One Day

One - Morning

"It's today."

John looked up and saw the silhouette of his daughter leaning causally on the doorframe of his bedroom.

"I know." He replied, trying to make out her face in the gloom.

"You sure you don't want to see him?" She asked, cocking her head to one side inquisitively.

"He told me I never saw him when he arrived. Now he's told me it's set in stone, if I see him I could blow a hole in the universe or something." He gave a gentle laugh and his daughter echoed it.

She turned to leave and he watched
her slight, sixteen year-old frame sashaying away from him through the kitchen. "As long as you're sure. He's here in two hours." She tells him on her way out.

John stood and stretched sleepily before beginning to pack his things into a small suitcase.

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John stood in the doorway of 221B, suitcase in hand, as he bid farewell to Rosie.

"Look after him for me." He laughed with conviction, smiling fondly.

"Don't worry, I will." She replied with a smile, giving her dad a warm hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. She watched him descend and absorb into the shadows on the stairs.

Settling herself into her father's armchair, she tented her fingers under her chin and stared at the vacant armchair opposite. Any minute now.

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Sherlock was sitting pin-straight in his own armchair in his classic 'deduction pose'. He faintly heard Rosie's babbles and John's fond murmurs from the next room, but the clamouring of his mind palace dragged him back into his head. His eyes were firmly shut when he felt a sudden pull in his body, as if all his internal organs had been given one swift tug. His eyes sprang open and fixed on the girl opposite him, occupying John's armchair and mirroring his own pose.

"Are you a client?" He asked curiously.

"No." She replied concisely.

Sherlock took her in carefully, his eyes grazing up and down her body methodically. He noted her resemblance to John almost immediately. Cousin perhaps? He'd never mentioned one. Her curly blonde hair danced in the orange, early-morning sunlight. That set his alarm bells ringing. It had been early afternoon in Baker Street, with bright sunlight streaming in as he sat absorbed in his mind palace. Something was wrong.

The girl opened her mouth again. "Do you know where you are? Or rather, when?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. He jumped up without warning, like a racing greyhound bursting out of the starting gate. With trembling fingers, he took up that day's newspaper that Rosie had been careful to leave on show. His eyes widened further as he glanced at the date.

"The twenty-second of April." She informed him. "Twenty thirty-three."

Sherlock shook all over. He'd only just begun his relationship with John in his time. John would be well into his fifties by now. "Can I get back?"

"You get back safe and sound around twenty-four hours from now." She informed him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "In your time, you've been gone three days. You tell dad all about it. That's how we know."

"Dad?" Sherlock questioned. His mouth hung open less than a second later as the realisation dawned. "Rosie."

"Yeah. Look at me, all grown up." She smiled. "Do you want breakfast? I'm starving."

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked to her retreating back as she walking into the kitchen. "Can I see him?"

"No, he's away for the night." She told him. "He doesn't know you're here." Rosie lied, knowing that Sherlock was desperate to get answers about his newly-blossoming relationship.

As she went about making toast, he stood in the middle of the sitting room, completely shell shocked. Rosie glanced over at him, allowing herself to stare just once. She couldn't believe how young he looked. She smiled at his confused baby-face, wild, unkempt curls, gangly limbs and bright eyes. He was backlit by the light of the peachy-pink sunrise poking over the London skyline. He looked so unsure of himself, so out of depth, that she almost didn't recognise him as the Sherlock she knew so well. The toast popped violently, making him jump, and he trained his analytical eyes on her as she gracefully buttered the warm bread.

She placed the toast on the table, followed by two mugs of tea, one with just a dash of milk and the other black as tar and sickly sweet. Pulling out a chair, she beckoned Sherlock closer and said, "Sit. We need to talk."