So here's my new Elementary story:

His to Hold

Summary: After a tragedy leaves a baby alone in the world, Sherlock finds himself holding more than just a case. With her in his arms, he discovers something he never expected.

Her weight felt… right. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible, he’d never done this before. Never had reason to. Never allowed himself to imagine what it would feel like to hold something so helpless, so utterly dependent on him.

God, she had been waiting. That was the part he couldn’t shake.

Not the crying. Not the fear. The looking for someone.

The helpless way she’d yanked at her ears and rocked, looking—not around, but toward. Like she still expected someone to come. Someone she knew.

But no one would.

Her mother was gone. Murdered. The body not yet cold. And no one had come.

Except for him.

He hadn't expected this. Not the hollow space in his chest expanding the longer she slept on him. Not the ache of recognition in her helplessness.

Not the quiet voice in his mind whispering: You understand this, don't you? You know what it's like to wait for someone who never comes.

There's a story in his blood he never tells, not even to Watson. 

A story of corridors and coldness, of being too loud, too strange, too much. Of silence stretched too long in too many rooms. Of watching other children be held and wondering why no one ever reached for him that way.

He'd convinced himself it didn’t matter.

That he’d grown strong in the absence.

That intellect could replace touch, that purpose was better than comfort, that connection was a weakness he’d long since burned out of himself.

But now, this baby.

This tiny, soft, dreaming creature, folded like origami against his chest.

She was not a case. Not data. She was something else entirely.

And something in him called for her. Something fragile and furious and ancient that would not let him put her down.

Continue reading on Archive of our own, Fanfiction or Wattpad.

Warning: mild swearing.

part 2 , part 3 , part 4 , part 5 , part 6 , part 7 , part 8 , part 9

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sherlockholmes replied to your story: You forgot to mention the part where she makes you throw up every…2 minutes??

you: saving the best bits for us ;)

sherlockholmes: Define ‘best bits’.

you: what? i personally LOVE throwing up every time i try to eat something more than a piece of toast and drink something more than water (if i’m lucky)

sherlockholmes: Sarcasm.

you: si señor !

sherlockholmes: I hate you.

you: 😡😡😡

sherlockholmes: I’m joking!!! I really do love you.

you: that’s better <3 i love you too, got to go and throw up again ! 🤮

sherlockholmes: I’ll be home soon. x

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sherlockholmesupdates Sherlock seen leaving a house in Notting Hill this morning, returning around 45 minutes later with shopping bags. 📸: justjared

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sherlockfan82 it’s my house he was leaving 💁🏽‍♀️

sherlockfan3 if only…

sherlockfan14 OMG I SAW HIM IN THE SHOP HE WAS BUYING LIKE 5000 DIFFERENT TYPES OF PASTA

sherlockholmesupdates Probably for another experiment! :)

randomuser29 haha how come y/n liked this post? isn’t she that singer?

sherlockfan9 can’t blame the woman for being a fan

Liked by sherlockholmes, arianagrande and 1,925,888 others.

y/ninstagram the only thing this child is letting me eat (other than toast) is pasta, so i need to start getting creative…

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sherlockfan92 uhhhhhhh guys ??? suspicious much?

sherlockfan66 HE LIKED THE POST WHAT DOES THIS MEAN

sherlockholmes You?? I’m the one coming up with all of these variations.

y/ninstagram thank you for feeding your girls, mi amor <333

y/nfan98 i have ascended. to heaven or hell, i’m not quite sure…

sherlockfan10 i’m SOBBING.

Liked by y/ninstagram, harrystyles and 1,182,028 others.

sherlockholmes Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag. We’re finally getting some more ladies in the Holmes family, much to my delight.

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sherlockfan97 i’m not crying YOU ARE

y/nfan23 WE ALL ARE WTF

johnwatson I think we need to talk.

sherlockfan10 shiiiiit, john didn’t know ?!

y/nfan19 if he hurts her, it’s on SITE.

y/ninstagram love you both. <3

sherlockholmes ❤️

harrystyles One more to add to my collection of godchildren. x

sherlockholmes I’m sure you didn’t mean to sound like Rumplestiltskin, but you did.

harrystyles I just need Baby Holmes and it’s complete!

harryfan01 HARRY IS GOING TO BE THE GODFATHER?! FUCK.

mollyhooper Congratulations are in order I suppose! I had no idea. xxx

y/ninstagram thank you! x

DAD!FICS - Henry and his characters with kids, wanting kids, making kids. That’s it. That’s this list. 

