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[theonewhocounted]

The Bright Spot Meme


(Was there every a more suitable meme for dear Molly?)

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[theonewhocounted]

"It's alright, I'd forgotten about them too," she says as she pats Rosie's back. "And really, they're my responsibility as the person who's actually employed by Bart's."

Really it's him who is her responsibility. He's been given a ton of leeway there thanks to his brother, but for years Molly has been his unofficial minder (at least that's how the rest of her department sees it).

Although, if things keep going the way they have with him, she may be out of her unofficial job. He's actually concerned that he's putting them out by forgetting about his experiment and he's even going to remind himself to see to it. Old Sherlock would have either ignored her or waved her off and she would end up cleaning his mess. She feels like maybe she should have given him a handjob ages ago.

She almost laughs at her own awful, internal joke before he punctuates everything with the most sincere thank you she's ever been given for doing something really rather small. It makes her blush. A thank you. She doesn't know how he does it.

"You're very welcome, Sherlock," she says warmly in return.

Rosie chooses that moment to let out a burp that could come from a much larger human and Molly laughs.

"Oh, good one, baby girl."

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Her laughter is contagious, drawing a low, helpless giggle out of him. It's the same kind of relieved, surprised giggling that seized him after their first kiss.

"God, we've got a disgusting goddaughter."

The sentence slips out of him before he can really grasp the full impact of what he's said. They're all tied together now, a strange little human network of people who've chosen to share parts of their lives despite (and, let's be honest, because of) the danger involved. But Sherlock's not quite ready to process an emotional revelation like this today, especially since Molly's laughing and that's a sight he tucks away as proudly as any really clever scientific insight.

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"Wait 'til you see what she does to her nappies," she says, still laughing and enjoying his own participation. Molly registers the way that their appointed titles sort of tie them together even without any further emotional context on their part. No matter what happens, they will be Rosie's godparents. She also decides not to follow that path of thinking too far at this point.

She lays Rosie on her back on her lap and tickles her belly so she can laugh with them. Her smile is her mum's and it's gorgeous. Her little uncoordinated limbs flail about.

"She's been so happy today," Molly says as she smiles down at her and then looks over to Sherlock. "Do you want to hold her?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

It really is uncanny, how much Rosie's smile resembles Mary's already, and for the first time since her death there's more sweetness than bitterness in the resemblance for him. If John is as much of a brother to him as Mycroft (more so, sometimes), then Mary was far more of a sister to him than Eurus ever could have been.

"I think I can risk it," he replies, holding out his arms for her. "Come on, then, tiny Watson. You can gum my shoulder all you like, I've got a change of clothes nearby anyway."

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Molly picks up Rosie and hands her carefully to Sherlock. She then transfers the burp cloth from her shoulder to his.

"That should help," she says and then watches him with her for a moment. "I'm going to go wash out the bottle. Be right back."

She gets up and heads for the kitchen.

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He watches her go, smiling a little, thoroughly enjoying the sight of a happy Molly. But Rosie's small fingers groping for his face keep him from drifting too deeply into his own thoughts, and he turns a lopsided smile down on her.

"Yes, I know there's research to back up how fascinated you are by the human face," he tells her fondly. "It's the greatest teaching tool you have at this stage of development. You're learning how to imitate human behavior to express yourself. And you know something, it's pretty entertaining to watch."

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Molly can hear him talking to Rosie from the kitchen and it fills her with such warmth. She imagines "babysitter" is another one of those roles that Sherlock assumed most of his life he would never embody. Really, it's clear that the man has so much love to give and he's been denying himself the opportunity to give it.

She goes about washing out the bottle and then puts the kettle on for tea before returning to the sitting room just to watch them. Sherlock is holding Rosie up so her feet are pressing into his thighs and still talking to her. A man with a baby, being good with a baby has got to be one of the sexiest things. She knows that feeling is purely evolutionary in nature, but it doesn't change the fact that the sight of Sherlock with Rosie makes her biological clock go into alarm mode.

It won't be too much longer before Rosie will need to go down for her afternoon nap and then soon after that John should be home.

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"Oh yes," Sherlock's saying, when she comes back into the sitting room, "very soon, you little snot elemental, you'll know that when I'm hiding behind my hand I haven't actually gone anywhere."

The thing is, she's not wrong about his heart--something in him shut down after Victor, after his sole early start at living a life where his emotions and his genius coexisted was shattered by his sister's betrayal and his brother's misguided attempts to shelter him. He's been holding himself apart from humanity for decades, all the spikes and armor and nasty remarks hiding a little boy's fear that he can trust no one. John's been his first steady connection, his lifeline back to the human part of himself. With someone in his life he trusts, it's easier to let himself be something other than the cold and brilliant Sherlock he's presented to the world for so long.

