had never had a say in naming her, her curiosity was piqued. If he had been there, if her mother had even told him she existed, what would have been his contribution to her naming? Would Sherlock be the same crazy, insanely intelligent, extremely individual man she knew if his name were something mild-mannered and thoroughly boring like William or Peter? And certainly there was something very John-like in the personality of the man known as John Watson, strong and solid but deep. Interestingly, the man she was sharing the couch with felt much the same way about naming.
Of course, even with her words all run together like too-diluted watercolor paints, Sherlock still heard every syllable. He was unprepared for it. This played in Astrid's favor- she was more likely to get an honest answer.
He shifted uncomfortably, though not as though he was trying to extricate himself. Just that he wanted to move and dispel the emotions clouding his thoughts.
"Your mother and I were never what most people would call lovers. She was a very good friend to me, as close to a friend as I've really ever had. Aside from John." This conversation was not easy for him; it involved emotions, and feeling things, and all sorts of frankly illogical and non-empirical stuff. Easier to avoid it altogether. But her face, her voice. She needed his answer, was drawing it out of him with her vulnerability. "She and I were prone to, mmm, flights of fancy. One of those consisted of describing to each other our perfect baby names, should either of us ever have children. She had a boy's name in mind, said she always had. I've deleted it, of course. I knew I'd never have children. Waste of time, full of narcissism and frankly so domestic it's boring," he spat out before he could stop himself, full of bitterness from years of having the expectations of society foisted upon him. He sighed at his own lack of self-control, and then continued: "We stayed out late that night, until the stars were filling the sky," he was waxing poetic, "trying to think of a girl's name. It felt so dreadfully important at the time. When we found it, you could just tell it was right. Looking up at the stars, there was only one name either of us could think of : Astrid."
Astrid inhaled sharply; not so much out of surprise, she had rather been expecting this outcome by the time they were midway through the story, but at the sound of it. There was an entire world of oceans between knowing something in the silence of your mind and hearing it spoken aloud.
A thought seemed to occur to Sherlock, and he nudged her. "What's your middle name?"
"Cassiopeia," she replied. He couldn't help but laugh.
"Yes, that was the middle name we chose. She was prominent that night, Cassiopeia."
The idea flitted across his mind that an entirely different Cassiopeia was becoming quite prominent in his own life, but he would think about that later. Right now, he focused on how nice, how utterly domestic yet entirely not boring it was to be entangled with his daughter on a sofa, listening to a posh British voice discuss Jack the Ripper.
A/N: Cassiopeia is a constellation, representing a Greek queen who boasted about her unrivaled beauty and was, in punishment for defying the wishes of the gods, confined to the stars. Along with Astrid, it's a name I personally have always rather liked.