Chapter Text
1895
Exactly one month and one day after the birth of my wife, Mary, and I’s daughter, my friend Sherlock Holmes came to call. This was not necessarily rare or even particularly unexpected, but I had never once seen him so rapturously excited.
“Of course I am excited, Watson.” He said matter-of-factly as I led him into the sitting room, where the baby lay in a basket while my wife was asleep in the bedroom, still recovering and having only just emerged from her confinement, “Another Watson has arrived.”
I laughed, but soon paused, for my friend had suddenly become very quiet. Once again, this was not rare - it was quite common, actually - but it was certainly a sight to see the great detective Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street wring his hands and peer over at a baby, who by now had awoken and was squirming in the way that newborns are wont do.
And then, very quietly: “What do I do, Watson?”
I was quite taken aback at this. Sherlock Holmes, asking what to do? Now, this was unheard of!
My daughter squealed, tiny hands flapping.
“No, not you, Young Watson.” Holmes said, in a plain, clear voice, “I was speaking to your father. He is Dr Watson.”
I shook off my wonder at Holmes’ manner, and gestured for him to sit down in the armchair by the fireplace.
“Here.” I lifted the babe and slowly placed her in Holmes’ arms, “Her name is Rose.”
He took her from me with an almost clinical delicacy, as if she were a vial or pipette in one of his chemistry experiments.
“You have done quite well for yourself, Watson.” He observed quietly after a pause, “I can already see she has the makings of a fine detective.”
I chuckled and returned to the sofa, never letting my eyes leave them, “A detective, eh? Not a nurse - like her father?”
“You are a doctor, Watson, not a nurse.” Was Holmes’ only reply.