The snuffling noise emerging from the baby monitor woke Sherlock instantly. He lifted his head and listened carefully for any further noises; sure enough, the sound of wet sniffling and increasingly heavy breathing permeated the dark, thick atmosphere of Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, and saw John breathing slowly and calmly beside him. Best to get to Rosie before she started crying and woke John.

Sherlock rose from the bed and padded out of his room as swiftly and silently as possible, closing the door behind him. Gone were the days where he worked until he collapsed, then slept for three days straight – he had responsibilities now. He had Rosie now.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Sherlock swept into the slowly-awakening toddler's room and reached straight into the wooden cot.

Building that flat-packed monstrosity had been… an experience. It was at the point when Sherlock found himself staring at approximately thirty different sized planks of identically coloured wood, and trying to match them to the a, b, c, d, or e sized planks in the instruction manual from IKEA, that Sherlock realised that perhaps his life had changed for good.

He had argued half-heartedly with John about burning the thing instead, but ultimately they had managed to struggle through without killing anyone. It was quite humiliating to be reduced to throwing an instruction manual out the window in frustration, and then sheepishly going all the way outside to pick it up and bring it back, when one was supposedly a genius. John had almost collapsed in his amusement, as Sherlock fought a smile tugging at his lips. The feeling of pride when they had observed the finished thing was surprisingly satisfying, though.

"Hiya, baby girl. It's me." Sherlock whispered to the struggling Rosie, pressing her soft, warm head beneath his chin.

He had spent many hours researching how to comfort babies in preparation, and with the added experience from the past two weeks of living with a toddler, Sherlock had perfected the art of soothing her. He placed one hand on her bottom (babies found that comforting... for some reason), and one between her shoulder blades, and rocked back and forth slowly. Rosie saw his thick black curls, and smelled his clean, familiar scent, and immediately quieted down.

"What's woken you up then, sweetheart?" Sherlock cooed. He patted her nappy inquisitively, and breathed a sigh of relief, "Don't need changing then."

She turned her head so that her lips pressed against his neck, breathing heavily. Her little hand fisted in the soft collar of his pyjama top, and the other lay against his bare bicep, contracting occasionally. Sherlock had of course researched these basic reflexes, and he smiled down at her. So vulnerable still. As he looked down at her, her brow dented and her eyes screwed up.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Sherlock quickly soothed her. He knew the signs of an impending crying fit, and he did not need one of those at 3am. She always took at least half an hour to calm down afterwards, and John would hear her over the baby monitor and wake up. He lifted her in the air above him and smiled at her. An effective distraction.

"Hungry? Come on then."

Tucking her back under his chin, he made his way quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, he slotted her into the high chair, but she wriggled her legs and cried out to him.

"I can't hold you and make milk at the same time, Rosie!" Sherlock explained. Not that Rosie could understand him. God, what had he become. He rolled his eyes at himself. Looking round in desperation, he spotted her teddy giraffe, and sighed in relief.

"Here, you are!" He exclaimed, picking it up and 'boop'ing her in the nose.

She let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, kicking her feet excitedly.

"Shh!" Sherlock shushed her, waiting for her developing hand-eye coordination to allow her to grasp the teddy. Eventually she managed to hold it tight enough not to drop it, allowing Sherlock to get back to making the milk.

Obviously, the ideal milk for this stage of her development was breast milk, but that was no longer an option, for obvious reasons. Sherlock's brow creased as he set about making the formula, a now well-practised recipe. He did his best but really, nothing he did would be enough to come close to replacing Mary, and it made him sad to think of Rosie when she grew old enough to question why she had two fathers and no mother.

"Da-da-da-da!" Rosie garbled delightedly, causing Sherlock to whip round to see John stumbling through the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.

The motion caused his old army t shirt to lift above his waistband, and Sherlock distractedly tore his eyes away from the tanned skin beneath.

"John, I'm fine. Go back to sleep." Sherlock insisted.

"She's my daughter, Sherlock. It's fine," John replied, "Hello darlin'!" He cooed to Rosie as she stuck her arms in the air, wanting to be picked up. "Is Uncle Sherlock making you some milk, then?" He jokingly asked her, as though she would answer. He took her gurgle as confirmation. "Ah, I see." He chuckled.

Sherlock plucked a freshly cleaned bottle from the newly-made bottle prepping station that had taken up permanent residence by the sink. It was a carefully choreographed system of washing, reusing and restocking, much like every other aspect of their new life with a toddler to care for. A military operation.

John appeared by his side with Rosie propped against his hip. "Here, I'll do it, don't worry." He said, pressing against his side and touching his hands as he reached for the bottle. Sherlock momentarily froze, before handing the warm bottle over to John so he could feed Rosie.

He blushed furiously, angry at himself for reacting in this way. It was John, who he'd known for years. They hadn't yet discussed what was happening between them, but they were definitely developing.

After Mary's DVD finished playing, John and Sherlock looked at eachother in silence.

"So… Do you mind if Rosie takes my room, then? I mean… She has a changing station, a huge cot, a wardrobe, and so many toys…" John asked hesitantly after a while.

Sherlock smiled, and sat down beside John. The air was charged with words unspoken, but when John gently took his hand, and wordlessly put the One o Clock News on, the restlessness in Sherlock's head ceased, and he relaxed against John's side. Maybe Mary was right. They could get through this.

No more had been said on the matter, but John had moved back in to 221B with Mary's blessing, and there was no awkwardness when they climbed into the same bed each night. Even as their feet tangled under the covers, there was a calm acceptance that even though they didn't have the words, they each knew what the other felt.

"I'll just be in bed, then." Sherlock smiled at John.

John nodded and walked into the lounge. The sofa had become the 'feeding chair', because the arm rests were just the right height for resting tired arms on as Rosie's head lay against them.

When John's weight settled next to Sherlock's later that night, Sherlock shifted quietly to accommodate him.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "thank you."

"Do shut up, John." Sherlock replied sleepily.

"No, Sherlock. Look at me." John said quietly.

Sherlock turned so that he faced John, his brows creased in confusion. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, stroking the arch of his cheekbone and observing the tired creases at the edges of his almond eyes. He bent down and pressed his lips slowly, gently, against Sherlock's. His eyes fell closed, and he softly breathed against Sherlock's cheek before pulling back.

"Thank you." John repeated.

Sherlock blinked up at John tiredly, before his lips slowly creased into a smile. He contentedly dipped his head back down and fell back to sleep.

Come morning, the arrival of D.I. Lestrade would disturb this gentle routine somewhat.