Wowie, I haven't updated in a little while! I've been very diligent with my Merthur book, though, so that's why. Anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock had taken the liberty of watching after Rosie while John went out for groceries. It wasn't a secret that Sherlock wasn't fantastic with children, but he always took extra care with Rosie. She was John's child, after all. And as John's flatmate and best friend, it was his responsibility to watch after the little girl.

Oh, how Sherlock liked that thought.

He, an arrogant prick with a drug habit, was John Watson's best friend.

Why did that make him happy? So, so many reasons. John was a better man than he could ever attempt to be. He understood people, which was something Sherlock always struggled with to some degree, and he empathized with Sherlock, a habit that most people never bothered to pick up around him, particularly.

Sherlock had always had the same mindset: he didn't pay any mind to what anyone thought about him. He didn't care at all, surely...

But he cared what John thought.

Honestly, John's opinion of him had come to be what he held above all things. And that was something that had never happened before with anything or anyone.

John didn't have to understand Sherlock to be good to him, and Sherlock found solace in that.

Rosie made a loud noise from the cradle she was laying in. Sherlock looked over to her as she embraced the babbling excitedly.

Then, she made a noise that had meaning.

"John," she said in her little voice, a little slurred and the 'n' barely pronounced.

She repeated it. "John, John!"

Sherlock smirked. So, Rosie's first word was her fathers name. Curious.

Oh, those had been her first words. Right. Sherlock never thought events like this to be very important. Everyone learned to speak at some point. Did it matter that she started now? Not in his eyes.

But then his brain, it began doing this thing. A thing that has become more frequent since he met John.

He thought about how John would feel.

Sherlock concluded that even though it may not seem important to him, John would probably like to know about his daughter's first words. He took out his phone; a short text would suffice.

Rosie said her first word. It was "John". Thought you'd like to know.

-SH

He awaited a response, and after a minute, John texted back.

She spoke? Brilliant! But why my name? Is it just a result of your constant nagging?

Sherlock smirked at the text. John's snarky remarks were often a good source of entertainment.

He slipped his phone cam into his pocket and looked inquisitively at the baby, who now only babbled nonsense.

"Watson, I do hope you know that your father thinks very highly of you."

Rosie smiled and giggled.

"And though I have high expectations for you, I, too, believe that you will be an infatuating specimen. Your father is... remarkable, in many respects."

The girl only babbled more, laughing and gurgling nonsense. Sherlock never quite understood why she'd taken a liking to him, but then again, he didn't know why John had, either. Maybe, hopefully, it ran in the family.

•~•~•~•~•~•

"She spoke, then?" John's voice rang out as the door to the flat opened.

"Hm, it seems so," Sherlock said flatly and quite sarcastically.

John rolled his eyes playfully at Sherlock's nonchalant tone. "And she said 'John'?"

"Yes."

The blond man looked over to his daughter, who seemed to be getting drowsier by the second.

"You look in need of a nap, darling," he mumbled to Rosie, who only stirred slightly. He set the grocery bags down on the table and then proceeded to take Rosie to his room to lay her down for an afternoon nap.

Sherlock awaited John's return to the living room. He was starting on the couch, having just finished a case, and needed some sort of mental stimulation. John actually checked the inbox, maybe he had something interesting (not that John had a complete grasp on the meaning of the word).

"Well, she should be asleep for a few hours. Got any plans?" John asked upon his reentrance.

"I need a case."

"Oh. Well, I saw one you might like," John said, approaching Sherlock. "A museum owner was found strung up in his exhibit, police are saying it doesn't look like a suicide-"

"Boring."

"How?"

"So what," Sherlock groaned, rolling over on the couch, "someone hated him and hanged him. Big deal. Find me something of interest."

"That's all I've got."

"That can't be all."

"Everything else you'd shoot down in an instant, I can tell."

This elicited a heavy sigh from Sherlock, who ruffled his hands through his hair (John couldn't help but watch, it was mesmerizing).

"I need to do something," the detective whined.

A sigh. John leaned upon against the wall. "Well, we can always try to make you understand how Cluedo works again."

"The rules are wrong, I've analyzed the data numerous times. What I need is a pack of cigarettes. Pick some up, will you?"

"No," John said sternly, "you're not getting any cigarettes."

"Get me some."

"No."

"Do it."

"No."

Sherlock made a rather pathetic sound before looking over, almost pitifully, eyes large and blue and wanting. "Please?"

"No."

Sherlock shoved his face back into the pillows and let out a muffled cry of desperation.

"Sherlock," John said, trying his best to be understanding, "you're doing well. I'm not letting you give up. We'll find a case, but until then, let's find something else."

With a huff of annoyance, Sherlock nodded.

**********

May 22nd, 2020