Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any characters besides OCs. All I lay claim to is the plot.

On that note, I really love this idea, even though it's completely random and I got it during a shower. AUs in which Rosamund is present are a lot harder to find than you would expect. Anyways, sorry if this turns out awful - it wasn't planned out at all and nobody edits my work but me, so please forgive any minor problems.

I tried.

And now, the game is afoot!

'Auntie Molly' wasn't exactly having the best day.

Frankly, the brunette had just finished an excruciatingly long shift at work, walked back home through an unexpected fit of rain, accidentally emptied her take out onto her feet when she opened the flimsy styrofoam container, and she had been called over to 221B Baker Street in a matter of 'utmost importance', according to Sherlock, immediately after changing clothes.

She was done. This was it. She was entirely prepared to go inside, slap the consulting detective for adding another annoyance to her day of constant annoyances, and head back home.

This was exactly what Molly, who was finally, finally at her wit's end was about to do.

But then one John Watson, his blue eyes swarming with relief as he saw her, opened the door, a huffy baby Rosamund in hand and a phone in the other. From behind him, Sherlock could be observed groaning in exasperation at the police force, who had, once again, encroached on their private quarters.

"Thank god you're here, Molly," the doctor breathed, readjusting his grip on his daughter. "Lestrade just begged us to take on two new murder cases - two murder cases - and I just got a call from the bank about some payment transfer troubles from our last job and Sherlock and I haven't slept in three days and Rosie is starting to get bored and I cannot hope to occupy her right now while the world is slowly collapsing." He stopped talking for a moment as if trying to remember how to breathe again. "I know it's a lot to ask, but could you please take her downstairs and watch her? Mrs. Hudson is busy cleaning and can't really keep an eye on a toddler right now but she said she wouldn't mind if Rosie was left there and - "

"John, give me my niece," she interrupted, because no matter how agonizing her afternoon was Molly was nothing if not kindhearted and empathetic. Of course, 'niece' was just a title and it held no real weight, but ever since the one and a half year old child had been able to speak simple words, 'Aun Mol' had been the dubbing Molly received.

This was appropriate, considering how often she ended up babysitting.

Honestly, Sherlock and John were wonderful crime fighters and brilliant men, but scheduling? That, they were rubbish at.

They made due to the best of their abilities, really - Rosie wasn't ever neglected or anything. They tried to give her structured attention and meals and nap times. In fact, John and Rosie had moved back into 221B. This was for a variety of reasons. Convenience of proximity to Sherlock and to work were major factors, Mary's absence another. The army doctor was much better - honestly, he was astoundingly fine, given his easy ability to get attached to everyone - but still, seeing the flat that him and his wife made a life together in caused his eyes to droop, his pace to slow. It dragged him down, every single inch of him, ever so slightly, and Mary would never want him to suffer.

Back into 221B they went. It was a simple choice to make, in the end.

As was taking her unofficial niece from her very desperate, very tired friend.

"You're a godsend, Molly." Hastily, Rosamund was put in her arms with a kiss on the tiny head and a quick squeeze.

"John! I require your immediate assistance!" comes a haughty, unmistakable voice from the other room, and with a sigh, John turns away from the brunette currently holding his child.

"Coming, Sherlock!"

"Well? Go on."

"Are you sure this is alright? I know it's very last minute and all but - "

"John Watson, go to our needy friend. I think he's about to blow a fuse and being left next to Anderson for so long is going to have its repercussions," she warns, closing her hands tighter around the toddler. "I'm fine, it's nothing I haven't done before. Now get going."

"We appreciate it!" It's the last thing she hears before he is summoned back into the fray, blonde hair falling over his forehead.

Molly briefly stares at the little girl resting against her shoulder.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me for a while, huh Rosie?" she says, making a concerted effort to smile. Surely this wouldn't take so long.

After one hour of watching Rosamund assemble and re-assemble a puzzle, she was starting to yawn again.

After two hours, she looked out Mrs. Hudson's flat's window, wondering whether or not the boys upstairs were aware that it was growing darker.

After three hours, she was seriously considering ordering food out - for the second time today - when the child she was babysitting began to cry.

