Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Hey, Dad?”

John looked up from his laptop at his daughter, who looked that mood of too-nervous-to-be-tired.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said. He knew how it was, the first day of a new high school. Rosie was starting her junior year knowing no one.

“Can you braid my hair?”

John didn’t know how to braid hair. He knew how to tie knots and tourniquets, but his fingers were just not built for braiding.

But he sighed and patted his lap, resolving to give it his best shot. She perched there, the way she always did.

“This’ll probably turn out horribly, Rosie. You do know that, right?” His response was greeted by her giggle, which never failed to warm his heart.

“That’s alright, Dad.”

Sherlock strolled from the bedroom into the kitchen at that moment, putting on the kettle and then the coffee maker.

“Good morning, Rosie. Don’t be nervous, they’re all idiots. Not worth worrying about.”

“Thanks,” Rosie said. John knew it would have come out sarcastic, but she was pale and worried.

She got up out of his lap once he had finished, and hugged Sherlock.

John smiled at the two, at how much softer Sherlock was around her.

Sherlock put his fingers under her chin and tilted her head to look at her hair.

“John?” He sounded appalled. “No, this is not a braid. You’re amazing, John, at many things, but braiding is not one of them.”

He leaned against the counter and started running his fingers through Rosie’s thick blond hair, then carefully weaving the strands together.

“John, pass me a flower,” he ordered. John obliged, and Sherlock slipped it into the braid, then stepped back as the kettle started whistling.

“Thanks, Father” she said happily, looking a little less nervous. Sherlock tended to have the opposite effect on most people, but John supposed being partially raised by him made the comments less blunt.

Sherlock smiled at her, making John smile.

Sometimes it just hit him, that he and Sherlock were together and okay and Rosie was happy and it filled him with this warm fuzzy feeling that he never wanted to dispel.

Those moments where the caring, gentle parts of Sherlock came out were John’s favorite moments.

When the door closed behind Rosie, John stood up and walked to Sherlock’s side, slipping an arm around his partner’s waist and leaning into his warm side.

“She’ll be fine,” Sherlock said in a low voice, resting his chin on top of John’s head.

“I know,” John sighed.

When Rosie came back in the door, her cheeks were flushed and her steps were bouncing.

“Good day, Rosie?” Sherlock said knowingly. Rosie beamed at him and nodded enthusiastically. “Go do your homework,” he said, ruffling her hair.

“Homework on the first day?” John asked in wonderment. “How did you know that, and why are high school teachers so cruel? It’s only the first day!”

“She got her textbooks, and a new agenda book. She did writing today, with a colored pen and you know they only do work on the first day of school in math, which no one does in pen.”

“You do math in pen,” John pointed out. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well yes, John, of course I do math in pen. What’s your point?

“And,” Sherlock continued, having moved onto a more interesting topic, “she met someone. In her … calculus class. No, right outside her calculus class. She … dropped something … no! The flower fell out of her hair, and he picked it up. But … she was already gone, and so he pocketed it. And … yes! When he saw her in calculus, he gave it back to her!”

“You’d think,” John said, staring in awe at his husband, “that after almost twenty years I’d get used to this — you got all of that from a five-second glance at her?”

“Three point six,” Sherlock corrected, steepling his fingers underneath his chin.

“Sorry?”

“Three point six seconds, not five.”

John stared at nothing in particular, trying to process the person who was Sherlock Holmes.

“The question is, when will we meet him?”

“Wait, you think —”

“Well of course she likes him. Didn’t you see the flush in her cheeks, the bounce in her step? No one looks that happy after school, and she’s had regular friends before. We’ve seen her after meeting them for the first time. She was happy, but her heart rate wasn’t elevated. No, this was something different. She’s never had a crush before, so we can assume that the effects are heightened by the novelty.”

John settled for a sip of his tea as the best response. (Because, honestly, how could he follow that?)

That night, over dinner, Rosie seemed bursting with news.

She had never been embarrassed about her feelings, and shared everything with her fathers. (Hence why they knew she’d never had a proper crush before.)

“I met someone today,” she mentioned casually.

“Really?” Sherlock looked up and questioned sarcastically. John kicked him under the table.

Rose rolled her eyes at him, then continued. She had expected this: nothing really came as a surprise to her dads, as Sherlock knew everything going on, and John got him to tell him what was going on.

“Well, he’s in my calculus class and gave me my flower. I hadn’t even noticed it fell out. And he sits right in front of me, and he’s really sweet.”

“What’s his name, Rosie?” John asked happily. Sure, Sherlock had told him that’s what happened, but it was nice to hear it from his daughter herself.

