Chapter Text
These days — in the days after Mary dies and Sherlock learns he has a sister — these days John is quiet and polite.
"Would you mind," he keeps saying to Sherlock. He says it with a tone that signals he firmly believes Sherlock does mind but he still asks because he's too exhausted to do the thing himself. "Would you mind taking Rosie out." "Would you mind putting Rosie to bed." "Would you mind sorting out dinner." There are no question marks at the ends of these sentences, because it seems that John also believes that Sherlock will do these things because something terrible will happen if he doesn't.
Even Sherlock has begun to sense that might be true, though logic dictates otherwise.
On some nights, John's lips are pinched in a strange kind of resigned anger and he's too distracted even for TV. On those nights, Sherlock can't sit still, either, because while the precise contents of John's emotions elude him, he can sense those emotions run as thick as molasses. On those nights, Rosie fusses and eventually John snaps at her. The last time there was a night like that John had been talked to by the manager of Rosie's day care. After Sherlock had tried to coax him to explain, John had grunted something about her acting out and being recommended counselling.
"Do you think that could be… useful?" Sherlock had asked, doing his damnedest to keep his tone from betraying what he thinks about the therapists and counsellors he'd been dragged to in his childhood.
"Her mother's dead. What the fuck kind of counselling fixes that?" John had asked him and poured himself a drink.
He drinks less, now, and for that, Sherlock is glad. Something had happened between him and Molly when she was looking after Rosie just… after. John's sister is proof of some risk genes, there was alcohol abuse in their childhood and John's anger issues make him a volatile drunk. Perhaps Molly had laid down the law, threatened to call child protective services. Sherlock has sensed that this is one of those things he shouldn't bring up, even though it would be useful to know.
Sometimes John just… halts. Loses the plot. Drifts away from the situation. Usually it's when Rosie has been particularly testy, which is always made worse by John being impatient with her. When she was still a baby, she could do no wrong. The love John must still feel for her if there is any justice in the world was plain for all to see. Now, it's buried underneath so many other things. John still smiles at her, plays with her, but there is a forced element to it, a disingenuity which tears at Sherlock's heart. He's very certain that child protective services poking into their lives couldn't have brought that open affection back, and why should they get involved in the first place? Rosie is being cared for. There's Mrs Hudson, Molly, Sherlock, even Mycroft. It's just that her father is a little… overwhelmed? Grieving? Distracted? Depressed?
It's all just semantics. How John feels to Sherlock is someone standing out in the rain, having forgotten the way back inside.
"Would you mind giving her dinner?" John asks tonight, running a hand through his hair. "I just…"
"Of course," Sherlock promises with an eagerness he doesn't really possess. He has surprised himself, above all, by enjoying the girl's company as much as he does, but John's request grates on him because he has a sense it's not really the help John most pressingly needs.
________________
Mrs Hudson is going away for Christmas. Her adult children have come to London to see her, and they're taking her to the village she is from in Cornwall.
It'll be John's and Rosie's first Christmas without Mary. It will be Rosie's first proper Christmas, period, since she'd barely been born during the last one. Sherlock is not a great fan of Christmas, nor does he remember his first four but somehow, this fact seems significant. It feels like there's a task to be performed, and failure could be a cataclysmic event.
Last week, the stress of feeling like he is supposed to take the initiative John so painfully lacks, Sherlock had asked the only person he knows relatively well with a family what to do.
"All the baby shops'll know what's age-appropriate as a gift," Lestrade had told him. "Next year you can go to a proper toy store."
Sherlock has been to one store catering to infants before. Dragged in by Mary acting conspiratorial and friendly in that slightly suspiciously overeager manner of hers, she'd insisted it was a godfather's duty to help pick things. Nothing Sherlock had found online confirmed such a duty, but he'd played along. John had seemed genuinely delighted at the concept of having a family at the wedding, and despite the clouds soon gathering over their marriage, Sherlock had held on to that joy as his guiding light regarding what John wanted and what he should consequently have. Because Sherlock did not know what else to do than to give him that. He wanted John happy and by his side and if the latter could not provide the former alone, so be it. He'd have to take what he could get. Perhaps this was punishment for shunning human connection all his life. You've made your bed, Sherlock Holmes, now lie in it alone while your best friend tosses and turns upstairs until his daughter wakes up and sleep becomes something other people do.
