Hello.

I'm Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes and I have a lot to tell you.

My mother and my dad loved each other a lot. So much so, when my father was about to be shot, she stepped in front of the bullet.

I know what it sounds like, but my dad and my father aren't the same person. My mother was Mary Watson, ex-assassin and wife to John Watson, my dad. My father? Sherlock Holmes.

After my mother died, my dad didn't know what to do. He went spiraling, as did Father. One in the hands of drugs, the other in the hands of regret.

Not long after, my dad found a letter from my mum. It said that she knew what they could become, and she was okay with it.

"Look, Sherlock, I can't keep doing this. I'm going back and forth from the house to the flat. Rosie doesn't like the travel and I admit, it's getting a bit much."

Sherlock looked on, a look of confusion on his face, "Well, isn't it obvious, John? Move in!"

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. There's mortgage, nicknacks, and there isn't a room for Rosie in the flat."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Sell the house, sell the nicknacks, Rosie can have your bedroom and you can sleep with me."

"That sounds so wrong, Sherlock."

"I admit, it wasn't the best choice of words, but it's a viable option and the best one."

John sighed, a conflicted expression warring on his face. "You could move in with me?"

Sherlock looked offended at this. "And leave Baker Street? I once told you that without Mrs.Hudson at Baker Street, the world would fall. Imagine Baker Street without us!"

"It was without us, Sherlock. For two long years when you decided to traumatize me for life."

"Well, you can't say you actually moved anything out after my," he hesitated for a second, still hating to say it out loud in front of John, "suicide."

John gave a breathless laugh and nodded his head a bit. "Yeah… yeah, I'll think about it. But until then, no calls past 11 PM unless they're past an eight."

"An eight? I've seen you jittery with excitement over a five."

"Eight, Sherlock."

"Ok, eight it is."

It took a while, they danced around each other like they had for years at crime scenes, clubs, and weddings. Father always did secretly like dancing.

The flat was loud. That was normal, but what wasn't normal was how quiet Sherlock was. There was classical music blasting through the building.

John crept up the stairs and peeked through the crack in the doorway. Through it, portrayed Sherlock, gracefully frolicking through the living room with Rosie smiling at him, clapping her small hands, cheering, "again, again!" Every so often, Sherlock would do a spin and Rosie would be even more happy than before.

John opened the door and made his presence known. "When did our flat become a ballroom?"

Sherlock immediately stopped and Rosie started whining. Sherlock picked her up and John turned off the music.

"I was teaching Rosie what proper dancing was."

John was obviously amused, but he wasn't going to make it easy for Sherlock to get out of explaining himself. "You were teaching an 18th month old what proper ballroom dancing looked like?"

"Of course, where else is she going to learn? Television? All they do is dab and floss."

"Have you been watching YouTube again? They don't dab on television, Sherlock." John turned to Rosie with a smile. "Did you like the dancing, Rosie?"

Rosie giggled and clapped her hands while nodding yes.

John's smile grew and a small one appeared on Sherlock's face.

"Well," said John, "why don't you show me proper ballroom dancing?" John held out his arms and Sherlock's smile grew to the size of John's and he put Rosie down.

Finally, they admitted it. They got over flirting around the subject. They started flirting with each other.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"Don't you ever think it's weird that we share a bed?"

"No. The only reason it would be weird is if I surrendered to society's definitions of normal, weird, right, and wrong."

John sighed. "Okay, but what about when people say things? Like Sally and Anderson. When they make insinuations about us."

Sherlock's moth thinned into a small line. "What are you getting at, John?"

John ruffled his hair and sat down.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I just wanted to know what you thought of everything."

"Hmm…" he paused for a moment, "Hey John?"

John frowned in exasperation. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"They say Disneyland is the happiest place on Earth."

John looked at him, confusion written all over his face.

Sherlock smiled, "Obviously nobody has ever stood next to you"

Eventually, they got engaged.

Sherlock looked nervously down at the box in his hand. This was going to change everything. Or was it? He thought that nothing would change when Mary and John got married, but he was wrong then.

John had gone to the bathroom. They were having a date at Angelo's. The place became a sort of comfort for the both of them, after the first case he and John ever worked on together.

"You know, I think Angelo's is going down hill. This is the second time in a row there's been no paper towels in the bathroom."

Sherlock didn't look up. He knew if he did he would chicken out, like he had the past five dates.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?"

"John, I know times have been tough. You lost your wife, Rosie lost a mother. But I can't help and be selfish and think that I gained a wonderful partner, and a little girl I consider my daughter. I know I ruined your first proposal, so I was hoping to make up for it with one of my own." Sherlock got down on one knee, John just looked down at him, a shocked, sad smile resting in his face. "John, I'm not the most compassionate or caring person in the world. You deserve someone so much better than me, but will you have me? Have me as your husband, as Rosie's father?"

John got up and swept Sherlock into a hug.

"Yes, you bloody wanker, I will." He pulled back a bit and looked at Sherlock. "You always steal my spotlight you know." He pulled a box out of his pocket and held it up.

"Well, you do always say I have a flair for the dramatics, John. You can't believe I would let you have the privilege."

John just laughed and held Sherlock even tighter.

And then even married.