It was a rather dramatic affair, utterly unexpected, and great tears were pouring out of the toddler's face like a sprinkler. The whole scene was far too much for Molly, too much for the day, and she resisted the urge to start screaming alongside her niece.

"Honey, please calm down," the sweet brunette pleaded, attempting to right the situation through her exhaustion. Sadly, Rosie only bawled louder, feeding off the attention, it seemed, and Mrs. Hudson strutted over to the pair with a sympathetic look. "Are you hungry? Your diaper isn't full."

"What do you want, sweetheart?" the older woman questioned, gazing at the child with concern. To Molly's great surprise, the toddler gave out another giant sniffle before tossing them a baleful pout.

"Want da," she whined, pounding her tiny fists toward her caretakers. "Da!"

"Alright, alright, we'll get you to your Dad," Molly murmured, picking up the child. Wordlessly, Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her face with a tissue, wiping away the snot. "It's going to be okay, Rosie."

"They should be going by now, I think," Mrs. Hudson muttered, alluding to the police. "They've already stayed for so long . . ." With a nod, the young woman trudged up the stairs, Rosamund in hand.

Only Lestrade remained in 221B Baker Street, and he appeared to be gathering his things. Ignoring the blubberings of the child in her arms, Molly readjusted her grip and held out Rosie.

"Someone wants her father," she explained, almost relieved that she had an avenue of escape. She was tired, not feeling very well, and was not in the mood to handle more wails, no matter how much she adored Watson's child.

"Oh, of course, I'll just - " He reached out to take hold of his daughter when the girl turned her head away.

"No." Rosie's words were forceful and fierce, not something you would expect from someone who wasn't even two.

"Rosie, dear, you said you wanted your da, didn't you?" the brunette repeated, brow knit in confusion.

"Want da," the child nodded, fisting the poor woman's coat lapels tighter.

"Well, daddy's here, Ro."

"Want da," she chided, repeating the basic request with fervor.

"Oh, for the love of . . . " Molly groaned, nearly sinking against the table.

"Molly, it doesn't matter if she's choosing to mess with you or not," Sherlock voiced, breaking away from his dismissals of Lestrade in order to join the conversation. "You've been with her for hours. We'll handle our daughter while you're gone."

Suddenly, it clicked.

Our daughter.

"Sherlock, can you come over here for a second?" she requested.

"Want da," repeated Rosie unhelpfully. Frowning, the consulting detective came a few steps closer, and Molly unceremoniously dropped the young girl into his arms without a hitch. The child instantly grew quiet, lightly pounding on Sherlock's chest as though it were an interesting new toy.

"That makes much more sense, actually," she breathed, letting out a sigh of relief. The great Sherlock Holmes' ears turned pink.

"She wanted me?"

"Don't act so surprised, Holmes," Lestrade chuckled, letting a small smile encompass his lips as he let himself out. "Aren't you her dad, too?"

"Da da da da da," crooned the toddler, and the question answered itself.

"She thinks I'm her dad?" the detective asked in wonderment, staring at his best friend's child. John, after a brief minute, grinned softly.

"Well, of course. Who's been helping me take care of her, Holmes?"

It was at this time that Molly made her escape, shaking her head and slipping out the door unnoticed.

Her bed was waiting, and frankly, she could ponder over the logistics of the Watson-Holmes household later.

Sleep: now that was a priority.

Sherlock Holmes was a man of logic and deduction. He was calculated, composed, articulate. The nonsensical and emotional - chemical defects, really, often found in the loosing side - were cast away, stripped at a young age by cold sciences and observational habits.

He was an analytical. He kept his mind sharp, his wits and instincts even more so, and this cool detachment and brilliant mind made him such a good detective.

Except, of course, for at home. Then the inexplicable grasp of feelings ensnared him once more.

It's simply impossible to be hard and distant when you live with the Watsons, he has deduced, because they are the most compassionate and stunningly brave people you will ever hope to meet. As his best friend, John had clearly proven his use over and over and over again - he was John Watson, for god's sake. He had been molded into a good man the way Sherlock had been molded into an observer: since before he was born. The doctor was simply destined to be great.

A ridiculous, fanciful notion, naturally. No scientific grounding whatsoever. But then again, even Sherlock can appreciate a bit of misguided faith in the improvable now and then.

