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[ministryideaz]

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[leofistcomor1970-blog]

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[stlgeekgirl]

The Case of the Lost Belief

The second gift for my Secret Santa @iamtheno1cumbercookie  Today calls for a little Sherlock and Rosie fluff.  Hope you enjoy it.  

Warning:  Do not let any kids still within the magic of Santa read this!

“I want to hire you”

The childlike voice suddenly appeared out of seemingly nowhere from the direction of his sitting room.  Sherlock poked his head from the kitchen.

Eight-year-old Rosie Watson stood just inside his doorway, small fists clenched at her sides.  He squashed down his first involuntary question: Does your father know you’re here?  because obviously if John knew where his daughter was, he’d be here with her.

The second obvious yet involuntary question that sprang forth:  How did you get here? was also squashed.  Young Watson was intelligent enough to know how to get to Baker Street by either taxi or train.  To prove it as he stepped into the sitting room, the small blonde pointed towards the landing.

“The taxi needs money, I didn’t have any.”

“Sit.”  he ordered, hurrying past her and grabbing his wallet and phone from the fireplace mantle as he passed.  “Your chair.  Don’t move until I return.”

He hurried down the stairs to pay the taxi driver.  Luckily it was one of his regulars.

“Afternoon Mr. Holmes.”

“George.  How much?”

“Twenty-three quid. Picked the young Miss up from Adlington.”

Sherlock handed over the notes and thanked the driver.  He unlocked his phone as he stepped back into Baker St. and texted John.

 Rosie is at Baker St. She’s fine. SH

 “Now Miss Watson,” he said as he stepped back into the flat.  Rosie, who was sitting in the chair deemed “Watson’s” turned to look at him.  “What is this nonsense about hiring me?”

“I wanna hire you.”  She repeated as if it were the most normal thing in the world for the Consulting Detective to be hired out by eight-year old’s.  Although there had been a couple.   She began pulling coins and notes from the backpack sitting on the floor beside her.  

“I don’t have much money, but I hope it’s enough.”

“Put your money away   Rosie-mine, I’ll not take it.”

“I’m serious.”  Her blue eyes glinted like icy steel and Sherlock felt the old familiar pang of loss when he saw Mary in her look.  “I have a case and I need you to solve it.”

She was serious.  As much as an eight-year-old could be.  

Sherlock crossed the room and sat in his chair, across from her, giving himself a few minutes more to look her over.  Tear-stained face, agitated posture, red cheeks, papers poking from her open backpack.  Someone had upset her.

“Why don’t you explain what you wish to hire me for and then we’ll discuss payment.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he spoke, and he slid it out to read the message.

 WHAT!  JW

I’ve been looking all over this bloody school for her! JW

 “I want you to prove that Father Christmas is real.”  Rosie stated.

Oh.

OH!

Oh.

He was in no way prepared to destroy his eight-year-old God daughter’s belief system.  Especially a belief system that had been expressly forbidden by John, Mrs. Hudson and Molly that he was not even to express a peep about.

He watched her silently waiting for her to continue ranting.  If she was upset about something, he found that just standing there and allowing her to stomp around and shout about it usually led to her discovering the solution on her own.  His Rosie was extremely clever.  

This time, however, she merely stared at him, daring him to refuse her.    As if he could refuse her anything.  

Mary had been gone these past eight years and while he missed her every damn day, as Rosie had grown, she’d effortlessly slipped into that hole he had in his rarely used heart where her mother occupied for the short time she’d been in his life.  Rosie only had to ask, and Sherlock would fight metaphorical dragons for her.  He would do anything for her.  

Including upsetting everything she believed in and thereby regulating him to the couch to sleep for who knew how long when her Godmother discovered what he had done.

“What happened?”

“Jack said Father Christmas was a myth.”  The story exploded from her and frothed over like a raging volcano.  “He said that our parents give us our presents, that they lied to us about a magical man who comes and brings us presents.  Katie said only babies believe in Father Christmas.  So, I pushed her.”

“Rosamund.”  he admonished.  

“She made me angry!”  Rosie exploded again, a smaller one this time as her vitriol was quickly running out.  Her eyes reddened again, and Sherlock pushed back the usual panic he got when the woman around him began to cry.   “You never lie to me Uncle Sherlock. You promised me you’d always be truthful with me no matter what.  I trust you to tell me the truth.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.  Caught in a web of his own making.  He could practically hear Mary’s cackling laughter behind him.

“I did promise Rosie, but first, are you sure you want an answer to your question?   It doesn’t matter what the truth is, it only matters what you believe.”  He folded his hands underneath his chin and studied her. “Answer me this Rosamund, what do you believe?”

