Chapter Text
Rosamund Mary Watson, to the complete surprise of everyone around her, was entirely and ordinarily average as a young girl. John found that relieving in a way that somewhat concerned him, considering his flatmate turned husband has a queer sense of living. Sherlock toyed around with bunsen burners the way Rosie played with her stuffed toys; John knew better than to think some of Sherlock would not rub off on the girl
John was wary of the idea of moving back into 221B after he had received forgiveness from sherlock and had finally forgiven himself. He had wrongly misplaced his anger on his friend and it is something he must live with everyday. He lived with the guilt and the responsibility of Rosie; he was in charge of a living being that shared his dna and keeping Rosie safe had quickly become the top priority in John’s life. The guilt of the apathetic mind he had had about his daughter after Mary’s passing ate at him, the grief of her death and what he felt was his own betrayal to her brought him down a dark and twisted road.
The biggest hang up for the Doctor was the fact that Mary died believing he was perfect; his chance to air out his truth had been interrupted and the time for that conversation would never come to fruition. John knew deep down Mary would forgive him, but the ex soldier couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t deserve the forgiveness. How could Mary truly do that if she wasn’t there to say it? Those were hard conversations with his therapist.
After the flat had been rebuilt and clients began going back to Baker Street in search of Sherlock’s help, John had found himself in a juggling act of sorts. He was a single father, which was hard enough in its own right, who had to pick up extra shifts at the Surgery to pay the mortgage and the living expenses of a baby girl. Sometimes he found himself having only slept about two hours, any rest being almost immediately interrupted by Rosie’s fussing. Rosie was the most normal part of John’s life. Some nights they stayed at Baker street, other nights they went home. After a while, though, they seemed to stay at Baker Street more, and John had begun referring to the flat that was once his home, his home once again.
She was normal in every sense. Rosie hit all her benchmarks in height and weight, she ate regularly, and fussed about as a baby does. Rosie had taken her first steps at Baker Street, a memory engraved so vividly in John's mind he was sure he'd never forget it. Sherlock's laugh and yelp of astonishment at the walking toddler had settled something within John. A warmth so akin to love, he almost had to look away to regain his composure. John decided then that he would return to Baker Street with Rosie.
Despite the fact rosie’s father was an adrenaline junkie who seemed only to get his fix next to his best friend who may be the most brilliant man who has ever existed, she was completely normal. When she played with her toys, they were always attending tea parties or searching for hidden treasure like pirates. She never mentioned the work or the crime or the death despite the fact John and Sherlock have slipped up multiple times and Rosie had been subjected to a certain level of detail unfit for a four-year-old. Her stuffies were never criminal masterminds, and she seemed almost disinterested in the crimes, much to Sherlock’s horror.
Rosie, John would come to learn quickly, was very emotionally intelligent. She didn’t try to deduce people despite Sherlock insisting he could teach her, instead she spoke to people and allowed them to tell her what they felt necessary to tell her. Rosie had a way with words, despite being so young. She’s barely started primary school and she’s not too keen on reading, but she’s remembered the meanings of the words and uses them correctly. She may stumble on pronunciation from time to time, and John couldn’t help but love her more every time.
Rosie had a liking for helping people, especially her fathers. When she was old enough to be trusted with the handling of dishes, she made a habit of pulling the step stool from under the sink next to John, making a show of pushing up her imaginary sleeves to match John’s jumper. She liked to save the insects in the grass, moving tiny worms off of the pavements and into the dirt. She asked her dad about his patients and would scold Sherlock when he spoke upon beating certain bad guys.
Rosamund Mary Watson saved a human life for the very first time when she was only six years old. It was a cold and dreary day in London and the girl had just been greeted at her primary school by Molly; Sherlock was busy investigating and John had to finish his shift at the surgery. It wasn’t uncommon for Molly or even Mycroft to pick up the young girl from school, it took a village to raise a child after all.
“How was school today?” Molly asked as she helped the young girl into her coat.
“It was really fun! My teacher was acting funny though.” Rosie stated simply, taking her hat out of her cubby and pulling it on to her small head.
“Oh really? Funny how?” Molly slipped the girl's sky-blue backpack, which was just a bit too big for her, onto her back.
