Johnlock January 2025 #25: Fire
Written for prompts posted by @chriscalledmesweetie.
Father and daughter have a difficult conversation. Chapter rating T.
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As I kind of expected, itās one of the kiddos at the day nursery that eventually drops me in it.
Sherlockās on a case that takes him out of town ā something to do with antiquity thefts, though before itās over I fully expect thereāll be a poisoner, an unfaithful spouse and a forgery involved ā and itās just Rosie and me for supper tonight. They call this quality time, right? Reading aloud, tussling, watching telly together, playing pretend games with her toy unicorn and the Scientist Barbie that Molly brought at Christmas.
No fear. Apparently sheās been throwing a strop all day at the nursery ā refusing to go down for her nap, calling one of the other kids names. When I hold up the storybook, she informs me (very haughtily) thatās for babies, and when I suggest mushy peas for supper she announces that she hates them, although sheād been asking for them every night just last week. And, oh, by the way, sheās not going back to the day nursery, and then she bursts into tears.
Well, thatās a metabolism. Much as she loves the days when she can stay at Baker Street and hang about with Sherlock, sheās always been chatty about her nursery friends, and proud of the artwork she brings home (the Sherlock portrait is pretty recognisable, me not so much). Thereās something going on, and I sit down on the carpet to get at her level.
āRosie?ā It takes a few tries to get her to look at me, hitching out sobs and snot in equal measure. āWhy donāt you want to go back?ā
āAyana said you called someone a name. Was that the person who was mean to you?ā
āM-hm.ā She sniffles, and I find a hanky.
No surprise there. I never did like anything I heard about Oona, who seems to be always telling the younger kids that theyāre not old enough to play with certain toys, or sniffing at them for not knowing their alphabet. The staff are supposed to catch this kind of thing, but Iāve lived long enough to know how people like that slip under the radar, and itās the people who react to them that get called out. I resign myself to the idea that thereās a conference with Ayana in my future.
āHere. Blow your nose and tell me.ā
She blows mostly into the handkerchief, and I manage to clean off my hand with the part she hasnāt used. āShe asked why my mum never comes to pick me up, anā I said I havenāt got a mum.āĀ
I feel the floor going out from under me. Here it comes, I think.
āAnd she said everyone has a -- a mum, ācos you get a baby when a mum and da kiss and take a bath together.ā
A reasonable enough inference, I guess, at an age when the only reason you take off all your clothes with someone else nearby is to be bathed. āItās um, something like that.ā
āAnd that if I was ā wasnāt a stupid baby Iād know that, and I said Willa has Terry-Da and Colin-Da, and Oona said that was stupid too, and āā She sniffs again, but I can tell the tears are drying up now that the storyās coming out.
āWell, Oonaās a bully, and also she sounds like a bigoted little gobshite.ā
Oops. āThatās a word you have to be grown up to use. Like driving an automobile.ā I can only pray that sinks in. āAnyway, Rosie. Um. You did have a mum. She just ā isnāt here now.ā (Shite. This is no easier than I thought it would be.)
Her voice is very small. I can do this, I tell myself.
āCome up here on the sofa. There ā snuggle up, and Iāll tell you. Remember when you asked me what married was?ā
āNo.ā Well, itās been several months now, which to be fair adds up to about a fifth of her life. āBut I know.ā
āOkay, well ā your Da was married, and her name was Mary, just like your middle name.ā
āRosamund Mary Watson.ā Sheās very proud of having three names (āsome kids only have twoā).
āRight. And you can have children without being married, and you can be married without having children, but we had you.ā A little of both in our case, I suppose, but we could skip that complication for now. āAnd she ā she loved you very much, but she --āĀ
I swallow hard. God knows Iāve seen enough of Death; I should be used to the bastard, but right now, I donāt want to introduce him to my not-quite-four-year-old daughter in the Baker Street sitting room."Rosie, people are made to live a good long time. You know how Mrs. Hudson has grey in her hair?" When she hasn't been to the stylist in a while, anyway. "And Mrs. Turner's hands are all spotty? Those are things that happen when you've lived a lot of years."
She nods, though I'm not sure how much she's taking in. "But sometimes people don't get that many years. They get very sick, or have an accident, and they can't stay with us, no matter what we do. And we say they're dead." It takes a few breaths before I go on. "That's what happened to your mum. She didn't want to leave you."
Rosie digests this, then looks up. āShe come back some day?ā
It takes a little longer to get control over my voice this time, and I donāt know if Iām hugging her for her sake or my own. āNo, Rosie, sheās not coming back. She canāt. But she would want you to know that having you was one of the very, very best things she did.ā
āI love her,ā says Rosie.
I hold her tighter, and think of what Mycroft told me during an unexpected car ride, not long after I confronted Sherlock about investigating āthe case of Mary Watson.ā In light of a discussion I have had with my brother, I feel you should be acquainted with my review of the Norbury incidentā¦ That was when I learned her past was never going to be really past -- that there had been a bidding war for her head, and that being Mary Watson was a joy she bought ā or really only leased ā at the risk of me, or Rosie, becoming collateral damage. I think of how she deceived me, and maybe herself. Of Mycroft saying Feel secure that any danger to you or your daughter from that quarter, Doctor, has been eliminated.
And I think of how she might not have been what I wanted, but she was what I needed when she found me. I think of her coaxing me to forgive Sherlock, when I wouldnāt have listened to anyone else; how it was because of that remembered conversation that I let him back in again, after she was gone. I close my eyes, and on the backs of the lids thereās the image of a memory stick, scorching and blackening in the fire.
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