John came walking back into the kitchen to find Rosie climbing back up onto her seat at the counter.
He bought himself a little time by pouring her a cup of tea. Making sure it was in her favourite tea cup. The one with a little chip in it, from when she was younger … As he thought about how to ask … exactly what had led to them reading the letters he had so carefully hidden away … ?
He took a deep breath. Centering himself. Not letting the anger slip into his voice. The frustration.
He found he was doing that a lot lately …
.
He looked at Rosie. Swinging her feet, and delighted at her handiwork with the letters …
. The letters …
.
John sighed again.
“Rosie -” he began, “I-” he felt the letter in his pocket, and then stared hopelessly at the neatly laid rows of piles on the countertop … “I put these away, Rosie? The letters ? Remember?”
He handed her cup over and leaned his elbows onto the counter as he drank from his.
“What made you bring them back out for Sam?”
.
He was proud of the tone of voice he had managed. Reasonable. Curious. Calm.
Even so, Rosie was spinning her tea with her finger. She looked shyly, back up at him. Her eyes were so much like Mary’s when she knew she had done something a bit not good …
He couldn’t stay angry with her.
“I found one onna floor?” she explained, pointing, “an’ I couldn't read all of the words? So Sam help me!”
John smiled, "helped you? That was nice of her."
Her dimples could win over Satan himself. He was sure of it.
“And these-?” he asked, then, indicating the rest … ?
.
“We wanted … we wanted to see if there were more?!” Rosie argued, yawning.
“More?” John asked, brow furrowed.
“More good ones!” she grinned, “like Sheryl’s!” She was taking her time, spinning her cup and slurping loudly if she did sip, “but we agreed,” she shook her head sagely, “nonna - none of the ones were like Sheryl’s.”
.
“You getting sleepy?” John noticed how she was repeating her words. The way she only did when she lost track of a thought and was too tired to focus.
Rosie nodded.
.
“How’s about … you drink up?” He pushed her tea closer, “while I read this letter then … ‘kay?”
Pulling it from his pocket, John looked it over again.
. It was the one with the little love heart on it …? The one Rosie had tried to hand him on the very first day … nearly three weeks ago?
He remembered now …
Tossing it along with a handful of rainbow coloured envelopes back into the sitting room … and chuckled. It was his own damn fault!
“You really want me to read this one?” he asked, licking his lip as he took the plunge, and opened it.
.
She climbed up onto the counter. Watching eagerly as John unfolded the letter and laid it out. Eyes settling on what was clearly not what he had been expecting …
Dear Doctor John Watson and Little Rosie Watson …
He read aloud. Pausing.
It was surprising to see their names … their real names … ?
Rosie was catching his eye, glittering as he halted at this curiosity alone. None of the other letters had said anything but ‘Sleepless and Daughter’ or ‘Sleepless and Seven’ as instructed by the radio station.
I know we're supposed to write 'Sleepless and Seven' or some such nonsense, under a misguided attempt at anonymity … however, the attempt seemed feeble, if not futile … You will see my return address on this correspondence, in case it is of interest to you … and I find no reason to avoid this transparency.
“Lovely,” he coughed, clearing his throat. He eyed the address on the back, “‘least we know where to send the fuzz when he turns out to be a stalker?”
“Da-ddy!” she chid, giggling.
.
He chuckled and began again:
(continued beneath cut)
Do not be alarmed … as your name was simple for me to deduce
Simple?! He paused, rolling the word ‘deduce’ on his tongue …
Not a commonly used verb, certainly? Who talks like that … ? He shook his head. Definitely public school.
Ruling out the other seven that begin with ‘Wat’ including: Waterhouse, Waterman, Watanabe or Wattana … all more likely to be American or Asian-
“Hmm,” he nodded, “that's fair …”
-that left only a few choices … And your accent bore distinct hints of Scottish descent. It was not a guess.
.
“Cheeky bugger, isn’t he?” John mused aloud.
He had no doubt in his mind already that this one was written by a man. Even if the typed font gave nothing away.
Rosie had her hands over her mouth to hide her big grin.
I should say first …
John started, and again stopped. Chuckling aloud this time, “but you didn’t! You ‘DEDUCED’ my name, first! Prat!”
John glared, teasingly, down at Rosie, “and you think this is my soulmate???”
She poked at him and he continued …
.
“Aha!” he gloated, poking at the page, “there’s always the predictable bit!” He skimmed reading it … “da-da-da … da-da-da … ”
never written a letter like this before …
… unlikely to do so again …
"... We know, mate!” John rolled his eyes. Unbelievable.
But then he paused in his scanning. He turned and caught Rosie’s eye as he read the next line:
And as you are no doubt getting inundated …
with piles of letters by now …
He blinked:
you will be tired of reading this … already …
“How … the hell …?” John was dumbfounded.
.
He gazed again over the stacks of letters laid out on the counter … and then back at this one …
No one else had assumed he would get anything but their letter? And yet this man did? He narrowed his eyes and leaned in, reading more closely:
I regret … that the radio host interrupted you before you could tell us what invalided you out of the military prematurely …
John raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t guess that one, then, eh genius?!” he mocked, rolling his shoulder, “Fantastic. Rosie! Get this …?!