Sherlock sighs, and sips the tea forced on him by Mrs Hudson. It's good tea, so this is not much of an inconvenience. She'd dragged him into her flat just as he was heading in from tying up some loose ends with a case at the Met. John is at work, Rosie at daycare.
"I've left a little something in the fridge, and you're welcome to raid my pantry if you run out of something," Mrs Hudson tells him. "I've left the tree-decorating to you."
"Me?"
"All three of you. Rosie would enjoy it, I think."
Sherlock has never decorated a Christmas tree. It was his father's task in his childhood; he wasn't allowed to touch the ornaments in fear that he'd steal them away for his experiments or break them. Once he got old enough to understand why those were unfavourable outcomes, he'd grown resentful of all family holidays with their rules and expectations and long sittings-down for being forced to ingest off-putting food. He has no idea how to decorate a tree, nor does he have the desire for such a task. But now Mrs Hudson is making it sound like it would be important. She had always done it for them after gently coaxing John to pick one up from one of the vendors at a corner of Regent's Park. They have never asked her to make an effort for Christmas, but she always does so, anyway.
There will be no party for friends this year. The only one they have had was a disaster, as explained to him by John, after it had ended. Apparently it had been his fault that John had been dumped by a lady friend jealous of Sherlock, and he had insulted Molly, which he had realised at the time and had apologised for, but John had still been smiling, as though these things were just part and parcel of living with Sherlock. He used to always take his side. Now, John does not take sides. He steps away into the dark, alone.
"Rosamund has little reach and her dexterity would not allow hanging up ornaments," Sherlock says to Mrs Hudson.
"She'd love watching you do it, even if she couldn’t participate much," Mrs Hudson explains.
Is this a godfather's duty also, then? Sherlock wonders.
"You're awfully quiet these days. Is everything alright?" Mrs Hudson asks, and slips a biscuit onto his plate.
Quiet, him? It's John who's changed.
"Everything is fine," Sherlock assures her.
"Fine? She asks, with doubt hanging in the air.
"Alright," Sherlock qualifies.
Everything is alright, because there is no definition for alright, and everything in life is very relative, isn't it?
______________
The little something from Mrs Hudson turns out to be a fully stocked fridge, a bare tree placed between the sofa and the window and plenty of baked and tinned goods. There is even a wrapped gift waiting on the kitchen table for Rosie, which makes Sherlock panic. Has John acquired one?If not, should he help? Perhaps another consultation with Lestrade is needed.
John doesn't look happy when he comes homes and discovers all the Christmas things that have appeared.
"Great," he says. "Just great," and even Sherlock can pick up that this is sarcasm. "Now I have to get her something." He puts his coat back on. "Watch Rosie for me, will you?"
"Of course," Sherlock promises. The little girl, placed on the sofa a minute ago, is currently engaged with a Peppa Pig video on John's iPad. Sherlock is not very impressed with the quality of the series as children's educational entertainment, but it does keep her quiet and content when John needs that the most.
But what does Rosie need? Sherlock wonders.
"She's had a mild fever since noon, so they called me to take her home," John explains as he redoes the buttons on his wax coat. Mary had made him dress better and eat better. John never used to want to spend money on clothes except for a good coat and shoes. Now, he has high-quality shirts and ties befitting a GP and they make Sherlock feel strange.
"But I couldn't just ditch my shift, could I?" John asks, probably rhetorically. "So I took her to the surgery where she's been sitting at reception with Jules with the pad for the rest of the day."
"You could have called me or Hudders," Sherlock offers, and gets a glare in return.