Rosie sat on the edge of the chair, her nose scrunching up in thought.  She knew that if he countered with a question, there was a reason for it.      

“I believe in... something,” she hedged.  “It’s hard to get into our home and my presents are usually split between my house and here and there’s no reason for Father Christmas to drop presents here.  Plus, there is no way one man can get around an entire world in a night without the use of a time and space machine or a teleporter, neither of which have been invented yet.”  She looked up at her, her blue eyes watery.  “But why do parents tell this story and their kids continue it when they become parents?”

Wasn’t that the question of the hour?  He stood up and held out a hand.  Rosie climbed from the chair and slid her small hand in his larger one.  He led her towards the sitting room window, pulling back the sash and picking her up.  She was still light enough that he could do this although her long legs made it difficult to navigate anywhere.   Her legs wrapped around his waist and she wrapped her arms around his neck.   He stood in front of the uncovered window and nodded towards the picture outside.  

“Observe young Watson.  What do you see?”

 People were bustling around the sidewalks, arms ladened with packages and bags.  On the corner was a bundled-up figure ringing a bell next to a red bucket.  Several people dropped coins in as they passed.  A group of people stopped just in front of the sidewalk across the street and chatted pleasantly for a bit before going their separate ways.

“People talking.  Putting money in the bucket.  Lots of packages.  A pickpocket’s dream really.”

Sherlock laughed loudly, before planting a loud kiss on her temple.  

“I adore you Rosie-mine.  You have been around me far too much.”

She grinned back at him.  Mary’s grin.  

“The attempted larceny aside, there’s something about this time of the year that brings out the best in most people.  Father Christmas was a real person in the sense that there was a St. Nicholas.  But an actual man who rides a sleigh led by eight reindeer that can fly, no.”

 Rosie took in his words, her brow furrowed as she stared out the window in contemplation. 

“But…why do parents lie?”

Sherlock walked back from the window, Rosie still in his arms, towards his chair.  He let her down and she waited only long enough for him to get comfortable before she scrambled up onto his lap. 

“It isn’t that they lie Watson,” he began.  “Rather the world we live in is cruel and harsh and rife with generally not nice people.  Most children see the world not as it is, but as some sort of magical and wonderful place. There’s a kind of magic in the air around this time of the year where people aren’t as cruel or impatient as they would normally be the rest of the year.   Your dad just wants you to have that magic as long as you can before real life crushes your soul.”

“So…I shouldn’t be mad at Dad and Aunt Molly and Nana Hudders?”

“Rosie, we all love you and we try very hard to keep you somewhat ignorant of the evil that truly happen out in the real world.  They more than I admittedly. You are a very clever young lady and you have an ability to think outside the box that I admit I cannot do at times because I’m jaded.  If you tell anyone I said any of that, I will firmly deny it and return your Christmas present.”

Rosie grinned excitedly.  “You got my Christmas present?  What did you get me?”

“And spoil the surprise?  Your Aunt Molly would kill me, and I have cases to solve come the new year.”

Rosie curled up in his lap, resting her head against his chest.  His hand came up to stroke her blond hair and pull her snug against him.

“Thank you, Uncle Sherlock.  I promise to let Dad think that I still believe in Santa for another year or so.”

“I’d appreciate it, Watson.”

“You’re going to make a great Dad.”

He snorted lightly.  “I have you Rosie, I hardly need any other children.”

She tilted her head up to look at him.  “But don’t you and Aunt Molly want kids?  They won’t be as adorable as me but, they’d still be kind of cool.”

His lips quirked upward as he continued to stroke her hair.  “Your Aunt Molly and I are…complicated Rosie, I very much doubt children are anywhere in my near future.’

The door to the flat slammed shut and was followed by heavy footsteps on the staircase. 

“Ah, it seems your father is here Watson.  Do try to go easy on him.”

Rosie remained where she was as her father ran into the open door of the flat, face red in fear and anger.  She felt Sherlock’s grip tighten on her for a mere moment before relaxing as her full name was shouted in terrified exclamation.  Reluctantly she slid off Sherlock’s lap and was snatched up in a fierce hug. 

“You scared the hell out of me and your Auntie Molly!”  John shouted.

“You called Molly?”  Sherlock asked as the sound of the main door slammed shut again followed by footsteps. 

As Rosie looked over her father’s shoulder to the relieved face of her Godmother as she came into view she thought about what her Godfather had said, how this makeshift family she had loved her and only wanted to protect her and keep her innocent of the terrors that await her as she grew.  She held back a knowing smile as she watched Molly shoot a concerned look over their heads to Sherlock and hoped she was here when her Godfather found out what Molly was giving him for Christmas.  For all his talk sometimes, he didn’t truly observe what he saw around him.  Especially when it was someone close to him.

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