Foolishly, he never thought this would happen.

Sherlock and John were dealing with a case that was simple by their standards, just some obnoxious thieves who kept escaping the Yard's grasp, but Sherlock had been bored, so he decided to take the case. He and John spent four hours on a stakeout, but there was no sign of the thieves, and Sherlock had a disturbing feeling in his gut that he couldn't ignore. He felt like something was really, really wrong. The thieves were supposed to be here. He was never wrong about a stakeout location before, so why now? These crooks weren't special. They weren't smart. The only reason why they weren't already locked up was due to the Yard's incompetence. He felt like he was missing something, and dread started to bloom in his stomach. He didn't exactly know why he felt this, but he knew intuitions were not to be ignored. Sherlock told John about his feeling.

John said, "You could just be wrong, you know. It was bound to happen sometime."

"No, it's not that I'm wrong, it's that something feels wrong," he explained, brow furrowing deeply. The last time he felt something so strong, so difficult to ignore, it was when he laid eyes on that first Thatcher bust, and he had been correct to trust his intuitions then. It was something in the air, something about the atmosphere that told Sherlock something was seriously, dangerously awry.

"Well, if you feel that way, maybe we should go home?" John suggested. "There's no use staying out here if they don't show up, right?"

Yes, John was right. Maybe he could sort out whatever he was feeling in the comfort of their flat. "Okay."

"God, Mrs. Hudson's going to kill us," John said as the cab pulled up to Baker Street, looking at his watch. "It's past midnight."

"Rosie's probably asleep," Sherlock said, trying to stay calm and not get overwhelmed by the prickling of his thumbs. Something wicked this way comes. He shouldn't voice that thought aloud; John would call him dramatic.

"Still," John said as the taxi stopped in front of the building, "Mrs. Hudson's not as young as she used to be, and Rosie's well-behaved, but still one." He opened the door. "Your turn to pay," he winked.

Sherlock grumbled and pulled out his wallet, paying the cabbie.

John spoke as he climbed out of the cab. "And watching a baby for four hours late and night isn't very…" his voice died.

Cab driver paid, Sherlock got out of the cab. "John?" he asked, then froze.

The front door was ajar.

They shared a panicked glance and bolted into the building. All of Sherlock's thoughts fled from his brain, and pure instinct set in. He knew something was wrong. He looked up the stairs and saw that the door to their flat was wide open, and a block of ice dropped into the pit of his stomach, a shiver rolling down his spine, his heart beating so hard he felt like he was going to pass out, and Sherlock never felt more afraid in his entire life. Then, his ears registered the chilling sound of muffled, high-pitched crying. Rosie!

John's face turned as white as a sheet and he pulled out his gun, which was in his pocket for the stake out. His eyes were dark and fierce, and he didn't waste a single second before he charged up the stairs.

Sherlock's legs felt like they were going to give out, but adrenaline kicked in and he followed John. No was not the time to tremble like an idiot.

The sight in their sitting room made Sherlock feel like he was going to vomit, and he quickly blinked away a rush of vertigo.

Their suspects were in their flat. Mrs. Hudson was tied to one of the chairs by the desk near the windows, her hands and feet bound, duct tape over her mouth, and it looked like the skin around her right eye was bruising. Her eyes were filled with tears and she tried to talk to them, but obviously, the duct tape only made her voice muffled. One of the thieves was leaning against the back of her chair casually, holding a gun up in the air, a smug smirk on his face.

As much as Sherlock loved Mrs. Hudson, what filled him with rage was the bastard that had Rosie. The other man was holding Rosie, who was trying to struggle and squirm against the rope tied around her wrists and socked feet (really?! They tied up a baby-really?!). She had duct tape over her mouth, too, and was sobbing, her face crimson, cheeks soaked with a steady stream of tears, the skin under her nose wet with snot. There was vomit drying on the front of her pink pajamas, and the man's hands were gripping her torso too tightly. When Rosie saw them, her cries only got louder, as if begging them to help.

Sherlock took all of this in within seconds and felt like his brain short-circuited, and fire rushed through his veins, his lips curling in a furious scowl.

"Oh, you're back early," the thief by Mrs. Hudson said jovially. "We were gonna take the brat, but it's just as well that you're here."

"What the fuck are you doing?!" John shouted, gun pointed at him, arm steady. "Let them go or I will shoot you dead," he said darkly. "I mean it."

The one holding Rosie spoke. "Then I'll kill this one," he laughed. "She's so small. It would be easy," he said, and squeezed her tightly, making her cry out louder in pain.

