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John Watson had seen a lot of unexpected things upon entering 221b Baker Street. Somewhere along the way, he’d ceased being surprised by the blood, fire, and gunpowder and started taking it all in stride. A little spinal fluid wouldn’t kill him, so long as it wasn’t in the tea kettle.
Then he walked in on Sherlock having his toenails painted by an 8-year-old.
John paused in the doorway. Blinked. He looked to both sides, then up at the ceiling, just to verify that he was, in fact, inside his own flat. Which, yes, he was, but then there was nail varnish and a child, which what?
“You have to go change into your pyjamas!” the child demanded, her tiny mouth locked in a disapproving frown. “It’s not a PJ party if you aren’t wearing jammies, Uncle John.”
John opened his mouth to ask a question, the obvious question, but Sherlock shook his head gravely. “You’d better listen to her, John. She’s a fierce opponent. I wouldn’t cross her.”
John, in a daze, felt himself nod. His feet carried him up the stairs to his room, where he pulled on his favorite pair of tartan pyjama bottoms. A soft, threadbare vest followed, and he returned to the sitting room with his lips still gently parted in utter bewilderment.
“Isn’t it brilliant, John?” Sherlock asked, wiggling the perfectly painted toes of his left foot. “I once solved a case based on the drying time of a particular brand of nail varnish, but I’ve never actually experienced the application process. I’ve learned so much about differences in consistency and the resulting effect on cuticle residue.”
John stared at the bottles of nail varnish beside Sherlock, arranged by color and perfectly aligned. A page of detailed notes sat nearby, written in a child’s wobbly handwriting.
“Sherlock,” he said.
“We’ve gone through three brands and eight colors so far, but the varnish remover is starting to have a deteriorating effect on my nails,” Sherlock continued as the girl carefully drew the brush down the nail of his middle toe.
John sniffed and looked up at the ceiling.
“Sherlock,” he said again.
“To keep the deterioration from compromising future trials, I suggest we use your toenails for the next few rounds. We’ll have to compensate for differences in toenail texture and cuticle absorbancy, and the surface area will be different of course, but I believe—”
John gave up and went to make tea. For three.
When he returned to the sitting room, the deed was done: ten long toes, perfectly painted with bright blue matte varnish. The acrid chemical scent of both varnish and remover stung John’s nose. The girl smiled at him as he walked in with the tray, snagging a biscuit as soon as the plate came within reach. John set the tea tray down, took in a slow breath through his nose, and nodded.
“Right then,” he said. He sat down on the rug between Sherlock and the child, then held out a hand to the girl. “I’m John, though it sounds like you already know that. And you are?”
The girl rolled her eyes with great emphasis, but took John’s hand anyway. “Of course I already know who you are, Uncle John,” she said with a surprisingly strong handshake. “I’m Ronnie. Daddy said you would be coming to the PJ party as soon as you were done with work and that you’d ‘keep Uncle Sherlock from causing trouble.’”
“Oh he did, did he?” John narrowed his eyes and channeled his inner Sherlock: Brown eyes; dark brown hair; small, serious mouth; called him and Sherlock ‘Uncle’. Her ‘Daddy’ knew Sherlock was a handful, but trusted him enough to leave a child with him. Ronnie, Ronnie…
“Ah, Veronica!” he said, looking to Sherlock for confirmation. He looked up from his painted toes just long enough to quirk a tiny smile at John, then returned his attention to the drying process. John grinned. “Well, if we’re going to have a PJ party, we’re going to do it good and proper. Get some takeout, put on a film—”
“No films,” Ronnie cut in. “Arsenal is playing at eight.”
John’s grin widened. “Right you are. Why don’t you go pick a takeout menu from the refrigerator and decide what you want, and we’ll get everything cleaned up here, okay?”
Ronnie tore off to the kitchen without a word.
There was a beat of silence, then John gathered up the discarded tissues and bottles of varnish.
“I can not believe Greg left her with you.”
“I am perfectly capable of caring for a child, John. Lestrade’s babysitter cancelled at the last minute, and he couldn’t reach anyone else.”
“And you agreed.”
“Bored.”
“Right.”
Then Ronnie skidded into the sitting room with a Japanese menu in her hand. “Can we get sushi and udon?”
John’s eyes darted back and forth between Ronnie, the menu, and blue toenails. He briefly wondered what his life had become. Then he grabbed his phone and called for takeout.
*****
Greg returned from his date just after midnight. The sound of the telly hummed gently through the door of 221b, but the flat was otherwise silent. Unsure if he should be relieved or concerned, he pushed the door open as quietly as he could—then stopped short on the threshold.
Sherlock and John were slumped on the couch in their pyjamas, their heads resting together, Ronnie tucked up between them. They were all sound asleep. The coffee table was a disaster of takeout containers, and a balled-up wrapper lay near the television screen. He’s seen the game’s final score on his phone—that was probably Ronnie’s doing. Amidst the rubble, three sets of bare feet were propped up on the table.
All three had perfectly painted matte blue toenails.
A loud snort escaped before Greg could think about holding it in, and two sets of eyes snapped open. Sherlock and John immediately rolled away from one another, though their arms remained pinned in place, tangled together around Ronnie’s shoulders. With his eyes averted, John tightened his hold in a little hug and shook her gently. She grumbled and drew her knees up into her chest, turning to bury her face in Sherlock’s side, never truly waking up. Sherlock’s eyes widened a bit, a brief flash of tenderness stealing across his face before he closed it up and looked down at his lap.
John smirked and gathered Ronnie up into his arms, lifting her easily. He met Greg in the middle of the sitting room and passed her tiny form over to him. Her arms wound around Greg shoulders and she snuffled into his neck, muttering something unintelligible about acetone. Greg rolled his eyes and smiled fondly.
“Thanks for doing this at the last minute,” he said in a low voice, rubbing a hand up Ronnie’s back. “I’ll find a backup babysitter so this won’t happen again.”
John glanced back and smiled at Sherlock, who had flopped sideways on the couch and buried his face in the cushions. “Anytime, seriously. We don’t mind at all. Ronnie is great, and I think Sherlock actually had fun tonight.”
Greg huffed a tiny laugh. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, looking pointedly down at John’s toes.
“Oh, bugger off,” John replied, mouthing the swear word silently. Greg grinned and grabbed Ronnie’s blue and green rucksack from its spot on Sherlock’s chair.
“Well, you gents have a lovely evening. Thanks again,” he said. John waved him out the door and closed it behind them with a quiet click. When Greg got Ronnie back out into the chilly night air, she stirred against his shoulder.
“Daddy?” she muttered. “Can we come back tomorrow?”
Greg bit back a smile. “We’ll see, my tough little lady,” he said, lowering her into the back seat of the car and buckling her in. “It’s good for them to be ordered around by someone they’ll actually listen to once in a while. Honestly, you’re probably the most dangerous out of the three of you. How about next weekend?”
Ronnie’s only answer was a gentle snore.