… or how you ended up as a London GP. Which. You. Are!
John had punctuated every word. Simultaneously amazed and somewhat speechless at the audacity of this man's ‘deduction’. It was ridiculous! Ludicrous! Or …
“Who is this, Rosie? Do we know him???” he scanned through the next section, hovering with each point:
… You are also an excellent marksman …
And I deduce!!!
“That word again … hnngghh! … “ John made a gutteral sound:
… that despite your humility - you no doubt have many hidden and fascinating talents to be discovered.
“Well, ta! I most certainly do!” John was arguing with the writer, muttering something about three continents that Rosie couldn’t quite catch, and was laughing as he did so! Shaking his head in disbelief. This man!!!
… although your true talent is being wasted.
“Oh please, DO tell!!!”
.
He wasn’t sure why he’d just shouted it to the echoing room at nearly midnight. But Rosie thought it was hilarious.
John cleared his throat and flattened the page back out as he scanned for where he had left off:
… although your true talent is being wasted …
He re-read,
… You are clearly a storyteller, and should be … writing …
John had to take a moment on that one.
He had always wanted to write.
.
He recalled Ella, his therapist, when he had first lost Mary. How she had encouraged him to start a blog. To write about anything and everything that happened to him. That it would help him to recover. And how he had argued back …
Out of bitterness and resentment at the time:
“Nothing happens to me.”
.
The blog still sat untouched.
.
“Daddy?” Rosie was by his side. He wasn’t sure how long he had stood there. Lost in thought?
He pulled her up to sit on the counter next to him, while he read, now thoroughly engrossed in the letter, the words … only barely whispered as he read and Rosie snuggled into his shoulder:
I have not looked up your records, although it would be incredibly simple to do so.
Bit presumptuous. John thought. He recalled the security status on his and Mary’s last mission records and wished the man the best of luck!
Nor will I make any attempts to search your profile online … As I doubt you have an internet presence, under the circumstances … and something tells me it would not tell the whole story of who you are, even if you did.
He wasn’t wrong.
If you do not journal or keep a private blog, I would be incredibly surprised.
John stopped reading again and took a deep breath, exhaling, “… yeah … so am I. Maybe it’s time I started, eh kiddo?” He ruffled Rosie’s hair. Feeling her murmur against his chest.
All of this to say
John finished up,
if you are still reading this, and if you are still single this time next year - which I doubt …
He felt a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth …
I would invite you to try an experiment … with me.
He leaned down and read it a bit more slowly. The feeling intimate. Almost daring.
… I will be waiting … at the top of Big Ben at midnight. Behind the clock. New Year's Eve … With a bottle of champagne … And two glasses … As I can tell you are a hopeless romantic …
A soft chuckle escaped at that call out.
… and I doubt you've seen the view from up there. There are few who have.
Rosie shifted and was sitting up. Rubbing her eyes. Watching him.
At the very least, I can promise it will be a memorable night for you …
Even if you decide at the end of it that I am not ultimately your type, or even your preferred sexual orientation …
John nodded at the confirmation of his guess earlier.
… and I do not expect anything of you … but your company and a toast to ring in the new year.
Rosie was looking at him eagerly.
John picked up the letter. Glancing at the sign-off and suddenly feeling self-conscious. There it was:
.
Sherlock Holmes
.
He decided to joke it off.
“Well … that is reassuring,” he nodded, folding the letter up. “Not going to let some posh twat snog me without my permission!”
… but he had his fond eyes still fixed on the page …
.
"Ready for bed, kiddo?"
She jumped into his arms, and he lowered her slowly to the ground to grab her floppy bunny and make her way upstairs …
The last words of the letter playing through his head, over and over:
Do give brave little Watson my best regards. As I have no doubt she will grow up to be a game changer. Not unlike her father.
Also, please inform her - if you have not already - that being single is not the worst crime. Not living your life to the fullest however, might be. Do take care, John.
Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
John lay awake.
Staring through the skylight at the stars above.
. … His body ached.
.
He hadn't been sleeping well.
It wasn’t a lie ... when Rosie admitted to the entire country that he didn’t sleep at all. Some nights. It was a miracle he was functioning really … He was a doctor. He knew the long-term effects of going without sleep.
But at this point … He had been sleepless for so long … He could hardly remembered a time when he’d had a good night’s rest? The long silence wiping his memory of not just the nightmares … but also the dreams …
‘They say that those who’ve loved once … are far more likely to love again. John? … Do you think it’s possible that you could learn to love another?’
He could feel her words played again, as they rang out to millions of listeners on the radio. Along with the uncomfortable silence that had followed …
“It’s hard to imagine.” he’d replied a moment too late, by radio standards. His voice hoarse with emotion, “I’m not sure that anyone could take her place. And I wouldn’t want them to. I’d want to respect and love them for who they are … and to be honest - Dr. Irene - I’m not sure that I’m ready.”
