Chapter Text
"Sherlock!" The doctor called out, rushing around the flat in search of his friend. I emerged from the bathroom with dirty clothes in my hands, fresh out of the shower.
"What? I was taking a shower." I explained.
"Okay good, you're out. So I just got a priority call from the clinic. Something about a bloody child's injury. The kid probably needs stitches, so I need to head to work. You have to take care of Rosie." John explained. Rosie clung onto her father's shoulder as John tried his best to prevent her from flipping over. I took Rosie in my hands and she giggled at my touch.
"Alright. You go do your thing." I nodded, reassuring my friend who was reaching for his bag. He left, bidding farewell to me and his young three year old daughter.
John H. Watson is a long time friend of mine who have been on many cases and adventures with me. We've had our fair share of rough patches, because no friendship is ever perfect. But we're here. We've made it til the point where John has embarked on the adventure of having a child, and he has taken me along with him as Rosie's godfather.
Then befell the first tragedy. The death of Mary Morstan. Mary was John's loving wife who turned out to be more than meets the eye. On the surface a loving, caring, mother and wife, but deep below she's well versed in the arts of being an agent. However, now John feels that he has confidently recovered from the ordeal and has dedicated himself to being the best father he could ever be. Sure, there will be bumps in the road but I'm sure we will figure it out together. After all, we are not alone on this parenting journey. Other than myself and John, our associates or friends, I might say, have also taken up places in Rosie's life.
I have to admit, writing out my feelings like this is definitely a new experience for me. Those who know me very well know that I'm not one to share my emotions willy nilly. But John said that from his own experience, writing his blog has managed to give him a peace of mind as the blog kind of acts like a medium of expression for him.
Thanks to John, I have ultimately decided to write out a story. But since I sadly do not have the guts to publicly post what I have to say and feel, so I think it would be a good idea for me to keep a record in a story format for myself so that future me could experience the past that is currently my present.
There are already enough stories of my cases out there in the news and John's blog, so I decided to venture into another section of our lives. The section that Rosie is a big part of. Yes, this story I put together will be the tale of Rosie's childhood.
John had once told me that he has made quite the observation about me. That ever since I have spent more time with him and Rosie over the years, I have been opening up sides of me I have resolved to kept hidden. It truly is a new sensation, one that I am finally willing to explore. Yes, I too have noticed myself change over time. A very unforseen thing. I have learned that it is important to accept change or else you'll always be the same for the entirety of your life, never experiencing new things.
While John was away on work, I have the duty of taking care and entertaining Rosie. This should be as close as I'll ever be to having children.
By the time John has left and flagged down a cab, dark clouds began to roll over London. Most likely heavy rain is imminent as told by the weatherman this morning.
As much as I would love to take care of Rosie, I've been itching for a big case lately. The last one I solved was two days ago regarding stolen mail. I cracked that one in two and a half minutes without leaving the flat, not to brag. Now every hour I am waiting in anticipation to receive the call from Greg or hear his footsteps pounding on the stairs outside.
I always liked thinking that Rosie is a very smart child, just like her father. Although she does exhibit it in ways she knows how. When I was sorting through my messy desk, I heard Rosie call me.
"Unca!" Rosie called repeatedly, each call followed by that little adorable giggle that John really likes. Yes, in the course of having Rosie in my space, I have learnt to understand the language of toddlers, specifically the language of Rosie Watson.
"Yes yes, your uncle is here." I announced, walking over to where Rosie was sitting on John's chair. Her giggling grew even louder when I picked her up. Apparently she gets very happy when I carry her. She likes to laugh a lot.
Today was meant to be for John to spend time with Rosie. I think he was planning to take her to that new park that just opened in London. Sadly, he had to be called away to his practice, and Rosie knows it. I tried explaining to her that perhaps if the time still permits, her father could still take her.
Before Rosie, I would get stupidly restless when no case presents itself before me. I would then have the tendency to smoke, or do ridiculous things that results in me coming home with a spear and covered in mud and dirt. Yes, that really happened before although it may sound unbelievable. Rosie actually has helped me to smoke a little lesser because John has warned me multiple times over that I needed to watch over her health, and inhaling smoke has never done good for any child.
After Rosie played with all her toys, she started to get bored. Let me be clear that I am still not proficient in the art of child caring, so there will be moments when I stumble across problems. While Rosie was throwing her toys about on John's chair, I was finding some papers and crayons. They should be somewhere in my desk.
With crayons and paper in hand, the child started to doodle, changing colours once in awhile. I sat on my chair on the opposite side, and watched Rosie do wonders with her artistic talent. Whenever Rosie sits in John's chair, I can't help but feel that the two are almost alike. After all, they share the same blood. A Watson in a Watson's chair.
Finished with her drawing, Rosie called for me and waved the crayon doodled paper about in front of her, excited to show me what she has created. I widened my eyes when I saw the drawing.
