Happy Mother’s Day, my lovely friends! Here’s a little Rosie story for you all. It’s rated G. Big thanks to @mizjoely for looking it over for me and @mrsmcrieff for her Britishness! It’s also on AO3 and FF.net. Enjoy ~Lil~
Molly had picked Rosie up from school and was taking her to John’s where the sitter was waiting on them. She was in a bit of a hurry because she’d had to split her shift with a coworker in order to help John with the running. Since Mary’s death, Mike had been much more accommodating with Molly’s schedule, especially considering the amount of overtime she’d put in over the years.
“Aunt Molly,” Rosie said as the cab rounded the corner on her street.
“Where’s your mummy?” the five year old asked.
Rosie had become more and more inquisitive about Mary and mothers in general in recent months. It was heartbreaking, but expected.
“My mummy died when I was little, Rosie,” she answered.
“Well, yes. But I was a bit older. I was six.”
“Yes you will, dearheart,” Molly said with a smile.
“You remember your mummy, don’t you?”
Molly swallowed back tears. “Yes, I do.”
“I wish Daddy would marry you so I could have a mummy all the time.”
She wrapped her arms around the little girl. “Rosie, you may not be my daughter, but I couldn’t love you more even if you were.” She kissed her little blonde head, then drew back and looked in her blue eyes. “Your mum is always with you. She was an amazing woman and she loved you so much.”
Rosie blinked and nodded. For a moment Molly thought the child might cry, but she didn’t. “I love you too, Aunt Molly.” She snuggled up against Molly’s side and sniffled. “Daddy needs a girlfriend.”
Molly laughed, not only because it was a strange observation from a five year old, but because John had a girlfriend, he just hadn’t introduced Rosie and Emma yet.
“And not that accountant woman. They won’t last another month,” she said before turning back to watch the passing scenery.
Molly just shook her head. Rosie might not remember her mother but there was no doubt that she was the child of Mary Watson. Not to mention Sherlock had been teaching her the science of deduction practically since birth.
“I want to do something for Molly for Mother’s Day,” John said to Sherlock on their way to the scene of a triple murder two and a half weeks later.
“I don’t think Tobias counts as an actual child, John,” the detective replied drily.
“You know what I’m talking about, Sherlock!”
“Of course I do, and I’d thought about it as well. She’s a mother figure to Rosie. Your child adores her.” Sherlock looked at John and thought carefully before he continued, “The other day she told Molly that she wished you would marry her so that she’d have a full time mum.”
John’s head jerked up. “She said that?”
“She also predicted your break-up with the accountant before you ever introduced them,” Sherlock said smugly.
“I should limit your time together.”
“Don’t discount DNA, John. She’s very much her mother’s daughter.”
The doctor smiled fondly. “That she is.”
Not wanting to see his friend fall into a gloom over Mary’s memory, Sherlock changed the subject back to Molly, “So, Mothering Sunday…”
“Ah, yes. I was thinking that the three of us could take Molly to lunch. Make a fuss over her. Give her flowers or something.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical. “That’s a bit conventional, don’t you think?”
He thought for a moment, then had a brilliant idea. “This shouldn’t be up to us, John. We should let Rosamund decide.”
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going, Sherlock? You’re making me nervous,” Molly said as she studied the passing countryside.
“Relax, Molly. It’s not as if I’d take you somewhere dang…er…ous.” He dragged out the last word as if he knew it wasn’t true.
She turned and looked at him, her head cocked to the side, eyebrow raised judgmentally.
“Okay, perhaps I would. But not today. It’s a surprise. You like surprises.”
His voice was suspiciously high and… odd. “Listen, William…” He gave her the stink eye, the same stink eye he always gave her when she called him by his first name. “…tell me what’s going on, now!” He knew better than to try to use his tricks on her.
“For God’s sake, Molly, calm down. It will be worth it, I promise.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, then added, “And if you call me William again I’ll tell everyone about the incident with the falafel vendor.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t!”
Sherlock smirked. “You know that I would,” he said, without looking up.
Just then the cab pulled to a stop.
“We’re here.” He leaned forward and paid the fare.
Looking out her window at the large empty field, she asked, “Where?”
“Here,” he said sarcastically.
Molly wanted to reply, but decided against and started to open the door.