John moving back into his old apartment on Baker street with Sherlock because his house was "too big anyway"

Sherlock and John taking care of Rosie like they did at the end of season 4

Rosie growing up with them and Molly and Mrs. Hudson around

Rosie accidentally calling Sherlock "Dad" when she learns her first words (John smiles every time she does that)

Both John and Sherlock helping her when she is in trouble and picking small fights about everything

Sherlock deducing that Rosie has a crush at some point although she never confesses.

Him researching advice for a possible relationship of hers

Later realizing he is using that advice on a daily basis with John

[MASTER LIST] 

since it’s fathers day i thought this would be appropriate

Sherlock being a new Dad would involve:

He’d be a little uncertain at first; he never really had a bad father but he never connected on multiple levels with his father, so he doesn’t want that for his child. He wants to be able to understand them.

Helping you through your pregnancy and through your birth, and although he doesn’t show it to you, he is very nervous about the new child.

Long nights when your child won’t sleep, Sherlock will get up and stay up with them until they do fall asleep.

Sherlock playing lullabies on his violin to help lull your child to sleep; it works a lot of the time and when it doesn’t you will both read to them. 

Telling Sherlock that he can’t tell the baby about the cases; Sherlock arguing at first but eventually giving in because he knows not to mess with you.

Him being hesitant to pick up your baby in the beginning because he knows how fragile children are.

You encouraging Sherlock to be a better father and better person.

Sherlock slowly becoming more affectionate with both you and the baby as he settles more into family life.

Him being proud of his family.

Introducing John to his baby and being protective of the baby when people pick them up.

John and Mary being godparents to your baby.

Molly being affectionate over the baby and offering to baby sit any time you and Sherlock need.

“I know,” he said quietly, over and over. “I know, Gigi, I’m here. Just another second.”

She was crying now, full and desperate. Her cries frayed something deep inside him. But he kept moving. Kept thinking.  

One more second. One more button. One more fold.

Then he pulled off his shirt, scooped her back up, skin to skin now, warmth meeting warmth. And held her close.

The effect was immediate.

The change was elemental: heartbeat to heartbeat. No barriers between them.

And yet it felt something even rawer, deeper.

She startled for a second at the shift in temperature and texture, then went utterly still. Her cheek found the space beneath his collarbone. Her tiny hands against his ribs, grasping at tufts of his chest hair.

Sherlock felt it too. Not just her body relaxing, but something in himself releasing as well. A pressure he hadn’t realized he was carrying eased beneath his sternum, and he let out a breath of his own, slower, deeper.

He gathered her closer, one hand splayed protectively across her back, the other moving slowly through her fine hair, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. It was more than reassurance. It was a vow.

And somewhere beneath the warmth of her skin against his, he felt the echo of another cry — one that had gone unanswered, years ago, in another bed. A younger self, small and quiet, stunned by absence.

He hadn’t known what he’d needed then. But he knew what she needed now. And he would give it. All of it. Without hesitation.

When she stirred again, mouth searching, he gently offered his pinky to her. She latched on without protest, suckling softly, her rhythm sure and steady. Her body curled in more tightly, moulding to his chest like she’d been waiting for this shape, this warmth, this sound.

And in the firelight, he watched her slowly fall asleep, truly asleep. Her mouth slackening slightly around his finger, her breathing deep and even. Her little hand, still curled near his ribs, didn’t loosen. Not yet.

He didn’t move.

She had nothing — no cot, no familiar walls, no mother’s voice to anchor her.

Just his scent. His arms. His heartbeat.

And somehow, right this moment, that was enough.

He bent his head and pressed his lips to her temple. Once. Then again. And again. Until the words formed softly in his throat, too quiet to wake her but impossible not to say.

“My little bee,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

She didn’t stir. But her fingers twitched faintly, as if she’d heard. As if she’d known all along.

The fire crackled low in the corner. Outside, the world carried on.

But inside that room, Sherlock Holmes held the baby he hadn’t known he needed.

Read on Archive of our own, Fanfiction or Wattpad.

