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It had been a rather eventful day with the five-year-old human hurricane known as Rosamund Mary Watson, but Sherlock had finally gotten her tuckered out and off to bed in the guest bedroom. Molly was letting Rosie have her time alone with her Uncle Sherlock as she straightened up the flat, picking up stray toys and books and being careful not to step on the building blocks that were scattered about in her bare feet.
It would be rather nice to have this be a reality for her, for them, she thought. She just wasn’t sure they ever would. Four years later and they still lived in separate homes, still kept a piece of themselves tucked away. She loved Sherlock, she did, but she wondered when she’d get her happily ever after like the princesses in the stories Rosie loved.
Not everyone gets the happy ever after, a sour voice in her head said. Rosie was starting to ask about her mother now, and it hurt that there was so much they could say and so little, too. How did you tell a little girl her mother had wanted nothing more than to be with her, but she’d sacrificed herself to save a friend? She knew even to this day Sherlock felt guilty about Mary’s sacrifice, and every time he looked at Rosie and saw how much more like Mary she grew every day, it hit him in the heart. And that was a wound not even Molly could heal.
When she was done she drifted to the door of the bedroom, listening in on Sherlock’s bedtime story, just out of curiosity.
“The princess was brave,” he was saying, his hands running through the curls Rosie had, so much like her mother once Mary had grown her hair out. “She ran away to keep the kingdom safe, but a foolish knight went after her, and it cost her something very dear. The foolish knight and his squire wanted different things from the princess,” he said. “But she had other people in her past who had vendettas. And unfortunately, the princess gave up her life to save the knight. So he promised to look after her child and would send messages to let her know how graceful and beautiful her daughter was.”
Molly felt her heart in her throat. This was a story about Mary, she realized. But Rosie was asleep and he lapsed into silence, still brushing back her curls.
“Do you?” Molly asked quietly, taking a step into the room. “Talk to Mary, I mean.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “I know there’s no point, that she can’t really hear me, but...”
Molly stepped closer and pressed her chest to his back, wrapping her arms around him as he sat and pressing a kiss into his hair. “She knows,” she said comfortingly.
“I took her away from Rosie,” he said. “I can’t forgive myself for that. And Rosie won’t forgive me once she’s old enough to understand.”
Molly didn’t reply, simply keeping him close. She wasn’t sure what to say or how to comfort him, but he reached up and grasped her arms in his hands and she knew it helped. It might not be enough, it might never be enough, but he appreciated it all the same. And maybe, if she was lucky, one day he would forgive himself and be whole again.
Until then, she would wait, because whether he believed it or not, he was worth waiting for. He had been from day one. And she would keep waiting, however long it took.