Sherlock fandom.
Poignant Invocation
It wasn’t until the little girl they raised together was six years old, the two men realised they had experienced something quite similar, numerous times, in their childhoods. The girl, Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes, only her uncle Myc addressed her that way, everyone else, even her teachers, called her Rosie. Her fathers also called her Bee, sweetheart, darling, precious girl, and sometimes, Watson. It was she, who asked the question, that lead to this revelation from Sherlock and John’s past.
“What were your grandmothers like?” Rosie asked one Sunday after they’d come back from visiting Sherlock’s parents. They were the only grandparents she had.
“Eccentric,” her papa rumbled.
“Thought she was clairvoyant,” her dad said, earning him a raised eyebrow from his husband.
“Really?” the detective asked. “You’ve never said.”
“I guess I haven’t. Never seemed to be an appropriate occasion for it,” John shrugged. “How eccentric was yours, then? The normal Holmes quirkiness, or something spectacular?
“Same as yours, actually,” Sherlock replied slowly.
“No way!” John exclaimed.
“Way,” the other man assured him.
“What is clair – that thing?” Rosie asked a bit affronted, feeling left out of the ongoing conversation.
“Clairvoyant,” Sherlock said patiently, making his daughter repeat it until she pronounced it perfectly.
***
Neither John, nor Rosie, was the least bit surprised when they came home the next Friday afternoon, finding their home redecorated.
“At least it smells nice,” was John’s response.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, before kissing his husband and kneeling in front of Rosie to give her a welcome home hug.
Five scented candles were placed on the mantlepiece, purple in colour, the scent something citrusy with a touch of lavender. The curtains were drawn, and all the lamps were covered in black fabric adorned with silver stars and golden moons.
John half expected a crystal ball or a Ouija board on their coffee table, but instead, a large book rested there; a book John had never seen before.
Rosie stood, mouth agape, then moved around the room, carefully.
“What’s all this, love?” John inquired silently.
“A tribute to our grandmothers, John. To Annabelle and…”
He waited for John to fill in the blank.
“Hester. Her name was Hester,” John murmured.
Sherlock repeated the name, then gestured for them to take a seat.
Large oriental-like cushions were placed around the table, all in different colours, reminiscent of gemstones. Ruby-read, emerald-green, sapphire-blue, topaz-pink, tourmaline-yellow.
With his usual agility, Sherlock seated himself closest to the book, while John and Rosie sat down on either side of him.
“This book is one I remember from my childhood. Annabelle, my grandmother, used to read it to Mycroft, and later to me. The legends are from Japan, where she grew up,” Sherlock began.
John cried out, horrified that he knew nothing about this.
“She was Japanese?” he asked, searching his husbands face for Asian features.
“No, John,” Sherlock smiled. “Her father worked there. As a chemist. They moved to England when she was twelve.”
John looked at the book, realising it was written in Japanese.
“Do you? – “
“Yes, me and Mycroft both. She taught us.”
“Wow!” Rosie exclaimed. “That’s amazing, papa.”
“Quite extraordinary,” John said and reached out a hand to squeeze Sherlock’s arm.
“Can you teach me too? Please,” Rosie asked.
“Of course, Bee,” Sherlock said.
The little girl rose quickly and threw her arms around her papa’s neck and murmured her thanks into his cheek.
John looked fondly at them, his eyes a bit blurry.
Once Rosie was seated on her green cushion again, Sherlock started to read, translating effortlessly, as if he read an English book.
“This is a bit sad, but the moral can easily be transferred to our everyday lives. It is called The Legend of the Grateful Crane.”
Rosie curled up in John’s lap as Sherlock got the end of the story, but she didn’t cry. She was as resilient as one would expect a daughter of the infamous Baker Street boys to be.
“One more, please,” she begged once Sherlock had finished reading.
“After dinner,” John said sternly, and she knew it was futile to protest.
She sighed dramatically, not unlike how her papa used to indicate his disapproval.
***
“This was a brilliant idea, love,” John said after they’d put Rosie to bed.
“You think so?” Sherlock asked.
“Of course, Sherlock. Couldn’t you tell how enchanted she was? Me too, for that matter. God, we’re so lucky to have you.”
Sherlock sighed contentedly and made himself comfortable on the sofa, his head placed in his husband’s lap. As John carded his fingers through his curls, Sherlock purred like a big cat. When they made love some hours later, the sounds escaping Sherlock’s throat reminded John of those made by dragons of the legends.
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