The detective has always felt warm when John was near. It was a subtle change, though the ex military man fell into his routine almost seamlessly, and after a while the ebony haired deductor had simply forgotten what it was like to wake up in 221B Baker Street alone, to not hear familiar footsteps pounding lightly on the floor. What it was like to not have tea in the mornings - only one sugar, the way he preferred it, partnered with a smile beneath a fringe of blonde. What is was like to avoid eating and sleeping for days due to a case; John always forced him to take small breaks much like a worried mother hen. It would have almost been amusing had it not been so inconvenient.

Sleep - a waste of time, honestly.

A biological urge that should have been repressed had he not been so infuriatingly wonderful.

And now, he had not only John Watson to come home to, but one Rosamund as well. A little girl he had been assisting in the care of since her mother died - John's wife died - and the pair had moved into 221B.

An adjustment, to be certain. However, he's found he's liked having a small child around for the last few years, as odd and inexplicable as it may be.

Somedays, Sherlock wonders if this is the closest he will ever get to raising children of his own. He'd never really given the notion much thought - who would endure marriage to him long enough to produce offspring, after all - but Rosie had long ago started calling the strange man she lived with 'Dad' once the proper syllables were established, and really, Sherlock never bothered to correct her. If it helped, John was referred to as Daddy. Far more use of sentiment, he's certain.

It's an odd feeling, affection. He feels it for Watson, certainly, and who wouldn't? But there are many different types of love, and even though he's fairly sure (how unsavory, not being 100% certain of something - how annoyed other people must be all the time) the type he's experienced for his best friend is more than simply friendship anymore, there is a very, very slim margin for change or reveal.

For starters, the Holmes family is just not made for love. His parents, being normal enough, managed to be happy together, but Sherlock is utterly convinced that this was a fluke. Him and Mycroft, despite their spheres of influence, would never taste that sort of belonging. They were too distant, too estranged, too eccentric and needy - in other words, too Holmes to truly be accepted. Even typical friendships were far and few between.

Secondly, John wasn't ready for anything. Not now, possibly not ever, and saying that he had developed an unsaid something for the incredible blonde would skew everything. Hell, after him and Rosie first moved in, they took to sleeping together in the same bed out of necessity. John wasn't used to being on his own, sleeping in a bed alone, and establishing who would be getting up to comfort the infant was an ordeal of wills at 3am even without a staircase between them. Sherlock, though he was used to being secluded, had simply grown weary of being isolated, especially after cutting off contact with the outside would for the last several years, and his odd investigative sleep schedule made taking care of a weeping Rosie far more convenient. Having a crib and a single bed on the main floor, all in one room, simply made sense. And if their legs were tangled together and John's arm was flung over his chest in the middle of the night, or they found themselves locked in an embrace come morning due to a particularly bad nightmare (falling tailcoats, blood on the ground, bombs strapped to chests, and gut wrenching gunshots made for some riveting, horrifying dreams - the kind that have already come true), then that wasn't bad at all.

John had started to feel safe here. He was happy again, the way things were. He was comfortable with his life, and with Rosie's life at 221B. Sherlock would never dream of compromising that sense of home.

And somewhere along the way, Rosie and John had stopped being Rosie and John, his close friends. They were his daughter and his partner, in every sense of the word, and damn it all if Sherlock Holmes would let his family ever get hurt again. They are his. The mere idea is unacceptable.

This is why he is so confused when the little girl that calls him Dad is looking so out of sorts this afternoon.

You see, it's her third day of kindergarten, and since she had been living with one Sherlock Holmes, Rosie had picked up some things at her ripe age of five. Like, for instance, all the usual preliminaries - the alphabet, her name, basic numbers, colors, etc. But Sherlock had also, when John was not around, started teaching her about other things, such as the art of deduction and the importance of rudimentary mathematics and the distinct smells of chemicals in the lab.

She's to be a prodigy, his daughter. Rosie simply must learn at a young age to expand her mind before she becomes ordinary, or worse - bored.

Not that there's anything wrong with normal. John is perfectly normal, perhaps slightly more intelligent, and he's delightful.