"Unca, papa, Rose!" She said happily, little bursts of giggling every few seconds. I took the paper in my hands and begun to scan through it. I was so impressed. There was crayon drawn John on the left side of the paper with a huge smile on his face. In the middle was Rosie standing up wearing one of those dresses John bought. And on the right side was me. I was taller than John in this picture, and my hair was the right colour but it was drawn bigger than it actually is. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that I feel happy for Rosie.
"Do you want to show you papa this?" I asked cheerfully, giving back the drawing.
"Yes! Yes!" Rosie exclaimed.
Now, I know this story is meant to be about Rosie, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to talk about what happened to our friends in the meantime. Their stories sometimes could be so funny.
John reached his surgery in due time and was filled in by his receptionist on the patient's status. He was crying in the waiting room being comforted by his father. John spotted the injury. One bloody patch right there on his knee with blood oozing out of it, almost looking like the Reichenbach. Maybe that's too much of an exaggeration, but the wound was bleeding quite a lot.
John approached the father and son and introduced himself, "Good afternoon, Sir. My name is Doctor Watson, and I'll be attending to your son today."
The father looked up at John. By this time the child's crying had reduced to whimpers. He looked up at the doctor who would be attending to him. The father explained, "Thank you for coming, Doctor Watson. I understand that today was meant to be your off day. My son had quite the terrible fall and his knee landed on a sharp rock."
"Not a problem at all Sir. Come, I'll treat your son in my office."
Of course I know an injury of any degree is no laughing matter. The funny part of the story is in no way related to the injury. But I will say that what happened to John was almost similar to an interaction I had with Rosie when she was still a baby.
John carefully began to clean up all the blood he could, especially the bits that has dripped down the leg and dried up. Once the blood was clear, he knew he had to quickly examine the wound before more blood gushed out. As he cleaned, the child winced.
"You're going to need stitches." John announced.
The child went silent all of a sudden. But then he spoke up just as John was retrieving the required materials from the shelf.
"Funny looking doctor man, can I just go without the stitches?" The boy asked, his whimpers suddenly changed into laughter. John's looks acted as a distraction from his pain and he was making good use of it.
"I'm sorry, but you need them if you want your knee to heal. I've had stitches before too, and it doesn't hurt."
"But you're an adult."
"I don't think it matters."
"Stitches just speed up the recovery, doesn't it Doctor Funny Face? So even without them, it'll still recover."
"Charlie, I think we should let Doctor Watson do his job. He knows best." The father explained, placing his hand on his son's shoulder.
John began the procedure. Once finished, he applied some ointment then placed a plaster patch that covered the entire wound.
"See, that wasn't so bad." John spoke. The child looked at the patch and sighed.
"Well, it was painful. You said it wouldn't hurt." He said.
"It didn't hurt for me back then."
"That's because you're a grown up!"
"But I think the main point is that your wound can start its speed recovery now." John smiled and said.
The son was unhappy with the pain he faced. Stitches would hurt, naturally. It probably just depends on your pain tolerance. John's army experience must have increased his tolerance. I had to get stitches when Mary shot me. I felt the pain and couldn't do anything about it as I could only lie down there, waiting for the process to complete. I myself had my pain tolerance increased over the years in my career as a detective.
Without the father or John noticing, Charlie slid his hand into his pocket and removed an object. It was a candy. Once John turned to face him again, he threw the sweet at John's face.
See? It was just the time when Rosie threw her rattle at me after I called her a "product of romantical whimsy".
"Charlie!" The boy's father exclaimed, and began apologizing for his son's behaviour. "I'm so sorry Doctor Watson. My son tends to behave mischievously."
John picked up the candy and handed it back to the child. "Nevermind. It's fine. I understand how children can be."
After an hour of doing children stuff, Rosie was starting to grow sleepy. I took her in my arms, she rested her head on my shoulder until she fell soundly asleep. That was quick. Mary always told me that Rosie was a fast sleeper. I walked to opposite side of the room where there was a long rectangular couch. Setting Rosie down nice and easy, I covered her body with her favourite blanket since the rain has started its downpour and grew heavier by the second.
Ten minutes later, I heard footsteps from the outside and no, it wasn't Greg. It was Rosie's father coming home from work.
"This rain, unbelievable." John remarked, hanging up his jacket.
"Welcome home, John. I hope everything went well. Oh, keep your voice down. Rosie is napping." I said, looking up from my desk. John turned to Rosie and nodded. He came and sat down on a chair by the table.
"I guess no more park time with Rosie."
"It's just some afternoon rain, John. You can still take her there in the evening."
"It feels like afternoon to evening sort of rain, Sherlock."
"You can still go tomorrow."
"I'm working tomorrow, genius."
"I'm sure you can still go with her in the evening. Don't be so down."
"Alright fine, if you say so." John then decided to change the topic.
"So, anything happened while I was away?"
Without anymore words, I opened my drawer and extracted the drawing Rosie created earlier. John exhibited the same expression I did when I first laid eyes on it.
"She's good." I commented.
"Yeah. That's our Rosie." John smiled.