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Standing in the bathroom, pressing a razor gently against his chin and removing the scuds of hair that showed up overnight, John grumbles to himself. This isn’t the first time Sherlock has made plans without telling him, but these particular plans involve a deeper emotional strain than others, and he wishes he’d been prepared. When a clean-shaven doctor finally stares back at him from the mirror, he rinses his face and dresses.
Sherlock is taking an entirely different approach, and his wild curls show no sign of attempts to tame them. Of course, Sherlock always looks relatively neat in his suit, so the display is less messy than eccentric. He lays in his chair, spreading his long legs across the living room, and John has to step over them to get across the living room to where Rosie is playing.
“C’mon, sweetie,” he coos as he scoops the toddler into his arms. “We’ve got to get you ready for today! Are you excited to see Grandma Holmes?” Rosie nods and claps her hands together, planting a happy kiss on John’s cheek. “How about we brush your hair and find something cute to wear then?”
“Rosie is always cute, John, you really don’t need to put in so much effort,” Sherlock remarks in a low, gravelly voice. It’s clear he hasn’t entirely woken up yet, and John can’t help scowling at the man.
“This is your mother,” he bristles. “You should be the one putting in just a little bit of effort.”
Sherlock sighs and fixes his eyes on John. “Well, then do you want me to get Rosie dressed? You can spend these last few precious minutes sleeping or relaxing or whatever you’d rather be doing?” He holds his arms out for the girl and John narrows his eyes.
“I really wish you’d told me your mother was in town, Sherlock. That’s all.”
Stretching his arms out further, Sherlock reaches for Rosie and stands when John finally relents and deposits the toddler into his arms. Sherlock peers into her face, resting his forehead against hers. “You look just fine, don’t you?” he asks, earning a happy giggle from the baby.
“If you’re not actually going to get her dressed….” John scowls.
“Oh, do calm down. We’ll just be a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns and makes his way up the stairs to John’s room, where most of Rosie’s belongings are kept.
John rolls his eyes and plops into his seat. By the time Sherlock returns, John’s eyes are closed and his chin is resting on his closed hand. Sherlock and Rosie gaze at him for a few moments. After so much time spent working and taking care of Rosie, it’s no surprise John is exhausted. Not to mention the fact that this is the first time since Mary’s death that he’ll be seeing Mrs. Holmes and the woman loved Mary so dearly that John can’t possibly be excited for that.
A soft snore escapes John’s lips and Sherlock gives a clipped nod, making a decision on the spot. He glances at Rosie, whose dark eyes are set firmly and exude an intelligence that is almost impossible for a girl of her age. She peers back at Sherlock, who gives her a small smile. “Good girl,” he whispers, kissing her on the cheek.
He retrieves a coat for Rosie from the couch and closes the door gently behind him as he heads downstairs. He sets the girl on the floor to put on his own coat and she toddles happily, looking up at Sherlock with pure adoration on her face, and something more mischievous. Even at her age, she understands they’ve tricked daddy into taking a big long nap.
She giggles as Sherlock holds her against his chest and wraps her in his coat so only her face is visible, peering out over the top of his buttons. They step into the rainy London morning, Sherlock’s head acting effectively as an umbrella for the girl, and wait only just a few minutes before Mrs. Holmes arrives. She greets them with warm hugs and kisses and coos over the baby for a moment before addressing their missing host.
“He needs to rest,” Sherlock replies. Both the firmness and tenderness of his voice catch her off guard and she peers at him with soft eyes.
“You’re good to that man,” she observes. “You care a great deal for him.”
Sherlock scoffs and turns his gaze away from her, ignoring a give-away giggle from Rosie. “Please, mother, did you come all this way to talk about my flatmate?”
“No, of course not,” she laughs, hailing a cab for them. “I came for lunch. I should’ve remembered you don’t like talking about crushes.”
“Crushes?” he gaps, following her to the curb with an indignant scowl. “I do not have a crush on John Watson,” he emphasizes.
His mother examines him with careful eyes and then nods, a small smile on her gentle mouth. “No, you’re right,” she decides.
“Thank you.”
“You’re in love with him.”