Chapter Text
Desiderata
Max Ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
++
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
++
John heard Rosie stir, rolled himself over, until her toddler morning blabble let him know she was irrevocably, indeed, awake.
The night before had been fully unplanned, unexpected, and late. Mrs. Hudson, gracious as ever despite her not-your-housekeeper fuss, had minded Rosie, put her to bed, and blearingly disappeared as soon as they'd returned to Baker Street. John didn't do it often, to be that crazy late - and after last night, he wouldn't be too eager to do it again.
"Tea, Rosie bug?" He'd forced himself upright, righted the twist of his pajama pants, tucked into slippers, and carted her off to the loo. At almost three, she was finally, fully dry every morning, but he wasn't about to risk changing that - or himself, her sheets, or anything that might be vulnerable. He brushed his teeth while she sat, then plopped her carefully just outside the door while he tended himself. "Now the kettle," he cued, giving her a proper morning cuddle, breathing in her scent. Her sweetness, faint morning warmth still radiating. "And some milk for you."
"Tea, papa," she whispered. Her words, this morning and every morning, were slower to come. A morning person, already, she was decidedly not. "I want tea, too."
"After your milk," he said fondly, sitting down with her perched in his lap.
There was a hollowness, an ache, an awareness inside. The ache within, sized to that of his …
Nope. Onward, Watson. He gave the hallway as much stillness as he could, sipped his tea, watched Rosie. On one level, he was so grateful to be here, back home. Home in a way that no place had been since those few years here, before Rosie, before ... well, yes that. Even to this day, remnants of some of the harder portions of life going all the way back to childhood before the bottom dropped out, the alcoholism, the poverty - he would have been about six when everything changed, when the comforting security of his own early years altering the course. He didn't want that for Rosie and so was very grateful to be firmly ensconced at Baker Street. And it was good, he reminded himself. Very good, in fact. The other level, wishing perhaps things were different. That things were more. Just that - more.
And yet. It was good.
Rosie, having downed her milk in barely anytime at all, handed him her now empty cup. “Tea!”
He snarfled at her, puffing lightly behind her ear as they often did, making her chortle. Then, grinning, he brushed the hair from her face. "Yes, milady."
Sherlock, as of yet unheard from, would perhaps sleep awhile yet, having still been up when John'd succumbed to his exhaustion, murmuring a faint goodnight before dragging himself up the stairs. Hoping to yet give him a fairly quiet flat, John kept Rosie occupied with her breakfast, the extremely diluted tea that he hoped she didn't catch on to anytime soon (at least 75% milk and the rest a mild blend of actual tea). From there, he got her dressed, and was in the middle of one of their favourite books about a puppy when there was a faint stirring in the hallway.
Sherlock, bleary, tall, rumpled from sleep yet still managing to look as if he could be featured in any magazine that modeled sexy, gorgeous, handsome, ravishing casual sleepwear.
"Shuhlock!" Rosie greeted him, dragging the book from John's hands and jumping about with more energy than seemed legal, over to him.
Though he didn't actually speak, he managed a grumble in return, scooping her and the awkward book up into his arms.
Watching, John reminded himself to keep it calm, but inwardly, the sight of his daughter and Sherlock always warmed him as almost nothing else could. The fondness, the tenderness Sherlock showed her, was something private. Something almost spiritual. Intimate, confined to the flat and something only the three of them got to share, like this anyway. He was caring and concerned out in public too, but not quite with this openness. The fullness in John's chest, always there to some degree - perhaps less so when there was something caustic, risky, or just plain disgusting in the flat - fanned into flame at sights like the one in front of him.
John rose, moved to the kitchen, to fix Sherlock his own mug, Earl Grey, his morning preference. Splash of milk, dash of sugar, in a sturdier mug. Today, it was one gifted him from Molly, something with a complicated chemical equation.
He'd started the book over, and was reading by the time John set it next to him. His voice, still a little morning-rough, was careful, and occasionally he would pause, seeing if Rosie was paying attention, if she would fill in the word. Now and again, he would point to one of them, a simple, monosyllabic one, and speak it a few times. Sometimes she would repeat. Today, she was listening, silent, enjoying his attention.
In one of the pauses, he stopped, sipped at his tea, meeting John's eyes over the rim of the mug. "Thanks."