Sherlock and John almost charged at him, but the man by Mrs. Hudson pointed his gun at John, and they froze. They couldn't help Rosie or Mrs. Hudson if they were dead. Sherlock wanted to tear their throats with his bare hands, especially the one with Rosie. His fists shook by his sides. They needed to take them down without hurting Rosie or Mrs. Hudson in the process. "Why are you here?" he asked, voice coming out in a low growl.

"We knew you were on our trail," the man said over Rosie's cries. "We knew you had this brat, and figured we'd get back at you with a nice ransom. Then, we'd stop stealing with the money you gave us, and you can have her back."

He acted like it was a simple, rational plan. When Sherlock killed Magnussen, it had been out of desperation because he and John were trapped. Now, he wanted to kill. He wanted to attack them and make them sorry for ever invading their home and harming their family. He felt like an animal about to pounce. "Why did you have to tie here?!" he yelled. "She's a child!"

"Little bitch kept giving me trouble and trying to hit me," he said. "This was easier."

"Don't call my daughter a bitch," John growled lowly, gun still pointed at him. "You didn't have to fucking duct tape her, either."

"She kept making too much noise," the man by Mrs. Hudson said. "And, she vomited from all the crying. It was gross."

Sherlock wanted to attack him so very badly, but he was the one with the gun, and if he didn't shoot Sherlock, he might kill Mrs. Hudson. He had no idea what to do, and Mrs. Hudson was still tied up, and Rosie was still screaming behind the duct tape. If he got the man to let go of Rosie, then John could shoot the man with the gun, and then shoot the other before he got a chance to hurt Rosie. He had to think of something, and quickly.

"You're fucking animals," John snarled, and Sherlock could tell he was as close to losing control as he was. "She's a fucking child, and you're doing all of this for money."

"Oh, save us the morality speech," the same thief sad, rolling his eyes. "Give us the money and we'll leave."

"You didn't even tell us how much you want, you morons," Sherlock snapped.

"800,000 pounds," he sneered.

"Well, we clearly don't have that much money lying around the flat," Sherlock said, still trying to think of a way for the man to let go of Rosie. His mind was failing him. He couldn't think straight when the piercing, agonized cries of his daughter were tearing him apart. Think, think, THINK!

"We know that, arsehole," the thief by Mrs. Hudson said. "We want you to call and make an arrangement with the Yard, and no one leaves this flat until we get the money."

Fucking idiots, did they really think they would be able to walk out of the flat without the Yard arresting them as soon as Mrs. Hudson and Rosie weren't in danger? Wait, this was good! They were idiots, which meant they could be played.

"All right," Sherlock said.

John looked at him, brow furrowing. "Sherlock?"

"We'll do it. We'll negotiate with the Yard and find a way to give you the money. Would you give me our child, please?"

The man holding Rosie eyed him suspiciously. "Why should I do that?"

"I would just like to calm her down," Sherlock said, trying to sound as calm as possible to negotiate, which was difficult, because his palms were sweating profusely and each anguished cry from Rosie was a bullet to his heart. "Please." He would beg in front of criminals if it meant saving her. Now that he said they were going to pay the ransom, perhaps they would let their guards down. They weren't smart men, after all. Criminals only in it for money were never smart. They only got lucky tonight, targeting an old woman and a baby. Cowards.

"Oh yeah? How do I know you won't run out of the flat with her?"

Sherlock glared at him "Do you think I'm that stupid? He," Sherlock pointed at the other man, "would shoot me before I got out the front door. We're trapped in this flat until we've paid the price, as he said. If we're going to be trapped, wouldn't you rather she stopped crying?"

The thieves looked at each other, then at the wailing Rosie, and nodded.

"Fine, Holmes," he said, holding her out. "But if you try anything, we'll shoot you and the brat dead."

"Perfectly understood," he somehow said evenly, taking Rosie and trying not to let it show that his arms were shaking. Despite being away from the thief, she still cried hard. He maneuvered her so her face was against his chest. He didn't want her to see this.

"Well, go on!" the thief with the gun said. "Call the Yard! We're waiting. If you don't do it, I'll shoot the old hag."

Mrs. Hudson started crying louder, and John pointed the gun at that man instead now that Rosie was with Sherlock.

"You'll have to get through me first," John said harshly, his face bright red with fury, a vein popping out of his neck. "I won't let you do a single thing to her."

Sherlock smirked. What idiots. "John?"

