One Day

Three - Evening

They tumbled back into Baker Street together, still laughing heartily at each other's anecdotes. Rosie wheezed slightly from the giggles as she dropped into her dad's armchair.

"Get back up." Sherlock told her, smiling broadly and holding out a hand. "Let's dance."

Rosie grinned and took the proffered hand. She'd been describing her constant failure with dance, beginning with ballet, where she'd tripped and fallen on her face, leaving Sherlock to be the one to patch her up carefully. He'd insisted on teaching her properly, wondering why on earth he hadn't done it before. The old speaker was still sitting in its old place on the table, looking out of place on a desk full of up to date technology. A few quick button presses from Sherlock and music was pouring out into the flat.

They danced for what seemed like hours, spinning and twirling and prancing about until they couldn't stand any more. They collapsed onto the large sofa in an exhausted heap, sitting comfortably side by side.

They chatted for a while longer, still sharing stories and making some small talk. Rosie's words slowly began to slur and soon her head was lolling on Sherlock's shoulder. He smiled fondly at her, happy that this was the life in store for him as he grew older. He knew he would look forward to moments like this, with a sleepy Rosie against his shoulder or snoring in his lap. A scene of perfect contentment.

When Rosie was fully asleep and had stopped mumbling, Sherlock scooped her up gently, surprised at the ease with which he could carry her thin frame to her bedroom upstairs. He waited in the doorway on his way out, watching her sleep peacefully under the covers. As he turned to go she began to shift under the covers. She was soon calling out in her sleep, her outstretched arms grappling for help that wasn't there. Sherlock was quickly by her side land coaxing her out of the dream slowly, just as he did with John. He clutched her hand tightly and gave it a reassuring squeeze, before gently stroking her hair. She relaxed at his familiar touch, her tense muscles melting back into the mattress.

"Shh now. It's alright. It's not real. You're alright." He whispered softly.

She opened her eyes suddenly, breaths coming in rattling gasps. She took in her Sherlock, crouching by the bed with his hand grasping hers. Her heart rate slowed and she sank back into the covers as she recovered.

"Does the violin still help you to sleep?" Sherlock slaked her gently, still stroking the sweaty curls away from her face. She nodded.

Sherlock was soon right back by her side with his violin in hand. It was a bit out of tune, so he fiddled with the strings for a moment before he finally began to play one of Rosie's favourites. He'd found out back in his own time that Bach helps baby Rosie to sleep best.

Rosie was drinking in every note, letting the beautiful sounds wash over her. She began to cry softly, teardrops slowly making tracks down her face. Whether it was due to her nightmare or the beauty of the music, Sherlock couldn't tell.

Finally, he finished his melody. Thinking Rosie was asleep, he tiptoed quietly across the room towards the door.

"Stay." A small mumble came from the bed. Sherlock crept back and knelt by the side of the bed, trying to be a comforting presence.

"Need you." She whispered, and Sherlock knew exactly what to do. He climbed onto the bed, not nothing to get under the covers, and let Rosie bury herself into his chest. When he laid an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close, he felt her relax again, breathing out a shuddering sigh as she drifted back into sleep.

"Love you dad." She mumbled as smell began to take her. Feeling Sherlock tense up against her at her words, she realised the magnitude of what she had said.

"Sorry." She stuttered, suddenly wide awake again. "I know you didn't...oh god...I'm sorry."

Sherlock took a shaky breath and smiled at her. "It's fine. I...I like it. You calling me 'dad' I mean."

"Oh. Okay." Rosie smiled softly back, and buried her head in his chest once more, wrapping her hands in the material of his shirt.

Sherlock felt her grip slowly slacken, and soon she was sleeping deeply, huffing tiny, barely audible breaths onto his chest. He didn't know how long he spent there, contented and fit to burst with the love he felt for the girl he now considered his own daughter. The last time he'd felt such elation was the first time John had kissed him, and before that, he couldn't remember such an emotion.

Just as he was finally drifting off to sleep himself, he felt the recognisable tug on his insides once more, and when he finally dared to open his eyes, his daughter was gone and he was lying on the plush rug in the centre of 221B. John was staring down at him, fuming. Then he remembered. To John, he'd been gone three days.