“She was talking weird, like she couldn’t open her mouth all the way.” Rosie began putting her gloves on but struggled, turning to Molly for help. “She was fine all morning, and then after lunch she started acting weird.” Rosie clapped her gloved hands together, a small thing she does every time she puts the gloves on.
Molly may work mostly with the deceased, but she is medically trained for the living, and she didn’t like what she was hearing from the young girl about her teacher.
“Did you notice anything else, maybe the way her face looked or how she was writing?”
“It kinda looked like her face was droopy. Only one one side though! And her pretty hand writing was super sloppy, which I thought was really weird. No one else thought it was funny looking…but I asked her if she was okay, and she told me not to worry. It wasn’t getting better though and I wasn’t sure what to do.” As Rosie rambled Molly’s medical instincts kicked in immediately, pulling her phone from her back pocket and punching in 999; She would wait to call just in case. She didn’t want to worry anyone with an ambulance pulling up to the school unannounced.
“Can you point your teacher out to me, sweetheart? I would just like to make sure she’s okay.”
Before Rosie said anything, the young girl took her Aunt's hand and began walking her out of the building and to where her teacher was sitting on a bench. The woman was conscious, blinking with one eye into dead space. As the two approached, the teacher smiled, the left side of her mouth drooping down as the right quirked up. Molly could see it clear as day and knew exactly what was happening. Rosie’s teacher was having a stroke
“Miss Turner! This is my Aunt Molly, she really wanted to meet you.” Rosie started slowly, dropping her aunt's hand.
“It’s so good to meet you!” Molly extended her hand for the woman to take, Miss Turner attempted to lift her hand but couldn’t lift it enough to take it, her eyes still blinking unevenly.
Rosie tugged Molly’s sleeve and said a simple phrase. “Be fast! Daddy was watching a programme on stokes and I think that’s what it is.” If the conditions weren’t so dire she would have chuckled at the young girls stumbling over the word ‘stroke’, but that was in fact what was happening here, and Molly couldn’t waste any time.
“Brilliant, sunshine, you did a good thing telling me.” Molly pressed the call button and waited for the dispatching operator to connect. Once she was linked to an operator, she requested an ambulance urgently and provided the address of the school, along with as much information as she could.
“Miss Turner, would you be willing to answer some questions for me?”
Molly took her time to assess Miss Turner with a deeper medical eye. She couldn’t speak anymore and it was clear the woman had become confused as she sat out in the cold without a coat. As Molly heard the paramedic car approach, she took off her jacket, laid it over Miss Turner's shoulders, and pulled Rosie back a few feet to allow the paramedics to do their job.
When the paramedics approached with their medical bags, they began to ask her the same questions Molly did, to which Miss Turner gave the same grave response: a gurgled sound in the back of the woman’s throat.
“Miss Turner is 36 and has a blood clotting disorder, auntie. I think they need to know that.” Rosie lowered her voice. “Will she be okay?”
“Did you say she had a blood clotting disorder? Can you elaborate?” One of the paramedics turned to Rosie, a young woman with auburn hair and soft green eyes.
“She told us once she was sick with something in her blood. Said it co-cogulated too much. There’s a number five in the name of her sickness!” Molly's heart softened and hurt for the young girl, too young to know how to say coagulate correctly, but mature enough to remember the important things her teacher has told her.
“Factor V Leiden, then. You’re a very smart girl for remembering those things. Can you tell me when this started?”
Rosie exploded into a fierce rendition of everything she remembered of her teacher's odd behavior, time stamps included with each symptom Rosie had noticed. Molly could only stand and hold tightly to Rosie’s hand seemingly just as surprised as the paramedics at the girl's observations.
“You, young lady, just saved this woman's life.” The other paramedic started as they pushed the gurney holding her teacher into the back of the ambulance. The man was tall and almost scary to look at. “Had you not said anything, she may not have been as well off.” Molly knew what he was trying to say without saying it, Miss Turner would have died had Rosie not said a word.
Rosie stood behind Molly, bashful at the praise of the older and much scarier looking paramedic.
Molly Hooper
Don’t be alarmed when Rosie's Master calls. Your daughter saved her teacher today. Miss Turner was having a stroke.
John Wotson
Christ, is everyone okay? How did my daughter save her? I don’t recall teaching her first aid or how to do brain surgery.
