AN: I have no idea what made me write this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Sherlock pinched his nose in frustration. How could something so simple become so complicated?

"It's Sherlock. Sher-lock," he announced slowly.

"Sher-la!" the infant giggled.

He groaned. It was a concept so easy to grasp, how could a tiny person make it so hard?

"Sher-lock, like a lock on the door. Sher-lock."

"Sherla!" Rosie exclaimed, throwing her little hands in the air and kicking her small, sock-covered feet.

"No, Rosamund. Let's try this again," he started. "Sher-lock."

Rosie, having lost interest, played with her toys hanging on the handle of her carrier. Grasping a bumblebee shaped toy, she pushed it toward her uncle, insistent that he play along. Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock pushed it back and she returned the gesture. He had to admit, he found the behavior quite endearing.

Children confused him. One minute they were a dull as a one case and the next they were as interesting as a seven, minus the blood and malevolence, of course.

"Sherlock," John called from the stairs. The consulting detective heard the tottering of his partner's footsteps ascend the stairs until they reached the boys' flat. "I'm back."

"I can tell," Sherlock remarked dryly, still playing with Rosie, as the little girl exclaimed "Dada!' "Your daughter fails to pronounce my name correctly."

John rolled his eyes, setting the grocery bags down on the kitchen table.

"She's barely even a year old yet, Sherlock. I just got her to say 'Dada'. You and Mycroft don't realize that an infant is not going to have the same level of intellect as you."

"Mimi!" Rosie exclaimed, hearing her other uncle's name. Sherlock snickered.

"Yes, Uncle Mimi," John cooed, picking up his daughter and carrying her on his hip. He was just as amused as Sherlock that Rosie had dubbed the elder Sherlock with a name so unimposing. "I'm sure he's due for a visit soon."

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered, distracted by the sound of his phone pinging. He glanced at the text, shaking his head. Speak of the devil. "It appears my brother has a case for us. He wants us to meet him in his office."

"You go, I'll stay with Rosie."

"Absolutely not! If it's an eight like Mycroft is claiming, I will certainly need your help."

"We're not bringing Rosie with us like you did last time."

"Oh, come on, John. It's Mycroft's office, not a crime scene." One time he took the infant to a crime scene and John couldn't let it go. One time! "I'm sure he'll be glad to see her."

"The look of annoyance bordering on contempt he gave her last time tells me otherwise."

"She was crying, what did you expect?"


The consulting detective scowled. "Get Molly or Mrs. Hudson to babysit then. Now, come on, I'll be waiting in the cab."

Sherlock heard John sigh as he headed to the street to wave down a cab. A few minutes later, John came down, Rosie in his arms.

"Mrs. Hudson is out and Molly is working. However, if your brother so much as upsets Rosie-"

"We'll leave, of course." As much as he couldn't understand kids, Sherlock did not like an upset Rosamund, particularly if his brother was the cause of it.


As the cabbie drove, Sherlock noticed, in his peripheral vision, Rosie squirming in her father's arms. The girl managed to get away from her father and on to her uncle's lap.

Sherlock cocked his head.

"You're just like your father," he murmured, playing with what little hair she had.

"That's sweet, Sherlock," John said, grinning.

"A little slow sometimes, but adorable nonetheless."

The grin morphed into a scowl.