But he's John Watson, and therefore the exception. Rosie is going to have not only her father's amiable qualities and kindness, but the Holmes brilliant streak, if the detective has anything to do with it. It's the least he can do, giving her the tools she needs to succeed.

The bottom line is, Rosamund loves learning. She's been looking forward to school, unlike the many bedwetters of her age. She had been ecstatic to go to the academy this morning.

So why was she so dissapointed now?

"Rosamund," he starts, not really knowing what to say. Her behavior is illogical, without prior pattern, and social interaction has never been his strong suit. Too unpredictable. "What's wrong?"

Blunt. To the point. Not too offensive.

Brilliant, then.

"I hate school," she muttered, crossing her five year old arms.

"What?"

"I hate school," she repeated, her blonde curls bouncing around her face as if they, too, were indignant. "It's wrong, Dad." Blinking, Sherlock decided to sit down across from her. Rosie remained seething in her father's armchair. As of now, the tattered fabric appeared to swallow up her small frame, but he suspected that over time the young Watson would come to fill it properly.

"Why did you say you hate school? I know for a fact that you've been excited about the prospect," he began, folding his slender hands over his knees and straightening his back. To any outsider, it would look like Sherlock Holmes was prepping himself for a case.

"It's just so . . ."

"Crowded? Loud? Filled with children who don't like you? I didn't exactly enjoy rigorous boarding schools for the social aspect, either."

"No, my classmates are okay," the child sighed, slumping forwards. Her skirt and jumper crinkled at the movement, her chin falling into her palms.

She clearly referred to the others as 'her classmates'. There was a sense of belonging there already, an establishment of a unit. The inflection was fond, as was the experience itself, then. As she had already explained, Rosie didn't have a problem with her new peers - on the contrary, she liked them. There was more exasperation in her tone and stance than sadness or pain, anyhow. The struggle must be internalized or stem from another spring.

"If it's the teacher - "

"No, she was nice. She looks like Mrs. Hudson," Rosie said, blowing her hair out of her face.

"What, then?" Children, surprisingly, were often harder to get a read on than adults. Adults have patterns, common sense, daily routines and obligations that need to be met. Their instincts have distilled down into a few fundamentals based on circumstance. Children, however, didn't have such pressures. Their emotions changed on a dime, as the expression went, and their motives were often unclear at first. Sloppiness was a common given, inattentiveness even more so. However, they were not immune to his deductions entirely. Even the brightest and most advanced of kids were often swayed by bribes of sugar or signs of distress, such as a damning punishment. Rosie, as he's noticed, hasn't been very concerned with the accumulation or avoidance of either.

An anomaly, his daughter, but had he really expected the spawn of John to be anything less?

"It's just so . . . boring," the young girl groaned, sagging backwards into the giant chair.

The detective felt . . .

Surprised.

That didn't happen often.

"Boring? Your schooling?"

"Yes!" In a fit of dramaticism, Rosie crossed her arms once more and let out an enormous huff. "Boring, boring, boring."

"What about it?"

"We're learning counting, Dad, and the alphabet. The alphabet!" She sprang up from the folds of the couch, landing squarely on her small feet. "Dad, I don't want to think about counting and the alphabet. I can already recite it all backwards and I can spell my name. Can't I just . . . " At this point, Sherlock Holmes picked up the blonde girl and placed her on his lap.

"You're a very special girl, you know that?" She nodded slowly, her nose scrunching up. "I've taught you a lot of things that the other children . . . their parents aren't like me."

"Nobody is like you, Dad." The dark haired man smiled wryly at this irony, running a hand through his locks.

"No one, indeed. As it is, because of who we are, you've learned a lot more than you should have. Your vocabulary, for example, is a lot more extensive. No other children your age complete five hundred piece puzzles or play memory games like we do." He paused for a moment as if reminded of something. "By the way, what can you tell me about your class?" She cleared her throat, eyes lighting up.

"There are twenty other students in my class. Eleven are girls. The teacher is nice, about fifty I think, with light blonde hair and blue eyes. She's happy, and she has a ring on her finger. That means she's probably married." Rosie stared back at Sherlock sheepishly. "Am I doing okay?"

"Elementary."