"Yeah, I'll just keep dumping her off on everyone." John curses as he heads downstairs. He slams the door, leaving Sherlock standing baffled and alarmed in the sitting room.
Why is John so opposed to help? Sherlock finds it no burden at all, and Mrs Hudson seems genuinely happy every time she gets to spend time with John's daughter. Of course, a recently widowed father would need help. Even that period Sherlock tries his best not to ever think about even for a second when John wasn't speaking to him and was drinking, and Rosie was with Molly, seems understandable. People react in such different ways to losing other people, Sherlock has noticed. Having a spouse murdered in front of them certainly warrants a period of losing one's grip on everyday life, does it not?
Sherlock does not miss Mary the person, but he misses the way she acted as a mediator between him and John, a buffer zone between their worse qualities. When she was gone, all that was left were too raw nerves rubbing against each other. Sherlock knows what happened in the morgue was not all about him, but John had made it about him. About the two of them.
The months after Mary died had been ugly. The only bright spot, the only one capable of lifting the spirits of those around her, has been Rosie. She is leaning her head on the back cushion of the sofa, eyes glistening bright with fever, shivering slightly.
Sherlock presses the back of his hand to the little girl's forehead. "You're burning up, Watson."
She makes a small, sleepy sound and Sherlock's first impulse is to cover her with a blanket but with an obvious fever that may not be a good idea. Has John given her something? Sherlock thinks it likely, especially since they'd spent the afternoon at the clinic. He doesn't want to risk giving her another dose if John had just been waiting for preceding does of medication to take effect.
She sniffles.
"Do we need to sneeze?" Sherlock asks, and she shakes her head slightly. She hates being sneezed and usually resists with much more vigour.
Suddenly, her eyes shift up, ending up staring at the ceiling unseen. She keels to her side and her hands, curled into fists, begin twitching. Her left leg kicks a few times before her back arches momentarily. Then, she flops limply against the sofa cushions.
Sherlock's eyes have gone wide, and he has already gripped the girl by the arms to keep her from falling off the sofa. She is boneless but breathing as he picks her gently up and drapes her over his shoulder. He can feel a bit of drool landing on the shoulder of his dress shirt and soaking in.
Thankfully, his mobile is in his trouser pocket. He calls John — the first quick dial, of course — but there's no answer. He must still have it on silent, which is how he keeps it at work.
'Call me, NOW', Sherlock texts him.
Mrs Hudson will be on her way to the train. Lestrade does not answer, either.
Sherlock curses, and cradles Rosie in his arms. She's whimpering a little but that does not sound like her proper crying. She is very still, frighteningly so. He wonders if John has a digital thermometer up in their bedroom. But would the precise temperature matter? What is the right marching order right now?
John would know what to do. Who else does?
Heart thundering in his ears, he then nearly drops the phone from his shaky fingers. He readjusts Rosie's head so that it's not lolling to the side, and calls Mycroft who answers on the second ring.
"I need––" he hastens to say, then realises he has no idea how to summarise the situation. "Rosamund is ill."
"Ill, how? Are you alone with her? Where's John?"
"Gone to the shops. Her eyes rolled up, and it looked like some sort of a partial fit. She's feverish and lethargic."
"I believe this would warrant alerting the emergency services. Best err on the side of caution, eh?" Mycroft suggests.
Sherlock swallows. Rosie is getting a bit fussy now, is that a good sign? Why hadn't it occurred to him to call 999? Obvious!
He lays her down on the couch, wanting to get a look at her. Clear mucus has meandered a creek down from her nose, her eyelids are droopy, and she flinches when Sherlock readjusts her position. She still looks a bit out of it.
Why does he feel reluctant to dial the number? Why does he feel like John might get angry at him? Surely, John would want Rosie seen if something is wrong. John is always angry these days, at anything and everything.
A sudden panic washes over him. He doesn't know what's going on, and John would never forgive him if he let something happen to his daughter.
"Emergency, which service?" The operator answers.
"I don't–– I have a one-year old girl in need of a paediatrician," Sherlock manages.