John looked at him, eyes filled with uncertainty. "Yeah?"

"You know more about child development than I do. Will Rosie remember this?"

"Probably not," he said, and his face scrunched up in annoyance. "What the hell does this have to do with anything, Sherlock?"

"Yeah, Holmes!" the now empty-handed thief said.

"John, I have Rosie," he said emphatically, willing him to understand. Come on, John!

It took a second, but John's eyes suddenly filled with understanding and determination. "Cover her ears."

Sherlock did as best as he could, and watched as John fired a shot directly between the man's eyes.

Mrs. Hudson screamed behind the duct tape in fright and Rosie's wails only got louder from the loud, sharp sound of the gunshot, and Sherlock held her tightly.

The man immediately collapsed backwards onto the floor, gun falling beside him, and before the other thief could even think about running over to grab it, John pointed the gun at him. "Don't you even fucking think about it!" John shouted, and the thief held up his hands. He stalked over to him, and the thief backed up until John had him cornered. With his free hand, John grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, and smashed his forehead with a head butt, knocking him unconscious. John let him drop to the floor. "There." He looked at Sherlock, and his rigid posture and the expression on his face told Sherlock that he was strictly in soldier mode. "Take care of Rosie, and I'll untie Mrs. Hudson and tie up this fucker instead."

Sherlock nodded obediently and took the crying Rosie into his bedroom. "Shh, shh, it's all right now," he told her soothingly, or he tried to be soothing, but his voice was starting to quiver from the unshed tears behind his eyes. "You're safe." He swallowed hard and laid Rosie down on the bed, taking off the duct tape as gently as he could, and her cries grew louder now that her mouth was free.

"Dada! Dada!" she cried.

Sherlock's lip hurt from how hard he was biting it.

Tears were still rolling down her flushed cheeks, and Sherlock untied her wrists and feet as quickly as he could, throwing the rope across the room, still reeling that someone would actually bind a baby. Once she was free, Sherlock gathered her into his arms and held her close, breathing shakily into her hair. Her little hands gripped his coat and she cried into his chest. Sherlock's heart felt like it was torn in two, and he closed his eyes, wanting to focus on the feeling of her small, warm (alive) body in his arms. She was going to be okay. "I'm so sorry," he whispered brokenly into her hair, throat tight from tears which could not have been held back any longer. "I'm so sorry, darling." He smelled the vomit on her outfit, though, and knew that cleaning Rosie up would make her feel better.

"Come on," he sniffed, walking into the bathroom with her. "Let's wipe you down. Being clean will make you feel better, I promise." His voice was shaking. He took off her dirty clothes, and was relieved to see no bruises on her skin. If that man left a single mark on her, Sherlock would have gone out there and killed him (he was surprised John didn't shoot him, but he suspected the only reason why he held back was to avoid any legal complications or punishment). She had gotten a bath earlier that night, so he wiped her down with baby wipes, and the wipes' soft texture and cool sensation seemed to calm her down a bit, her cries lowering to whines and whimpers.

Tears were running down his face and his hands were trembling, but Sherlock worked efficiently, wanting to finish and put her to sleep. He discarded the used wipes in the bin and wrapped her in a pink towel. He held her again, crying softly as he cradled her head against his shoulder, trying not to sob and upset her further. She whimpered into his coat, but was significantly quieter than she was a few minutes ago. I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. But Sherlock didn't want to dwell on it until she was settled into bed with fresh pajamas, so through his blurry vision, he entered the sitting room.

The thief, still unconscious, was now tied up in the chair Mrs. Hudson was in, and John was beside him and the corpse, holding his gun and the thief's. He raised his eyebrows at them. "Is she okay?" he demanded.

"Yes," Sherlock rasped out, not caring how his voice sounded. "She's shaken, but she has no injuries."

The tension left his shoulders. "Thank Christ. I'm sorry, I'll be with you two in a few minutes, but I called Lestrade and they're on their way. I want to be here when they show up."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Where's Mrs. Hudson?"

"Downstairs. She's a little bruised, but she'll be okay. She said she wants to go to sleep and will talk to us in the morning." He nodded to them, still in soldier mode. "Go get her pajamas, yeah?"

Sherlock felt badly for John, because he knew him well by now, and knew that John was trying his hardest to keep it together. John was a stronger man than he. Sherlock went upstairs and dressed Rosie into light blue fuzzy pajamas with yellow crescent moons on them, her favorite pair. By now, her small lips were still pulled down in a frown and she was whining weakly, but her stream of tears dwindled down to a trickle, and she looked tired. She must have been worn out.