"Well . . . I talked to a girl named Reyna today. She's a year older than me and wore red shoes, but the laces were all funny. She probably wears them a lot because she tugs the laces all the time, which was what made them look so strange. I think she likes running." She looked down at her own feet. "I like Reyna. She was nice."

"It sounds like school can be rather interesting after all, if you look for something to occupy yourself with," Sherlock smiled, ruffling her fair curls. Her eyes widened.

"Yeah . . ."

"Do you think you can tough it out? Just until you get home each afternoon? I'd rather not explain to your father that I'm pulling you out of the academy due to boredom."

"I'll try," she said determinedly, already grinning again. "Can you teach me after I get home, though? Until it gets interesting."

"Of course, Rosamund." It's a promise the boisterous and far too clever five year old will hold him to, he knows, but it's one he's willing to keep.

Sentiment. A peculiar instinct, he knows, but some things are not meant to be evenly cut and dry. Some things are simply inexplicable, like how people appreciate John's damned blog, why Molly puts up with their antics repeatedly, and if the police force is purposefully dumbing themselves down in order to keep his slot as consulting detective open - it's mind blowing, how oblivious Lestrade's team can be, most days.

And love. That is something often associated with the inexplicable as well.

Just then, John Watson swings open the door with a beam, speaking of love. He instantly picks up a frazzled Rosie, throwing her over his shoulders, and she shrieks with laughter as he interacts with her. Curious, this sort of parenting. It's not the practical variety Sherlock has accustomed himself to over the years, but it has its charms.

"Did someone have a good day?" the doctor asked, that brilliant and somewhat slanted smile still on his face, as it always is when he returns home.

"School was boring, but I made a friend. Her name's Reyna," she managed through a series of giggles, clinging to her father's neck.

"Bored already?" He shot a lidded glance in Sherlock's direction.

"What?"

"Rosie, bored? Reminds me of another person I know."

"Well, I seriously doubt she'll be able to find a gun and shoot at the wall, so I'm presuming we'll be safe," he sighed, but a grin was already quirking at his lips.

"And I suppose your day was alright, too?"

"No new cases, unfortunately, but perhaps that means Grant has finally gotten his team together." John's eyebrow raised, amused.

"I think you're starting to do it on purpose."

"Do what?"

"Misinterpret his name. He's one of our few friends and has been for several years. It's almost funny."

"Almost." And yet his advanced mind can't help but latch onto the 'our' in that statement. 'Our friends' seems almost resolute, almost like a couple.

Well. The strange mistakes our brains invent.

"I'm hungry," Rosie proclaims loudly, finally wiggling free of her father's grip and running towards the kitchen. "Daddy, can you make mac and cheese?"

"Shouldn't your Dad be making you food? Daddy's been working all day and would like to lie down." From behind the island, already pulling out a pan, the young girl scoffed.

A full, real scoff. Sherlock had never felt so proud.

"Dad would burn up the kitchen." John chuckled at that, giving Sherlock a squeeze on the shoulder as he went to accompany his daughter.

"Fair enough, Rosie."

An augmented memory, for the genius, though the why is a matter of debate. It keeps a special room in his mind palace, filling every nook and cranny of the devoted space, though nothing particularly special happened.

After many hours of dedicated contemplation, Sherlock Holmes did the unthinkable with this memory - he replayed it, over and over, before carefully shutting its door. Some things, despite his vast grasps of the explained and the deduced, could remain mysteries.

And honestly, could there be a better one to hold onto?

Rosamund Watson, at her ripe age of eight, had never given much thought to her living situation. She simply was where she was, in 221B Baker Street. The young girl considered herself fairly fortunate, fairly clever, and fairly friendly, given her circumstances.

Her family was lovely, in her opinion, though she supposed it changed for everyone. Perspective and all. But she, as Rosie, was very lucky indeed.

She had a grandma named Mrs. Hudson who lived right downstairs and bakes cookies with her - from scratch, she might let you know - every weekend, and Rosie's gotten quite good at assisting with shortbread. It's her favorite thing to make, she thinks, because it takes the longest to cook and that means she can bask in the warmth of her grandmother's kitchen, swinging her legs and listening to stories. Some are fairy tales, some are old memories, and some are the details of mysteries long since solved. It's the mysteries she loves the best, she believes, because Mrs. Hudson will talk about a tall man in a silly cap and his wonderful best friend, and Rosie will laugh as she tries to imagine her father doing all of those crazy things. She's not dumb - the smartest in her class, actually, as her teacher says - and she knew from the very start that those made up cases were the adventures of the men living right upstairs. But still, they sound so much better coming from her grandma.

