Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes

A Study in Family

Hello.

I'm Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes and I have a lot to tell you.

My mother and my dad loved each other a lot. So much so, when my father was about to be shot, she stepped in front of the bullet.

I know what it sounds like, but my dad and my father aren't the same person. My mother was Mary Watson, ex-assassin and wife to John Watson, my dad. My father? Sherlock Holmes.

After my mother died, my dad didn't know what to do. He went spiraling, as did Father. One in the hands of drugs, the other in the hands of regret. 

Not long after, my dad found a letter from my mum. It said that she knew what they could become, and she was okay with it.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

"Look, Sherlock, I can't keep doing this. I'm going back and forth from the house to the flat. Rosie doesn't like the travel and I admit, it's getting a bit much."

Sherlock looked on, a look of confusion on his face, "Well, isn't it obvious, John? Move in!"

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. There's mortgage, nicknacks, and there isn't a room for Rosie in the flat."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Sell the house, sell the nicknacks, Rosie can have your bedroom and you can sleep with me."

"That sounds so wrong, Sherlock."

"I admit, it wasn't the best choice of words, but it's a viable option and the best one."

John sighed, a conflicted expression warring on his face. "You could move in with me?"

Sherlock looked offended at this. "And leave Baker Street? I once told you that without Mrs.Hudson at Baker Street, the world would fall. Imagine Baker Street without us!"

"It was without us, Sherlock. For two long years when you decided to traumatize me for life."

"Well, you can't say you actually moved anything out after my," he hesitated for a second, still hating to say it out loud in front of John, "suicide."

John gave a breathless laugh and nodded his head a bit. "Yeah… yeah, I'll think about it. But until then, no calls past 11 PM unless they're past an eight."

"An eight? I've seen you jittery with excitement over a five."

"Eight, Sherlock."

"Ok, eight it is."

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

It took a while, they danced around each other like they had for years at crime scenes, clubs, and weddings. Father always did secretly like dancing.

Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The flat was loud. That was normal, but what wasn't normal was how quiet Sherlock was. There was classical music blasting through the building.

John crept up the stairs and peeked through the crack in the doorway. Through it, portrayed Sherlock, gracefully frolicking through the living room with Rosie smiling at him, clapping her small hands, cheering, "again, again!" Every so often, Sherlock would do a spin and Rosie would be even more happy than before. 

John opened the door and made his presence known. "When did our flat become a ballroom?"

Sherlock immediately stopped and Rosie started whining. Sherlock picked her up and John turned off the music. 

"I was teaching Rosie what proper dancing was."

John was obviously amused, but he wasn't going to make it easy for Sherlock to get out of explaining himself. "You were teaching an 18th month old what proper ballroom dancing looked like?"