Sherlock didn't put Rosie in her crib, however. He needed to be close to her, and there was no way in hell he was letting her out of his sight. He wiped away her tears with his thumb. "I'm so sorry," he told her again, desperately. "I failed you. You were put in danger because of me, and my stupid work. You didn't deserve any of that," he cried into her hair. His cries started to upset her again, though, so he sucked in a shaky breath and quieted down. He stood there in her room, cradling her, painfully aware that he was a selfish, irredeemable prick. He didn't deserve Rosie.

"I love you," he told her sincerely, "and I swear to you that I never, ever intended for this to happen. You know I love you, don't you? Don't you, Rosie?"

"Da," she sniffed. Her little nose was red and stuffy.

Sherlock held her so that they could stare at each other, her hands on his chest, his arms around her lower back and bum. "I wish you could understand how sorry I am."

Though her little lip was still wobbling, she lightly smacked his cheek. It was her affectionate smack; her moody smack was harder. "Dada."

"You're sweet," he mumbled and kissed her forehead. "I don't deserve your innocence and love."

She blinked lethargically at him, her little facial features still clouded with sadness, but fatigue was taking over.

His heart ached. "I will never stop being sorry for this, Rosie, but I promise to do better. I will do everything in my power to ensure this never happens again," he said grimly.

She yawned.

Sherlock heard Lestrade and his gang enter the flat and start talking to John, and knew he would have to go downstairs eventually, so he went with Rosie in his arms.

Sherlock stood by silently as John explained everything to them in detail, explaining that he had to kill the man out of defense not only for himself, but for Mrs. Hudson and Rosie, and that if they didn't believe him, Mrs. Hudson was right downstairs. Rosie was yawning and leaning her head on Sherlock's shoulder, her cries finally completely gone, and he rocked her slowly from side to side, trying not to tear up in front of Lestrade and the cops, head hurting and fuzzy.

"We believe you," Lestrade said to John, his dark, weary eyes filled with sympathy. "We're still going to have to formally question you two and Mrs. Hudson, but I think that can wait until morning. I'll have my team clear these two out."

"My brother keeps surveillance footage of what goes on inside this flat," Sherlock said woodenly, feeling tired and shaken. "If you need proof, call him and ask for the footage."

"I thought he stopped that?" John asked.

"He always finds a way."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay, will do. I'll call you tomorrow, Sherlock." He looked at Rosie, frowning deeply. "Is she okay?"

"Just tired," Sherlock said, looking down at her drooping eyelids. He pressed his lips together. Don't cry. Don't cry. "Thank you for asking."

"No problem. We can handle this mess," he referred to the thieves, "while you two get some rest. You deserve it."

Sherlock and John both muttered a thank you and shuffled into their room. As soon as John shut the door behind him, his face crumpled, and he started crying. Hot tears flooded Sherlock's eyes again and he handed Rosie to John, giving him a chance to hold her.

"Oh my god," John whimpered, holding her to his chest and rocking her, "oh my fucking god ." He looked devastated, his shoulders heaving, eyes screwed shut, tears quickly soaking his cheeks. "My poor baby," he choked out. "My poor little love."

"Papa," she whimpered into his jacket, growing upset again over seeing John cry.

Sherlock looked away, wiping his face furiously. He didn't endanger any child; he endangered John's child. It was unforgivable. He let John hold her, turning on the lamp on the bedside table. He slowly toed off his shoes and took off his coat, throwing it on the floor along with his suit jacket. He remembered how angry John was with him with the Mary situation, and braced himself to be on the receiving end of his anger again. This time, though, Sherlock wouldn't blame him at all. Sherlock made a vow to protect Rosie, too, and it was his career that nearly got her kidnapped or killed. John forgave him for Mary, and told him he was sorry for blaming Sherlock at all; Sherlock wasn't going to get off the hook this time.

"Are you coming to bed?" John asked, nose stuffy but voice steadier.

Sherlock turned around in confusion to see John in bed, stripped down to his vest and pants with Rosie yawning into the crook of his neck (when did that happen? How long had he been lost in thought?). John's eyes were red and he looked as weary as ever, but there were no signs of anger. He looked like he wanted to sleep.

"You want me to?" Sherlock asked, his eyes on Rosie, relief in his chest at seeing her looking truly relaxed. She's okay. That phrase was on repeat in his brain.

John raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah? Come on. We're both tired and I'd like to hold my family tonight. Get comfortable, take off your suit."

Sherlock did, undressing until he was in his pants and socks, his heart heavy and stomach uneasy. He watched John rock Rosie slowly, looking at her like she was the most precious gem in the world.

Which she absolutely is.

Sherlock crawled under the covers, hesitantly sitting next to John, his shoulder pressed against John's. John was shaking. They both looked down at Rosie's long golden lashes, which were now settled atop her chubby cheeks, her eyes closed.

"How could anyone do that?" John asked rhetorically, voice strained. "Look at her. She's like a little doll."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted out. His eyes hurt from crying so much. "This is my fault, and I can never make up for this," he said guiltily, feeling like utter shite.

John looked at him, dumbfounded. "How is this your fault, Sherlock?"

He looked at Rosie instead of John's eyes. "I promised to protect her. I made a vow. She would have never been in danger if it weren't for the case that I took." He felt ashamed, his hands clasped together tightly under the duvet and sheets.

"No," John said softly. "Don't think that way, Sherlock."

"I endangered your child," he whispered.

" Our child," John corrected.

Sherlock looked up, not knowing what to say.

John's eyes were wet and his face was grim. He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, then blinked and sighed quietly, a escaping the corner of his left eye. "We're both her parents, Sherlock, and we both took that case. I take as much responsibility as you do-more, actually, because she's my flesh and blood. We didn't think this would've happened, but," he gulped, looking down at her, "we should have known."

"Yes." Sherlock paused. "You're not angry with me?"

John shook his head. "No. Why would I be? I just said we both should've been more careful."

He bit his lip. "Well, with Mary-"

"Hang on," John cut in, his eyes troubled, "that was different, and I told you I was wrong about that. You were blameless in that situation; she was an adult who made a choice and no one could've stopped her. I was the one being a prick." He frowned deeply, old shadows of guilt clouding his features. "I'm sorry, again. I'm sorry you thought I'd be angry with you about this. I've-moved past all that. I'm sorry I haven't made that clear enough."

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing his apology. John didn't need to apologize for anything, in his mind, and John certainly didn't need any added grief tonight. "It's all right," he said. "I just…" His chest was tight. "I feel as if I failed her."

John pressed his lips together. "You worship her, Sherlock. I know you do."

It felt like someone was stabbing his heart. "But that doesn't excuse-!"

Rosie's nose scrunched up and she whined, rubbing her face into John's vest.

His lips snapped shut. "Sorry," he whispered.

John kissed the top of her head, shushing her gently. "It's all right, baby," he told her tenderly. "It's just Daddy talking." He looked back at Sherlock. "I know what you're saying," he told Sherlock softly, "and we need to seriously think about what happened tonight."

Sherlock really needed to touch John. He put his arm around him and they both sighed tiredly. Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John's hair, swallowing down bile. "We can't let this happen again."

"No," John agreed, stroking Rosie's cheek with his thumb. He started to shake again, and Sherlock held him tighter, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his head.

"I hope to god she doesn't remember this."

"She probably won't." And thank every deity for that.

John swallowed audibly. "I was so scared," John's voice cracked. "I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I felt like a failure. I was obviously worried about Mrs. Hudson, too, but Rosie's so small. He really would have killed her," his voice quivered.

Sherlock sighed shakily. "I know."

"That fucking cock is lucky I didn't kill him," John whispered fiercely. "I was so close. I wanted to."

"Me too," Sherlock admitted. "I don't think I ever wanted to harm someone that badly in my life. It wasn't a good feeling."

"Not at all. I wanted to rip him apart with my bare hands," he said sharply.

Rosie whined, disturbed by their talking again.

"Sorry," they whispered simultaneously.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to John's cheek. They were both rightfully upset, but he didn't want John to have a breakdown. "Lie down with me," he said against his skin. "We're both tired."

John nodded silently.

Sherlock removed his arm from around John's shoulders and shifted until he was lying horizontally on the mattress, on his right side. John placed Rosie in between them, on her stomach. She made a little sound in her throat, but stayed asleep. John turned on his side so he was facing her and Sherlock. They never let Rosie sleep in bed with them, but obviously, tonight was an exception. Neither could have even thought of putting her upstairs. Her face was turned towards Sherlock, serene, tiny lips parted, and Sherlock placed his hand on her back, needing to touch her. John placed his hand over Sherlock's, and they stared at her in silence, listening to her quiet, even breaths. The feeling of her back moving up and down with each breath was comforting to Sherlock. She's alive.