And then there's her Aunt Molly, and Aunt Molly is the absolute best. She's always kind, always sweet, and always taking care of her. Rosie and Molly watch telly together when her guardians are off on 'work business', journey to the supermarket to buy groceries when the fridge is running low, and take walks to the nearest playground and the park whenever Rosie wants to. Sometimes, when she's with her aunt, Rosamund wonders if this is what having a mother is like. She's never really been sad about not having her mother (Mary, John says, her name was Mary, and she was wonderful with you) because she never got to miss it, but perhaps this was all because Molly made sure that she wouldn't have to go without anything. Molly is safe, and loving, and warm every second she's with Rosie and the little girl loves having her around.

Uncle Lestrade is sometimes around the flat, too, and he always goes up to her and gets on his knees and asks her how she's doing when he comes. He works with her fathers, she's been told, and he's big and strong and protective. Like a grizzly bear, she imagines, with a big hairy bear heart. Sherlock let loose one of his rare laughs when she revealed that thought, and John did the same. Odd, but she liked her uncle. He seemed to be the type of person with a lot of responsibilities, but also the type of person who didn't mind shouldering them if it meant that his loved ones had a little less to bare. A good man.

Uncle Mycroft isn't around too often, but Rosie loves it when he is. He's no good with people - he's terrible with other children, especially - but he always addresses her like she matters, like she's an adult. He leaves her a present on Christmas every year, and if they're lucky he'll deliver it himself. Sherlock always frowns when he opens the door, and the way his face scrunches up at the sight of Uncle Mycroft makes Rosamund giggle uncontrollably, but he always wishes them happy holidays and leaves behind some cookies, which Rosie thought was awfully nice. He's weird, her other uncle, and not so straightforward and pleasant like Lestrade, but she assumes it's because he's just a little lonely.

Rosie has a phenomenal father named John Watson, and he's the perfect dad. He's patient and gentle and loving, always so loving, and shines like the sun. His job is to help people at the hospital, but he also investigates with Sherlock, which makes him extra cool. He's always happy to see her, even when it's so clear by the way his tie is crooked and his sweater is drooping that he's tired and annoyed and just wants to eat something before he collapses. He's John Watson, and he's one of her favorite people in the whole wide world.

The other is her second father, Sherlock Holmes. He's mysterious and brooding - she rather likes that word, and she's fairly convinced she's the only girl in her class to know what it means - towards clients and officers alike, but never to her. To her, he's smiling and clever and the most incredible person she knows. She wants to be just like Sherlock when she's older, and she's getting there, she knows. She can recite several lines from the periodic table, and her skills of deduction are improving every day, he says, and whenever she says something particularly smart he beams at her as though she's done something amazing. He is not John Watson - he is perceptive but clueless in the way of feelings, and he cannot always say the right thing like Daddy. But Dad is something else, someone very special, and she loves him for it.

Sure, there is Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara and Grandma and Grandpa Watson and the rest of the Holmes family tree, but they were not so important, somehow. Rosie loved them, yes, but they were rarely around and she found that she didn't miss them nearly as much after they had left.

This was her family, her wonderful, mix-matched family. She never suspected that other children could have families unlike her own - unlike odd experiments and violins at midnight hours, unlike police investigations and yellow smiley faces on the walls and no mother. But then a student in her class was talking about her parents' anniversaries, all smiles and giggles, and Rosie had listened intently as all the other girls soon joined in. There was conversation revolving around how icky their mothers and fathers were - always smooching, heavens forbid - and bragging about how happy and well balanced and in touch their relatives were. Slowly, Rosamund began to realize that all the other girls had a family connected by blood, aunts and uncles that were actually related to eachother, and their parents were married.

The thought had never crossed her mind, but were her fathers married? Did they even love eachother, like all the other children discussed?