It's easier to play with this child, to take in not only the microcosm of early human development she represents but the budding hints of her personality and the pleasure of how strongly she resembles two people he cares for.

And it's easier to let himself want someone closer to him than even a dear friend, closer than blood relatives.

"She's--oof--" Sherlock's face does something that would probably be a meme within seconds if Mycroft's cameras were trained on him, as Rosie grabs his nose. "--decided that spitting up on me is less fun than trying to pull my face off."

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Molly laughs at Rosie's antics and Sherlock's expression and thinks, not for the first time, that this child will grow up knowing so much love. It won't make up for the lack of her mother, but she hopes, that by their collective power, they can make that hole a little less gaping.

"For now, anyway," she jokes. "She changes her mind quite often about that one."

The kettle whistles and she goes to make their tea, coming back soon with two steaming cups, milk and sugar for him, just milk for herself. She sets his on the coffee table and sits back against the couch with her own cup before taking a sip.

"It's pretty incredible, isn't it? The fact that John and Mary made her. I know all the biology and science behind it, but it just hits me sometimes."

And the idea that a little part of Mary lives on, is always a comfort.

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"Yeah," he agrees, studying that little face. He can't be sure, yet, whether she'll look more like John or Mary or simply like herself, but he knows he's looking forward to finding out. And despite how stubbornly he may protest that children merely contribute to an overpopulation problem and so forth, this particular child is extraordinary to him because his two dearest friends created her.

He glances up at Molly, her face warm and open. The smile really does make a huge difference. It's going to be very difficult not to kiss her senseless before John gets back.

"By the way," he hears himself saying, "in the lower pocket on the front of my suitcase. For you."

One of his contacts in Cardiff is a shop owner who specializes in Welsh woolen goods, and on his way out of her shop a very soft shawl caught his eye. It's hand-dyed in rich shades of brown and russet, colours that remind him of her, and though he's rarely seen her wear a shawl somehow it seemed like it would be wrong not to see it on her at least once.

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When he looks at her, Molly's own gaze moves from Rosie to Sherlock and somehow she can tell he's thinking about kissing her. She doesn't have time to think on it too much before he's speaking to her and she's blinking in surprise.

"You brought me something?" she asks and she flushes slightly, pleased, even as she protests. "You didn't have to do that."

It's not like he was on holiday. He was off on a case. She's surprised he would take the time.

She finds herself standing to go find out what it is though, heading to his room and then into his suitcase to pull out the butcher paper wrapped package. She brings it back to the couch with her and sits down with it on her lap.

"It's too light to be a body part," she jokes and looks over at him and Rosie.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Too light to be most body parts," he corrects with a broad wink. "And I know I didn't have to, that's sort of the point."

It's something he's learned from John, and that Mary had a substantial hand in teaching him as well: people like to know that Sherlock thinks of them when they aren't right in front of him. (Well, they like that when anyone does it, but he's a special case because he's an oblivious bastard.) And not only that, but... there's a kind of smug pleasure in anticipating how pleased she'll be. Before Saturday he hadn't seen Molly happy, or at least not the way she is now, and he's the first person who's brought that out in her and that has the same ring of triumph to it as a case well solved.

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She huffs out a laugh.

"If you brought me a well-wrapped ear, Sherlock, I'm definitely going to stick with 'you didn't have to,'" she jokes before she starts to unwrap the parcel. Her eyes light up when the shawl is revealed.

"Oh. Oh my. It's beautiful."

She lifts it up and feels how it's also soft and probably so warm. She brings it to her cheek to feel how it will be on her skin.

"Sherlock...it's so lovely and thoughtful. Thank you."

She smiles and leans in to kiss his lips and wonders if John told him to buy her things or if it's all him. Either way, he's actually done it and she's not lying when she says it isn't necessary, but it does please her that he has.

[punchmeitssubtext]

What's the expression? Achievement unlocked? Sherlock's every bit as proud of himself for this as he was when he got her bra unhooked in one go. Thoughtful, he's learned, is a compliment that tells him the way his heart and brain connect on problem-solving is actually working.

And then she kisses him, and that's even better than a compliment. He leans into it, relaxed despite the baby still on his lap, smiling against Molly's lips.

It's actually probably a good thing that Rosie's there to chatter and push at him before he gets too lost in re-learning the taste and feel of Molly's mouth against his own.

"Mm--" He pulls back, adjusting Rosie so she's tucked into the crook of his arm, no longer "standing". "--you're welcome. Thought you'd appreciate that more than the beer John asked me to smuggle back across the border."

