A/N: Okay, people. Before I get any more "marriage proposals" (using an euphemism here, because I found a PM disturbing), and in case you haven't figured out from my profile, I am a woman. I, the one writing the A/Ns, the ghost writer behind this particular incarnation of John Watson.
And if you want to get an intimate knowledge of John, so you can dream of him instead – he's a man; he's got a shoulder scar, back to front, from a sniper's bullet in Afghanistan; he's nicely buffed (not too much) under those jumpers; and he makes a mean cuppa. If that's what someone was looking for, I advise browsing a dating website.
That's not enough, though, is it? To describe a character (or a person for that matter)? There's also how he thinks, and acts, and faces adversities. We know about that. How he can doubt himself when he's got what it takes and we know it. How he licks his lips when he's anxious or sniffs as a statement. How his eyes shine when Sherlock makes a clever deduction, because Sherlock can be brilliant, because in the bigger picture Sherlock can make sense of a world that has mistreated John by using him and discarding him and now giving him importance again, just like that, without apparent reason or rhyme. How John makes mistakes like the rest of us, and needs to face up like the rest of us. How his shoulder throbs on rainy days and he smiles as he finds Sherlock has the fire going in the fireplace under some silly reason like roasting marshmallows at three in the morning, but that's alright because John could use the company right now so he takes a stack of poked marshmallows and takes his seat next to Sherlock, allowing the warmth to seep in every pore and heal him from within. There's companionable silence and there's deep conversation. Not everything is expressed in words, not even the ones in our stories... If this is what someone was looking for, welcome to fanfiction. And may our lives measure up to our insane expectations. -csf
2of2.
Friday.
'Shush... Rosie is finally asleep. The fever is not as high, the medicine kicked in.' A tired dry chuckle rustles my frame; a parent doctor is but an oxymoron, where he knows the common child malady and its treatment and time frame, but refuses to accept how powerless he actually is to hurry it along, how he can't keep it away and he's humbly brought down from his medicine pedestal. For a greater portion of the night, nothing I've done seemed to pacify my little one.
Standing as if he was intruding somehow, Sherlock stares at me, biting his lip. He wants to tell me something, but finds the moment to be all wrong. He glances around the cluttered room, where neither of us ever envisioned a kindergarten; or a paediatric medical unit as it resembles today in all but the serious equipment. Thermometers (more than one, you can never find the one), blankets, water cups, stethoscope (I overreacted, okay?), medicine bottles and spoons, discarded toys.
I'm sitting in my chair, where I collapsed half exhausted, after a couple of hours walking concentric circles in the living room, carrying Rosie, trying to sooth her as the fever persisted. It's finally breaking after a long night. I look down on her blond curls. She's too small for such an aggressive illness, I'd swear. She braves on with a tenacity of life that is in itself a lesson to the cynics of the world. She is the pure strength of the innocent, as she grasps my shirt with a tiny, bothered, fist; refusing to let go. I've been humming a tune ever since she started settling down. I haven't stopped just because Sherlock came over for whatever object he can't find, deduction he can't complete, or food he can't cook on his own.
'John, you look shattered.' That's much too honest; but I find his honesty refreshing.
'Yes', I admit, 'well, parenthood isn't easy.'
'And you are a single parent', he points out.
'Yes, I guess I am.' Is this conversation pointless or what?
Sherlock comes closer to check the skull on the mantle. His fingers touch the calcified bone mechanically, tracing the occipital outline.
'John, I have not been fed in two days, three hours.'
The information startles me more than it should.
'Order some takeaway. Honestly, Sherlock, you're regressing! You used to be able to order takeaway. How did you survive before I came along?'
He shrugs it off easily. 'I've been solving a case and you didn't care. You know I'm all absorbed when solving a case. I depend on you to keep an eye out for my well-being. Is it too much to ask?'
I don't know what my face tells him when, I suspect, he studies me in the mirror, but it's not what he seemed to be expecting. I try to define my feelings, confused by his reaction. Was he trying to incense me? He made me feel guilty, overwhelmed, and a basic failure. If he sought fight and action in his protective soldier flatmate, he didn't get very far.
The detective squats by my side all of a sudden, dropping with fluid elegance.