"What are your parents like, Rosie?" This question came from Reyna, her very bestest friend for three years, and the dark haired child with almond eyes was smiling, awaiting a story with curiosity. Reyna was pretty, and clever, and was always on Rosamund's side, no matter what occasional schoolyard squabbles broke out, and Rosie sincerely adored the older girl for all of it. However, the inquiry still caught her off guard.

"Um . . . I have two dads. One is named John, and he was married to my mum, but she died. He's a doctor and used to be in the army." She took a small breathe before continuing. "Sherlock is my other father, and he's the smartest person I know. Daddy says he's a genius, licensed and everything, and he works with one of my uncles at the police station. He's a consulting detective." She hadn't known what she had been expecting, but positive interest hadn't been it.

"Cool!" squeaked one of the students. "A real live detective?"

"Consulting detective, actually. An easy mistake, really, but he can be very particular about it." The thought of Sherlock Holmes, deerstalker and all, made the blonde smile.

"I have two moms. Kind of the same thing, right?" asked another girl, shyly flitting her fingers through her braids. "I thought I was the only one."

"Hey, I do, too!"

"Two dads, actually."

"Well, I've only got one mom. She said it was 'vitro', whatever that means."

"I think you started something, Rosie," Reyna chuckled softly, leaning closer to the younger girl. "For what it's worth, I think your family is great."

They were, weren't they? Not exactly the average lot, not by a long shot, but if her classmates thought that they were special, too, then there was absolutely nothing wrong with different.

Of course, this wouldn't stop her from interrogating her fathers when she got home.

This, actually, turned out to be exactly what she would do.

"Daddy, are you and Dad married?" she questioned as she assembled a puzzle with John Watson over the kitchen table. He proceeded to choke on his tea. "Daddy, are you alright? Should I get help?"

"No, no, pumpkin, just . . ." His face was red, though this could have been from a rise in self awareness or a decrease in temperature rather than the intense gagging of before. She settled on embarrassment or a new state of self consciousness, given the lack of a chill. Never before had Rosamund felt so proud that her detective had begun teaching her the fine art of deduction. "Why do you ask, Rosie?" he eventually sputtered out, viciously clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.

Good. He was paying attention, then.

"All the other children's parents in my class are married, and I was wondering if you and Dad were husbands. I didn't see any rings, but I assumed you didn't like to wear them because of my mum." Rosamund leaned forwards, her curls slipping over her shoulders. "Well? Aren't you?"

"Rosie, I . . . " The usually sunshine bright, always-wonderful-at-comforting-phrases John Watson was at a loss for words. "I . . . no, Rosie, me and Sherlock aren't married, sweetheart. We're your parents, yes, and don't ever doubt that we love you for a second, but . . ."

"You're not in love with eachother," she completed, a new understanding dawning over her. How had she not noticed it before, really? Sure, they had moved her upstairs once she was big enough and they kept the same bed, but they never cuddled outside of their room like other couples. They didn't go on dates, and while she had assumed that they were simply too busy, they never tried to make the time for it either. And there was no kissing, even if John always made breakfast and Sherlock always helped him with his coat.

"We're . . . we're like the closest of friends, but better," John tried, attempting to explain their dynamic. "I don't . . . there's no real way to put it into sentences, Rosie. He's just the person I trust more than anybody else, the person I always want at my side. I haven't thought about having feelings for anyone that way since your mother left us. I've been too focused on work and you and making sure Sherlock doesn't run himself into the ground."

"I see," the small blonde said simply, looking back at her puzzle - the english countryside, today - and snapping another piece into place. She wasn't quite sure if she did or not, but she wanted him to feel better. Daddy always had a way of making other people feel better, so if she could do it, do this one small thing for him, then maybe it was as if she was returning the favor. For a long stretch of time he grew quiet, silently assembling the jigsaw with her, before he turned up his chin again.

"And Rosie?"

"Yes, Daddy?" He swallowed, though not uncomfortably. More in an authoritative stance.

"I love your Dad. I feel strongly for him. Just because I'm not one hundred percent in love with him, not that way yet, doesn't mean I don't care about him like I care about you. Like he's my family and my home." She blinked, smiled, and hid her thoughts behind border pieces and painted green grass.

