Chapter Text
It was just one of those days, John concluded, as he measured out the correct dosage of children's liquid paracetamol. The box boasted its strawberry flavor, but Rosie would try to spit it out regardless. Her temperature wasn't too high, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Being a high-ranking army doctor, he frequently sutured gaping wounds or managed the symptoms of severe infections. Sometimes, he had to calm down soldiers in shock or those in the throes of alcohol withdrawal.
The point is, John Watson was good at taking care of other people, goddammit.
Except Rosie didn't want him. She wanted her godfather.
Sherlock, who was out in his wellies, wandering the forest, collecting specimens for some sort of experiment involving fungus and how it speeds up the decomposition of corpses.
Sherlock, who left in the early morning as the sun rose, had no idea his fifteen-month-old goddaughter was sick.
The worst part was that John understood why Rosie wanted him so much.
After the whole surprise-sister ordeal, John let Sherlock live with him for a few weeks while 221B was being fixed up. Still grieving Mary, and with his relationship with Sherlock unstable, John threw himself into his work at the clinic. He simply couldn’t bother Molly for childcare anymore, so Sherlock assumed the role. It was as if he didn’t even notice.
It came to him naturally (“Babies are simple creatures, John - predictable - but their perception is suspiciously keen. Sometimes, I prefer them to adults”). John’s actions still haunt him; that Sherlock, fresh from the hospital, was consoling Rosie when she had a stuffy nose or a tummy ache, while John worked overtime and avoided his true responsibilities.
“Dada!” Rosie cried from the other room, where she was sitting in her pack-and-play.
John put the safety cap on and took a deep breath. He left the kitchen and scooped up his girl.
“I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here…” he soothed, placing a kiss on her forehead.
“Sh-lock, sh-lock!” she sobbed into his shoulder.
John felt a deep pang in his chest and tried not to feel horribly inadequate. “I know, Rosie, you want Sherlock. He's out right now, though, baby. He'll be home soon.”
A few moments of Rosie squirming and John's placations later, the door to the flat burst open.
As John watched a black Belstaff get thrown on the coat rack, he couldn’t help but think it looked like a scene from those American sitcoms (“Honey, I’m home!”). He slipped off his boots.
“John! Do I have news!” Sherlock exclaimed, “I collected Laetiporus sulphureus at the site where Ms Reynolds was found- oh.”
Sherlock stopped dead, eyes scanning over Rosie's clingy form, face blotchy with tears and mucus; the tense set of John's shoulders and the pink syringe in his hand.
John felt a pang of sadness in his chest. Sherlock so rarely showed his excitement like that anymore, not since before his "death".
Rosie shrieked, making grabby hands at him. “Sh-lock! Sh-lock!”
Sherlock did not move, although he flinched toward her. He glanced at John, asking - Is this okay?
John smiled, nodded once. He was grateful that Sherlock finally understood that parents have preferences for how other adults behave towards their child. It took a vicious scolding from Archie’s mom to “stop showing her son dead things” for that boundary to sink in. He had been extra careful ever since. It made John feel sick with affection.
Sherlock crossed the room in four strides and took Rosie. She melted into the contact, whimpering.
“It’s all right, Watson,” he consoled. His eyes met John for a second. “She’s sick?”
John nodded. “She woke up with a low-grade fever an hour or two after you left. She’s only wanted you.”
Sherlock looked briefly pleased with himself. “I…I’m sure that’s not true,” he said, sounding anxious.
John shook his head, smiling a bit. “Uh, no. Pretty sure my name isn’t ‘Sh-lock’.”
“Well - “ Sherlock began.
Rosie laid her head in the crook of his neck, sniffling.
John couldn’t help it.
On his next inhale, he said, “It’s fine. It’s all fine”.
“What?” Sherlock asked, concerned.
“I’m happy that she feels safe with you,” John clarified. “You’ve practically helped me raise her since Mary died.”
Sherlock frowned. “That’s not true. Molly helped you the most after Mary…”
“Okay, well, but that’s only because I told you to piss off, wasn’t it?”
Sherlock walked over and gently pried the syringe of pink liquid out of John’s hand.
Sitting down, Rosie on his lap, Sherlock said, “Yes, I suppose. I had come over to help, and Molly gave me a note. Admittedly, that time is a bit hazy; I was in the throes of a rediscovered drug addiction, after all. But, I remember, she said you wanted anyone but me.”
Sherlock busied himself, coaxing Rosie into taking her Paracetamol.
John didn’t like the tone of Sherlock’s voice - dark and reminiscent. It made him think of tall buildings, and wedding vows, and everything he wanted to avoid.
“Yeah, I told her to say that,” John responded, gingerly. “Although, after,” he hesitated, “Eurus, you’ve taken care of Rosie nearly every day.”
“You have been very busy, John, and I am her godfather,” Sherlock said. He wiped the sticky medicine off Rosie’s cheek with his sleeve, sacrificing his Italian silk.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it, Bumblebee?”
The little girl cooed and tucked herself into his side, gently babbling.
“Sh-lock, Dada,” she said to herself.
John felt vaguely sick again.
“Good girl, Rosie,” John said, smiling.
Something complicated took over Sherlock’s face, as if he had just realised he had eaten something he was allergic to. He stood up and sat Rosie down.
“I’m going to go change my clothes,” he announced. It fell over the room awkwardly.
“I was…in the forest. I won’t be a moment.”
He walked away without a second glance. John heard his bedroom door click shut. Rosie slapped her hands down on her knees, looking up at John - Why’d he go?
John shrugged and kissed her on the head, thinking.
Sherlock doesn’t like to be confronted with his responsibilities or his value to Rosie…Perhaps it made him uncomfortable?
But John was sure Sherlock would enjoy any praise, regardless of its nature.
Huh.
It was probably nothing.