Chapter Text
“I hate it when he does this.”
Rosie Watson said as Sherlock, her stepfather, ignored her inquiries once more.
“When he does what?”
John came back into the living room with two cups of tea. John’s footsteps creaked the old wood beneath them. He noticed Sherlock sitting in his usual seat, deep in thought, and sighed. He handed Rosie her mug and sat on the sofa with her.
“Ah, you meant that.”
”Yes, I meant that.”
“He’s just thinking, Rosie. There’s no way to get him out of that mind palace, trust me I’ve tried.”
John shook his head and blew gently on his tea before sipping at it cautiously, his eyebrows raised as he watched Sherlock twitching slightly. Still deep in thought, as suspected.
“I just feel ignored, you know? Every stupid case. He gets so caught up in all this mess.”
Rosie waved her arms around frustratedly, spilling tea on her dress.
You’d never expect her to be so clumsy, as her mother was an agent and her father was a war doctor.
Alas, here Rosie sits, spilling tea on the dress given to her by her Uncle Mycroft on her 15th birthday. She was now nearly 17 years of age.
“Well, you could always ask me your questions.”
Her father, John, stated. He swiped some newspapers away to make room and placed his cup on the coffee table, listening to the familiar clunk of the wood.
“You wouldn’t have an answer for them.”
Rosie groaned, leaning back on the sofa and running her hands through her hair.
“He’ll snap out of it soon. We can go for lunch while he’s still caught up, how does that sound?”
John suggested, sitting up. He put a soothing hand on Rosie’s shoulder and squeezed.
She smiled, although the gloomy bags under her eyes made her seem utterly dreary. Her smile nearly mimicked her mother’s.
John froze for a moment, yet shook himself out of it. Mary was dead. New chapter, new love, new start.
She had chiseled features, sharp as an eagle. No matter how awake she was, she always looked exhausted.
“Okay. Chips?”
“Chips.”
Before they left, John gave a rough, yet kind, pat to Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Sweet thoughts, Sherlock.”
He muttered, turning back to Rosie and heading out the door with her. It was going to be a long day.
Sherlock’s mind was a puzzle. A map. Yet it was unnavigable, unsolvable. A galaxy of thoughts, and strung across every constellation was a thread of steps leading into a large plan for nearly every situation. The rings of Saturn spun with every piece he had ever composed, the grains sand on Mars representing every single feature he had memorized. He was a mystery who’s occupation was solving them.
Currently, he was caught up with a case about a shooting that took place at a small concert.
He only took the case because he felt sympathy, a disgusting human emotion, for the girl who had come crying to him hours after the incident.
“Please, Mr. Holmes, they killed my elder brother. I have to know who they are.”
The dark haired girl spoke with such a trembling voice. Her hands were torn to pieces by her own fingernails, her greenish eyes spilling with tears, although they seemed dehydrated. She obviously hadn’t been taking care of herself.
Sherlock thought about his brother. The girl couldn’t have been older than Rosie. He imagined himself in the situation, his brother being shot, Mycroft protecting him one last time.
He took the case, investigated the scene with John, and was pondering. Mentally flipping through newspapers, filing through people he had seen, drunkenly stumbling through London’s streets that wound through his own mind. He found himself rather stuck.
Meanwhile, physically walking down London’s streets, John and Rosie stopped for fish and chips.
“I bet if you asked me the question you wanted to ask Sherlock, I’d know the answer.”
John said with a chuckle, fumbling through his pockets for change and paying for their food.
“I bet you if I asked you my question I wouldn’t get a truthful answer.”
Rosie gave John a cold smile.
“Eat your damn chips.”
John joked as they walked away from the stand.
It was a rather cold day, yet Rosie nearly always picked fashion over function.
Tea-stained antique sundress... Yes, very fashionable, she thought.
“Aren’t you chilly?”
John asked, nudging Rosie as the wind tousled his hair.
“Not really.”
Rosie shrugged, munching on her chips distractedly.
“You could’ve borrowed Sherlock’s scarf.”
“It smells like sweat, tea, and blood. Not a very pleasant thing to borrow, dad.”
Rosie held back a laugh and smiled awkwardly. She had been curious about her mother since the very day she had learned that Mary had died. She often asked Sherlock about Mary, but he never bothered to answer. Sometimes she’d wonder if Sherlock was really thinking or just ignoring.
Rosie’s thoughts weren’t always proper. The gears of her mind would twist and contort into molten rust and bronze. Her mind was not a palace, it was a broken heap of old clockwork, where clicks and buzzes would tick and tock away in her brain until the final hour struck and the triggers would push her past her breaking point.
She shook herself out of her mind.
“So, if you really think you can handle my question, sit down. I’ll ask you.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow, her hair whipping her face. She almost seemed menacing.
John sat down.
“Ask away.”
“How did my mum die?”
John froze.
“I don’t think you’re old enough to hear that yet-“
“That’s what you said last time I asked. Ten years ago, dad, I asked when I was seven.”
Rosie snarled, stepping forwards.
“You really want to know? Fine. She was shot. Mary was shot.”
John was clenching his teeth. He took a few harsh breaths in.
“By who?”
Rosie pushed farther, her stare becoming ever so curious.
“No. No, you ask your papa, not me.”
John flailed his hands about as if to wave away the question completely.
“You wanted to be asked!”
“Well, I didn’t know it would be this. Can we please just go home, now?”
John sounded frustrated and tired.
He understood why she’d be curious, but by god, he couldn’t answer things like that. Not after all he’d been through. Not even after all this time.
They made their way home in silence. Not a word was spoken. Rosie swore she could hear the gears in her mind clunking and grinding aggressively.
As they approached the door to the flat, Rosie pondered if her father could hear her inner clockwork as well.