"Of course, sir, but I will need some additional information before I direct you to speak to the ambulance services."
_______________
After playing the infuriating game of twenty questions with the ambulance control centre, Sherlock is relieved that the EMT team does show up ten minutes later. During the wait, the initially listless Rosie seems to perk up. After Sherlock carries her downstairs and opens the door to meet the EMTs, she clings to his neck and begins crying. She's sweaty and toasty warm like a human hot water bottle, and Sherlock doesn't bother grabbing his coat. The EMT's questions repeat too many of the things he's already said to the control centre, but he stifles his annoyance. She gets to sit in his lap in the back of the ambulance during the drive, wide-eyed and frightened of the strange surroundings. At least the Christmas ornament hung from a safety railing catches her attention for a moment.
The ride to St Mary's Hospital's A&E department on Praed Street is blissfully short. Sherlock is mildly alarmed that they're using the blue lights but then again, surely a child having a seizure qualifies as an emergency. Sherlock is, in hindsight, embarrassed that calling 999 had not instantly occurred to him.
Once he and Rosie have been escorted to the designated children's emergency clinic, she is whisked out of his arms and taken to an acute bay. He tries to stride in after the staff but is stopped by a stern-looking nurse. Rosie has broken into a wail, and Sherlock feels an intense pull to go to her, to not leave her alone with these people. John wouldn't let her out of his sight.
"Are you the father?" The nurse asks.
"No, I'm––"
"Uncle? Babysitter?" The nurse offers as though Sherlock has displaced his mother tongue. Perhaps that happens to people in emergencies. She's looking at Sherlock suspiciously.
"Godfather," Sherlock declares.
"Where are the parents?"
"Shopping."
"Can you get hold of them?"
"I left a message. Tried to call him. I think he's got his mobile on silent." Sherlock tries to dig the phone out of his pocket, then realises he's forgot it on the coffee table. "I remember his number; could you please try calling him again?"
John will be worried if I don't pick up. "Please, try calling him again," he pleads. "He'll worry something's happened."
"Of course."
Sherlock gives the number, and the nurse dutifully jots it down.
The nurse then directs him to sit in a waiting area in a side corridor. It's empty of other parents and guardians; despite it being wintertime, perhaps there are fewer infection epidemics going on than usual. He vaguely remembers reading about the winter vomiting season not having started yet.
"What can you tell me about what's happened today?" The nurse, her name tag declaring her no less than the Charge Nurse asks, clipboard in hand.
Sherlock would prefer to talk directly to the physician in charge, but perhaps they are busy looking after Rosie. "Will you deliver this information to the rest of the team?"
The look the nurse gives him is patient but a bit world-weary. "Of course."
"She had a mild fever which spiked, and then she began twitching. Her limbs, I mean. Her gaze wasn't very focused, her eyes rolled up into her head and her back arched."
"How long did this last?"
"I don't know," Sherlock complains. "Minutes? Seconds? Can't have been more than a few minutes."
"How was she before this happened? Any neck stiffness, sensitivity to touch, nausea, vomiting, anything like that?"
"No, she was watching Peppa Pig."
"Any chronic illnesses, allergies?"
"Not as far as I know. She's been healthy, apart from the usual seasonal sniffles and a few stomach upsets. Colicky as a baby but that only lasted about a month." During that month, John's visits to Baker Street had mostly turned into naps on the sofa, no matter how interesting the case going on was.
"Thank you, Mister Holmes. I'm sure someone will come see you soon, tell you how Rosie is doing."
"You'll call J–– I mean, the father?" Sherlock gives the number again. She nods. "What are they doing with her?" Sherlock demands as the nurse starts to pivot on her heel to leave.
"We'll assess her and come talk to you when we know more."
Soon, he's alone. How many times has he sat in corridors like this, waiting for John to get patched up? How many times has John sat like this, waiting for news on Sherlock after he’s been shot or stabbed or battered in the course of a case?
Did I do it right? Was there a delay in getting help?
God, he wishes he had his phone.