She was perfect.

Despite only being a few weeks old, Sherlock could tell his daughter was a genius. The way her tiny, beautiful eyes danced while staring at the pattern in the wall, and how she looked deep into the eyes of whoever was holding her, sizing them up, analyzing every quirk, trying to deem if they were worthy to touch her.

She was always silent, thinking- she never cried, she seemed to just hum whenever she was hungry. In particular, she loved the sound of the violin. She would watch from her little car seat, enraptured watching her father play. The first time she smiled was when he began to play "moonlight sonata". From then played it for her every night.

Another show of intelligence was in her distaste for formula. Numerous google searches had provided Sherlock with ample information that breast milk is much more healthy for babies, and his daughter's aversion to what he now considered posion was telling. Molly, however, who was still recuperating, was annoyed by his constant nagging to use a breast pump at all hours of the day. One night, when she was particularly tired, he waltzed in, Violet in the crook of one arm and that ugly contraption in the other. It was the first time in weeks Sherlock had heard Molly yell, on bed rest nonetheless.

Every second he couldn't hold her, he hated. Violet was a warm little center of light that pulled him away from his cold distant comfort zone and into her orbit. He was kinder now, Molly noticed – he gave Mrs. Hudson flowers, he offered to massage her feet, and the way he was with Violet was the gentlest Molly had seen any father with a baby. One day, when she was feeling stronger, she walked down the stairs only to see Sherlock sitting on the floor, cross legged with his fingers steepled, looking down into Violets eyes. She was three months now, just gaining some mobility. Laying on her stomach, Violet pushed herself up a little, and made eye contact. She mumbled a quick 'Ooh,' before placing herself back down and reaching for her father's leg. Sherlock picked her up excitedly, and looked at Molly with the expression of a boy who had just seen a science fair volcano go off for the first time.

"Did you hear that?" he gasped.

"I did," she said, leaning against the door frame.

"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant," he nestled Violet into the crook of his arm. Immediately, she reached up and grabbed his finger, studying it.

"Her motor skills are above average," Sherlock said, gesturing to the article by his foot. "And she's been making noises like that- tiny vowel sounds. She shook that rattle with both hands earlier- she's not supposed to have that kind of dexterity for a month," he wiggled the finger that Violet was latched onto. She laughed.

"Did you hear that?" Sherlock beamed. "Laughter!"

"Yes, I've noticed, she laughs every time she pulls my hair and I saw 'ouch'."

"Pulling hair?" Sherlock took his finger away and grabbed for a pen, making a note on the article at his feet. "Marvelous, simply marvelous."

"Sherlock," Molly said, walking up to him and Violet, and taking a seat on the couch. "There's something I think we need to discuss,"

"Yes?" he said, his attention returning back to Violet, who was eager to study his thumb. She put it in her mouth, making sure the taste was right.

"Violet and I," she said. "Well…We can't stay here forever, can we? We'll need to be…moving along."

"Are you mad?" He snapped his head up. Violet looked to her mother. "You think I'll risk the safety of my daughter and her mother while that maniac is still out there?"

"It's just…aren't you uncomfortable? Having two people invading your space?"

"Oh Molly, don't play dumb," he shifted Violet onto his shoulder, and began to pat her back, sensing she needed to burp.

"So, you really don't mind…us being here?"

"Why would I?"

"I don't know…I never thought you to be one who enjoyed babies."

"I don't. But I enjoy this one," with a final pat, Molly heard the distinct sound of her daughter spitting up. Sherlock was non phased, and even used his shirt cuff to clean her mouth.

"You really love her, don't you?" Molly said, staring down at the pair.

Sherlock froze, his hand resting on his daughter's tummy. He stared at the floor in between Molly in him, and seemed to search for his words. He looked back at Violet, who met his gaze.

"Excuse me," he said, getting up. "I need to change my shirt," with determination, he carted Violet back to his room, and closed the door.

Molly sighed, and went to the kitchen to make tea.

After a few hours and a couple of episodes of Downton Abbey later, Molly found the strength to approach Sherlock about their living situation. She knocked on the door to no avail, and after five minutes she turned the handle and peeked her head in.

Sherlock had made a palet on the floor, with Violet's mobile spinning gently over the two of them. Violet was asleep, nestled under his bicep, swaddled with her little hat that Mary had knitted for her. Sherlock was asleep, with his other arm flung above his head. The mobile kept playing a small tune, a second favorite of Violet's. On the floor was a mass of printed articles. Molly bent down carefully and picked up a few.

"Your child's development" "How to inspire confidence in girls" "Best Primary Schools in London" "Feminism and Fatherhood"

Molly smiled with each one she picked up, before she grabbed the one half covered by the blanket, she slipped it out carefully, and read the title.

"Defining Love: How to Digest Complex Emotions for Those with Schizotypal Personality Disorder"