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"You thought correct," Molly says as she smiles at him and then down at Rosie. She would also be happy to get lost in Sherlock's kisses for a while, but they've got responsibilities at the moment. "Although I might have to steal a sip of said beer to see what I'm missing."

She carefully re-folds the shawl and gets up to go put it with her things so there's no chance of baby drool getting on it.

"It's almost time to put her down again. Do you want to give it a go?"

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"Oh! Yes, I actually figured out a trick to it." He grins at her. "She really likes Shakespeare. Puts her out like a light. John gets a bit weird about it when I do the tragedies, but there's plenty of other good solid iambic pentameter to knock her out."

Carefully he gets to his feet, shifting Rosie to his shoulder as he does. "Come on, infant, time to plug you into your crib to recharge."

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"That's funny, Shakespeare sometimes does the same to me," she jokes with her own grin but can't help but be endeared by Sherlock's naptime hack.

Molly stands to and slides her hand over Rosie's head before she presses a quick kiss to it.

"Good night, Rosie Posie. Go to sleep well for Uncle Sherlock."

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Rosie sticks her fingers in her mouth, smiling a little around them, already calming.

"Be right back. This usually doesn't take very long."

He pitches his voice low, almost a rumble, deep and soothing as he runs through an old favourite, one he can call up easily from memory.

"This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' "

(He's always liked that whole brothers-in-arms thing more than he's willing to admit.)

Before he can get as far as "for he who sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother", Rosie's out cold, lulled by the purr of his voice. He sets her down carefully in her crib, and then moves as quietly as he can out of the room, almost drifting back towards Molly.

"Down for the count," he says, rather proudly.

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Molly can hear him through the baby monitor that she's just turned back on and she feels a bit like a creeper, eavesdropping on this moment between Sherlock and his god-daughter. It doesn't mean she turns it off. She too is lulled and soothed by the sound of his beautiful voice. She can't really blame Rosie for it.

She looks over her shoulder at him when he returns to the room, looking triumphant and proud.

"Very impressive," she says with a smile. She's pulled out a basket of laundry and is folding tiny onesies and matching bitty little socks and putting them into a neat pile on the coffee table. There are also about 100 bibs and burp cloths to be folded. Babies make a lot of laundry is what she's learning from her time with Rosie.

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"Thank you." He grins, puffing up a bit, and sinks down next to her again. By now his tea is the perfect temperature, so he starts in on it, watching her hands as she works.

It's a very appealing picture. For just a moment Sherlock can't help but wonder whether they have enough time before John gets back to head into his room again, so he can taste her the way he'd wanted to earlier.

Which is, he reminds himself, a very nice thought but not a good idea necessarily.

"My brother and I used to quote Shakespeare backwards at one another on car trips," he says cheerfully, deliberately reaching for an un-sexy subject. Mycroft being the un-sexiest he can think of. "Drove our parents crazy."

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Molly's had similar thoughts of her own, which is why she's found something to do with herself that does not include snogging Sherlock on the couch. Laundry, she figures, is pretty un-sexy.

Sherlock's right. So is Mycroft.

"Of course you did," she says with a slight laugh and in her mind's eye those two little boys in the back of the car are in impeccably tailored, posh little suits even though she knows that's probably taking it a bit far. "My mum and I used to play I Spy on car rides."

Which pretty much exactly sums up the differences in their childhoods and their intelligence levels.

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"Would you do 'something that begins with this letter' or 'something this color', or what?" He leans back, trying to picture her as a little girl. Would she have worn her hair in plaits, or loose? Dresses or jeans?

(Much later he'll find himself wondering, Would we have been friends when we were that young? There's no way he could know, but for some reason he likes imagining it.)

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"When I was really little it would be colour," she said. "I guess probably because I learned those first.

"Then when I got older we would do letters and a little bit of both. Whatever we felt like. I also had a backseat bingo set where you would try to find the different signs along the road and try to get five in a row."

The answer to all of those things he wonders about her as a child would be 'yes.' Although she always wore jeans more than dresses, especially when she got older. As for them being friends as children, she thinks maybe they would have. She was always a bit of an outsider, never really fit in with the other girls. Her best friend until she was in middle school was a boy actually.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"We had one of those too. Made up our own rules for it after a while. They got really baroque if we were in a mood with each other." He pauses, then adds, "Come to think of it, that's sort of how we lost our Nintendo privileges. We got in a fistfight over a Tetris challenge and Mum made the power cord to the console disappear. Never did figure out where she hid it, actually."

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Molly is surprised they had Nintendo. It smashes all her preconceived notions of him and Mycroft just reading large book and creating science experiments and making all the lego men do their bidding (that one's mostly Mycroft).

"Honestly, I'm having a little trouble picturing you and Mycroft playing video games," she says.