Sherlock looked at John, at the lines around his eyes and mouth, worry etched onto every inch of his face. "You were incredible earlier," Sherlock murmured, causing John's deep blue eyes (Rosie's eyes) to flicker up to his. "Your self-control was astounding. That monster had your child, and your hand didn't tremble for a second around the gun."

"If I hadn't had years of military experience, I wouldn't have been able to hold myself back," he said gruffly. "It was so hard. It was honestly one of the hardest things I've ever had to do." He squeezed Sherlock's fingers. "This had to have been one of the worst nights of my life."

"I feel the same," Sherlock said soberly. He knew memories of this night would haunt him. Them. "We must be more careful and find a way to secure our flat."

"Absolutely. Can Mycroft help with that?"

"I'm sure he will. I'll call him first thing in the morning and figure out where to go from here. With those idiots taken care of, we should be safe tonight."

John nodded, moving his hand from atop Sherlock's to stroke Rosie's silky hair. She didn't stir. She really was tired, then. "Thank god we went home when we did," John said thickly. "If you hadn't had that feeling…"

Sherlock shuddered. "I don't want to think about it."

"Neither do I." He stopped petting Rosie's hair and reached across her to place his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "It's a good thing you convinced that piece of shit to give you Rosie, too. I love you."

Sherlock turned his face and kissed John's palm. "I love you, too, John."

John went back to petting Rosie. They were silent for long, somber minutes. Then, John's eyes filling with tears. "When you fell, I felt like I failed you, like if I'd been a better friend, you wouldn't have committed suicide."

Sherlock tensed immediately.

"Tonight," his voice was weak and scratchy, "I had that same god damn feeling I had watching you fall from that rooftop. I had a gun in my hand, but I felt useless. If I'd been a better father-" his voice broke off.

Sherlock wiped a tear from the corner of John's eye, and with that comparison, he felt as if he finally understood the weight of what he did to John. Sherlock didn't want to start weeping out of fear of waking Rosie, so he turned his face into his pillow and cried silent, bitter tears.

"Sorry," John whispered, touching his cheek. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Don't cry, darling, please ."

Sherlock peeked at John from under the fringe in front of his eyes, turning his head on the pillow, vision blurry. "I'm so sorry-"

"No," John shook his head, a tear rolling down his left cheek. "I forgave you years ago. I know why you did it. I wasn't thinking-I only said that because I'm still processing things. I didn't mean to make you feel badly."

Although they were whispering, the continuous noise made Rosie stir.

"Shhh," John breathed, caressing her hair. "Sorry, pumpkin." He looked back at Sherlock. "We need to let her sleep, but Sherlock, I love you. Don't ever forget that. We're a family now. I'm not angry at you for anything."

Sherlock nodded, his tears subsiding for the final time that night. "Okay," he said. "I'm sorry for doubting you. I love you, too, John. I promise to better protect her."

"I do, too. We both have to do what's necessary to keep her safe. You and Rosie mean the world to me."

"Likewise." He lifted himself up, leaning over Rosie carefully, and kissed John on the nose.

John pressed a quick kiss to his lips before he lied back down. "I think we should try to sleep," he said. "She's safe now. Someone would have to get through us to hurt her."

"Yes." He pulled up the duvet a bit more so it stopped at their torsos and Rosie's shoulders. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

John placed his hand on Rosie's back, holding her, kissing her head before closing his eyes.

Sherlock wiggled his finger inside of Rosie's curled hand so her grip was around his index finger. Sherlock was tired from the stakeout and everything that happened since they ot him, but he wanted to stay awake a little longer. He stared at John until all of the tension left his face, finally sleep.

Sleep was tugging at Sherlock's eyelids, but he kept his eyes open for one more minute. "I promise to do better," he whispered to Rosie, and he wasn't sure when he would ever stop saying it. "I promise."

As if she heard him, Rosie's little hand squeezed his index finger, and she made a small, sleepy sound in his throat.

Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes, and he fell into a deep sleep within moments.

When Mrs. Hudson, battered and bruised but doing all right, went to talk to Sherlock and John and check on Rosie early the next morning, she found the three of them sleeping soundly, Rosie drooling onto her hand, Sherlock and John snoring with their intertwined hands placed atop Rosie's back. She smiled tiredly, and figured she could wait a little while longer before waking them up, shutting the bedroom door as quietly as possible.

There would never be a repeat of what happened that night. Sherlock and John would make sure of it.