Chapter Text
March 1891, 9 months
Sherlock thanked their luck that Iris had, on the whole, been a very healthy child. He had been worried this would not be so given the unfavourable circumstances of her birth, but despite this, she had yet to come down with anything severe or out of the ordinary. If he were a less rational man than he was, he might allow himself to be reminded of Saint Mickey’s and the days when their home had been a house of healing for all scraps of the local orphans.
But the boon of Iris’s fortunate constitution did not mean she had been an easy infant to care for. She was unpredictable in her moods and tastes, vacillating between preferences and disproportionately opinionated for a person of her size. Sherlock alone was suffered to fix her hair, but only Mrs. Hudson could get her to wear shoes without fuss. Iris was transfixed by the sight of Mycroft despite all his hesitancy and avoidance, whilst their poor maid Lydia’s smile still remained the most reliable trigger for tears. Iris enjoyed anything he played for her on his violin most days, but for the three months when she would only go down for a nap to Mozart (for his own sake, he dared not broach Mendelssohn). That was, if she wasn’t already in Sherlock’s arms or lying on his chest—her favourite places to fall asleep that inconveniently paralysed him for fear of upsetting her.
He had early on flatly refused to hire a nurse. No matter how often Mycroft pestered or his mother found excuses to visit, Sherlock insisted that, with occasional guidance from Mrs. Hudson, he was managing brilliantly on his own. Privately, in words he never said aloud but did squeeze into cramped letters sent abroad, he knew he could never feel secure putting Iris’s wellbeing into the hands of a stranger he’d have to invite into their home.
In all too short a time, Iris had become immeasurably dear. She was, without doubt, the most precious gift Yuujin had given him. Perhaps Sherlock was being selfish and clinging, but when Iris continued to be healthy and happy and loved, who could possibly say he was doing any wrong by her?
For all that he fretted over her happiness, Sherlock cherished the new things they were learning each day, and the privilege of watching her discover the world was worth all the hardships of infancy he bore largely alone.
One component he had not expected to take to as well as he did was preparing her food. Mrs. Hudson had taught him the recipes for thickened milk and thin porridge that she had made for her sons, and Sherlock had hunted down countless more instructions in women’s magazines. There was a familiarity in the chore that felt scientific at times. When it came to balancing ratios for the desired consistency and heating up milk to a precise temperature, there was always a correct answer, so unlike most other aspects of Iris’s care.
It was some nine months now into their cohabitation, and Iris was every day proving to be a constant font of surprises. As best he could, he tried to hold their schedule accountable to a routine structured around Iris’s mealtimes. He found breakfast to be the easiest of these, as it was the time of day he was least likely to accidentally miss.
They had lately been working on her spoon-wielding technique in the mornings. Once Iris had been secured into her high chair, bib attached to her little day dress, he would feed her enough of the first few mouthfuls until she started grabbing for the spoon herself. From there, Iris enjoyed experimenting with how the laws of physics acted on her porridge whilst Sherlock read aloud interesting notes from the morning paper. Such was the case on one Tuesday in late March.
“Ah, look here,” Sherlock said, shaking the paper to crisp it, “‘The Lady Hobhouse was invited to open the latest Metropolitan Garden with the Earl of Meath to give a speech.’ Now, my dear, what do you make of that?”
Iris held up her spoon by the wrong end and answered, “Wahdoodah.”
“Oh? Is that a fact?”
“Ya, bah-ah-dit.”
“Hm, yes, I see.” Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Quite.”
Iris nodded back. “Quite.”
He moved to flip the page, then froze—then jolted in his seat, crumpling the newsprint. His mouth fell open as he stared in disbelief. “Iris!”
“Guh,” she said, looking at him with half a gloopy fist in her mouth.
Sherlock tossed the paper to the side and leaned forward. “Say that again, if you would.”
Iris blinked. “Guh?”
“No, no, before that. Quite.”
“Quite!” She repeated brightly.
“Upon my word, Iris! You—you are a marvel!” Sherlock stood up from the table in astonishment. He ran a hand through his hair. It came back tacky from a drying blot of porridge, but that couldn’t have mattered less to him in the moment. He walked a nonsensical circle around his chair and then sat back down, feeling deliriously giddy. “Try another. Can you say anything else?”
Iris beamed back at him. “Quite!”
“Brilliant!”
“Bibbeah!”
His heart was racing with joy. It truly hadn’t been all that long ago that she had begun experimenting with a babbled language of noises all of her own invention. And now she had broken through into words. “Quite right, my girl. Well done!”
“Ahgah!” Iris screeched gleefully. She batted a sticky hand on the table and said, “Tabuh.” She looked at him expectantly.
“The table?”
“Ah!” She cheered, bouncing in her seat. Her twin curlicue pigtails bounced along with her. She then jabbed her spoon into her little bowl and clattered it meaningfully. “Boh.”
“Bowl?”
This correct answer elicited another squeal of delight.
“Yes, I see,” said Sherlock. “I think I’m beginning to catch on to your game.” He held up his own spoon. “What have we here? Can you tell me what this is called?”
“Poo-oo,” was her response.
“Plenty of room for improvement.”
“Quite!”
“I say, my dear,” he laughed along with her in wonderment, “I do not think you shall ever cease to amaze me.”
Had she really only been in his life for nine months? His whole world was her now, and it was difficult to imagine that that had not always been the case, the same as it had felt with—
A sudden wave of heartache surged in his chest, arresting his breath for a tight, drowning moment. Iris, his present purpose for living, kept him steady and even-keeled. He held onto her smile as the pain washed over him, eventually ebbing again, as always.
Every day, it grew easier to outlast, to sit beside and grant grace to. A storm to weather—that he could weather, and had to, for her sake.
Sherlock returned her smile as Iris continued to babble delightedly, and he hung onto her every almost-word. His heart seized for a different reason now, watching her. She was wonderful. His favourite little puzzle. A constant, ever-evolving mystery of new joys to discover.
She was going to be so brilliant, he knew. He was certain of it.