Molly Hooper
She saw all the signs and kept note of the time she noticed them. She told me as soon as I asked her how her day was. She even said 'B.E. F.A.S.T.' to me; apparently, she has been watching Telly with you.
John Watson
I thought she was asleep when I put that programme on
Molly Hooper
It’s a bloody good thing she wasn’t. If she fell asleep her teacher would have died, no one else noticed, not even the adults.
John Watson
Is Rosie okay?
Molly Hooper
I don’t think she truly understands the significance of what she's done. We are at her favorite sweets shop and she's more concerned with the choices of tarts.
I am very very proud of her. Give her extra love tonight, she did a wonderful thing.
John Watson
Of course, she deserves every hug and kiss always.
God, what kind of girl are we all trying to raise?
Molly Hooper
A good one, John. Rosie is a very special girl. We may be luckier to have her than she is to have us.
-
The last time John saw Rosie, it had to have been the coldest day London had seen since she was a child. Rosie was no longer a child, though, but a soldier built for war. When Rosie smiled at him, the same beautiful smile she has always used to calm his heart, he could see his baby girl for a moment. Her bright blue eyes so full of life and curiosity, there was a tiredness behind them though, three years in the service has taken its mental toll. Despite that there was a fire deep beneath her cool gaze, she was ready to go back to her mission.
John was worried that the time in the military would have dampened her usual cheer. John knew that once you lost yourself, there was hardly ever a time when you got yourself back. Boot camp breaks you down, stripping one of their civility to build a fighting machine made of flesh and bones. It was deeper than drill sergeants yelling in ones face to do press ups and running before the sun is out. Boot camp teaches you the fragility of the untrained human body, forces discipline and routine despite building ones body anew.
Rosie had trained her whole life, John would come to learn after six months of Rosies first deployment, for the moment she would step foot on her first military base. Her football training was a mirage used in order to sneak around her true whereabouts when she got older, she had taken up different forms of combat and weight training in order to have her body already honed for her upcoming profession.
John remembered hugging Rosie tighter than he ever had before, pulling her head to his shoulder and allowing his hand to run along her hair. Just in case . He remembers thinking. Just in case this is the last time I hold my daughter. The young woman grappled at him, her strong arms wrapped so tightly around John he could feel the air being squeezed out of him.
No matter the fact that Rosie had grown taller than him years ago, and he could say in full confidence she was more fit than he was when John had been on active duty, Rosie was still his little girl. His own flesh and blood was about to hop on a plane to a place both Sherlock amd John weren’t allowed to know. Mycroft wasn’t privy to the information, the three coming together on occasion to attempt to keep tabs while she was in the field.
“Don’t let this be the last time I see you.” John mumbled against Rosies ear, the girl tensing briefly before she let out a shuddered breath.
“Please don’t do that, da. I can’t lie to you, please don’t make me.”
“Try, Rosie. For Sherlock,” John let the tears fall, the emotion coming to him easier in his older age. “For everyone else and for me. Please try to make it home in one piece.”
“So you’ll take me even if my limbs arent attached?” John chuckled, something wet and pitiful to Sherlocks prying ears.
“I’ll be happy enough that you’re alive, the rest is a bonus.”
“A bonus? So my extremities aren’t important?”
“Of course theyre important, thats not the point.” John wouldn’t dare let go, despite how awkward holding a conversation while hugging was.
“The point being?” John sighed, knowing their time was coming to an end.
“Do you remember when you asked me, oh god you must have been at least eleven, if I would still love you if you were a worm?” Rosie pulled back from her father, her eyes red rimmed with tears threatening to fall despite the laugh escaping her lips. “Do you remember what I said?”
“Course, that's when I knew for sure you were a secret softy.” Rosie brought her palms to her eyes and wiped them. “You said you would love me no less because even if I were a worm, I was still your daughter. Even said you bring my terrarium over to the telly so I could watch.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” The two laughed together through the budding emotions that threatened to bloom. The fear John felt as a father was growing with each passing moment, and Rosie wanted nothing more than to say she was coming home for good. “No matter what, Rosie. I will love you, we will love you and we will be waiting for you to come home.”
And so John and Sherlock would wait for their daughter to come home, and wait they would.