'You were meant to tell me off, by the way. Here, let me help', he reaches forward gently.
I grab onto Rosie tighter as a reflex. But that's hardly fair, Sherlock is the best godfather. I just need to protect Rosie from the world, right now. She's been through a rough patch.
'She's just fallen asleep, mate.'
This time Sherlock seems to find what he seeks in my face. He picks up his phone, taps on it at lightning speed and stores it away in his pocket.
'I trust Chinese will do for you too?' he offers dismissively before reaching out to his violin case.
He's thinking of playing? Now? Does he intend to wake up Rosie? Mate, it took me hours to get her to sleep!
I'm about to protest when his deep voice murmurs in the quiet of 221B:
'Genetics, John. Nature's art of resemblances and traits that identify us as branches in the same family tree. Take this case I was working on. A man discovered his father was not his real father when he tries to save his life, donating part of his liver. There is absolutely no match between them. Naturally excluded from the worry and burden, what does he do? He takes his holiday money and hires me to find his father some unknown relative in the hope that he can get be saved by a matching donor. The pool of suspects is big, given that the dying father was given up for adoption. Did the client ask me who his real father is? No. He says he doesn't care more about a stranger than about that man fighting for his life. I can just about hear your demand that I take the case, save that family, so I do just that. I spend hours that I hate going through parish records, decrying the local orphanage's records. As I get my answer – deducing the lawyer by day is also the baker by night, my client's father goes into surgery to receive a donated liver from a car crash victim. The car driver that died was a retired lawyer who was no longer fit to drive but refused terminally to give up driving. He was also the client's grandfather and the dying man's father. The client no longer needs his answer. Fate took care of itself – and laughed at my efforts.'
I hum in reply, hazily falling asleep, lulled by Sherlock's modulating voice, feeling safe and utterly exhausted.
In same last remnant of consciousness, I can feel a blanket wrap around Rosie and I, so very gentle. I'd swear she starts becoming unsettled as I've long stopped lulling and humming, until I hear the softest melody plucked out of my friend's violin. Peaceful, comforting, sonorific.
Sherlock chuckles softly. 'Genetics, John. Look at how well Rosie sleeps when I play the violin.'
.
Sunday.
By the end of the week, I took the plunge. I asked Sherlock to babysit Rosie as I went on an important errand. He heard the endless list of recommendations with a solemn expression and promised to abide by them. He also self-prompted the promise to evacuate my child out of 221B in case of a fire, which somehow did not help put me at ease.
'What do you mean a fire?'
'Hush, go now, John.'
Still a bit worried, I got a move on. The sooner I went, the sooner I'd be back.
Two hours later and I arrive back. My daughter is in a pink tutu, has chocolate smudges all over her face and she is holding...
'...a pistol, Sherlock?'
He clears his throat. 'A water pistol, John.'
'But why?'
He points at a row of rubber ducks over the top edge of the sofa. My daughter is happily squirting them with water, trying to topple them over.
'There were evil ducklings taking over the world, John. Rosie acquiesced to help restore order to civilization. She's a natural too.'
'At fighting evil rubber ducks?'
'And shooting.'
I stop short. 'Really? After all the chocolate you fed her?' I'm feeling a bit proud here. A bit not good, John, your girl is on a sugar high right now.
'We baked chocolate cupcakes. I'm introducing her to basic chemistry. Measurements, solutions, elements and compounds, sucrose levels, pH. She still calls it magic when the cupcakes come out if the oven, though. Baby steps. We will need to repeat the experiment in order to consolidate the knowledge', he sighs. 'She licked the bowl. Everyone should lick the bowl. It's the natural reward for baking.'
'She's got chocolate all over her face!'
'She struggled without the spoon.'
'What happened to the spoon?'
'I got the spoon. I baked too, John. Your daughter needs to be taught to share.' And with that he prompts: 'Rosie?'
She hands me the water gun with a smile. I look up. Only one duck left in the row.
Right. I shrug and press the trigger, from as far away as the door. Rosie cheers and giggles, as I get the last evil duck bull's eye. Sherlock smirks, infuriating as a know-it-all. He knows I owe him now.
It's been a long week. It's been the best week.
.