Sherlock and John stood at an alter. Sherlock was in a fine suit, as was John. Everyone's eyes were on them. Not many people were in attendance. Mr. And Mrs. Holmes. Mycroft. Molly, Lestrade, and surprisingly Harry. They all looked at John and Sherlock, all of them thinking some variation of the same thing. I knew this day would come.

A five year old Rosie came walking down the aisle, a big smile on her face while she threw rose petals in the air. Everyone looked at her with a fond smile. They didn't really need to have a flower girl, as both of them were planned to always be at the alter, but they couldn't say no to Rosie when she learned what a flower girl was and demanded to be one for their wedding.

Rosie sat down in the front and smiled at her parents. They smiled back at her and the music cut out, starting the main part of the ceremony.

"Today we are joined here to witness the union of these two fine gentlemen in official matrimony. They both are dramatically different in almost every way, yet they have found love in one another and I have the honor of officializing that love in the name of the law."

There was a pause and Sherlock started speaking, "John, last time I made a vow to you I couldn't keep it. I tried really hard, but I wasn't enough. Today I am making another vow, this one I intend to last forever. I will be here forever for you John, till death do us part. And I mean it. No fake deaths, no leaving to get on a drugged high. I bow and intend to be with you for as long as either of us have left."

John gave a shaky smile.

"Sherlock, you've already been with me through thick and thin. Sure, sometimes you caused the thin, but you've always been there when I needed you. Not only that, but you make a surprisingly good father. You are already a part of my life in every way, but today I do make a vow to you that my presence in your life will be a constant forever more."

"Today I do pronounce you both husbands in the eye of the British government. You may now kiss the love of your lives."

Of course it wasn't all bliss. It's John and Sherlock, after all.

John sat in his chair, staring at Sherlock and silently fuming. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? I just had to put Rosie to bed crying her eyes out, on Christmas Eve!"

"She'll get over it."

John punched the arm of his chair in frustration. "Damn it, Sherlock. There wouldn't have been anything for her to get over if you didn't tell her that santa doesn't exist!"

"She's eight! Most of the kids she goes to school with were already telling her Santa wasn't real."

"You should have talked to me first at least. I could have told her gently. You just fucking blurted it out like she was daft she ever thought it was real."

"I'm sorry. There, I said it. I should have watched my tone of voice."

"Yes, you should have."

A moment passed and Sherlock said, "Are you still mad at me?"

John growled and left the room.

"I'll take that as a yes."

But they always made up.

Sherlock was quite a good father, I'd say. He was realistic yet caring in everything he told me. He started teaching me how to deduce at nine as a birthday present. I always loved how he could snap puzzle pieces together in his mind, and I wanted to be able to as well.

"Today, Rosie, I will be teaching you the art of deduction."

Rosie looked on at him, excitement plain as day on her face.

"You may not be good at it at first, but if you keep trying you will eventually get better at it. Look at your dad, he doesn't try and he's better than the Scotland Yard."

Rosie giggled.

"The key to deduction is details. You do it all day anyways, you deduce who's a worker at a grocery store by their uniform. You deduce whether John ate all of your cereal or not by knowing I don't eat cereal and you didn't eat it yourself."

At this John groaned from the other side of the room where he was working on his computer and Rosie giggled even more.

"To get better at deductions, you have to get better at observing. So," Sherlock gestured to himself. "Tell me everything you can see on and about me right now. Only facts, no deductions."

Rosie looked at Sherlock intensely, doing her best to see everything.

"Tell me what you see as you see it. That way you don't forget anything."

"Okay. Well, you have on your scarf, coat, white button-up and jacket. Your collar isn't popped this time. Your hair looks oily. You don't have on any shoes. Your socks have holes in them. Umm…" Rosie looked a bit more and shrugged.

"That's a good start. Most people would ignore my hair and the holes in my socks. Now, is there any deductions you can make from the information you just gave me."

"Well, you haven't taken a shower in three or four days because I only notice your hair gets oily after a few days of not washing it and any more than four and Dad would have made you shower. Um," she paused, thinking. "You're not showering because you're protesting Dad for not getting you new socks."

"Why do you say the last one, Rosie?" John asked, before Sherlock could make her elaborate.

Rosie blushed. "Well, I heard you guys arguing about it after I went to bed last night."

John groaned while Sherlock's face filled with delight. "Good! You're a natural! You were listening for context before you needed it."

"No, Sherlock. We were being loud and Rosie was eavesdropping when she should have been sleeping."

Rosie grew even redder.

John shook his head and turned back around. After confirming John wasn't looking, he held up two thumbs up for Rosie.

She giggled.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Why nothing, John."

I grew up happy. With parents that loved me unconditionally.

As I got older, I got better and better at deductions, my love for them never truly running dry. I attribute that to Father, who always made me feel special when I got something right.

I went to school for forensics and got a job as a detective at the Scotland Yard. I admit, my parents may have had a few connections there, but I did prove my worth. I became their lead detective figuring out cases faster than everyone bar Father and Uncle Mycroft.

Father and Dad would tease me constantly about keeping them out of work and for going over to the enemy. However, when I found something particularly interesting, or I got stumped, I went home and asked for help. I was always given it without any hesitation.

That's where I suspect this case will go to.

The case of the murdered Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes. Daughter of the best men in London.