However calm dinner had been, bath time began as a very different story.

Sherlock had prepared the bath with his usual precision: checked the temperature twice, laid out towels, and unfolded the tiny onesie Joan had picked up less than an hour ago.

But the moment Gigi’s clothes came off and her small body hit the cool air, she started crying — loud, distressed, limbs flailing.

“She’s cold,” Joan said, reaching for a towel. “Or startled. It’s a lot of new.”

But Sherlock raised a hand. “Give me a moment.”

He crouched by the tub, holding Gigi close to his chest, and began to speak in that quiet, hypnotic voice that had calmed her all evening.

“You’re safe, Gigi. This is water. You’ve known it before — warm, soft, weightless. Like clouds on your skin.”

Joan leaned against the doorframe and watched as the baby’s cries slowed, then stopped. Her wide, damp eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face as he gently slid her into the water.

One hand stayed at her back, steady and sure, while the other poured water over her belly with a washcloth. He moved slowly, never abrupt, never rushed.

She made a surprised sound when her toes hit the water, then another, louder one when he splashed near her hand.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That amused you, did it?” His voice was dry, but there was wonder beneath it.

Gigi kicked again. Another splash. A giggle.

A quiet huff of amusement slipped out of Sherlock.

“So, she likes bath time now,” Joan said, kneeling beside him with a towel ready. “Credit where it’s due.”

“She’s adaptable,” Sherlock replied. “Like most intelligent organisms. She simply needed time to understand that the situation posed no threat.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

He didn’t respond, but a small, pleased smile tugged at his mouth as he poured water along Gigi’s shoulder. Her laughter bubbled up again.

Joan watched him with sleeves damp to the elbows, hair slightly mussed, a trace of baby shampoo on his wrist.

It wasn’t just that he was good with her.

It was that he was trying. With everything in him.

Continue reading on Archive of our own, Fanfiction or Wattpad.

Joan had hoped, prayed even, that maybe Gigi wouldn’t realise where they were.

That maybe, if she stayed in her sling against Sherlock’s chest, drowsy and warm, she’d get through the handoff with less panic. Maybe she’d let herself be passed off with only mild confusion, not heartbreak. 

But Gigi knew.

The second they stepped into the precinct, her tiny body stiffened. Her eyes scanned the room, then widened. The familiarity struck like a blow. She remembered this place. She remembered the cold air. The bright lights. The echo of strangers’ voices.

And then she started to cry.

It wasn’t fussing. It wasn’t tired or hungry or overstimulated.

It was panic.

Grief.

Terror.

“No, no, shhh,” Sherlock whispered, adjusting his hold. “I’ve got you. You’re all right, Gigi. You’re all right.”

But as Sherlock was taking her off the sling, she was already reaching, clutching the front of his shirt with tiny fists, curling into him as if she could disappear into his chest. The wails got louder. Desperate.

The child services worker approached, blazer pressed, hair pulled tight, tablet in one hand. Her expression was neutral. Professional.

Joan tried to intercept her. “She’s scared,” she said. “Please, give them a second.”

The woman barely blinked. “We have another pickup in twenty minutes. This won’t take long.”

Sherlock tried to soothe Gigi, murmuring soft, familiar promises in her ear. But the worker reached forward and touched the baby’s back.

Gigi screamed louder, her whole face red and twisted with fear, her voice hoarse now. She clung harder, fingers gripping with the last of her strength.

“I’m sorry,” the worker said, and without hesitation, she reached for the baby and began to pull her away.

“No! Wait—” Sherlock’s voice cracked.

But it was happening too fast. She pried Gigi’s fingers from his shirt, one by one. Efficient. Practised.

Gigi screamed — high and hoarse — thrashing in her arms. Her face red. Her body arched. Her arms stretched desperately for Sherlock.

Sherlock reached instinctively—but froze, caught between his heart and the reality of what he was legally allowed to do.

The elevator doors opened.

The woman stepped in.

Gigi shrieked again, reaching toward him one last time.

The doors closed.

And then the silence came.

It hit like a wall.  Cruel, sudden, absolute.

His knees buckled. Just slightly.

Enough that Joan stepped forward, then stopped.

He didn’t fall. He didn’t move.

Just stood, arms still half-outstretched, breathing like he’d taken a blow to the chest.