John rolled over and took the letter from his nightstand. Staring at it.
Blue in the soft glow of the moonlit room ...
.
Then pulled out his laptop … and began typing:
He stared at the words a moment. Double-checking the settings. It was still set to private.
The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
January 29th:
Something happened to me. I met someone. Or rather, I might meet someone next year. I don’t know.
He sounds like a madman.
He’s posh. A bit public school. And I know nothing about him really.
Perhaps I'm mad to even entertain the idea?
Because I am thinking about it.
Guess that makes two of us then.
Me and the madman.
Me and Sherlock Holmes.
No one but him could stumble upon this page if they looked it up …
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Rosie had been sifting through the pile that John managed to shift into their sitting room - one armful at a time - and was now covered in them, like a dragon buried in its hoard of gold …
He was trying to avoid the questions, as her eyes positively *glittered* with hope!
“I might do, later,” he answered, non-committal.
His focus was on the eggs he was trying to whip into shape, while his mind was distracted by this entirely new problem …
It was one thing to go on a radio talk show and stroll as it were, down memory lane …
… It was another thing entirely, to actually expect that he could find real love again.
… And absolutely laughable to assume that out of all the billions of people on planet earth … it would be contained in this pile of letters!
He sighed. Slouching again, despite his best efforts the last few weeks to be cheerful.
.
Yes - he had meant it,
When he said he would try for Rosie’s sake. That night on the radio.
.
And if he was being honest with himself …
He really did miss the companionship.
.
But these letters … ?
He hadn’t counted on them.
.
“Did they make you give out our address?” he asked, concerned.
He thought about his wording, and adjusted his tone of voice, so as to not sound too harsh or accusing as he continued, “when you called in to the radio station that night - Rosie?”
But the more he thought about it, the more concerned he really felt.
She was nodding, but then she shook her head, ‘No’. Then she nodded ‘Yes’ again. John was confused. Rosie was confused. She had to stop bobbing her head and perusing letters to look up. “Standard seizure?” she replied at last, “the man said they needed your Name. Number. Residence. Like at hospital. Before you can be admitted. In case anything happens to you?” Her voice hit that lilting note, like this should be obvious.
John smiled at the thought that Rosie misunderstood the meaning of “happens".
“I think they meant, kiddo -” John turned the burner down and watched the eggs sizzle in the pan … “that in case they drop the call, they know how to call you back - and they didn’t actually need our address for that!“ he noted her look of concern, “but it’s fine.” He smiled. “Standard Procedure,” he repeated the full words back to her, making sure it stuck this time.
He went back to cooking, only to ask over his shoulder, “did they tell you to expect the letters?”
Now Rosie was confidently nodding.
“A lady called to say they had LOTS and that she wasn’t at all ‘prised!” she boasted.
John smirked at his reflection in the glass.
.
“She says you were 'the hottest bachelor on air since Prince William'…" Rosie stopped bobbing again and looked up at John, “what’s a bachelor?” she asked.
“A bachelor -” John explained, serving up dinner onto their plates, “is a man who is not yet married.” He huffed as he was setting their places at the counter, and was not sure why he felt the need to continue … “and a confirmed bachelor … is a man who does not intend to marry. Possibly ever …”
“There!” He finished laying dinner out with a flourish and indicated that she should join him and eat! Now!
Rosie giggled and grabbed a handful of letters as she ran over to the table.
“Read some, Daddy?” she begged, batting her eyes for extra effect. She had the brightest, most colourful envelopes fanned out in her hands, and one with a little love heart.
“Oh no!” John countered, “not until AFTER dinner!”
He took the treasured finds and tossed them back towards the pile. Shoving her, playfully, into her seat with a bop on the nose. “Now eat! Or I promise to read none!”
Sherlock stared at the open sea.
Amsterdam felt hollow.
Everything felt hollow.
.
It seemed, the more he pushed himself to be the machine Mycroft lauded - the more he felt like he was missing something … essential?
.
But he didn’t want to stop to think about it. He wanted a distraction.
He had not been able to get John’s voice out of his head, since the radio program that night, and what was worse …
… He was beginning to regret tossing the letter.
.
Mycroft had caught him at just the right moment. Offering him a lead to this new case. A case that was clearly going to require more than two weeks. Maybe more than two months, if he was lucky! And he had jumped at it!
Now ... having traced the route and found that it led in three directions … he decided he needed a new plan; to keep ahead of the game and to release as many of the captured teens as humanly possible; before anything or anyone alerted the Spider at the centre of the web … that his world was about to come unravelled …
… And for the first time since Victor … he wished he had someone to help him with it. To share the work.
He convinced himself. That was all this was about. Not John.
But once the thought had planted itself in his mind … he just couldn't shake it.
Maybe he should start with a roommate …?
When he returned to London?
.
After all …
It was foolish to hope he could share his life with a friend or a lover ...?
… If he couldn’t even handle sharing the rent.
(fic continued on AO3) will keep posting here also. Have two more parts to catch up before I keep posting on Ao3 (more chapters are ready!)
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