"Okay." One father down, then. Time to pester the other.

"I was wondering . . . " Sherlock Holmes set down his newspaper as Rosamund stood next to his chair, gazing at him with intent.

"Yes, Rosie?"

"Are you in love with Daddy?" Unlike with John, her ebony-haired relative didn't sputter uncontrollably and lose control of his pigmentation. Instead, the color drained from his face, a feat barely noticeable given his already fair complexion, but one accomplished all the same.

"What do you mean by that, Rosamund?"

"You know, do you love him like Reyna's dad loves her mom. Like Daddy's yours." Sherlock, for a brief, remarkable moment, appeared to be stumped. "Well?"

"What do you think, before I say anything?" He said this in a diplomatic way, knitting and unknitting his fingers in a fashion that almost resembled fidgeting.

"That somebody has to love Daddy. It might be you. He's far too great, don't you agree?" His smile, for once, was uneven and shaky, his gaze wobbling.

"Quite something, indeed." Rosie clambered into his lap, frowning at the lack of his usual confidence. Still, she remained calm and quiet, waiting for her father to give her an answer. "You're right about it, you know. I think I've made you a little too clever."

"There's no such thing as too clever, you always say."

"Too nosy, though, does exist."

"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back," Rosamund quipped, giving him a reassuring beam.

"Does it change anything, knowing that I love your dad? Rosie, I know you consider me a . . . parental figure, despite all odds, and I don't want to - "

"It's nice, that you love him." She slipped off of his chair with a decided lack of grace, nearly face planting onto the floor. "I think he might love you, too."

The great Sherlock Holmes froze at this, which Rosamund would have seen had she been giving him a lick of attention. Instead, she turned her sights towards the stairs, running up to her room where she could do her homework and read her newest book, A Short History on the Theorems of Evolution. A little advanced, sure, but both of her fathers always seemed so proud when she got excited about these novels, when she flipped through them the way she loved to. 'Our little genius', they'd say. So clever.

Her fathers.

Plural.

For once, her mind lingered not on the spirals containing her coursework or her thick, fascinating pages, but on the dilemma that phrase created.

Fathers.

What an interesting predicament.

Then the idea struck.

It's odd, trying to get your fathers, the men who raised you side by side, to fall in love, but their family was never anything less than odd, anyhow. And this really would tie up so many loose ends nicely. John and Sherlock already shared the same room and had a common job and routine, and her dad already admitted that he loved her father, so half the work was done. And the tall, brooding - yes, it really was such a wonderful word, brooding - detective was so interesting and charming on his own, so surely it wouldn't be so hard.

Rosamund adored her family dearly, but one thing was for certain; she was going to change things, and she was going to change them whether her fathers wanted it or not.

So, hey there, readers. Did I do alright?

This is my first venture into the world of Sherlock fanfiction, so sorry if it isn't the best. I've been on this site for a little over a year (how time flies) and I've only recently gotten into the fandom, but already, having only completed the show a month ago in a span of two weeks (three seasons were actually watched in the first week, but by the second I was going on a family vacation and sneaking away to binge on Sherlock became a lot harder), I've become obsessed.

It's a problem, really. I should be working on my own books and other stories, but nope. Sherlock.

Waiting for the next season is going to be agonizing, isn't it?

Serves me right for joining the fandom, I suppose.

Anyhow, thanks for reading! This was meant to be a oneshot but it's looking to be a three parter, with each chapter having a segment from Molly, Sherlock, and Rosie. I hope I got the characterization right - it's hard to write like an eight year old, surprisingly, even one as bright and advanced as I tried to make Rosamund out to be. The mindset is completely different.

And trying to sound intelligent took cognitive thought, sadly. I had to really think about what Sherlock Holmes might actually wonder about, and so I apologize if the wording isn't quite correct. I tried to keep things in the spirit.

Not to grovel for attention, but please please please be sure to favorite and follow me and this story. I usually post something at least once a month, if not for the same fandom, as I write for just about everything under the sun, and rest assured this will be completed. I won't abandon it.

If you're still with me this far, again, the story will have about three components, it will be updated soon, and you should really give me feedback because I thrive off of validation.

Thanks for surviving the end note with me. See you (hopefully) in the next part!