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One sunny morning when there were no cases to investigate and John had a rostered day off from the Medical Centre, he and Sherlock decided to walk the distance to Rosie's first session at Playgroup.
Although it wasn't an overly long trek it was rather more slow-going than they had expected it to be, what with Rosie wanting to stop every few metres to squat down to examine a weed growing up through a crack, a beetle scuttling across the pavement, or peer up at a bird in a tree.
When they arrived they faltered at the door, until the playgroup co-ordinator noticed them and greeted them with a cheery "Hello!" and beckoned them to come in. After introductions were made, she offered them tea and coffee and invited them to wander around and see the activities that had been set up.
There were all sorts of fun things to do, make and play with, but Rosie made a bee-line for the painting table. John grabbed one of several painting smocks hanging from a rack as they hurried after her. She chose a paintbrush and began to cover a piece of paper with every colour from the paint pots that had been laid out. When she had finished, John was shown where the paintings were hung up to dry. Rosie reached for another sheet of paper, and was about to start another picture when Sherlock took a brush from the red paint, and said, "Look Rosie!", and she watched in fascination as he covered the palm and fingers of one hand with paint before pressing it down onto the paper. She looked up at him wide-eyed, and her face broke into a smile. Sherlock raised the brush again, and this time wrote his name at the top of the print he had just made. Rosie squealed and flapped her tiny hands with delight.
"Rosie's turn?", asked Sherlock, just as John was returning to the table. She made a sound which they had come to recognize as 'yes'. "Choose a colour." he encouraged, and she reached for a brush in the green paint pot but then hesitated when she didn't know what to do next. Sherlock glanced at John and prompted, "Daddy show Rosie?" John took the hand not wrapped around the paintbrush and turned it palm upward, guiding her to coat it in grass-green paint before turning it over and gently pressing it against the paper.
"Write Rosie's name?", he asked, and again she indicated 'yes'. John asked for the brush, and wrote it above her small print, spelling it out as he went.
Sherlock leaned close to Rosie. "I think it's Daddy's turn now!", he hinted, with a wink and a smile that warmed John from the inside, out.
"Oh, alright ", John drawled, rolling his eyes and trying to sound very put-upon. He took the brush from the blue paint and paused a moment, peering at Rosie as if he were a crafty old fox eyeing up a hen house before messily slathering his palm in blue and slapping it down on the paper. "Done!", he declared with a grin. Rosie blinked at his contribution and turned to Sherlock, her small brow furrowed. Sherlock gasped dramatically.
"Has Daddy forgotten something?", he questioned. Rosie returned her gaze to the paper and pointed to the space above her father's handprint, and John scrawled 'Daddy' in the place where it belonged.
"All finished now?", Sherlock asked, and Rosie nodded. Brushes returned to paint pots and the painting smock Rosie had been wearing returned to its' hook, he offered to take her to the bathroom and get her cleaned up. John accepted with a smile and watched them as they made their way cautiously between the tables and other parents and children - Rosie's tiny hand, held safe and secure in Sherlock's own - and wondered what he had done to have been blessed with this man in his and Rosie's lives.
A few minutes later, with Rosie's nappy changed and their hands washed, Sherlock scanned the group to find John. Spotting him speaking to the co-ordinator, he gestured to him that he was taking Rosie outside to play. The rest of the morning passed quickly filled with fun and laughter. New friends were made, phone numbers exchanged, and soon it was time to go home. Before they got as far as the door, one of the volunteer organizers caught up with them and handed them Rosie's dried paintings which had been folded loosely, and they were tucked into her backpack.
~
The walk home proved to be too much for Rosie, and she was soon whimpering to be picked up. Two pairs of feet crossed the threshold of 221B Baker Street; one very tired little girl asleep in her daddy's arms, her blonde curls against his shoulder. As John carried her upstairs to their shared room, Sherlock paused a moment and watched them before taking her backpack through to the kitchen and unpacking her drink bottle, lunchbox and all the treasures she had created that morning. The paintings were the last things to be removed from her bag, and he carefully unfolded them. Opening the picture of their handprints, he drew a sudden, sharp breath and tears filled his eyes. His name had had a line drawn through it in blue paint, and underneath instead, was written...
'Papa'