Rosie brushed the strands falling out of her braid out of her face and swallowed the bread she was chewing before replying. “Leo.”

“Well, would you like to invite him over for dinner sometime?” John offered. Rosie turned a little red.

“After a little bit of time, of course,” Sherlock added quickly, seeing that Rosie would find it overbearing and overenthusiastic of her to ask him so soon.

She nodded and looked down at her salad, then smiled at her fathers gratefully.

“I’d like that, yeah.”

She reminded them both of Mary so much in that moment. And what was best was that the memory didn’t hurt anymore. All of the sadness had eventually been replaced with happy memories or new experiences, and the old pang in the heart had faded to a whisper of nostalgia, which made both John and Sherlock smile wistfully.

Rosie recognized the looks they gave each other, and smiled. She hardly remembered her mother, but she’d heard stories about Mary Watson and was always humbled when Sherlock or John said she reminded them of Mary.

“Father, can you check my calculus homework?”

Sherlock nodded, while John started about schools giving homework on the first day, and how the beginning of school was too stressful.

Weeks passed, and Sherlock could tell by the smiles on his daughter’s face that she was getting closer with Leo.

Although trusting of Rosie and her decisions, he wanted to meet Leo and see whom it was she seemed to be falling for. (Despite not even her knowing it; he knew the signs. She looked exactly like John when they had first met when talking about Leo.)

John noticed that Sherlock was at his most gentle with Rosie. He’d never risen his voice or even gotten angry at her. He’d seemed to have made a pact with himself, to give Rosie the best upbringing he could.

One morning through a mouthful of toast and marmalade, she blurted out that she was going to invite him over.

“He may not accept, but just so you two know: it’s definitely a possibility,” she said, pointing the butter knife at them.

“Alright,” John said easily, “we hope he does accept, Rosie.”

“So do I,” she replied, hopping off her seat and swinging her backpack on. “See you two after school.”

“Bye, Rosie!”

“Love you!”

“I love you too!” And then the door shut.

“She never clears her plate,” Sherlock huffed in annoyance from his chair. John rolled his eyes over his newspaper.

“Yes. Imagine living with someone who doesn’t pick up after themselves.”

Yet again, Sherlock either didn’t hear or didn’t care. “He will accept, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“The way she’s been talking about him suggest that he’s been acting just as excited to be around Rosie as she is for him. He’ll probably jump at a chance to spend more time with her.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Not at all.”

And Sherlock was, as always, correct; when Rose came through the door there was another, much taller figure with her.

John, who had been in the kitchen cooking pasta and broccoli, heard the voices and looked over at Sherlock, who smiled back reassuringly, as if to say Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything.

“Hey, Dad. Hey, Father,” Rosie called, bouncing into the room, Leo walking behind her shyly.

“Ah.” Sherlock got up from his chair and held out his hand to the teen. “You must be Leo. I’m Sherlock. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Leo seemed to flush at that, but held out his hand to shake Sherlock’s own firmly. “Likewise.” Sherlock’s warm but icy eyes scanned him.

Mother and father. Still together. Likes classical music. Plays trumpet. Good at math. Two cats, a tabby and a Parsian. Likes dumplings. Drives an SUV.

“Hello!” John exclaimed, popping his head out of the kitchen. “Do make yourself comfortable. Dinner’ll only be a few minutes. I’m John.”

“Lovely to meet you both.”

“Right back at you, Leo,” John said.

Leo smiled at that, crinkling his deep brown eyes at the sides. He had coffee-colored skin with freckles scattered across his cheeks and a wavy mass of dark hair.

It really did make Sherlock happy, seeing his daughter so plainly enamored with an honest, sweet boy.

He made interesting conversation, and didn’t lie about anything.

And John was torn between watching the glances Rosie and Leo exchanged or watching Sherlock watch them; both were entertaining.

He settled for switching.

Later that night, after Leo had excused himself from their presence after many thanks and a “See you tomorrow,” to Rosie, Sherlock turned to his and John’s daughter, eyes twinkling.

“I approve.”

Her face visibly lit up. “Really?”

He nodded, and she gathered him and John up in a hug.

“We love you, Rosie, dear.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now get some sleep.” The excitable blonde nodded, and kissed both of them on the cheek. (She had to get on her tiptoes to reach Sherlock.)

When she had disappeared upstairs, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s middle and the latter pulled him against his chest.

“Rosie has very good taste,” Sherlock commented.

“Runs in the family, I’d say,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s shirt, invoking a smile from the other.