"Of course." Rosie, from her perch on his knee, patted his arm, then patted the book, then bounced ever so lightly to prompt him back to focus. Shortly after, the final page turned, the cover shut, and the book laid aside, Rosie arched her back, scooting off his lap to meander over to her corner of the sitting room. There were her finest treasures, her haven, her slice of the flat. A tied back corner tent gave the area definition and within its borders, a box, several tiered shelves, a tiny writing desk, a play table of magnetic blocks and shapes in every colour known. And for some reason, whether her paternal military influence of appreciating order or her environmental bent toward enjoying her very own space, she kept things, usually, exactly where they belonged. For a few moments, the men watched her tuck into the chair and demolish the existing, gravity defying sculpture, magnet bonds broken apart and plastic shapes crashing down in a whoosh. Then, as they expected, she sorted a few pieces and began again.
"You have case work to finish up?"
"Probably a statement. I might ignore the DI today, though. He can wait."
"Something better to pursue?" John asked, knowing he had the day off himself, that eventually Rosie had her little preschool class.
"No, not exactly. Just after the ... nonsense, the late hours, thought perhaps I'd just enjoy not having something on." There was vague chemistry in his statement, something unusual not being uttered aloud. Although John, and most people in Sherlock's circle, had heard him complain of being bored many times, usually punctuated by something random, something unpredictable, occasionally something dangerous, it was truly unique for him to choose inactivity, to willingly embrace the lack of stimulation.
"That sounds ..." John began, but was interrupted by the alarming clatter of Rosie's tower collapsing that was followed immediately by an unhappy wail. "Oh munchkin, it's okay." He got to his feet, leaving his mostly drunk tea behind, and skillfully distracted Rosie with an offer to rebuild, of a redirected effort at an all green tower with an odd, pointed balcony attached awkwardly and illogically to the side. Eventually, she was indeed happy again, the whims of life giving her extreme emotions from time to time as with many toddlers, and John moved to reading the news on his mobile while Sherlock buried himself in something online, something on John's laptop. There was a snack, a light lunch, and then a jacket as John corralled and then began to herd Rosie a few blocks to her preschool.
"Want to tag along?" he offered to Sherlock. "A quick drop-off and a walk back?" It wasn't an unusual offer, one Sherlock seldom took, so John was prepared for a brush off and was somewhat surprised when he agreed.
Her usual chatter along the way, something about one of the toys at the centre, something with purple dragons, occupied most of the quick walk over. Sherlock simply stood off to the background while John signed her in, helped her hang up her jacket, and cued her through stowing her snack for later in the cubbie for that use, all appropriately and properly labeled Rosamund Watson. "I'll be back soon when school is over, okay bug?"
"Rosamund," she corrected, putting a pudgy fingertip on her name.
"Yes ma'am," he said, breathing softly into her neck, a goodbye tradition, a means to help her separate as she scurried a few steps away from him in response.
Rosie's classroom aide stood nearby, smiling, watching, and held out a hand toward Rosie. "Ready?" she asked. "We've got something special planned."
"Bye papa!" she called over her shoulder, and was off with the teachers, her classmates, disappearing through the doorway.
The return to Baker Street was the opposite kind of trip. Mostly silent. Footsteps on the kerb, the muted sound of other pedestrians, breathing, an occasional car noise, a door slamming, birds sounding off in one of the nearby pocket gardens, doors to retail shoppes opening or closing. They didn't speak to each other - they didn't need to.
Mrs. Hudson's door was closed, the blunted sounds of a television show coming from the inside, the sounds of shoes on the stairs without the chatter of a toddler, still and calm. Inside, jackets were hung, shoes toed off, and John spoke to his mobile. "Set an alarm for ninety minutes." Then, that settled, he found himself almost a little sleepy just at the sight of the couch. "Ugh, I'm too old for late nights."
"And sharing a room with a child."
"That too." He breathed out, letting the exhaustion sound in the exhale, the faint hmmm of getting comfortable.
"Speak for yourself, I'm raring to go."
"Liar," John challenged, taking note that Sherlock himself had slouched into his chair, arms relaxed, long fingers unmoving and atypically quiet as they hung over the armrests. "This is nice, though, yeah?"
Not quite a word, Sherlock made some sort of guttural noise, acknowledgement and agreement. When John glanced over moments after that, Sherlock's eyes were lightly closed, a sideways smile on his lips, the demeanor of a person at ease with the world.
A quick inhale, John's breath adding their own agreement, no words necessary, and he let his eyes drift closed too.
Perfect, came the thought, and John's smile, unseen to anyone, was relaxed and at peace too.
Or, well, he added to his innermost quiet thoughts, almost.