Sherlock reached across her, grabbing her hand. “Stop. Stay right where you are.” Then he pulled a black sleeping mask out of his pocket. “Put this on.”
“Oh no! Last time you blindfolded me I ended up in the Thames.”
Sherlock laughed. “That was hilarious!”
Molly was NOT amused. She took the mask from his outstretched hand, then pinched his thigh.
“Ow! That really hurt!” He rubbed at his ‘injury’.
“It wasn’t supposed to tickle.” Holding up the mask she asked, “Why do I need this?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
He sighed. “It involves our goddaughter, is that enough?”
Of course it was! “Fine.” She put on the mask. “Now what?”
Molly heard the car door open and shut, then she thought she heard the boot open and shut as well. She waited, wondering what the hell was going on. Finally, her door opened and someone, Sherlock obviously, took her hand.
“Step out, Molly, I’ve got you,” he said.
She did, carefully, very glad that she hadn’t seen any large bodies of water when she had looked around before she put on the mask. “Okay, Sherlock, what’s next?”
“Now we wait,” he explained.
It took more than fifteen minutes. Eventually, she convinced Sherlock that she needed to sit down. He put a blanket (she assumed it was a blanket, at least it felt like one) on the ground and helped her sit. They spoke very little, but she heard him typing on his phone and occasionally talking to himself.
Finally he said, “There you are. I was wondering if you were going to show.”
“Someone was being indecisive about what to wear,” John said. “Hello, Molly. Curious yet?”
“Only completely,” she answered. “What’s going on?”
She was suddenly startled by a hug. A hug from a very small person. “Happy Mother’s Day, Aunt Molly,” Rosie Watson said, then kissed her cheek.
“What? I- I mean, thank you, Rosie,” Molly responded, a little choked up.
“Help her up, Uncle Sherlock,” Rosie demanded. “We have a lot to do.”
He did, then they were on their way.
As they started to walk, Rosie took hold of her hand. “Uncle Sherlock, you’ll have to hold her other hand or she’ll fall. Unless you want daddy to do it?”
“I won’t let her fall, Rosamund,” he said gruffly, taking hold of Molly’s free hand.
“I bet you won’t,” the child responded.
They walked (mostly uphill), and sure enough when Molly stumbled on the uneven ground, Sherlock was there to steady her. Rosie prattled on about school, deducing her classmates and teachers all the while. Sherlock kept asking questions, egging her on. Finally they came to a stop, and both Rosie and Sherlock released her hands.
“Okay, Aunt Molly, you can take off your blindfold now.”
She removed the mask and looked around. It was a bright, sunny day and it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
“What do you think?” Rosie asked excitedly, jumping up and down.
“Wh- what… are we really riding in that?” Molly asked, dumbstruck.
“Of course! We’re having a picnic after the ride and ice cream when we get back home. It was all my idea,” she added proudly.
“Rosie also wanted to pet a unicorn, but Sherlock explained that they didn’t exist,” John interjected.
“Then I said that just because he’s never seen something that doesn’t mean it’s not real!” the five year old said, cutting her uncle a scathing look. “He needs to use his imagination more.” She stuck her tongue out at him. The gesture was returned by the forty-three year old man-child.
Molly laughed as they were ushered into the basket attached to the colorful hotair balloon.
The ride was simply breathtaking. Rosie squealed and laughed the entire time, completely unafraid of the dizzying heights. The child was a wonder; the perfect combination of Mary and John. She was beautiful and kind, intelligent and brave. She was perfect. Molly felt herself tearing up as she watched John pointing out some castle ruins to her goddaughter. It wasn’t fair, Mary was missing everything.
“Molly,” Sherlock’s voice pulled her from her dark thoughts.
She wiped a tear from her cheek as she turned to him. “Yes, Sherlock.”
“She’s happy, you know. We have to take some comfort in that.” He wiped away another tear that had fallen, then tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “She loves you so much.”
Molly nodded, unable to speak.
“That’s a feeling I completely understand,” he whispered with a soft smile.
Over the roar of the wind and the burners, Molly heard Rosie say to her father, “I was wrong, daddy. I want Aunt Molly to marry Uncle Sherlock. Besides, I already have a mummy and she’s always with me. Aunt Molly said so.”
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